<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?>
<feed version="0.3" xmlns="http://purl.org/atom/ns#" xml:lang="en">
<title>MungBeing: The Premier Issue</title>
<link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://www.mungbeing.com/" />
<tagline>the premiere issue of the premier magazine on the internet.</tagline>
<modified>2005-04-04T04:04:59Z</modified>
<copyright>Copyright &#169; 2005, Pencil Tenet, Inc.</copyright>
	<entry>
		<title>Editorial</title>
		
		<link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_1.html?articleID=17" />
		<modified>2005-04-04T05:34:19Z</modified>
		<id>tag:www.mungbeing.com,2005:1.1</id>
		<issued>2005-02-07T04:02:54Z</issued>
		<created>2005-02-07T04:02:54Z</created>
		<summary type="text/plain">An Editorial by way of an Introduction for the first issue. A "Mission/Vision" Statement of sorts.</summary><author>
		<name>Mark Givens</name><email>feed@mungbeing.com</email>
		</author><content type="text/html" mode="escaped" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://www.mungbeing.com/">
		<![CDATA[Hi.<br />
Welcome to the first issue of MungBeing. I am thrilled to the core to be able to present the wonderful work that fills the pages of this cyberzine, this magalog, this weberag. Let's call it a magazine. Let's call it MungBeing. ("Mung" is one of those old computer terms from the late 50s/early 60s that means, roughly, "Mung Until No Good". The recursive nature of this term makes its application here wholly appropriate and Funny-As-Hell.)<br />
<br />
MungBeing is an online bimonthly magazine containing artwork, short stories, articles, essays, music, recipes, poetry, comics, and fun-filled interactive features. <br />
<br />
MungBeing also aims to be a narrower, more focused Outsider Salon, a Low Art New Yorker (A Lorker), Juxtapoz's bookish third cousin, the sly Cubists to Pop Surrealism's witty Futurists, a poor substitute for sleep, the natural progression/extension of Salmon Bosch into the digital domain, and an outlet for some restless ideas.<br />
<br />
If MungBeing were a cookie it would be shortbread. Or cantaloupe.<br />
<br />
You are more than welcome to spend as much time as you want just standing there reading this magazine. You don't even have to buy it; You can just read it and put it back on the cybershelf. That's okay!<br />
<br />
And, on behalf of myself and jody, I would like to invite you to participate in the development of MungBeing if you so desire. You are, after all, what it "is", as the kids say (yet certainly what Korzybski would object to). But my invitation stands. You can read it or you can write it. You have choices.<br />
<br />
MungBeing is not a group blog, although blogging flavors can be sprinkled on the top if you like how they taste. This is a bimonthly magazine with a variety of topics and viewpoints. And with the bimonthly release schedule, a format that we are convinced will make each issue stronger, more cohesive, and more conducive to contemplative reading, comes the built-in "anticipation" of the next issue. I think we can also look forward to thought-provoking discussions and articles from an international cast of writers and artwork to shake sticks at.  I do.<br />
<br />
MungBeing is being published under a Creative Commons license but the rights to the the individual works (if any) are retained by the authors, 'natch. MungBeing is being distributed online as a website, as an RSS feed, and as an Atom feed. If other technologies pop up along the way, we'll whack 'em on the head. And down the line, perhaps, we'll put it together for the offline printed version, the dvd version, or the "big box of assorted stuff" version a la Aspen Magazine. But not yet. Let's exploit the web first.<br />
<br />
Feel free to drop us a line with all of your thoughts. All of them. And if you have any other questions or concerns, please contact me right away.<br />
<br />
But most of all, please enjoy the creative and imaginative works that await you inside<br />
the first issue<br />
of MungBeing Magazine.<br />
<br />
Thanks for listening and I hope you enjoy your stay,<br />
Mark Givens,<br />
Editor-in-Chief<br />
]]>
		</content>
		</entry>
		
