Supreme court continues evil immigration policy

Hard working immigrants had hope that parents who are undocumented but who have children born in the United States would be able to receive a permit to work lawfully and a social security number and officially contribute to the economy just as they now do unofficially and often in fear of deportation.

In the Nineteenth century the Supreme Court would rule against native Americans because those savages did not make productive use of the land so allowed the white man to take that land away from those who had so long honored it.

In 1997, President Bill Clinton made a “compromise” deal to get NAFTA passed by drastically modifying immigration policy to make it much harder for undocumented workers to obtain a path to citizenship, requiring them to demonstrate “extreme hardship” in order to legally stay in this country. It is not considered extreme hardship to force a father or mother to be removed from their children or force the children to leave the only country they have known and go to a distant land where hardship is what prompted their parents to come to the United States to begin with.

So this Supreme Court is just following in that long march of those who dominate over those who often do the hardest and least paid work in our economy. Shame on the Supreme Court justices who voted to once again stymie human progress.

An article at Politico covers the story in some detail

Dennis G. Allard
Santa Monica, CA
June 23, 2016

Posted in Left, Vents | Leave a comment

8. My brother still believes he was victimized by mind control

Chapter 8 in a series on mental illness.

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After my brother was released from the California Department of Corrections back to free society, I asked the question Is my brother cured of mental illness?

That question is naive and simplistic. And, as you can see for yourself from my brother’s own post here in this blog Am I Really Mentally Ill? , he is as convinced as ever that he was subject to mind control by nefarious forces operated by Masons, he remains anti-jewish, and his beliefs that certain scientifically impossible phenomenon are possible (such as beaming thoughts into his brain or reading his thoughts) remain an entrenched part of his belief system.

So, I am letting him have that last word in these pages. You may judge for yourself if “cure” applies to my bother.

UPDATE of June 5, 2016: Unfortunately, a few days ago I got a call from my other brother saying that the police had taken my brother to a medical center for psychiatric observation, a 72 hour hold which has since been changed to be a two week hold. I don’t know the details. It appears my brother has decompensated or is in the process of so doing. I will not continue chronicling my brother’s history any more. If he manages to regain stability I will ask him to write another post in this blog at some time in the future.

Up until a few weeks ago, my brother was doing pretty good. He had made it through a six month program at a half-way house and had been renting a room at a fairly low rent that he could afford. He seemed stable and was not going around threatening people or damaging property, so that’s all good. But then he decided to leave his room rental situation and move to a hotel room in Hollywood and now I get this call from our other brother that Tony has been taken if again. Oh my.

I am at a point in my life where even for my own brother I prefer to distance myself from spending time with people who have egregiously irrational prejudices against jews and who believe in nefarious forces governing the world with simplistic explanations such as masonic cults. I will try to be there for my brother as a friend when I can be.

But, using my prerogative as editor and publisher of these pages, for now at least, this will be the last post in this section of the OP Column on the subject of Mental Health. I am making the editorial decision to provide my brother with his last word on this subject but not to enable these pages to become a forum for vitriolic ravings against jews, masons, mind control conspiracies, etc.

If Tony chooses to make such posts on some other blog site I will provide a link here to that site.

If a time comes where my brother Tony is amenable to republishing an edited version of our original YouTube interview and doing a follow up conversation with me, both of those videos will be published here.

I hope some of the writing here by both me and by my brother are instructive for those who have relatives who have these kinds of thoughts.

Thanks for reading.

Dennis G. Allard
Santa Monica
May 12, 2016

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Posted in Mental Health | Leave a comment

Am I Really Mentally Ill?

Hello, my name is Tony and I’m not anybody’s Schizophrenic brother.  I was initially diagnosed as such in the mid-1980’s, but have had 4 or 5 different diagnoses since.  Personally, I believe I am a victim of what was a prolonged and persistent mind-control agenda by the Zionist and Free Masonic cults.  Oh, another one of those, eh?  I will be adding to this file as time permits me to and you will be able to decide for yourself if I really am Mentally Ill.  I will describe here my perception of historical events which occurred.  My tendency in the past before I was ever diagnosed as “Mentally Ill” by a Licensed Psychiatrist, until about 1986 or so, was to try to fit reality into neat conceptual boxes, (“Christian”, “Communist”, etc.), and to explain reality to myself using such “readymade” models which provided some mental comfort to me.  However, starting around 1986 I started having real problems facing reality and my life basically “fell apart”.  I sought help, both voluntarily and because of social coercion of my family and friends, (or you can call it persuasion I suppose if that sounds more “caring”), in yet another conceptual model called “Psychiatry”.  That has been a total wash.  No help what-so-ever.  It only augmented my self-doubts and the (ever changing prescribed) medications they at first prescribed and I took voluntarily, and then in a dozen instances was forced to take or injected with by the County or State Authorities further deteriorated my sense of well-being and personal self worth.  At that point, despite the fact I believed that I was under a constant barrage of psychic attack by those just referenced Satanic Cults’ practitioners, I came to agree with my Doctors and intimates that I had an actual physiological mental defect.  I have been trying to understand what happened in the ensuing 25 years, with a much clearer perspective, for the last 5 years.  I have come to certain conclusions to explain my past and current mental states, which have invariably lead many people to dismiss my accounts, and myself, as delusional.

For a hypothetical yet actual example that happened to me, if you tell an NSA (ie. NIH) Psychological Operative, “Psyop”, (take California State Forensic Psychologist Brandy Matthews at Atascadero State (Psychiatric) Hospital for instance), that you are the victim of NSA and CIA experimentations, and that you believe that you are a Special Agent for the FBI, she will always misrepresent your statements and write down something to the effect that you believe you are a CIA Agent being persecuted by the FBI.  That just a joke.  Seriously though, I’m not joking.  The connections I’ve made between disparate events that I have observed in my life and my explanations for their causes have in many cases changed from year to year.  But that is because as I get new information I have to try to be flexible and adjust my “conspiracy theory”.  If I knew all the facts about the Robert Kennedy murder then maybe I would know why I’m supposed to vote for Bernie Sanders for President now 50 fucked-up years later.  But I don’t and I won’t.  As far as my delusion that I was an undercover FBI Agent, that was the result of a couple of clandestine conversations I had with a couple of individuals back in 1985 and it is now apparent to me that even if I was being recruited to be such an Agent back then, I cannot possibly actually be one now because since 2003 I have become a twice Convicted Felon.  The FBI does not employ Felons and I have never received a cent from the FBI for any services, so I am not only not a Special Agent, undercover or otherwise, I am not an Informant either.

I have lived an active life in Los Angeles for those 50 years and worked in and around the Motion Picture Industry for 20 of them, mostly for my older brother Eric Allard’s All Effects Company in the San Fernando Valley.  I was a participant in the early LA “Punk Rock” scene as a video artist from 1978 (to 1987), and I have some stories about events in both my professional and personal lives, which I will relate to you, that affected my personal development and reflect on my current understanding of the world and my place in it.  Some of you reading this may have known me, or of me, and maybe I can help your own understanding of seemingly inexplicable events in your own life.  Frankly, along with clarifying my own understanding, helping others better understand themselves and others better is one of my primary goals in spending time writing this stuff down.  Maybe you will know something that I would like to know and you can email me and tell me something I don’t know.  I can always use new information.  I have my B.A. from UCLA in Communication Studies in the Mass Media from UCLA, 1981, with a Minor in Interpersonal Communication.  I also studied color video production there under the tutelage of NYC transplanted “Neorealist” Filmmaker, Modern Dancer, and early 60’s Pop Art/Chelsea Hotel/Warhol Factory Scenester Shirley Clarke, and made about 10 short video art pieces which included a number of alternative music videos, mostly before that advent of digital video and even MTV.   All of that was before my emotional and legal troubles started to seriously interfere with my economic and ability to function socially in society.  I have been interned in Jails, Prisons, and State Psychiatric Hospitals for 11 ½ years out of the past 15, on various small crimes and a couple of Felony Criminal Threats Convictions.  I also had numerous Psychiatric detentions throughout the past 30 years prior to and during that period, not really directly related to any specific crimes but because of questionable behavior and non-criminal actions that local police and Psychiatric Emergency Teams ruled merited Psychiatric observation.  Unfortunately, because of my brash reactions to efforts of the Free Masons and Jews to direct my behavior, and my resistance to their directives and also because my inability to break out of long standing alcohol and drug (marijuana) use which I started at age 13, as well as a gambling addiction I acquired as an inappropriate response to my psychological difficulties and as an effort to “escape reality”, I’ve wasted many years staring at Prison, Jail, and Mental Hospital walls and being heavily drugged both voluntarily and involuntarily on legal and illegal drugs and prescription medications.  I did manage to accomplish quite a bit in spite of being incarcerated for most of the past decade and a half and treated basically like a grade school student by Psychiatrists and Social Workers.  But what can you do?  As any Convict and ex-Convict will tell you, eventually I came to the conclusion: “If you’re willing to do the crime, be willing to do the time”.  I did and I did.

So what’s the deal with Psychiatrists, Psychologists, Social Workers, etc.?  In short, “Mental Health Professionals”?  They want to “help” people?  In the past 29 years, I have been diagnosed with 5 different “Mental Illnesses” and been prescribed over 30 different Psychiatric drugs.  I do not believe that I am “Psychotic”, as many Psychiatric Doctors who have interviewed me in the past 29 years have contended.  I have certainly acted that way a number of times.  But I don’t want to get into a discussion of “Nature vs. Nurture”, which is to say the physiological versus the environmental “causes” for psychotic behavior.  All I can say is that I believe my psychotic reactions were primarily “drug induced”, in combination with other psycho-social forces, and that I can only take partial “responsibility” for my so-called “Crimes”.  The fact is, other than engendering fear through verbal assaults on some individuals, perhaps, whom I know to be actual political enemies of mine, and in a few instances doing a few thousand dollars worth of property damage, I am not really a Criminal.  I certainly have never done anything that has left permanent physical damage on the bodies of any of those enemies, whereas, I have been attacked a number of times and I do have permanent scars, missing teeth, and bitter memories of physical pain that took months to heal in some cases.

Talking about Psychiatrist and their motives here’s some irony, if you want to call it that.  I first met a Dr. Schneider when I was incarcerated in TTCF fighting my 1st Strike Terrorist Threats charge in 2002, brought against me by a “Sex Therapist” and phone sex service operator Susan Block.  Dr. Schneider, who was assigned my case as my attending LA County Jail Psychiatrist in late 2002, spoke with me on probably 3 or 4 occasions during that internment.  He spoke English with such a strong accent, which I thought was Russian, that I could barely understand what he was saying, during my Psychiatric Interviews with him.  I recall saying to him one day just that, that I could barely understand him, and I asked him why he was practicing Psychiatry in Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department’s Twin Tower Correctional Facility in the United States.  His response was, “That’s a good question.”  But he didn’t elaborate and I didn’t question his National origin at that time.  Jump forward to 2010 to an “ICC” (Institutional Classification Committee) meeting in Los Angeles County Prison (“Lancaster Prison” in the State’s CDCR, not the County Jail mind you), where I had to face Dr. Schneider again.  I had been placed in what is called the “SHU” (Segregated Housing Unit”) in Lancaster for having chased down the tier and in the yard a young homosexual and known member of the “GBG” gang, (“Gay Boy Gangsters”), who had been harassing me.  I was still in the SHU after 3 months of solitary confinement, and the ICC was to determine if I could be reintegrated into the general population, (not on “the Main Line” but at least within the general population of a Mentally Ill Housing Unit and with a cellie).  Oddly enough, such ICC’s are generally attended by about 8 Prison officials, including a sub-Warden or Warden, a Lieutenant and/or Sergeant, your Psychiatrist and Social Worker/Clinician, a Nurse, and a couple of Correctional Officers for security, but for reasons unknown to me there were about 30 people at this one.  Seriously bizarre and unusual.  I recognized Schnieder immediately upon being led into the room and was surprised to see him there since he was not my State Shrink and I had not seen him since years before in County.  In waist chains I was led to my seat in front of my initial questioner, a ranking Forensic Psychologist as I recall now.  I don’t remember the ICC Facilitators name, but he was obviously Jewish and he started to question me.  (I did not ask him if he was a Free Mason, (part of my sentence was the result of threatening to have a Free Mason, Steven Mikulan (past Theater Writer and long time Theater Editor for the LA Weekly free newspaper and former associate of mine) and his wife Sandra Ross, killed if they testified in Court on Felony Vandalism Charges I had incurred by scratching her car with a pocket knife).  I did however, ask this guy who was about to start the ICC inquisition if he was Jewish.  He refused to answer my question saying that it was his “prerogative” not to answer.  I asked him what that meant, and he replied that it meant that it was his choice to answer or not, and he refused to do so.  I didn’t argue at that point and answered his questions that followed though I don’t recall now what else he asked me.  Next, I was questioned by the at that point I had just discovered now California State Psychiatrist Dr. Schneider.  I didn’t ask him if he was Jewish or how he got his job in a State Prison, an apparent upward move from the County Jail I thought, but I asked him if he remembered me from about 8 years previously.  He denied remembering our Twin Towers relationship.  I then asked him again about his accent, saying: “It’s odd that you speak with a Russian accent but you have a German name.  Are you Russian?”  He didn’t exercise his prerogative and answered, “No, I’m Jewish.”  He then went on to tell the Committee that I was indeed still Mentally Ill, if I recall correctly, and as a result I had to spend a couple of more months in the SHU until I was sent out to the State Hospital at the Salinas Valley Psychiatric Program as a 2684 Prison Commitment for stabilization.  Ironic.  What happened at SVPP was a whole story apart from this one which I’ll get to later.  Why does Dr. Schneider practice Psychiatry?  Because he “cares”?  I believe that it is much more likely tied to his car/house/and Visa Card Payments, but then, I’m Mentally Ill.