	<entry>
		<title>How I Became A Mung Being</title>
		
		<link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_1.html?articleID=58" />
		<modified>2005-04-03T01:03:25Z</modified>
		<id>tag:www.mungbeing.com,2005:1.2</id>
		<issued>2005-03-30T02:03:26Z</issued>
		<created>2005-03-30T02:03:26Z</created>
		<summary type="text/plain">"I'm not sure how it all began, it happened so quickly and organically. MungBeing, that is.  Just a..."</summary><author>
		<name>jody franklin</name><email>feed@mungbeing.com</email>
		</author><content type="text/html" mode="escaped" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://www.mungbeing.com/">
		<![CDATA[I'm not sure how it all began, it happened so quickly and organically. MungBeing, that is.  Just a few months ago I couldn't have imagined doing what I'm doing right now. In this format, I mean, with this moniker, with this Mark Givens fella as my collaborator.<br />
<br />
I'm not sure why, but about a year ago I decided I wanted to become a publisher.  Okay, I am sure why.  I wanted a greater degree of control over the method of dissemination into the universe of my writing and ideas.  I have a stubborn streak that way, although I admit I've been inconsistent in acting upon it throughout the years.  I had Vision; Big Ideas.  I wanted to not only broadcast my message (whatever that may be) to the world, I wanted to bring all sorts of talented people with me.<br />
<br />
A fateful road trip with a geneticist friend to the Toward A Science Of Consciousness conference in Tucson last April proved to be the spark that lit the Flame.  On my way home to Vancouver I walked into the office of a certain arts organization in San Francisco and spontaneously pitched a magazine idea to my potential sponsors. I guess being around all those smartypantses in Tucson paid off, as everyone I spoke to thought my vision was brilliant.  I spent all of May pumping out a 35-page magazine proposal, outlining all of those glorious things I wanted to do using other peoples' money.<br />
<br />
Well, I sat around and waited for a response. And waited.  And waited. In the meantime, a renegade band of writers called The Misfit Library accepted me into their collective.  Our goal was to publish a quarterly literary journal.  Hey, that would fit in perfectly time-wise with my quarterly mag, I could just alternate work months. But for some strange reason my proposal just disappeared into the ether.  Anxious, frustrated, excited, eager to get going, I spent much of my time last summer gathering content for my future publication.  I boldly called Big Thinkers like Susan Blackmore and Robert Anton Wilson, and irreverant artists like Billy Childish and Daniel Johnston for interviews.  I put the word out to every good writer and artist I knew that I needed content, and these cats produced.<br />
<br />
I spent a lot of my time back in those days surfing the 'net, looking for good music.  I stumbled upon the Wckr Spgt website.  It was an impressive repository of twenty-some years of their musical history. I ate it up.  I hadn't heard these guys since the late nineties, their cassettes or seven inch records or whatever I had got lost along with so many others that couldn't keep up with my wandering Gypsy lifestyle. At some point Wckr Spgt placed an open call out to their fans on their website, challenging them to mount their own Wckr Spgt shows in their own cities.  I took the bait. I can do that!<br />
<br />
That led to some correspondence with a Wckr Spgtarian, Mr. Mark Givens.  This is where it gets blurry.  All I know is that he had a magazine project, too, and when we started sharing our ideas he started lobbying me to join forces with him. The stars must've been aligned right because we found we had a lot of the same ideas. He also wanted his hands on all that great content I harvested.  I was skeptical at first: I wanted to be a control freak, I wanted to go to print instead of the web, I wanted to not get burned by some stranger. Well, here I am.  And here is MungBeing.<br />
<br />
We worked out an arrangement.  You'll see his name a little higher than mine on the masthead here, though we're pretty much on the level as collaborators.  Well, that's because he's the muscle behind the web project, and he should be recognized for that.  When we move into print, we'll switch off,  I'll be the in the driver's seat. I think we both agree that the shotgun seat is just as comfortable, like in a big ol' Chrysler. Plenty of chocolate donuts on the dash, too.<br />
<br />
But we're not going to stop at the web and print my friends, oh no. We've so many grandiose ideas that we're going to push MungBeing into all manner of media formats over the months (and years?) to come: DVDs, CDs, icing on cake, you name it.  Whatever suits our fancies. And we have a lot of fancies.<br />
<br />
I'm proud of this little slice of culture we have here.  Look at the creative power we've harnessed thus far. It's a hot property. MungBeing is only going to get fatter and juicier and much more delicious.<br />
<br />
I hope you enjoy.  We hope you enjoy.  We enjoy.  It's been a labor of love for both of us. And I think it shows.<br />
<br />
Yours,<br />
<br />
jody<br />
Editor<br />
]]>
		</content>
		</entry>
		
	<entry>
		<title>Announcements</title>
		
		<link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_1.html?articleID=45" />
		<modified>2005-04-04T05:36:54Z</modified>
		<id>tag:www.mungbeing.com,2005:1.3</id>
		<issued>2005-03-22T10:03:30Z</issued>
		<created>2005-03-22T10:03:30Z</created>
		<summary type="text/plain">Announcements about MungGear (at CafePress), The Little Gallery and The Misfit Library.</summary><author>
		<name>No Author Stated</name><email>feed@mungbeing.com</email>
		</author><content type="text/html" mode="escaped" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://www.mungbeing.com/">
		<![CDATA[Announcements about MungGear (at CafePress), The Little Gallery and The Misfit Library.]]>
		</content>
		</entry>
		<entry>
				<title>Announcements -- MungGear</title>
				
				<link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_1.html?articleID=45&amp;subID=38" />
				<modified>2005-04-09T03:04:08Z</modified>
				<id>tag:www.mungbeing.com,2005:1.3.1</id>
				<issued>2005-03-22T10:03:52Z</issued>
				<created>2005-03-22T10:03:52Z</created>
				<summary type="text/plain">"MungBeing Gear is available at..."</summary>	<author>
				<name>The Editors</name><email>feed@mungbeing.com</email>
				</author><content type="text/html" mode="escaped" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://www.mungbeing.com/"><![CDATA[<a href="http://www.cafepress.com/mungbeing" target="_blank">MungBeing Gear</a> is available at CafePress.]]></content>
				</entry>
				<entry>
				<title>Announcements -- The Misfit Library</title>
				
				<link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_1.html?articleID=45&amp;subID=39" />
				<modified>2005-04-09T03:04:08Z</modified>
				<id>tag:www.mungbeing.com,2005:1.3.2</id>
				<issued>2005-03-22T11:03:16Z</issued>
				<created>2005-03-22T11:03:16Z</created>
				<summary type="text/plain">"The first volume of the Misfit Library is now </summary>	<author>
				<name>No Author Stated</name><email>feed@mungbeing.com</email>
				</author><content type="text/html" mode="escaped" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://www.mungbeing.com/"><![CDATA[The first volume of the <a href="http://www.themisfitlibrary.com/">Misfit Library</a> is now <a href="http://www.lulu.com/content/111584">available</a>.<br />
Celebrate the turn of winter with a copy of the Spring edition of the<br />
quarterly book. Nearly two hundred pages of misfit tales about<br />
Orwellian civilizations, monster summonings, time travel, country bank<br />
robbings, the rumination of old men, the loss of girlish innocence and<br />
the vibrant beauty of poetic license. ]]></content>
				</entry>
				<entry>
				<title>Announcements -- The Little Gallery</title>
				
				<link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_1.html?articleID=45&amp;subID=40" />
				<modified>2005-04-09T03:04:08Z</modified>
				<id>tag:www.mungbeing.com,2005:1.3.3</id>
				<issued>2005-03-22T11:03:28Z</issued>
				<created>2005-03-22T11:03:28Z</created>
				<summary type="text/plain">"</summary>	<author>
				<name>No Author Stated</name><email>feed@mungbeing.com</email>
				</author><content type="text/html" mode="escaped" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://www.mungbeing.com/"><![CDATA[<img src="http://www.mungbeing.com/images/the_little_gallery-2005-03.jpg"><br />
<br />
Development of The Little Gallery continues with Kim Dillbeck joining the Board of Directors. The first show is slated for mid-May. Details to follow.<br />
<br />
If you are interested in participating in the development of The Little Gallery, please contact Mark Givens with the button below.<br />
]]></content>
				</entry>
				