If you are not knowledgeable about the finer distinctions in the Psychiatric categorizations of Mental Illnesses, I can tell you that a Psychosis is a cognitive, or thinking (ie. brain), disorder, and a Mood Disorder is considered an emotional problem.  The mind/body duality is taken as fact by modern American Psychology/Psychiatry, and in fact, if you look at their 12 Step Programs for substance abusers like me, which are based on “Spiritual Principles”, they also preach that we have a “Spirit”.  I don’t buy any of it, but hell, I’m not a Doctor, a Social Worker, or a Priest, so I don’t have to or say that I do even if I don’t.  From my initial “Psychotic Break” in 1987, (what they called my social withdrawal and emotional reaction to my excess drug abuse patterns catching up with me combined with, I believe, National Security Agents attacking me with a number of psychological, electronic, and chemical weapons), through about 2004, I was diagnosed with a number of “Disorders”, or “Mental Illnesses”.  First I was a Paranoid Schizophrenic.  Then around 1991 I somehow had instead Psychotic Disorder Not Otherwise Specified (NOS).  By about 1996 my Mental Disorder (I always try to remember to Capitalize these terms, it seems more serious, official, and objective that way), with Schizoaffective Disorder Bipolar Type.  These were all thought Disorders if I understand their Diagnostic and Statistical Manual’s definitions correctly.  Then, somehow, in 2005 as I recall, when I was sent to ASH Psychiatric Hospital in San Luis Obispo as an MDO, (“Mentally Disordered Offender”), for supervised Parole, (their term for further kindergarteny treatment when they feel like you haven’t sufficiently rehabilitated (or maybe they just need more money?)), I was diagnosed for the first time with a Mood Disorder – Bipolar Disorder with Schizoaffective Episodes – and there was a qualitative shift in the type of Psych Meds that I was required to take.  I went from atypical anti-psychotics to a mood stabilizer, Depakote (similar to Lithium).  In around 2014, in my second go around at ASH as an MDO, is when I think I was reclassified once again, to my current diagnosis of Bipolar Disorder Type I, Manic Type.

I am going to write an account of my own interpretation of my personal history which will perhaps not prove as a “fact” that I am not really Mentally Ill, but I will at least communicate a what I perceived happened in a number of historical events and get down my own interpretations which I prefer do not die with me.  In the overall scheme of things, I don’t think my own “suffering”, which although it has been fairly extensive, has had any kind of lasting traumatic effects on me as to the way I think or act now.  If anything, my punishment has “cured” my so-called Mental Illness.  As I’ve repeatedly denied, I don’t buy into the “Mental Illness” conception of me, but I do now have 2 “Strikes” in California and I cannot afford to be convicted of any further Felony Criminal Offenses without spending the rest of my life in Prison as a 3 Strike Loser.  So now, even when I “think bad thoughts” I mostly just keep them to myself whereas in the past, and particularly when drunk or min Psych Med withdrawal, I would “act out” and be both rude and threatening, in some cases I freely admit, to people who had done nothing to merit such a response from me.  I suppose “constructive venting” is one of if not the main purpose of my writing this.  What I do want to communicate, however, with the evidence I have in my mind, as well as a lot of actual documentation I have now and will obtain in the future, that I have indeed been the target of Government mind control experimentation.  Because of the nature of the National Security Act and the limitations on the information it is permissible for US Citizens to obtain through the Freedom of Information Act, it is likely I will never know “the true story”.  By structuring my thoughts here, I will clarify for myself through this process some of the things that have bothered me for years, and hopefully, really for my own personal satisfaction, come to a closer approximation of understanding what “the true story” is.

Basically, I currently believe “MK Ultra” was not discontinued by the CIA in the early 1970’s and in fact, whatever you want to call it, I think “Psychological Warfare” is an ongoing procedure being carried out on a daily basis everywhere in the United States and the rest of the world.  The effects on my own behavior of the broad cultural rot rammed down my senses daily by both the mass media and what I feel are the deteriorating social morals and ethics in my interpersonal interactions, have been further magnified in my own person through focused and direct personal attacks by NSA’s aimed at specifically at me.  If you want to know why I think I was singled out, I would say I was and I wasn’t.  I was culled out of the crowd, along with others, because of my exceptional smarts and creativity combined with my lack of “groundedness”, if I can call it that.  In 1976, when I was still at the dorms at UCLA, I wrote my brother Eric a letter, which I still remember, in which I was bubbling with enthusiasm for Marxist ideas.  Shortly thereafter, I had a “religious conversion” and became “Reborn” as a Christian.  For multiple reasons, I dropped that pose (or “belief system”) and slide into the “counter-culture” on the “Punk Rocker” and “New Wave” worlds.  I was ripe for picking by the behind the scenes manipulators to do their bidding.  It seems like I would be looking for a new mind set within a few more years.  I think that’s why I was picked for mind control experimentation and social manipulation.  The King Makers thought they could get me to do their bidding and I was invited to go into the Hollywood Cult of Celebrity as an “Art Star”.  For a number of reasons, mostly my own intransigence and monogamous/heterosexual obstinacy, I was rejected and blackballed by the Freemasons  for further initiation into their Satanic Cult.  I’ll get into specifics as to how I’ve come to this conclusion, not to worry.

I’ve met hundreds of individuals in the past 30 years who have suffered similar psychic attacks on themselves as I have and I’ve shared notes with them.  For me, such personal attacks have come in the form of directed energy weapons (ELF) projecting “thoughts” into my mind and infrared devices used to monitor my activities used in conjunction with ELF bombardments striping me of any sense of personal privacy and depriving me of my personal space.  The most outlandish claim I make and believe, is that these Cults have advanced technology called “Remote Neural Monitoring” (RMN).  Basically, I have believed for years that there are individuals (and of course they are in groups which I believe are centered around Zionist and Free Masonic sub- Cults) who can “read my mind”, which includes being able to “see”, literally on a video screen, both what my eyes see and what I see in my “minds eye” which I believe is related to my visual cortex in my brain, and the can hear what I hear and they can literally know what my thoughts are in language in real time.  I don’t know how this is accomplished and I know how insane this claim sounds, but I am convinced that it is possible and can be done to anyone.  I used to believe that such RNM was only possible in conjunction with skull and/or dental implants, but I believe that I was either misguided about that or that the technology has advanced now to a stage where implants are not required.  Also, chemical weapons have enhanced some of my delusional states of mind.  Substances such as crystal meth have been put into my food which I unwittingly ingested and I’ve taken Psychiatric “medications” willfully and naively in good faith.  Worse, have been the injections of “medications”, on many dozens of occasions, into my bloodstream in Court Ordered forced medication procedures, when I had no more faith in Psychiatrists mythical solutions.

What I have come to believe in the process of living my 58 years on earth, mostly here in Los Angeles, is that I am not really seriously Mentally Ill at all, but rather have been victimized by the Zionist and Freemasonic cults’ through their use of mind control, including hypnosis, electronic devices, unnecessary medications, organized slander, and inappropriate and severe punishment which has included at times extreme sleep deprivation and mental and physical isolation, as well through physical attacks in which I was targeted (“green lighted”) in over half a dozen instances in attacks by both LA County Sheriff Departments Deputies and by fellow TTCF Inmates and California Department of State Hospital Psychiatric Patients.  As a result of those processes, I have had to endured some rather extreme physical, emotional, and psychiatric/psychological torture and pain.  Perhaps you have heard such charges by others and you prefer to write such claims off as the paranoid concoctions of the Mentally Ill.  Undoubtedly, in many cases that is surely the truth.  But it’s not like I’ve had my legs blown off by an IED or land mine or was next to a good friend who suffered such a fate, so that’s why I won’t really complain about having acquired PTSD because of having had a few ribs broken or a couple of teeth knocked out.

In many cases I have had an abnormal disregard for the opinions of others regarding my actions effects on my “public image”, which has been further degraded by the incredible effectiveness that the above cited Cults’ activities have had on my thinking and resulting reactive Criminal Assaults and other behaviors for many years and in many situations.  In more cases than I can remember or innumerate I have appeared to others, at times believed myself to be, literally and totally “insane”.  A great number of people, especially including the vast majority of Psychiatric Doctors, Psychologists, Social Workers, etc. I’ve interviewed with in the past have believed, or said that they did, that I am seriously Mentally Ill and that my “delusions” of persecution and belief that I was an undercover FBI Operative are actually symptomatic of a Personality Disorder with Delusions of Grandiosity.   Some of my best friends have told me that they believe that that was, and to some still is, the case.  I agree that in a great number of instances I’ve acted crazy, but in most of those instances I was drunk or in a toxic state of mind from stopping taking my “meds” cold turkey and not tapering off the dosage as required.  Such rash behavior can be actually drug induced, in the sense that psychotropic drug withdrawal produces severe behavioral side effects in itself.  I do not have sufficient verifiable “facts” which I can report to you which will prove “beyond a shadow of a doubt” the veracity of the above seemingly outlandish allegation that the Jews and Masons activities (“dirty tricks” if you will) have been at the root of my sometimes erratic behavior others resulting perception of me as Mentally Ill.  Much worse has been the resulting medical diagnoses by a multitude of Psychiatrists that my behavior reflects that I am actually Mentally Ill.   To myself, the most significant proof that I will describe within these pages is the large number of non-random events and ritual abuses I have experienced in my life.  As I am not a Member of the Zionist (Cabal) or any Free-masonic Lodge, my knowledge of the history, rules and methods of those social Organizations has come in bits and pieces, and is basically limited.  Those organizations are called “Cults” because, by their very nature, as the “Punk Rocker” “Darby Crash” AKA “Bobby Pin” named at birth “Jan Paul Beahm” claimed in the title of one of his records, “What We Do Is Secret”.   A band that I had peripheral involvement as a video artist in 1980, “X”, is still playing 40 years after their inception, (as I suppose they have to), and just last week they had a “Secret Show”.  Big fucking deal.  I saw somebody on their website actually call them God.  In their cover of the old Doors song, (the Doors for Christ’s sake), there’s a line about “light another cigarette, and speak in secret alphabets, and learn to forget . . . . . ”  Secret alphabets?    I wish it were so easy, and that’s why I drank for 20 years too many too much.  Too try to forget.  But in Al Pacino cum Michael Corleone said in the God Father “ . . . but they keep dragging me back . . . “ or some such horseshit.

Perhaps I was “supposed” to go the way of the “tragic hero” and kill myself.  I’m pretty boring sometimes, but not that boring.  Therein lie my delusions, according to the Psychiatrists.  Head Doctors have assured me for years that when I thought people were “talking about me” or making “cryptic references” to other people or referring to past or future events in my life in order to influence my actions, that I was actually suffering from a mental disorder and experiencing “Referential Thinking” and/or “Thought Projection”.  I certainly cannot deny that many of the things I have thought in my own mind and communicated verbally, and in writings, over these many years have been completely delusional.