	<entry>
		<title>The Firsts Time</title>
		
		<link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_1.html?articleID=35" />
		<modified>2005-03-30T16:10:30Z</modified>
		<id>tag:www.mungbeing.com,2005:1.4</id>
		<issued>2005-02-28T08:02:34Z</issued>
		<created>2005-02-28T08:02:34Z</created>
		<summary type="text/plain">Rik recalls the firsts of many things.</summary><author>
		<name>Rik Albatros</name><email>feed@mungbeing.com</email>
		</author><content type="text/html" mode="escaped" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://www.mungbeing.com/">
		<![CDATA[The first time i found a WWII bomb i was told to put it back.<br />
The first time i slept on a park bench i was cold<br />
The first time i made love it was a disaster.<br />
The first time i took magic mushrooms i was attacked by giant spiders.<br />
The first time i took acid i was attacked by miniature bugs.<br />
The first time i e-mailed Franklin Bruno he was kind to me.<br />
The first time i touched a jellyfish it stung me.<br />
The first time i touched a squid it bit me.<br />
The second time i made love it was over too quick.<br />
 <br />
The first time i saw the sun i can`t remember<br />
The first time i heard the mountain goats i was hooked for life.<br />
The first time i kissed a girl i forgot to stop.<br />
The first time i saw a shark it was a barracuda<br />
The first time i saw a spaceship it was dark.<br />
The first time i used a computer i shot some aliens.<br />
The first time a car squashed me it hurt<br />
 <br />
The first time i got bit by a dog i went to hospital.<br />
The third time i made love i showed myself up.<br />
The first time i saw someone dead it was by mistake<br />
The first time i wrote this i wondered<br />
The fourth time i made love i was good.<br />
]]>
		</content>
		</entry>
		
	<entry>
		<title>untitled</title>
		
		<link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_1.html?articleID=57" />
		<modified>2005-04-01T22:16:20Z</modified>
		<id>tag:www.mungbeing.com,2005:1.5</id>
		<issued>2005-03-29T05:03:55Z</issued>
		<created>2005-03-29T05:03:55Z</created>
		<summary type="text/plain">"Untitled" by Julian Lawrence (2004)</summary><author>
		<name>Julian Lawrence</name><email>feed@mungbeing.com</email>
		</author><content type="image/jpeg" mode="escaped" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://www.mungbeing.com/">
		<![CDATA["Untitled" by Julian Lawrence (2004)]]>
		</content>
		</entry>
		
	<entry>
		<title>My Ensenada Surprise</title>
		
		<link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_1.html?articleID=41" />
		<modified>2005-04-04T02:36:40Z</modified>
		<id>tag:www.mungbeing.com,2005:1.6</id>
		<issued>2005-03-22T01:03:48Z</issued>
		<created>2005-03-22T01:03:48Z</created>
		<summary type="text/plain">A road trip gone very, very wrong.</summary><author>
		<name>Roger Gee</name><email>feed@mungbeing.com</email>
		</author><content type="text/html" mode="escaped" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://www.mungbeing.com/">
		<![CDATA[	Hunter S Thompson passed away recently.  I wasn't a big fan. Certain writers, though, seem to be touchstones to your youth.  Everyone remembers their first Vonnegut, their first Hemingway, their first Kerouac.  Maybe they make you remember what your life was like when you read them, or perhaps they bring back memories of who you were  then.  Hunter S. Thompson reminds me of a road trip taken at the age of 22.  A road trip that began like all should, in giddy excitement, and ended like more should, with one enormous case of the willies.<br />
<br />
	"MID-NIGHT...."  Seth was standing on my bed screaming at me the opening line of the Clash's "White Man in Hammersmith Palais".  He never screamed the rest of the song, just the opening line.  It was like his "Gooood Morning Vietnam".  Seth could never sleep past dawn.  I had no trouble doing so, in fact I preferred it.  Since Seth and I were roommates, this was a source of entertainment for us.  Seth was in between "The Girl Everyone Thought He Would Marry" and "The Girl He Would Eventually Marry", and Seth wanted to play.  Like a stick looking to get fetched, I usually obliged.<br />
<br />
	The February sun wasn't yet burning holes into my eyes,  so I knew it was early.  To ensure I was paying attention to him, Seth kicked the clutter off my bed so his foot could find a better angle to my ribs. My recently finished, dog-eared copy of "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas" hit the floor, along with last night's beer bottle and last week's Los Angeles Times. We wondered aloud how we were going to entertain ourselves that day, when at the same moment I said "Golf", he said "Mexico".  Clearly, we were going for a drive.<br />
<br />
	The two hour drive south to the Mexican border went quickly.  I thought about "Fear and Loathing" a little on the drive.  My drug experimentation days were already behind me, but alcohol was still my good friend.  I remember thinking that I was glad I hadn't read the book when I was  younger and more impressionable, as it may have had a  more dangerous effect on me.  Still, there was an appeal  -  a sense of anarchy and hedonism...I didn't have any ether for the floor mats, but I did spill a diet Coke.  Didn't tell Seth about it, either.<br />
<br />
	Golf was wonderful and uneventful, which is to say I didn't hurt anyone and I lost only one club.  It was a beautiful day on an impossibly beautiful course, with either an ocean or a desert view, depending upon that shot's particular inaccuracies.  It was a long, beer-soaked afternoon, but it was just the undercard.  The main event was waiting a few more miles south, in Ensenada.<br />
<!---suggested page break----><br />
	We ricocheted our way into a  Mama y Papa motel, and somehow managed to register.  Many, many, fish tacos later, we went looking for bars. Ensenada in the winter is a sleepy place, and most of the tourist bars were closed.  We planned to spend the better part of our night in the legendary Hussong's Cantina.  Hussong's was a great place. It could be seedy, but it was never too dangerous, and it still looked like the old Wells Fargo stagecoach stop that it once was.  This night, though, Hussong's had enough business from the locals that they could afford to turn us away.  It was a sound business decision considering the state we were in.  The only places open to us were the discotecas, which were really just sad little stripper bars.  Bar after bar came and went, and Seth went back to the motel.  I guess that's what happens when you can't sleep past dawn.  I stayed out to look for more trouble, which I guess is what happens when you rarely get to bed before dawn.<br />
<br />