In 2002, on 3 separate occasions I perceived persons not well known to me saying verbatim and I quote: “If you don’t marry A. we’re going to kill you.”   They said it in non sequitur fashion and totally out of context of what we were talking about.   In a 4th instance, I overheard radio Schlock Jock Howard Stern make a similar comment on his televised replay of his NYC radio show on his E Entertainment cable TV show while I was cooking dinner in an apartment in Santa Monica that Summer.  He said, verbatim: “If Tony doesn’t marry A. we’re going to kill him.”  These perceptions were perhaps all complete delusions.  I’m as sure as the fact that I’m not dead now that these things were said though.  Of course, I’ve been counseled by friends and family that my perceptions were all shear delusions and to let it go, just forget it.  Well, why should I, I’m not a fucking Christian.  Am I supposed to be “grateful” that I wasn’t killed by the Jewish Mafia after all and let sleeping dogs lie?  I was involved in 1980 in a May – September sexual affair with a woman named A.H. when I was a student at UCLA 1980, 20 some years previous to those threats.  I assumed this was the “A.” these persons and Mr. Stern were referring to.  I have no “rational” explanation for why these people would say such a seemingly absurd statement or why three different people would repeat it to me?  The fact is I was told by a coworker during the production of the 1st Tim Burton version of “Planet of the Apes”, on which I worked on in the Art Department as a Prop Maker, that A. H. is a Mason.  That was before the threats even occurred.  I’ll have more to say about the H. lady at a later time.  For now, suffice to say, I did not marry her and I have not been killed, so if my perceptions were accurate and those people who said that actually did say that, then there must be an explanation as to why they did.  I don’t have that explanation.   All I’ll say now is that I have heard that A.H. is married now so I guess I missed my chance.  And I say good for her, I hope she is content with her salt water Jacuzzi in her home in Rancho Park, or wherever she lives now.  But I also heard from a good friend, and usually reliable source of information, that one of H.’s sources of income is directing pornographic films.  C’est la vie, I suppose.  I have some theories about that person and her “problem”.   Which are by their very nature “conspiracy theories” which I will get to at a later date.  All I can say for now is that her problem is as clear as the nose on her face.

It must be apparent already at the outset of this blog that I do not share some of the assumptions of my brother Dennis Allard, who operates this website,  I appreciate much of what he has done for me during my life, especially in providing me at times material assistance such as a roof over my head, which he has done on a few occasions.  I’m even more grateful to him for tending my finances and “putting money on my books” during my many incarcerations in various Government Penal and Mental Institutions.  But his somewhat obsessive documentation of my Legal problems and my Psychiatric Care is a different matter for me.  His documentation on his Ocean Park Blog was by necessity limited in the extreme because he winnowed out a few dozen pages of written history from the vast quantity of Legal and Medical (ie. Psychiatric) information involved in over six and a half years of my struggles in Courtrooms and Hospital Doctors’ Offices and Ward Hallways, between July 23, 2009 when he started that process and February 15, 2016, which marked the end of his documentation.  His Oceanpark Column’s blog’s “Mental Health” category on this website are not really in the genre of favors that he has rendered me which I can say I really appreciate that much and I will tell you briefly why that is.

At the very very head of that series of documents, he put the following statement:

“Category Archives: Mental Health

The saga of my brother who is afflicted with Paranoid Schizophrenia. Eventually I would like to provide a resource page where people can share their ideas for how to improve what is a very broken system in the United States for dealing with Mental Health issues.”

The real “saga” of my life, if that word can be defined as “a long story of heroic achievement,” is not over yet.  As far as heroic, there has been nothing brave about my past and continuing struggles against the forces that have oppressed me, rather it has been a struggle for shear survival on my part.  And the fact that Dennis denies is that those forces are in part organized Jewry.  My “struggle” has led me to my current state of mind, I am not “schizophrenic” (and haven’t even been diagnosed as such for more than 2 decades), but rather, I’m angry and disillusioned.  What I am, not by choice or because of some irrational hatred, is anti-Jewish.  And I know that because of the incredible power of media Jews, that such an opinion is always equated by the “mainstream” mass media as “anti-Semitism”.  The predominant Politically Correct interpretation of reality contends the same thing.  And as David Duke, who will have been a “Grand Dragon in the KKK” until the day he dies, has to be denigrated 35 years later for his youthful involvement with a group that in itself is, in my opinion, is a front organization of Zionist disinformation specialists and agent provocateurs.  My “story” is a thousand fold more complex than portrayed by Dennis in his Mental Health blog, which I’m sure he is well aware.  In my view, I think his own belief system and faith in “Science”, and particularly in “Medical Science” in this case, have adversely colored his interpretations of the various facts he has reported, and even more significantly his choice of and manner of describing which facts he did choose to report.  Also, his undying, yet uncritical, denial of the power of international Jewish organizations, both financially and culturally, blinds him to the horrible racist and totalitarian nature of the Jewish people.  In short, I may indeed be Mentally Ill, but Dennis and a large percentage of the world’s Goyim are unwitting dupes and naïve sheep.

So anyhow, what I believe is that to even consider certain intuitive truths that by now I feel my brother should better grasp, like that there is at least a possibility that instead of suffering from some kind of physiological mental disorder as has been whispered in his ear (and mine and just about everyone I know) by a little angel for almost 30 years, that I have instead actually been a victim, (and only one of millions of us worldwide at that), of the Zionist/Masonic Cult’s mind control and a politically motivated slur campaigns.  As I said before, my belief is that there was an option open to me for years to join up with the Cult.  At a certain point I was “black balled” by the same Hollywood elites who had proffered offers of Cult initiation and acceptance with ritual loyalty tests coupled with what to me were unbelievably coercive threats spoken at me by their proxy stooges for years.  I really don’t need to know any more about the true nature of plausible deniability which the Cults’ Mucky-Mucks use to hide their identity from public revelation.  After I failed to respond with appropriate sexual abandon to certain offers of gratuitous sex with extremely desirable women and a few times in group setting testing my willingness to participate in multiple partner bacchanals, a campaign was launched against my psyche which has lasted for years.  I perceived their goal after they turned on me was to ruin any chance I had to gain social status social status or maintain material wealth.  By labeling me as an “anti-Semite”, a term which is like being called a “nigger lover” at a KKK rally, they have destroyed my reputation and ability to find work in Hollywood.  Really, truthfully, I think they were actually trying drive me to literal self-destruction via suicide.  I believe the flip-flop from their initial encouraging activity in my life toward Cult membership and participation in their rituals into actual MK Ultra style methods of mind destroying psychic warfare, came a s a result of my refusal to become a crypto-fascist supporter of their materialistic, one world agenda, and pursue their chosen Jewess Cult Practitioner towards marriage.   After that refusal of their crypto-commandments to pursue that front woman when they ordered me to do so in 2001, as I had refused their hinds masny years previously to pursue her further, I found it even more difficult to deal with my day to day confrontation with their subliminal bullying than I had for the previous 15 years.  Only an extreme pleasure in and interest in life sustained my will to live in the face of their relentless onslaughts.

Getting back to the theme I want to finish with in my initial entry to this new blog, in all fairness, I have to say that that I my brother Dennis, my brother Eric, and myself all have a strong sense of filial responsibility, which were bred into us by our father’s own paternal instincts and actions.  My father, and both my brothers always acted in good faith towards me, at times despite what can only be described as what was bafflingly stupid and self-destructive actions on my part.  I didn’t always agree with their actions, particularly my father and Dennis in a number of situations where they found it necessary to exercise “tough love”.  I may not have made it this far without economic help across some of my bleaker self destructive years that seem to have been interspersed between other much happier and prosperous times.  Also, I was addicted to excess use of alcohol and marijuana for 30 years, habits which I have effectively ceased since 2000 due to a combination of determination and incarcerations.  Those activities, which when coupled with the constant onslaught of psychological attacks by the Cult’s operatives, caused me to have many erratic behaviors and exacerbated my inability to remain economically self-sufficient at times.  I have to own up and take most of the blame for putting both my father and Dennis in a position to feel obligated to help me financially, especially since my brother Eric cut me tons of slack in the odd behavior department, even as I earned my living primarily by working as a prototype machinist in his Special Effects shops for 15 years between 1985 and 1999.  I am truly fortunate that I have had financial support from all the men in my immediate family over the span of my adult life.  It’s ironic to me that as a result of my supposed mental disability I now have financial stability, by way of Social Security Disability Income, for the first time in about 15 years.  Certain elements in our society find it so fashionable to decry our “paternal” culture, as if men should not feel and exercise filial responsibility towards their wives and offspring.  In my case, I let those freaks get the upper hand on my consciousness for long enough, but it’s all over now.

Having set out the above, I don’t really feel the need or have the time to refute the errors that I believe are incorporated within the texts of the 7 chapters of my Dennis’ Mental Health blog.  If you followed that blog in the past perhaps you will probably be interested in what I will say in this new blog of my own.  I do not deny that he reported various historical occurrences accurately in that old blog, but I don’t intend to try to separate the wheat from the chaff as far as truthfulness of his accounts.  There are some blaring errors and omissions, but I don’t feel like rehashing old news.  He has offered to take the entire text of that Mental Health blog off-line, an offer which I appreciate, but I don’t believe he should.  It stands as his interpretation of some of the struggles he and I have gone through together, and as such I think he should keep it there as long as he wishes to.  My purpose from now on will be to try to describe as accurately as I can, the process by which I myself came to the conclusion that I don’t have to believe what these freaks tell me, because they are big liars.  I want to state for the record some of the conclusions I have come to about what has happened to me, and what has happened since I made a firm resolve to ignore for the most part what other people tell me I must do or not do, what is true or untrue, and what is going to or not going to happen.

I’ve known for years I must do to remain sane and out of punitive environments.  I am on a small dose of Depakote which I’m not convinced I need.  I eating well and getting some exercise, and I believe my thinking is now more in line with empirically verifiable reality.   I have rejected the supposed validity of something called “dialectical materialism” which I never really understood very well anyhow.  I have recognized the absurdity of the Jewish supremacist world view and can now separate my dislike for those types of Jews who populated the Palestinian’s homeland and call it Israel from ethnic Jews who have about as much in common with Zionists as I do with the Pope.  As for all those pretentious assholes who are on top in Hollywood Illuminati’s echelon of obscenity I just brush the dust of my lapel and kept walking after groveling for about 20 years trying to please the unpleasable.  Call me what you want, but having now rejected Psychiatry’s twisted proscriptions which I allowed to define me for 25 years and no longer accepting those “Doctors” pronouncements about my knowledge and beliefs, their interpretations of the causes of my “deviant” beliefs, my “anti-Semitism”, and my previously uncontrolled behavior no longer affect me as before.

I mentioned Dr. David Duke before.  I know how David Duke feels, and a really have much respect for him.  Every time the people in the media mention his name, they have to preface it with a “He’s the KKK guy” clause.  As somebody who has been maligned for years as Mentally Ill, I know exactly how that makes him feel.  Like him, I don’t deny that I’ve acted in many situations in the past as a maniac.  But if I was a Jew named James Osterberg, Jr. who took on the persona of (Z)Iggy Pop, I could have made millions or dollars at being a self-destuctive Psychopath.  Personally, I think Dr. Duke is wrong in his belief that Jesus was and is the Son of God, because I don’t believe the Jews ever had the “Truth” in the first place and their “Law” is meaningless to me.  I don’t believe I need to be forgiven for violating rules that were a complete fiction to start out with.  But he can believe that if he wants and clearly Jesus message is in every way superior to that of Aleister Crowley, Timothy Leary and all his CIA Freak Show MK Ultra spiritual descendants.  I know that Duke would not force his beliefs about Christ on me either.  I have other friends who call themselves Christians, and I believe after what I’ve discovered about life, that they too are delusional.  But in a good way if that is possible.  After working in Hollywood’s myth factories for 20 years and watching their dreck of movie screens and TV for much longer than that, I know how good Jews are at spinning tales.  Since the entire Bible, Old and New Testament was written by and for Jews, I think Mr. Duke is in the same boat as the Pope when it comes to the conceptual box he confines himself to.  Or let me say at least they seem to be in the same fleet.  Personally I’d prefer to sail on Duke’s ship at this point, however, if I had to choose.

The Psychiatric establishment’s view of me, judging from the overwhelming consensus of Shrinks I’ve spoken to, is that I am genetically predisposed to some constantly shifting and ill defined “Mental Illness”, that has changed as often as the President of the US, and that really doesn’t line up with the reality that I am living.  They have rammed their biological deterministic concept of my mostly environmentally engendered emotional problems down my brain for so long that even good old gullible me can’t believe their horse shit du jour any more.

One final point I need to make at the outset of this new blog, “Am I really Mentally Ill?” There was a 10-minute video clip that my brother had posted here of an interrogation he did of me back in early September of 2009.   When I was released in July of 2015 from the California State Hospital in San Luis Obispo, ASH, I reviewed that interview and requested that Dennis remove it from his website, which he did.  Back just days prior to when we recorded that interview, in 2009, I had just been acquitted in a previous Robbery case which I had been fighting for six months while locked up in the LA Sheriff Department’s Twin Towers Correctional Facility.  When Dennis asked me if he could ask me a few questions on video I mistakenly acquiesced, thinking I suppose, that I could prove to him that I wasn’t “Mentally Ill”, like he and just about everybody I knew were convinced of.  My presentation in that document is certainly not “normal” by any standard of judgement, my speech was pressured, I was gritting my teeth, and I was very angry.  I also had a sever cramp in my left hand which I kept closing and opening into a fist throughout his questioning, reinforcing the impression that I was crazy.  I also made several clearly delusional references to things which I no longer believe are accurate.  I did claim in the interview to be a victim of mind control in unequivocal terms and I obviously still believe that.

Unintentionally I believe, near the start of the interview when I told Dennis “I’m moving on now”, he responded to my comment in an exasperated tone with “it sounds to me like you have long rooted delusions that are very real to you” and that “all these [delusions] come from inside your head”, a couple of statements that more or less brought home to me not only Dennis’ longtime conviction that I am seriously Mentally Ill.  He then continued throughout the rest of the video in the adversarial role of an inquisitor, trying to ascertain my “med compliance”, asking me in various form, “Are you taking you’re meds or not?”  Unfortunately, that is the basic stance that for years so many people have taken toward me upon discovering that I have been diagnosed with Mentally Illness.  In fact, a couple of weeks ago, I met with a new Psychiatrist, from the CDCR Parole Outpatient Clinic, via “Telemed”, Skype like video meeting with me here in Lancaster, CA and he in Sacramento.  Of course, the first thing he asked me was my dosage and if I was taking, my “Psych Meds”.  You get tired as a NSA victim of political oppression and historically repeatedly reinforced disinformation about having a mental “Disorder”, that at time you just want to burst.  That is the exact one down role that Patients are put vis-a-vis even low level “psych Techs” in State Hospitals, who after one year of training, most of it on the job, they are permitted to treat any and all of the “Patients” in the hospital with a similar, what I have to call for the lack of a more precise word because this one sums up so well just what the attitude is, condescending attitude toward.  These Psychiatric sycophants believe that because somebody has been defined by the “State of California”, as “Mentally Ill”, that they automatically have the right to treat them as children or mentally retarded adults.  Seriously, it gets old.

Upon viewing the tape again last week, which some of you readers who followed Dennis’ blog previously have no doubt seen, for only the second time since it was made, I became quite upset when I counted the number of times my brother asked me in the recording if I was taking or planning to take my “meds”.  10 fucking times he asked me that and nine times I sidestepped his question.  It was blatantly obvious that I was not on meds and just as obvious that I didn’t want to answer his question.  I just want to point out to anyone reading this who saw that interview that I had just been release a few days prior to that after having been tortured, by what I considered then and now to be draconian measures compared to the behavior I was accused of having done.  When I finally answered him that I was not taking my prescribed Abilify, (and had not been for 14 months previously to that, both out of Jail and then after arrested and incarcerated by faking swallowing it or “cheeking” the pills at my Jail cell door), Dennis then continued to goad me on.  That interview will not be put back on the Internet again as I really have moved on since then.  Dennis had hoped to have it remain, even as an edited down version if I could take out the parts that I found objectionable, but unfortunately, during the entire 10-minute conversation I did come off as Dennis’ “schizophrenic brother” and that is probably why he misinterpreted my behavior in the title of the short which was “An interview with my schizophrenic brother.”  I do want to make video addendum to his Mental Health blog to demonstrate to those of you who saw that previous curiosity that I am not really like I was presenting at that time, when not fresh of six months of brutal treatment at the hands of LA County Sheriff Deputies during the height of Sheriff Lee Baca’s reign of terror.  The new video will be posted on this site very soon.  Thanks for your interest in this blog.

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Misha had always wondered about that June day. There was that moment, for example, when he and his fiancee had returned from a trip to Yosemite and ended up at Venice beach watching an exquisite sunset. The brief vacation had been somewhat unsettling for both but neither Misha nor his fiancee said anything. Perhaps they attributed their blasé feelings to fatigue.

As the sun set into the Pacific, two planes could be seen flying in opposite directions as if they had somehow magically appeared from behind the sun. Misha was a rational person but was also attuned to the symbology, the metaphors in nature and about him. Signs. Signals. Omens.

Much later, years later, even….he would recall this memory often.

Just two months later, there was the pregnancy. Then the decision: marriage. Afterall, his fiancee had already suffered through an abortion. It seemed the appropriate thing to do, the alternatives being what they were. The proposal was something like this: ‘Well, maybe we should just get married.’ God only knows why she agreed but it probably had something to do with avoiding a second abortion.

Two weeks before the wedding, while lugging some of his possessions in his VW square-back, driving down Montana Avenue in Santa Monica, Misha detected fumes and then heard someone blaring a horn. He looked in his review mirror and saw a dark cloud of smoke spewing out, quickly pulled over and lifted the rear engine cover, only to have flames shoot up into his face.

‘Oh Shit!’ He ran into some nondescript business which didn’t have a sign and looked like some kind of office. A man stood looking at him.

“Hey, man…. can I borrow your fire extinguisher?”

“Nope,” the man spoke with a wry smirk on his face. He obviously was enjoying the scene. He tapped his cigarette on a trash can, unconcerned about the California smoking laws, or maybe they didn’t apply to his business, whatever it was. He took a long drag and blew the smoke almost directly into Misha’s face.

“But there’s a fire station just around the corner down a few blocks,” the man continued, as if to prolong this interlude of entertainment which had broken his boring afternoon. He pointed in the general direction.

“Thanks!” And Misha took off running as the station turned out to be six or more blocks away and, worse, there was no way to alert the firemen inside who were probably shooting pool anyways and quaffing a few, so Misha angrily imagined. There did appear to be some alarm button on the side of the building and he pushed it but to no effect as far as he could tell. It appeared that no one stirred inside. He waited but no movement could he detect.

‘Fucking aholes!’ And he raced back to his car and watched it slowly burn up, helpless. It was the kind of helplessness he would feel many times in his life as if fate had thousands of such incidents mapped out for Misha, footprints to follow…so to speak, some sick program predetermined by the universe.

Finally, the fire trucks arrived but by then the vehicle was a total loss although Misha had been able to salvage a few possessions and set them on the sidewalk. He had a plastic crate in which he crammed some odds and ends, mostly sports gear including a baseball glove, hardball, Frisbee and tennis racket.

As he stood staring at the firemen who sprayed some foam on his car, Misha thought back to the repairs some mechanics had recently completed on his VW and then realized that they had totally screwed up, done a shabby job and there had obviously been a fuel line that was not secured or some such other delinquent fix. ‘More assholes!!’ he thought.

The firemen took off but not before admonishing Mishaa that he had to hire a tow truck to haul the burned vehicle otherwise he would get ticketed by the police. So fitting. Finally, relinquishing all to fate, Misha made the call inside a cafe nearby and returned to the sidewalk once again, staring at the vehicle.

Eventually, the tow-truck driver pulled up and at that very moment, a young Mexican kid on a bicycle swept by, reached out toward Misha’s possessions and grabbed his tennis racquet sticking out prominently and within reach. It was a crime of opportunity done without much thought, probably just for the hell of it, and off the kid continued on down the street.

“Hey, you punk,” Misha shouted out at the kid sped up and he took off running after him. This is where all his training for the marathon he had recently completed paid off, at least. The kid turned into an apartment complex and Misha followed and cornered the tall youngster who turned as if to use the racquet as a weapon and made a feint to hit Misha who grabbed the racquet and punched the kid who was, at that point, off his bike.

“You idiot!” A voice boomed and Misha looked up at the other side of the driveway which exited to the cross street. “This is gang territory,” said the tow-truck driver who had raced around the block after observing the events, recognizing the possibility of danger or at least imagining it, “Hop in the truck, now!”

Misha complied and listened to the rant of the tow-truck driver describe how lucky he was that there were no Latino gang-bangers around to pummel his head and otherwise inflict pain as was their wont, if one were to believe the pulsing ravings of the driver who presumed to have intimate knowledge of the local gangs in the neighborhood.

They returned to the site of the torched vehicle where the tow-truck driver hooked it up, pulling away as Misha watched his VW square-back disappearing down the boulevard. Misha pondered all the memories associated with it: the camping and back-packing trips to Joshua Tree, the Golden Trout Wilderness in the Sierra, Mineral Springs, etc. He experienced some pangs of sadness but tried to push them away.

He grabbed his box of possessions and began walking down the street, toward the house where his brother lived some several miles away. Feeling somewhat forlorn but accepting the reality of the situation and having expended much emotional energy and too worn out to even think of who else he might call. Besides, his brother never answered the phone.

Turning to cross the street, he heard someone yell out his name, and caught sight of two of his housemates driving down the street. The two women pulled over and Misha asked them for a ride. He hopped in their vehicle, putting his box in their trunk first. Talk about a serendipity. He had only been living near Silver Lake for a few months with these two women and what were the chances of his roommates being on the westside and encountering him at this particular moment? (Could God possibly feel guilty?’ Misha speculated).

He quickly filled the girls in on his tragedy and they both listened and commiserated. Misha had only been living with them a few months, having fled his previous refuge due to the bad vibes of living with a dedicated paranoid-phobic type roommate, his oldest brother, whose justification for hating everyone was that they were ‘weird’. This was the very same brother whose residence he was now headed.

The driver, Eve, was a pleasant-enough nymphomaniac which he had deduced from the constant stream of men whom traipsed in and out of the house while he had been living there. During a three month period, there were no less than six men Misha had been introduced to and that was only when he was around. Indeed, she had even hit on Misha one night, not shortly after his fiancee had suffered from her miscarriage.

The other woman, Lorilei, a lesbian, was friendly enough if still somewhat ambivalent about her sexuality. This was par for the course at least in the 1980s in Los Angeles, where sexual identify amongst the artistic crowd was always a flexible affair. She was a bit depressed but as interesting as her friend, working for some local news station as a videographer. Both were easy to get along with and attractive besides.

Misha’s third roommate, Jan, was a psychologist who sported the license plate, ‘Cum n Play’ on his Volvo and who talked to his mother weekly in a meek and feminine voice as if she were his lover. Misha’s roommates would have made fantastic prototypes for characters in some sitcom, much more interesting than those on Three’s Company which had been popular a few years earlier.

“Can you give me a lift to my brother’s place?” Misha asked. “It’s a couple miles away on the edge of Culver City. From there, Misha thought he could borrow his brother’s car and to get to his newly rented apartment he and his fiancee had found in Westwood Village close to UCLA.

“Of course,” Eve replied. They chatted some and Misha reminded them of their invitation to his wedding while they made their way through the crowded city streets. Within fifteen minutes, Misha was knocking at his brother’s place, a residence where he had spent two years after having moved from the Valley. Actually Steve, his brother’s best friend, owned the house and rented out rooms. Fortunately, Dan was home just as Misha expected. Dan opened the door and, seeing his younger brother, made some grunt of recognition and let him in.

Dan stared at Misha, without saying a word, a look of confusion on his face. Dan had been rooming there after Steve had divorced his wife and bought the house, Steve and Dan being long term buddies going back to the mid-sixties when all was in transition and confusion. Dan’s life was allegory for that confusion, that state of not knowing what the future held because he stared into the horror that was SouthEast Asia where he had spent two years in Thailand doing Intelligence work which he never defined or even talked about.

“My fucking car burned up!” Misha dourly spoke. “Can’t imagine much more shit happening to me before my marriage. Can you believe it? First the miscarriage, then my car.”

His brother said nothing. He had no interest, his thought process a complete mystery to most. A laconic person by nature, somewhere on the continuum of Aspergers, he simply left Misha there to deal with his problems and went back to his bedroom where he normally spent some two-thirds of his life while over his bed hung a poster of Stalin, whom he called Uncle Joe and admired because he ‘got things done’ as he often responded when others complained about the government. No one quite knew how to take this comment supposing that Dan was being sarcastic, not realizing the depth of belief in that remark.

Misha used the phone and called his friend Todd and asked if he could borrow his car since he now realized that asking his brother would not be worth the time because he knew that his brother would refuse, mostly because Misha was known to be a bit reckless.