	I bounced around the discotecas for a few hours, tried in vain again to get in to Hussong's, and ate all the suspect food I could from the street vendors. One last bar before bed, I thought. Ought to put an end to a good day.  Downstairs in the last discoteca of the night, I saw her.  Dancing on the stage was the most beautiful woman I had seen since, well, since the bartender at the golf course earlier that day.  Still, though, she was gorgeous.  Flawless caramel skin, big dark eyes,  and she was looking my way.  (Why do men always think that the stripper is looking right at them and only them?)  I sat at the railing and did what drunk lust-struck men do, emptying my wallet for her, throwing blank checks at her, signing over Seth's truck to her.  She reciprocated by signaling the bartender to send me an unending torrent of Tecate and Mescal.  Many rounds and many dances passed.  After each dance she would sit at my table and promise, in broken English, a very good time if I could go with her after she finished work.  This is the point where I should discuss  how I wrestled with myself on the merits of going to bed with an Ensenada stripper I'd just met, or perhaps how alcohol was clouding my judgment, or even how the spirit of Hunter S. Thompson appeared on my shoulder and egged me on.  The truth is, she was hot and wanted to have sex with me.  End of discussion.<br />
<br />
	We left the discoteca just after 4:00 AM.  Her apartment was a short walk away.  Nice building, modern.  Three floors up, halfway down the hall to the  studio apartment, and let the crazy drunk-sex begin.  She undressed me, then turned away from me while I fumbled with her ridiculously complicated clothing. At last, under the cover of darkness, we were completely naked.  Or so I thought.  My hands found a little string that went completely around her waist, and tied at the back.  Having been proud of myself for successfully negotiating the disrobing phase of the evening, I wanted no part of this stubborn string, and undid the bow in the back.  She hastily reached behind her back to stop me, but she was too late.  SPROINNGG!  That little string, that tired, overworked strand of nylon, had let loose a BIG GIANT PENIS.  Don't get me wrong, there were woman parts down there, too.  In fact,  they were nearly all woman parts.  It's just that, where I've found a clitoris on every other woman I've seen, here was a penis.  A Clitosaurus, if you will. With an erection.<br />
<!---suggested page break----><br />
	"So mujer, soy mujer!" she screamed as she ran into the kitchen.  Admirably (I felt), my thoughts turned to soothing her.  Secretly though, I thought of how proud I was that I  had the goods to give a girl an erection. Then things took a turn for the worse.<br />
<br />
	She exited the kitchen and walked with a determined gait towards me and the bed.  That's when I saw the knife in her hand.  "THIS is how I'm going to die?", I thought. I scarcely had time to panic, though. She walked right past me and sat on a footstool, and began to apply the knife to her wrist.  I struggled with her just a little until she gave up the knife.  I calmed her and patted her on the back with one hand, with the other  I  bent the blade of the cheap steak knife so that it was folded back against its wooden handle, cutting my hand in the process. I slid the now harmless knife into my pocket.<br />
<br />
	"Soy mujer, no tengo dinero para la operacion!" she sobbed.  I remembered enough high school Spanish to decipher that she was a woman, and she didn't have money for the operation.  Somehow, I still felt that my old teacher, Senor Johnson, wouldn't be proud of me.  My new she-male friend cried on my shoulder for a long time, and I was feeling pretty good about myself for taking the time to soothe her.  What a horrifically bad way to go through life.  But the sun was coming up and this was weird.  It was time for me to go.  Then things got really bad.<br />
<br />
	In my mind, all of this calming down was a prelude to me leaving.  Apparently in her mind,  this was all just foreplay.  When I made clear my intention to leave, she went into hysterics again.  No calming her this time, she was going nuts, pleading with me to stay.  Honestly, I felt awful for her.  But dude, PENIS!  I went for the door.  At the same time, she went back to the kitchen and retrieved another knife.  A serious one, this time.  I opened the front door and looked to my right just long enough to see her take a slice at her left wrist.  We both paused for a beat, and then the first shiny beads of red appeared.  <br />