Only recently, he had been ticketed for a dangerous turn on the freeway coming home from work, his sixth that year. Two months earlier, he had totaled his fiancee’s car and nearly died or so he told the story. Cops made it a habit to stop him, pulling him over for some minor infraction or other if only because he displayed bumper stickers on his car that no doubt riled them.

Stickers like, ‘Support the Black Panthers’, or ‘Impeach Reagan’, or ‘America Sucks.’

When Misha told others that he was being targeted, his listeners were skeptical. But he would tell them: “Look, if a cop follows anyone long enough, there’s going to be a reason to pull that person over.”

Not that anyone believed him. And that was part of the frustration Misha had experienced most of his life, people’s skepticism at his description and analysis of events.

How could he convince people that being given a ticket for going too slow or not signaling when making a right turn were normally things cops ignored? It was impossible to persuade people who had not been the victim of so many such incidents.

But back to Todd.

Todd was Misha’s friend with whom he had hitch-hiked across the country back in the early 1970s. That was after they had attended the first Rainbow Festival in the Rocky Mountains of Colorado before heading toward their real destination, the Republican Convention where they ended up joining a zippie commune and were arrested some three times for their political protesting. This had cemented their friendship.

Unfortunately, Todd suffered from an existential crisis, complete with a mania inspired by amphetamines and God know’s what else. So, Misha spent limited time around him, and only when it was a matter of pragmatic need.

Todd was the type of person that liked to orchestrate outings with friends as if he were a movie director providing them all with a backdrop to some fantasy he was executing as his mind traced some fantastic storyline. He had had many girlfriends but never married…a wise move on his part. Much later in life, he was to end up homeless and psychotic begging for hand-outs on Skid Row in downtown, L.A.

An evening out with Todd was enough to drain any normal person and only someone like Misha could tolerate the frenetic path through which his friend might deliver him, having been around enough eccentric persons through the myriad experiences that his life had drawn him (if only because Misha himself appreciated such experiences from an artistic point of view).

Misha thought that it was sort of like being around the famed Neal Cassidy on Kerouac’s famous novel, On the Road. But Todd would lend Misha his car and this enabled him to get back to his apartment.

The cosmic forces were set in stone in a conspiracy to fuck with Misha, but it would take him years to discover this fact. His soon-to-be impending marriage was to devolve over a twelve year period into a relationship fraught with his wife’s affairs and deceptions, lies and violence, and even worse. But Misha was stoic and trusting by nature, loyal to a fault and oblivious, a romantic who would not admit to the dark depths that any human was capable of sinking. Naive, you might say or really stupid as others might have concluded.

The day of the reckoning, his marriage to Jackie, was fantastic if one were to evaluate it in terms of the reception that followed which, like so many weddings, turn into a charade of happiness as if to create the fantasy of a permanent exuberance. Couples cling to the happily ever after all fantasy, all human experience to the contrary, at least in the U.S. where the divorce rate hits 50%. Second marriages are worse, at 55%.

Of course, this does not even take into account the plethora of marriages which are immensely dysfunctional and survive due to practical considerations or a multitude of other pathetic reasons. In truth, it is doubtful that even 10% of marriages result in true happiness. In fact, it is rather amazing how many people put on a front of happiness to their family and friends, meanwhile living double or false lives. Maintaining a front often becomes a full time job for both spouses.


Misha’s first marriage lasted a dozen years or so before his wife left him. At that point, they had moved on to Oregon where his wife had wanted to join a spiritual community. Misha quickly sized up the community as a cult, saying to his wife: “There are too many plasticized smiling faces here.” She disagreed and left him to become one of the several hundred devotees of this Swami who later was sued by a host of women in the community with whom he had had sex.

A few years later Misha found himself entangled in his second marriage with a woman whom he thought was the love of his life. But that marriage only lasted four years before she inherited half a million dollars…..hired a lawyer and then quickly divorced him and a year later, began her fourth marriage….or was it her fifth? No one was sure, least of all her kids.

In fact, Misha actually found a tape recording his wife had made in therapy for what reason he had no idea. He had been going through his own cassette tapes of music he had recorded over many years and had found a blank tape. He popped it in and first thought it was blank. But he turned the volume up fully and then heard a faint voice. He had to put his ear to the audio recording and soon realized it was his second wife who had taped a session with her therapist.

On it she revealed that she had had multiple affairs on her husbands her whole life. At the end of the tape, Misha could hear the therapist say: ‘Well, don’t forget to erase this tape.’

Apparently, his wife had thought she had erased it but there was still a very faint recording of her and the therapist’s voices. He strained to listen to his ex-wife admitting to sordid affairs from a life filled with her licentious behavior. And worse, the horrors of her childhood revealed a tale which recapitulated a history of her mother’s decadence and perversions and explained Misha’s wife’s despondent moods and, later, severe anxiety attacks.

Wow, he thought. And he was lucky. For if he had known the whole story of his wife’s life…he would have been shell-shocked. The woman’s life would have made a best selling novel and major motion picture. It had murder, two suicides and a shocking family revelation that Misha’s ex-wife’s much younger sister had discovered…….. a deep tragic secret which had explained the mystery of their mother’s pathological lifestyle. But that is grist for another story.

For years, Misha had been a free-lance editor for a number of years and figured he could work online almost anywhere. So he packed the few possessions he would need, sold all the rest, and decided to go to Costa Rica where he spent the next four years bumming about while he earned enough to actually increase his savings.

Finally, after much reflection, he decided to return to his island paradise…..where he had lived while in the Peace Corps some 45 years earlier after graduating from the University of California in Los Angeles. In Palau, life had been simple and although modern technology had invaded….he could still live the simple, unadulterated life he had longed for most of his life.

While traveling Central America and Mexico, he kept in contact with a few friends and his family over the years and updated them before he told them that he was departing for his new life which he intended to carve out in Palau….now an independent country.

Soon after he arrived, he took up with a much younger and beautiful woman and was now living the simple life he had always yearned for. ‘Why?’ he often asked himself….’did he not recognize or did he not follow-up on this feeling much earlier in life?

All his life, he had been alienated from American culture and the horrors of what he called consumer capitalism….the last stage in a decrepit system which he avowed ‘ate its own’ which he believed to be an apt metaphor and not at all an exaggeration.

So, he settled down and lived the simple life, hanging out with the natives, fishing in their outrigger canoes, partaking of a community that he had always longed for. He read books, re-learned the native language, wrote and otherwise whiled away the time.

Friends back home would ask him, “Are you happy?” And he would tell them:

“Any fool can be happy. That’s easy. But to be content. That is a challenge. And yes, I am content. I don’t need the luxuries and frivolous entertainment of a society committed to destroying itself all for the sake of making profits, consuming endless stuff, and dedicated to the proposition that there is never enough.

“No,” he would continue, “I don’t need to prove anything to anybody. And I have found balance in my life. ‘Besides, the weather is near-perfect all year round.”

This was the gist Misha’s last letter he wrote to his eldest brother who upon reading it, simply said, ‘Huh?’ and then went back to watching his football game while he examined the new automatic weapon he had recently bought for protection. Then he looked up at Uncle Joe and smiled. No one would fuck with him now.

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7. Is my brother cured of mental illness?

Chapter 7 in a series on mental illness.

[bottom] [ch.1] [ch.2] [ch.3] [ch.4] [ch.5] [ch.6] [ch.7] [ch.8]

It has been over five years since I penned the previous chapter in this chronicle. My brother was incarcerated in the California correctional system for most of that time. He was released this past June of 2015 after being convicted on crimes of felony vandalism and criminal threats. He did those acts while off his meds, fully delusional, and in a state of what his friends and I refer to as insanity. Much of that story is recounted in early chapters (see the links above). After five long years, the last of which was spent on parole at Atascadero State Hospital, Tony is finally a free man once again. As Tony puts it, he has spent eleven of the past thirteen years of his life incarcerated in various institutions. That is a story that only he can tell. In time, he will tell it. I know he will and I look forward to hearing the whole story.

For now, I will just say that my brother is doing well, under the circumstances. He is staying on meds, he has housing, and we enjoy spending time together again.

Is my brother cured of his mental illness? My answer to that is no, I don’t think so. I believe that the reason he is rational now is due to him staying on his medications. If he were to go off his meds, as he has done in the past, I think he would “decompensate” as he puts it, and fall back into a pattern of irrationality that I have tried to describe in early chapters of this saga.

I will let Tony tell his own story going forward if he so chooses. Tony asked me to remove the original interview we did from YouTube because it contained some personal information he preferred to not be in the public eye as well as some inaccuracies. Tony once told me that he did not want to make a career out of my his mental illness. Still, he is a good writer. I hope he will write about his experiences in the California Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation. It is a fascinating story. And I hope he will allow our original interview, perhaps edited a bit, to be public again and do a follow-up interview.

Until such time as Tony writes about his own life or collaborates with me, this brief note will be the last chapter in the story I’ve had to tell.

[top] [bottom] [ch.1] [ch.2] [ch.3] [ch.4] [ch.5] [ch.6] [ch.7] [ch.8]

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I am still Charlie — Je suis toujours Charlie

January 7, 2016 marks the one year anniversary of the attack by Islamist extremists on the French satirical newspaper Charlie Hebdo. I noticed little or no mention in the so-called alternative American press about that horrible event of one year past. Not by Democracy Now nor by KPFK’s Sojourner Truth program. I recall when it happened that the U.S. Left displayed ignorance about Charlie Hebdo, not to the point of justifying the attack on Charlie Hebdo but questioning the magazine’s choice to use blunt satire about Mohammed and in some cases calling the magazine racist.

That ignorance was ignorance by omission, ignoring the simple fact that Charlie Hebdo satirizes all religion. But Charlie Hebdo supports the rights of immigrants including Muslim immigrants. The editor Stéphane Charbonnier, aka “Charb”, who was killed by the terrorists, was an outspoken atheist but also a strong supporter of immigrant rights. For example he opposed law in France that bans Muslim women from wearing the veil. Here is quote from an interview with Charb: “Of 1058 numbers, there are only three covers on Islam. Every week we defend the undocumented, many of whom are Muslims, we fight against racism and discrimination, it is for the right to vote for immigrants … And as a personal note, I was against the law against wearing the veil. But the media never talk about Charlie Hebdo for these positions, which are more in favor of Muslims.”. Here is the full inteview with Charb (in French).

In some broadcasts by the left after the attack, such as on Lila Garrett’s show Connect the Dots, Charlie Hebdo was referred to as being racist, an ironically false statement. I attempted to educate Lila to that effect in this email exchange

So, on this anniversary of that tragedy, we should honor the unbridled voice of Charlie Hebdo and all brave journalists who satirize all that deserves satire, and that includes all religions.

Here is a sample of images of past front pages of Charlie Hebdo, showing the diversity of sarcasm towards all who deserve sarcasm: (click here to open an enlarged view of these images)
Charlie Hebdo front pages

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Cat, the Commie

We were sitting by the pool at the house that my new acquaintance managed in Merida, Mexico. She had invited me over since we had become friends during the past month. She and I had some things in common, some fundamental alienation from America culture. That is why she had spent most of the last 20 years of her life in Mexico and before that, another 20 years, having taken a brief hiatus sometime in her thirties or forties. She was now 68.

She talked frenetically and it was often hard to follow her thoughts. She threw out names and stories, often without enough context. I was always asking her: “Who was that? When did that happen? Where were you then?”

She averred that she was a communist. More than that she would not reveal about her exact political analysis. And being a sometime Hegelian-Marxist….I refrained from inquiring, lest she condemn me. She often appeared angry or irritated. She would raise her voice, grow emotional and yet, it was understandable. You see, she was a recovering alcoholic and drug addict.

Her name was Catalina and she grew up in SoCal….near Seal beach. Her father was an alcoholic and her mother she did not talk much about. Cat began drinking heavily at the age of 13 and regularly had black-outs which she told me…..she thought of as normal. There is much I don’t know about her. Once, she quickly mentioned that she had a gun pointed in her face in Mexico. Maybe her Mexicano boyfriend was a Cartel member? She didn’t go into it.

But I do know that she is angry. Cat regularly goes to AA meetings…..which is good. She had been attending them for some 15-20 years, again she is a bit vague on the topic. Of course, she claims she is also ADHD and so it is a bit challenging to put together a straight bio of her life as I get bits and pieces here and there as she leapfrogs from anecdote to anecdote.

She tells me of a recent AA meeting here in the city of Merida where she was the only woman present. They were having a discussion about some practical matter and there was supposed to be a vote on a proposal, it being seconded….but one particular cigarette smoking fellow named Hal who did not follow procedure….kep talking and wouldn’t allow a vote on the proposal. So, Cat pointed it out to him.

“The proposal has been seconded, so it’s time to vote,” Cat urged. “Oh, and who appointed you leader, Mom!!???”
“Fuck you, Hal!” Cat blurted out.
“You can’t say that!” another man chimed in.

“Of course you can,” Cat said. “People talk like that at AA meetings all the time!” The other men stared at the floor, mute.
“Well, are we gonna fucking vote or not?” she belted out.

Again silence.

And with that, Cat stalked out of the meeting. “Fucking idiots!” she muttered as she returned home just six blocks away.

Often, she interrupts my stories as well as her own and we sometimes forget what exactly we were talking about. She laughs and admits that this is a terrible habit of hers. We talk while we are in her pool. Well, not her pool. It is the pool of the owner for whom she is managing the house I referenced earlier.

You see, she became friends with the couple who owned the place. The wife allowed her to live there without having to pay anything as the house was gigantic and there were several empty bedrooms. So, her rich friend told her: “Hell, just live here. Why not? My husband is a bore and besides, he won’t even care or notice.”
Her husband was a philanderer, often out womanizing in any case, very common practice in Mexico, married or not.

But back to Cat. So, Cat stayed with her new friend. And eventually, her friend died. Her friend’s husband, now very elderly and after suffering seven heart attacks, decided to move back to the U.S. His children agreed to let Cat be the caretaker. After all, she was honest and who else could they trust.? They themselves wanted no part of the mess. Maybe they were well off. Certainly, they did not want to live in Mexico.

They wanted to sell the place and put it up on the market of $800,000 which, of course, is a fortune in Mexico. It was a huge property in downtown Merida but you could not tell from the street, of course.
As in many old city centers in the Old World where houses shared common walls, what lay behind the front doors when closed and sealed was mystery. And this house extended a half block back and then veered right (an L shape with a series of other rooms, storage and other). In addition, it had a elevated patio with multiple rooms and a spectacular garden and of course, a pool.

Cat was responsible for maintaining the residence and also paying the bills and dealing with the realtor who was having a difficult time trying to sell the damn place. She had a regular employee who did most of the maintenance and catering required, a nice Mayan man named Daniel who didn’t drink, a real plus for a poor fellow in Mexico.

Even after they halved the asking price to $400,000, they got very few people inquiring about the place. I mean, the maintenance on the place, given its age, is fairly substantial—the gardens, the pool, the ancient plumbing and electrical grid.

Remember, this is Mexico where things have been patched up for decades and decades without, most often, much care given to things. Hire a cheap Mexican laborer to patch things up. Then when things get fucked up, hire two Mexican laborers to patch it up. Something like that. Mexican laborers do not make much money. But many know what they are doing and can do the temporary fix which is what most people do mostly because that is all they want to do. They prefer not to spend much money on anything. This is not America.

If you want to fix something seriously? Oh shit. You would have to spend thousands and thousands and maybe tens of thousands…..tear into walls, underneath the floors…..and God knows what you might find. This process goes on in America also with older homes. So you can only imagine what it is like in Mexico….when these structures were built…100 years ago? 200 years ago.

And the electrical grids in Merida like many cities are a hodgepodge of affairs. Here in Merida, you see workers climbing ladders and replacing wires and cables every day on some street. Updating to fiber optic some people say. Replacing old cables. It has gone on for over a year now and maybe ten years….god….who is counting. Something is always being replaced.

Drainage systems? I have been told that there are no pipes draining water away. There are just holes, maybe caverns. Hell, I don’t know how this works. I can tell you that many streets flood in heavy rain. This is the way it was in the San Fernando Valley in Los Angeles where I grew up in the 1960s. They did not have proper drainage systems then. But they eventually got them. I recall how they tore up the streets and how long it took to do the work.

See, that is the difference between a so-called Developed nation and an Under-Developed nation. Developed nations have good or decent or sufficient infrastructure, more or less. But who knows anymore? Things are getting worse even in developed countries. Potholes go unfixed. Sewage systems in some countries in Europe, no doubt, are ancient.

In Mexico, you can’t flush toilet paper down most toilets. It clogs things up. Underneath the house you are renting or have bought….sewer pipes are rusted, maybe cracked, possibly on the verge of breaking. My God, I smell horrific odors walking down many streets in many cities in Mexico. ‘What the hell is that?’ my brain asks after the appropriate neurons receive the malodorous sense impulses from my nostrils.

So the house where Cat lives has been reduced in price to $400,000 but still, Cat tells me…… no one wants it. It is too big. Potential buyers come in to look at it. Maybe they want to transform it into an B&B? Maybe they want to turn it into a school? A business? See, if they buy this place, how much money will they have to throw into it to make it right? That is part of the problem. The investment. The risk.

In Mexico, lots of Americans, Canadians, even Europeans come and buy what they consider cheap houses. Then, they fix them up. The ‘right’ way. Now, they have a very decent or awesome place. Then they grow old and want to return home for perhaps better medical care. They also want to see their families and be with them more. They are in their seventies and walking sometimes becomes difficult. And many end up suffering from all kinds of illnesses from eating and drinking too much, smoking cigarettes, not exercising.

Sorry for that digression in case you did not find this background….exactly…..well, mesmerizing.

“Shit,” Cat says, “I can’t sell the fucking house!” Which is a blessing actually. She lives there for free and even gets paid for the work she does which turns into a nearly full-time job in her mind since she counts the hours she even has to think or worry about something. It’s stressful and god-damn it, there is no man in her life either.

She stands six foot, two inches tall, towering above my 5’ 7” frame and has a limp due to her sciatic nerve. Soon, Cat plans to return to the Bay Area to see a doctor and to take a break and live in a friend’s house…more care-taking while her friend takes a vacation. Cat is a bit gangly with the tall body she has to pull around and her gait is a bit twisted as she walks.

Cat let me use her internet to teach English since I was having problems with mine where I was living about a half mile or a tad more from her. I was introduced to her by a couple male friends I had previously met, one an obese and pleasant but very opinionated American, the other a quiet Dutch fellow…..both married to Mexicanas by the way…and these extranjeros sounded very well-traveled.

My acquaintances seemed to convey a silent warning about Cat. They didn’t say that much about her. But Cat and I discovered we had let unorthodox lives, her much more so, of course, as she had become a communist early in her life. She thinks Stalin was no worse than Americans who took Indian lands and helped to eliminate them one way or another. When I mention to her that most Indians in the New World were wiped out by disease, she says, “Oh really? Who told you that?”

Of course, I have read a lot, being a history major…. and continue to do so. There are actually historic primary sources documenting many of the diseases Indians died from since they did not have the natural antibodies to fight off the diseases. Even measles or chicken pox could decimate villages, not to mention the plague and other illnesses.

But back to Cat, the commie.

As I said in my introduction, Cat had invited me over to her nice pool which I had enjoyed several times in the past month and we were conversing about all matters of things, often taking diversions on tangential topics and forgetting the point each one was trying to make or relate. And, no, we were not stoned. Just loquacious and verbose, lonely souls ready for some radical social perspectives and commentary which were difficult to hear much about these days.

(You know, sometimes it’s nice to think that some of the virtues and ideals from the sixties are still alive….even if just simmering).

I told her a story of taking the BART in San Francisco south to San Mateo and meeting a homeless person which inspired her to share her own anecdote about traveling on the same mass transportation service, having spent considerable time also growing up in Oakland. She even told me of hanging out at Raider games with Al Davis and his friends. But now she condemned football as nothing but ‘war’ and detested the violence therein.

Her harsh condemnation of football had surprised me but I let that go. Hell, I am a huge NFL fan. Didn’t want to argue with a commie, ex-addict about that.

But back to her story.

She says she was getting on the BART when she saw a woman who lay on one of the bench seats and who was very still. Cat told me, “Hell, I thought she was dead! Her face was all puffed up red and disfigured! And you know, there was a BART security guard right there talking with a another couple about the Giants, you know the baseball team!!”

I nodded my head as if to say, ‘Yes, I understand.”

Cat looked at me and commented, “Well, doesn’t that shock you?” She looked at me a bit perturbed.
“No, not really,” I commented.

“It doesn’t shock you that you the security guard was ignoring this woman, totally oblivious to her state and just babbling on about baseball?” she accused.

“Well, no because I have seen people in authority and in their jobs ignore all kinds of things that they should be paying attention to,” I replied, a bit irritated myself at her tone.

“Well, then, another Latino couple got on the train,” she continued. “They were young and were kissing and such and really didn’t appear to notice the woman laying on the bench.”

She continued:

“Well, I was fuming and got up and told the security guard about the woman but he just shook his head as if affirming he was aware of the situation. But he didn’t do anything, not even investigate the situation,” Cat asserted, now getting quite upset.

I listened to her story, taking it all in.

“You mean that this does not surprise you at all!” she inquired of me once again as I gawked at her. She obviously expected some serious reaction from me that she was not getting.

Meanwhile, I was thinking: ‘The security guard probably deals with this crap and worse on a daily basis. After a while, he just gave up caring’. But I kept this to myself….seeing Cat get upset made me think that I had best keep my honest opinions to myself.

Well, about now, I was feeling a bit under attack as if I was having a conversation with one of my wives during my marriages and did not happen to react in the way they expected me to.
I guess I was not showing Cat some empathy for her feelings which, to be honest, I didn’t quite understand.

I mean, why was she so angry? Granted she had abused drugs and alcohol for many years and I wondered if this was the source of her anger. Nah, it went much deeper, her whole fucked-up childhood….and adulthood it sounded like.

I again explained to her, now somewhat defensively, “Do you expect me to have the same reaction you had?”
“Well, don’t you care that the guard wasn’t doing his job?”

“Cat, the guy was obviously an asshole and didn’t care. What else do you want me to say?”
She looked at me, unmollified. Then, she said, “Well, then this woman who I thought might be dead, got up and took out a meth pipe and lit it! And the Latino guy got up, went over to her and told her to stop smoking, otherwise he would knock her out!!”

I was now stupefied at the turn this story was taking. And worse, Cat went on.
“And if he hadn’t, I would have,” she declared matter of factly. “Finally, at the next stop, the security guard ushered the woman off the train. Can you imagine that!”

Still feeling the shock that she could get so angry that she would turn violent against a woman who she had previously given up for the possibility of being dead….I didn’t know what to say. At this point, our interaction morphed into a argument and, for the life of me, I could not understand why she was so angry at me.
‘What did I do wrong?’ I wondered. I even asked her.

She then turned on me, “What’s wrong with you and why are you so angry? You’re the one that has made this an argument!”

Shit. This was shades of my first wife, the MFT, the one who railed at me and physically attacked me when I did not quite see things her way.

So, I announced that it was time for me to leave and got up. That was the last I heard from Cat except a terse message she sent by phone: “I am sorry for my part in our argument.”

Hell, I still wonder, what was ‘my part’? But when it comes to examining the emotions of a angry woman, sorry I get lost. I don’t think that this is what the French meant when they said, ‘Vive le difference’.

I did send over a message by email to Cat explaining that she should not expect me to have the same reactions to things that she had. I was nice. I told her that I thought she was ‘cool’. But apparently that was not sufficient for her. She wanted me to admit that I was partly responsible for the confrontation. First off, I wasn’t and second of all, I had no intention of wanting to hang out with here any more even if she had a pool and it was refreshing.

Just as well. As a friend of mine told me when I described the incident: “RUN! You don’t want to deal with an ex-alcoholic, ex-drug addict!”

I couldn’t agree more. I think people are entitled to their own opinions even in cases when they are stupid, ignorant, or angry like Cat. I just don’t want to be around them. Hell, you really can’t expect people to agree with you on all matters. And if a Commie woman wants to knock out a meth addict, I might not agree but when I am a guest at her house, I really don’t want to argue vehemently about a social problem or whatever you want to call it.

It just isn’t polite. Hell, it’s not like I am married to the woman. Thank God.

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Alabama Roy Weekly Update

Alabama Roy continues his expose on the virtues of Donald Trump.

Posted in Morning Thoughts, Satire | Leave a comment

Alabama Roy Supports Trump for President

An Alabama resident explains why you should vote for Trump to build a wall to keep out illegal immigrants.

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Nirvana City Madness


by Mikhail Branski

copyright Mikhail Branski, all rights reserved

Davida predicted some apocalyptic tragedy and then proceeded to discuss his latest plan to save up enough money to purchase land and live in exile, fed up as he was with the general public stupification. He now was preparing for what he termed `The Coming Great Collapse’, the economic and political calamity he predicted was coming to America and the world.