<br />
She started howling, and I bolted down the hall.  I barely touched the stairs on the way down.  <br />
<br />
	Outside now, the world was starting to stir.  It was about 6:00 AM, I guessed.  I quickly hailed a passing cab, and headed back to the slumbering Seth at the motel.  On the ride there, I took inventory:  Screaming, bloody woman, fleeing gringo with cut hand and bent knife. Yep, this was officially bad.  To be fair, she had cut her wrist horizontally, across the vein, and as any self-disrespecting he/she drama queen knows, you've got to cut <i>along</i> the vein to get the job done.  But I didn't want to have to explain the difference to a Mexican court.<br />
<!---suggested page break----><br />
	I woke Seth up and didn't have to tell him something was wrong, he saw my face and knew it.  I told him the story and he, God bless him, didn't bat an eye and said, "We have to leave the country.  I'll pack, you shower".  On the way to the bathroom I put the knife in the outside pocket of my golf bag, figuring we'd dump it at the first chance out in the desert.<br />
<br />
	I drove us out of Ensenada.  I was feeling good about leaving, but I still thought there was a very real chance of legal trouble.  The toll road was out of the question, toll booths are just money-collecting police checkpoints.  And then there was  the border. Would they be waiting for us?  Was she really hurt?  Did she do further damage to herself after I left?  Did a neighbor come to her aid, and catch a glimpse of the fleeing white-boy?  The cab driver could make me, and lead the police back to the motel.  The motel had our names and the license plate to Seth's truck.  No, the free road would have to be the way to go. Longer and slower, but definitely safer.<br />
<br />
	Leaving Ensenada on the free road, I started to feel a bit better.  No reason why, really, but at least we were moving, and moving towards home at that.  We climbed into the hills above town, and into a dense fog.  We rounded a turn and I got what to this day is still the scare of my life: a Federale roadblock.  Two Jeeps blocking the road, each one overflowing with soldiers, and each one with a very menacing machine gun mounted in the back.  I slowed to a stop, and a soldier slowly made his way toward the driver side window.  The next few seconds were the longest and most panicked of my life, and I've known some panic, mind you.  Why hadn't I dumped the knife yet?  Why had we given our real names at the motel?  Why hadn't I just stayed in bed yesterday morning when Seth woke me up?  The soldier knocked on the window. I unrolled it and began to think of whom I could call in America that would bail me out of Mexican prison.  The only name I came up with was Seth, and that was no good, because he'd be in the cell next to me. I leaned out and said "Hola".  The soldier looked hard at me, and then at Seth.  He  stood still for an insufferably long time. Finally, he opened his mouth.  "Marijuana?" he asked. "No", we both yelped.  He motioned to the glove box, we opened it and he glanced inside. "God Bless You", he said, and he waved us through the roadblock.  He wasn't interested in us at all!  It was just a random drug check.  Good thing that was one thing we didn't do on this trip.  Take that, Raoul Duke!<br />
<br />
	Having used up my lifetime supply of adrenaline, I began to turn into jelly.  I drove a few more miles down the road, pulled over and committed the knife to the mesquite.  Seth drove from here, and I fell into a deep sleep.  The border was upon us before I had a chance to wake up and get worried about it, and really, after los Federales, I wasn't scared of much anymore.  The border crossing was uneventful, and in another two hours we were home.  It was about 10:00 AM, we'd been gone for 28 hours.  Now THAT'S a road trip.<br />
<br />
	So what did this all mean?  Nothing, really.  A coming of age story set south of the border?  Those are a dime a dozen when you grow up in Southern California. With Hunter now dead and eulogized to further death, though, it just reminded me of two lessons learned:<br />
<ol><li>Don't ever give your real name to a Mexican motel.<br />
<li>Don't ever, ever sleep with a woman whose penis is bigger than your own.</ol><br />
]]>
		</content>
		</entry>
		