Mikhail listened to his friend’s latest rave and stared at him wondering why he refused to cut his nose-hairs and how his girl friend tolerated that. I mean how could one be so oblivious to those hairs stretching down reaching for that upper lip?

And then he thought, `Here I am once more, in this damn coffee shop, looking for companionship if not what might pass for a social life?

Coffee shops being Mikhail’s place of refuge whenever a crisis entered his life, the latest being his second divorce which had left him despondent. Seeking out some social contact which might mollify his own disgust and morbidity at all things normal, the local coffee house was his preferred destiny. He couldn’t abide bars.

Besides, he liked flirting with the manager whom he had wrongly convinced himself, had been giving him the eye.

So, this is what passed for socializing, listening to the rants of his friend, Davida, as he vituperated about the current state of the world. Mikhail had heard it all before but that was okay as he didn’t mind hearing Davida vent, and in any case, it got him out of his drab apartment.

‘Ah, that’s just your negativity being reflected,’ Mikhail thought but blurted out, “Oh yeah, everything is screwed up but probably always has been, y’know.” This made Davida pause and reflect before he continued in the same vein harping about the decadent state of American society.

Mikhail had long ago given up trying to make sense of any of it, it being reality in all of its manifestations. His circumstances in life compelled him to see injustice and unfairness everywhere and yet, luck and circumstance determined that some were treated well by life. Why? Maybe it was karma…..fate, predestination. Who could comprehend?

Mikhail’s only true sanctuary resided in reading and re-reading favorite books. He would read a book ten and fifteen times gleaning every last morsel from the writer, for it was his assumption that if a book was the sum total of of the author’s experiences and thoughts, and took maybe years to write, that, to do the author justice, he should really attempt to digest it which required several readings at least.

Mikhail stared at Davida once more and realized how dissimilar they were but how alike in their alienation from American society. Granted, they found solace in the misery of each other’s lives, a misery-loves-company typical kind of dynamic, but they didn’t really have much in common beyond a cynicism and alienation to modern life.

It was a friendship of chance. Years ago, Mikhail had met Davida professionally, had needed his design skills for a little literary publication he had been fashioning and was introduced to Davida by a mutual friend.

The friendship had been professional for some time but had grown into a deeper bond out of sheer loneliness. For Mikhail was not someone who sought out blasé or banal company. In any case, he had nearly convinced himself that he was meant to be more of a loner.

Not that he did not like the companionship of peers or others but that the stress of two divorces and the resulting cynicism had made him more anti-social than anyone might suspect. Besides, he had no time he often told himself, what with a struggling publishing business which required six days a week of work and the other obligations in his life taking up most of the rest of his other free time.

Davida spoke again, “Anyway, Melinda really wants to get some land and move away from all this….shit! I’m getting some money together from my family and she’s looking at some land in Plumas.”

“Plumas?” Mikhail interjected. “Shit, there’s nothing much up there. Why Plumas?”

“Hell, you can’t get land anywhere in California cheap anymore but land in Plumas is still reasonable. You can buy 20 acres relatively cheaply.”

“But that’s red-neck country.”

Davida added, “Well, I don’t plan on talking politics with my neighbors if we have any. Chances are we won’t. Or at least, won’t be close enough to encounter them regularly. Melinda just wants a garden, a big space for a garden. That’s all I want as well.”

Mikhail looked at his friend for a minute without speaking. `Well, he`s finally going to do it,’ he mused. He spoke again, “Well, look, I can come up and visit you after ‘The Collapse’.”

“Sure,” Davida encouraged, not catching the sarcasm. “You’d be welcome. You’d have to have your own cabin or yurt. It’s community that we want. Four or five other people to share in a vision.”

Mikhail’s eyes wandered toward the manager again, a slightly stocky blonde with a gorgeously enticing smile. He had convinced himself that she had a crush on him but he was too cautious to act on it. Nonetheless, whenever he caught her eye, he smiled back at her. He liked her coyness and her demure style. But he was not ready to ask her out since he had not persuaded himself that the age difference was not a huge matter. `How old is she,’ he wondered. `Thirty? Thirty-five.’

“Look Mikhail, I’ve got to go meet Melinda and take her to work. See you later in theweek, maybe. I’ll give you a call.”

“Yeah, or I’ll get in contact with you. I have a busy schedule this week. But I’ll try to call you on Saturday if not before. Maybe we can go for a hike.”

“Okay.” Davida grabbed his helmet and headed out the door towards his motorcycle which he had parked in a yellow zone out front.

Mikhail finished his coffee and read the paper, particularly the political and economic news. “Shit, he thought, it’s all coming to an end. And everybody is too numbed out and dumbed-down to see it. Either that or they are too busy consuming. How did we ever arrive at this state of affairs?”

He glanced at the clock. “Crap. It’s time to go to work.”

He left, bidding goodbye to the coffeehouse manager. She smiled as usual. He proceeded down the street when he remembered that a client owed him money, so he stopped in at his business, a store that sold secondhand goods, mostly records, tapes and jeans.

Mikhail peered in the front window first, looking for the owner Nick but didn’t see him. So, he opened the door and looked around to see Nick’s woman whom he had seen many times but never actually talked to.

Mikhail scrutinized her lithe body. She was thin but her pose made her alluring. That was until one paid attention to her face which was pockmarked but heavily doused with powder in an effort to hide the fact. The woman seemed to possess an eerie quality, something undefined. He concluded that she must have had a hard life, probably plenty of drugs and God-knows-what-else.

She was looking down into her purse, barely aware of him.

Mikhail looked at her and caught her attention and asked, “Is Nick in?”

The blonde took a moment to think about it and then blurted out, “I used to work for the FBI and the CIA.”

“Yeah, and I’m the Pope!” Mikhail retorted.

This seem to throw her off balance and she hesitated before, once again, asserting that she had once been hired by the FBI and CIA to do undercover work.

Mikhal didn’t call her a liar but simply repeated that he was the Pope. She looked askance as if she was seriously considering what Tom had just said. Then she fidgeted and put her hands on her hips, and twisted her body into a seductive pose.

“Look,” Mikhail said, “I just want to talk to Nick. I have some business to talk over with him.”

“Well, he ain’t here. He’ll probably be back tomorrow.”

“Okay, I’ll try again then if I’m in the area.”

“You do that,” she sneered, obviously not meaning it. Mikhail exited quickly not wishing to sustain a conversation with someone he deemed ‘off her rocker.’ He had had enough conversations with eccentric persons to last a lifetime. ‘Yeah, yeah,’ he thought. ‘they can be interesting and good fodder for storytelling, but this woman was just a tad too bizarre.’


Two days later, Mikhail encountered Nick in his place of business, his girl friend no where to be seen. After talking business a few minutes, he ventured a comment which, in retrospect, seemed quite ballsy.

“Nick, that lady of yours is something else.”

“Why do you say that?” he looked at Mikhail inquiringly.

“Well, she told me that, once upon a time she worked for the CIA and FBI.”

“Yeah, I know. She also knows who killed Kennedy.” He spoke and looked at Tom knowingly. Then he smiled and chuckled.

Mikhail chortled and inquired, “Where is she today?”

“I sent her back down to Hollywood for a spell. She wants to break up with me.”

“Oh, too bad,” Mikhail said, not really meaning it. Actually, he thought it was the best thing that could happen to Nick.

“Actually, my girl friend is schizophrenic,” Nick suddenly admitted.

‘My thoughts exactly,’ Mikhail thought.

Nick continued, “Yeah, the other night, we decided to eat dinner at Lyons Restaurant but when I saw the wait, I suggested to Amber that we leave.

“But, of course, she decides she has to eat at Lyons. So, I told her, ‘Fine, you eat here. I’m going across the street to eat at Sizzler.’

“I left her there and when I returned, nearly an hour later, there’s Amber talking to some Highway Patrolmen. I said to myself, ‘Oh shit.’

“I knew she was feeding them some fantastic tale so I got in my car which was parked about just ten feet from them. I could hear their whole conversation.

“Just like I suspected, she was telling them some wild, crazy story. But like the dunces they were, they were writing it all down. Seems like she had them convinced that she had witnessed a murder and she knew where the body were. You remember, the girl who disappeared last week?”

Mikhal nodded. He was thoroughly enjoying the story.

Nick continued, “I took out a cigarette and waited till she was mostly done talking. Then, I got out of my car and waltzed up to the Patrolmen. They looked at me at me with blank faces, typical highway patrolmen.”

” ‘Look, officers,’” I say to them.” ‘That’s my girl friend you’re talking to and she’s just telling you a pack of lies.’ ”

The Patrolmen looked at me blankly. Their brains must have been parked in their car. So, I told them that my girl friend knows the Unabomber, Jack Ruby, Lee Harvey Oswald, and Elvis Presley.

“They both looked at me finally like they knew what the hell was really going on. Anyway, I got her into my car over her hysterical protestations that I was an incarnation of the Devil.

“I finally had my fill of her, schizophrenic or not. I told her to get the hell out of here and she took a bus to L.A.”

Mikhail looked at Nick who began to chuckle. Mikhail joined in, enjoying how Nick could make light of the situation.

“Nick, what the Hell are you doing with such a crazy chick?”

“Well, hell, she needs me,” he said sheepishly.

“Yeah, but isn’t that hard on your sanity?”

“Well, if I leave her, she’ll probably commit suicide.”

“Look, Nick, I got to ‘fess up.” Mikhail insisted, “that chick of yours is loose. Y’know what I mean? I’ve seen her in the store with guys. Hell, she’s humping them in the dressing room. I know this isn’t any of my business but I just think you ought to know.”

Nick stared at Mikhail open-mouthed. Mikhail didn’t know what to expect. At first, he thought Nick was going to get mad. But the next thing he knew, Nick was crying. Mikhail felt terrible. ‘Gawd, this is what I get for being a blabbermouth.’ Mikhail tried to rectify his error but it was too late.

“Look, I may be wrong about her humping guys. It’s just that I thought…,” Mikhail paused,…” thought you ought to know if something was going awry.”

“Look, man,” Nick spoke through tears.” Get the hell out of here!”

Mikhail split, thinking to himself that he had been a big jerk. ‘Typical of my tendency to get involved in other people’s business. Oh well, I won’t visit his store for a while.’ He traipsed up the hill back towards his house.

Mikhail lived just six blocks from the downtown section of this quaint historic gold-mining town nestled, as they say, in the Sierra foothills. Grass Valley was in Nevada County in northeastern California, about an hour northeast of Sacramento. The area was a mix of mostly retirees, your standard American rednecks, and a contingent of hippies who had moved here in the late 1960s, attracting a following of like-minded new age types over the years.

His first wife had dragged him up here nearly twenty-five years ago as she had wanted to join a spiritual community that had been established in the area. Founded by a disciple of a famous yogi, the community had attracted thousands of visitors over the years and, ultimately, established legitimacy as the small towns appreciated the increase in business from those associated with the community as well as those who had left but remained in the area.

Lots of the visitors ended up staying as well, attracted by the rural character, the great recreational opportunities, not to mention the opportunity to make money growing marijuana which had become a major crutch to the community when the economy suffered.

And in the hinterlands, secreted away down old unpaved, rain-gutted roads, were a matrix of pot farms and meth labs. Occasionally, someone was busted, the pot or drugs confiscated and then life went on.

The community itself was an odd mixture of New Age types, lots of racists emigrating away from the increasing multi-ethnic cities, many of them transplants from the Bay Area as well as SoCal. Over the years, the old gold town had acquired a new look, a sort of hipness that allowed many tourist shops to proliferate along with bars, some nice restaurants and a number of businesses catering to the outstanding recreational activities of the area which included hiking, mountain biking, fishing, kayaking and more. Gold panning was even on the menu and the local river, the Yuba, was a huge draw from people all over, not to mention many of the local reservoirs that people called lakes.

At the higher elevations in the Sierra were lots of lakes and opportunities for camping. Lake Tahoe was only one hour and half away. Sacramento a mere hour. San Francisco two or so.

Mikhail’s stay in the community had been, more or less, an unmitigated personal disaster. After living at the spiritual community for less than a year with his wife, it became clear to Mikhail that the spiritual community was more of a cult than anything. During that time, he had to endure the mindless affection devotees had for their Swami, who was a very astute businessman besides being a charlatan, not unlike the Televangelists pandering for money .

Besides, he discovered that his wife was having an affair with the so-called Swami that had founded the community. And if that wasn’t enough, she had got pregnant by another guy, probably a one-night stand, as she later admitted. Ultimately, she had had an abortion.

Mikhail would tell this story to anyone who would listen. Most thought he was exaggerating. For some reason, his stories often did not have the ring of truth to them for many listeners and, of course, no one liked to hear the truth in any case, besides which they felt that Mikhail should not be sharing this personal information and were uncomfortable hearing about it. Or, they regarded it as judgmentalism which the New Age horde abhorred since criticism of others was a sin and a projection of one’s own self according to the tenets of the dogma they imbibed on an almost daily basis. Psycho babble that sells like hot dogs at baseball games.

In fact, if anything, Mikhail was honest to a fault. Blabbering about this and that matter, he would reveal the most intimate details of his life as if he were confessing to a priest. This confessional mode had often made him attractive to women who found his vulnerability charming but that was once upon a time before he turned cynical.

Nowadays, women regarded his cold demeanor and negativity as a reason to avoid him. Or, maybe, it was his reputation that preceded him, to quote Twain.

After returning home and exercising at the gym, Mikhail made dinner, a simple one of rice and vegetables, one of his favorites. Afterwards, he worked at his computer and before going to bed, read from one of his favorite books, Don Quixote.


Mikhail woke up the next morning, got dressed and headed down to another coffeeshop for his morning `shot’ as he put it. The downtown had five different coffeeshops and Mikhail had two favorites. While he appreciated the strong coffee that had become popular over the years, he also detested the `yuppie-scum’ as he delicately put it, who ordered coffee drinks with five ingredients. `These concoctions are the work of retired chemists in the C.I.A.,’ Mikhail jokingly mused to those who might listen, ‘meant to derange and re-arrange brain cells.’

Each drink took minutes to prepare and Mikhail was the most impatient of persons. But he was aware of his foible and had been working to improve, practicing mindfulness as his Buddhist friends called it.

Mikhail repeated the mantra he always used especially when waiting in lines, “Patience is a virtue, patience is a virtue, patience is a virtue…”

He would do this until it was his time to place an order.

Mikhail walked in and saw another of his dream-dolls, fashioning specialty drinks behind the counter. ‘I don’t know why I drive myself crazy with fantasies of young chicks.’ he pondered. ‘I mean….what are my chances of scoring?’ Nonetheless, this ‘hot babe’ as he referred to her, was his current fantasy. She wore a short tight blouse which revealed her ample bosom and enough skin to draw his eyes to her round, supple figure. ‘Gawd, what I would give to lay with her.’

She looked at Mikhail and smiled. ‘Did she smile like this at everyone?’ he wondered. As it turned out, she did.

“Yeah, I’ll take a cup of your dark French Roast,” Mikhail responded, affecting disinterest. She smiled again and poured him a cup, taking his money. Surreptitiously, he perused her nimble body. He desperately wanted to say something but resisted the temptation. ‘She’d probably think I was a horny old guy,’ he worried.

Of course, this had been the story for Mikhail his whole pathetic life: a lack confidence, at least with women who were really attractive. His puritanical training has got the better of his instincts. He always ended up convincing himself that few woman would find him attractive, talking himself out of chances to engage the opposite sex.

But he knew where this trait had originated. It seemed as if his parents were asexual. Till this day, Tom could not imagine how they managed to have kids. His mother had told her sister that she thought she had become pregnant when, on a date, her boyfriend had kissed her. She had giggled openly at her own naivete. Mikhail’s aunt told that story. His mother later confirmed it much later in life.

On another occasion, she revealed that his father, who was stationed at Pearl Harbor during World War II, had gone out one night with some army buddies to what they referred to as a ‘cathouse,’ and his father had thought they were going to get milkshakes.

His military buddies had had a good laugh at that. Mikhail’s mother had told Mikhail all this in an embarrassing moment of honesty, while decrying her submissive relationship with his father, when her son was in his forties.

And then again, having three brothers didn’t exactly acquaint Tom with the female of the species. One brother was somewhere on the Aspergers syndrome, another was driven by an anxiety disorder to crazed fits of manic behavior and a third had joined a cult founded by another Indian fakir.

He and his brothers were so naive compared to their friends and mostly socially inept with women. When he thought back to all the opportunities he had missed with women, it killed him. He still fantasized about dozens of lost opportunities.

Mikhail sat down with his coffee in hand, browsing through a local paper someone had left behind. He brushed the flies away and looked up as Jerry walked through the door. Mikhail nodded his head in recognition and Jerry sat down.

Mikhail had met Jerry years earlier at a spiritual retreat, the same one his wife had joined before he left her. At the time, Jerry had broken up with his wife and was seeking solace.

Years later, he became a motorcycle aficionado, and claimed riding his chopper was the best way to attract women in this area.

“How have you been?” Jerry asked in his typical stiff fashion.

“Okay,” Mikhail said. “What’s going on with you?”

“Oh, the same old shit. Riding my motorcycle. Talking. Hanging out.”

“Not working at all?” Mikhail ventured.

“Work? Of course not. I avoid it. I’m not fit by disposition to work. I get a monthly disability check and that’s all I need to get by. Vietnam Veteran, y’know. I can’t work or else I get crazy. Work would kill me. I’m just lucky that I recognized that fact years ago else I’d be dead by now.”

Jerry said this all with conviction but seemed a bit embarrassed about this outburst. He paused, then added, “It’s not that I don’t like work. I just can’t work. I’d die. My constitution is such that I can’t handle work, psychologically. I know I sound like I’m apologizing or rationalizing but I’m just explaining what you may not know.”

Actually, Mikhail took Jerry at face value. He seemed like an honest guy. If he said work would kill him, he believed him. Work has killed a lot of people, he mused. “Hell, it’s probably killing me,’ Mikhail admitted. He sipped his coffee and thought of all the lazy people he had known. “Laziness has its merits.”

“Hell yes!” Jerry confirmed.

Suddenly, Amber, the crazy chick walked in. Mikhail saw her as did Jerry and they exchanged a quick glance, rolling their eyes. Here was this sexily dressed wild nymph, burned out on life, but looking good enough to catch the eye of any guy. She strolled up to the counter and ordered a cappuccino. Mikhail couldn’t take his eyes off her. She was dressed in a black leather skirt, tight as could be with black net stockings and a bluish blouse worn loose so that her bosom could be seen as she bent forward.

Mikhail had to admit that he was so horny these days, he could have pounced on her right then and there.

Suddenly, Amber turned and interrogated Mikhail, “Still looking for Nick?”

“No, I already talked to him.”

“Yeah, I know,” she said with some irritation. “Mind if I join you?”

Jerry looked at Mikhail like, ‘Oh shit.’ Apparently, he knew this lady also.

The muscles in Mikhail’s face tightened a little. He noticed he was thirsty.

“Sure, why not?” Mikhail said. ‘Boy, I’m going to have to put on a great show now,’ he reflected.

Amber sat down, seemingly quite poised Mikhail was thinking to myself, ‘Wasn’t she suppose to be on her way to L.A.?’

“Why’d you tell Nick I was humping other guys?” she interrogated.

‘Well, at least she got straight to the point,’ Mikhail thought and then quickly considered. ‘What are my options. I could bluff her, ask her what the hell she was talking about. Or, I could admit it and confront her about it. Or, I could apologize.’ Mikhail chose the second course.

“Look, Amber. I like Nick. But I don’t like the fact that you’re fucking guys behind his back. I know it’s none of my business but the fact is, I told Nick and I guess he told you what I said. It probably was the wrong thing to tell him and I regret it, but it’s over and done and there isn’t a thing I can do about it.”

‘There,’ Mikhail thought. ‘I did it.’

Amber stared at Mikhail as if considering what to say. Suddenly, she started to laugh. But it wasn’t your normal laugh. It was a laugh of complete disdain.

“You think I give a shit what Nick thinks?” she said venomously.

“Apparently not. Maybe that’s good enough reason to tell him.” Mikhail responded quickly, not a little shocked.

“Look, you don’t know Nick. And you don’t know what you’re getting into. So if I was you, I’d butt out.”

‘Hm?’ Mikhail thought to himself. Probably a good idea. “Yeah, Psycho-Babe, I agree. I should refrain from pushing your schizoid brain too far.”

Mikhail didn’t know what made him say that. It just came out. He couldn’t help myself. Not very tactful, he admitted but no one ever accused him of being less than blunt. He had always wondered why people said honesty was the best policy. Shit, honesty had gotten him in so much trouble his whole life. In fact, the whole thing about being honest was the biggest bunch of bullshit ever pushed by the virtuous, Mikhail thought.

“What do you mean? Are you saying I’m crazy.” Amber stared at Mikhail with bewitched eyes. She could have turned into a lizard and Mikhail would have thought it within her power.

“Lady,” Mikhail intoned, “you’re crazier than a loon. I’ll call a spade a spade. If you don’tlike it, don’t get in my face. You’re a space-chick if I ever saw one. You’re probably a Venusian or Martian. I don’t know which but if you bother me again, I’ll call the military.”

Oh, man! That did it. She freaked out so bad that Mikhail had to flee. After she stood up and started screaming, upsetting the table and spilling the drinks, Mikhail decided that he’d had enough.

After exiting, he walked up the street pausing to look back. No Amber. At the corner Mikhail took out a cigarette and lit it, enjoying a drag as he continued walking up the hill. Out of breath, he rested upon a wall on a property where an empty Victorian House stood. He took a drag and sat, casually taking in the small town activity.

Across the way, an old lady worked in her garden. She must have been eighty. A few kids played outside too near the street. A girl of eleven or twelve held a baby no more than ayear or so while two other kids scampered along behind her.

He continued to watch and was concerned about the younger kids safety for some reason. Maybe it was because the cars descending the hill were traveling too fast. That and the fact that the two kids scampering about weren’t being supervised very well by the other girl who had her hands full caring for the baby.

Suddenly, Mikhail noticed Amber walking up the sidewalk on the other side. She just walked up the street then she stopped in front of the kids, being really friendly and all. Meanwhile, Mikhail started to get this nervous feeling and he thought, ‘something ain’t right here!’ Suddenly, Amber took the eleven year old girl by the hand and led her with her the baby back down the street. The two other children tagged along behind.

‘Wow! Mikhail thought to himself, ‘What the hell is going on here? Does Amber know this kid? I better tag along to see that all is on the up and up.’

So he followed back down the street watching as Amber turned the corner with all four kids following her. She continued down the street and suddenly stopped. Watching from across the street, Mikhail saw her reaching in her pocket for something. Then she bent down and began drawing on the ground.

Mikhail was a bit relieved. ‘Oh, she’s just doing some drawings. He finished his cigarette and watched for a while. The kids seemed fascinated while Amber continued to draw.

Mikhail decided he’d had enough, that he was just being a bit paranoid and returned back up the hill toward his apartment. When he got back in, the phone rang, but he let it. He didn’t feel like talking to anyone at the moment. He couldn’t get his mind off of Amber. He found himself going back down the street toward town.

Mikhail had decided there was a moral obligation to check back on those children. He ran down the street, huffing and puffing. stopping a few times to catch his breath. Somebody in a car whizzed by and shouted “Hi, Tom!’ But he didn’t pay any attention, wrong name in any case.

Finally, he got back to the corner and saw no trace of Amber or the kids. He walked to where he had seen Amber drawing on the sidewalk. Mikhail looked down. He couldn’t believe it. Amber had drawn, in chalk, absolutely gorgeous drawings of each of thechildren. Tom studied them a few minutes before he remembered his mission.

He looked around and thought he’d better check the coffee shop first. Maybe someone in there had seen them. He entered the coffee shop and saw all four kids seated around a table and Amber talking to them. She had her back to him so he quickly moved to theside so she couldn’t see him.

“So always listen to your Mom and do what she says. Your Mommy knows best.”

All the kids were eating cookies and drinking chocolate milk.

Again he heard Amber’s voice. “I’ll see all of you tomorrow, okay. I’ve got to get you back to your Mom’s. Come on, finish up and let’s go.”

Mikhail hid around the corner and watched as they all got up and left. He didn’t follow. It was obvious that Amber knew the kids quite well.

Suddenly, Amber reentered the coffee shop, caught sight of Mikhail, laughed contemptuously, grabbed her sweater from the chair where she had left it, and exited, her ass swishing so close to Tom’s face that he felt her skirt brush his cheek.

Mikhail felt exhausted and slightly ill. He sat down, closed his eyes and took some deep breaths and when he reopened them, he was staring at a painting on the wall of the coffeehouse, some kind of mandala, very colorful, very complex.

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