	<entry>
		<title>Motivational Creativity in Advertising</title>
		
		<link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_1.html?articleID=28" />
		<modified>2005-04-04T05:39:02Z</modified>
		<id>tag:www.mungbeing.com,2005:1.7</id>
		<issued>2005-02-19T11:02:15Z</issued>
		<created>2005-02-19T11:02:15Z</created>
		<summary type="text/plain">A poem for William Golden, Father of Corporate Identity Systems</summary><author>
		<name>Mark Givens</name><email>feed@mungbeing.com</email>
		</author><content type="text/html" mode="escaped" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://www.mungbeing.com/">
		<![CDATA[Here's to Bill Golden,<br />
father of corporate identity,<br />
sore and crucified.<br />
<br />
<br />
A drink, my friend, <br />
of neon blue and<br />
trademarked eyes, <br />
of lonely personalities.<br />
<br />
<br />
A poured matrix<br />
stored flat,<br />
ubiquitous.<br />
]]>
		</content>
		</entry>
		
	<entry>
		<title>Fear and Loathing in Wal-Mart</title>
		
		<link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_1.html?articleID=52" />
		<modified>2005-04-04T02:57:10Z</modified>
		<id>tag:www.mungbeing.com,2003:1.8</id>
		<issued>2003-03-26T01:03:28Z</issued>
		<created>2003-03-26T01:03:28Z</created>
		<summary type="text/plain">"Electric fog, my brain in an electric fog, synapses firing and misfiring, thoughts swirling...."</summary><author>
		<name>jody franklin</name><email>feed@mungbeing.com</email>
		</author><content type="text/html" mode="escaped" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://www.mungbeing.com/">
		<![CDATA[Electric fog, my brain in an electric fog, synapses firing and misfiring, thoughts swirling. Awakened by a phone call, the umpteenth of the day, and the spaghetti sauce is burbling n bubbling on the stove. "Yeah, I don't want to go out mumble mumble." I've already turned down Abel, Jen, maybe a few others, I can't quite recall. "I won't take no for an answer." My lawyer. Last week he spoon-fed me acid in a phone booth right before bed, as I was leaving the party. This week he pulled up in front of my home, driving a bright orange car with bright orange toys crazy-glued to a bright orange hood. Some kind of art car that Diana cooked up, a five-speed mini station wagon of sorts. "I fumbled through my closet for my clothes and found my cleanest dirty shirt, stumbled down the stairs to meet the day."   <br />
<br />
The sun shone brightly and we cruised down the open highway not a goddamned cop in sight and went out out way out following the winding river through the valley though mostly hidden to us. We smelled the cattle and bowed before the majesty of the mountains sharply rising up over the floodplains. The tape deck squeaked and cracked, guitars hammered and wailed, and Kim Fowley fought to get his words out bang bang cadence sputtering rat a tat <br />
<br />
"deep inside my inner space I looked for the truth in the angel's face." <br />
<br />
Right below one of those mountains little over a year ago I had ventured joyously unto a mycology expedition, liberating liberty caps from sun soaked sedges. I recall that it was this very Chevron station where we fill up, this was the very place we were tipped off to the mushroom field last year by some random young stranger. <br />
<br />
Memory. Memory has been chaining me to the past much too often lately, there is no present and no audible future. I used to have memory of my future, and the present was always the future. Now I'm speeding along the highway because my friend needs to pull me from some kind of abyss, some form of dark journey, a temporary respite, punching light through the fog. Brain bouncing around in my skull like a rubber ball, my face weighs one thousand pounds from sinus congestion, and bouncing brain ball bouncing. There's a French-Canadian professional wrestler, a fire off in the distance in the dark tribal gathering, my father floating above and casting shadow over the mountains. Abstractions. My brain fractures into a cubist painting. An explosion of greys, yet I'm surrounded by orange. <br />
<br />
Our destination is Wal-Mart, and the clientele is one hundred percent white trash.  My people.  I was born into a trailer park, don't you know.  I fled for metropolis, to the cosmopolitan and bohemian. When you run from things like that they tell you not to look back, but here I am.  They call this the Bible Belt, and there are stacks of Beefaroni and rows of auto parts and discount bad movies. <br />
<br />
I'm sicker when I'm in the store and my energy drains from me. I imagine there must be boogers the size of tumours dangling down from my nostrils, and I haven't shaven today and Chairman Mao over red star stares out at the plebes from my chest. Dizzy in my head. The fluorescents a humbuzz puke green white noise illuminating mass consumption.<br />
<br />
Lime tortilla chips, a gift from Jehovah, God of Snack Foods. "Sometimes my thoughts find me way down in Mexico drinking tequila going out of my mind." Dreams of being back in Mexico, there is a safety and comfort there, familiarity, warmth. I've grown alien to mine own culture and its ninety-nine cent pizza slices and crack dealers and Olympic bids and friends that time forgot. "We should work on that movie again." My collaborations have all fallen to the wayside. When you're sedentary for so long everyone flies past you like jackrabbits.  I'm a tortoise but I know I'll never win the race.  Nobody does.   <br />
<br />
Back in the car and we have to talk about magick and ritual. "The world is going to shit, I might as well get what I want from it" says my lawyer. I've feared going back into ritual, though I've known forever that it would do me a world of good. Where do I begin again, Finnegan? I says to the guy, "Coincidentally, last time I was doing ritual on a daily basis was the happiest, easiest time of my life." Coincidentally?  <br />
<br />
Grasping once again for the simple beauties, the small victories, bounding into the future to meet my destiny.  Tonight, my friends all bathe in orange while I revisit ancient Egypt, looking for a template.]]>
		</content>
		</entry>
		
	<entry>
		<title>The Ghost of Shaker Creek</title>
		
		<link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_1.html?articleID=60" />
		<modified>2005-04-02T03:15:03Z</modified>
		<id>tag:www.mungbeing.com,2005:1.9</id>
		<issued>2005-03-30T02:03:18Z</issued>
		<created>2005-03-30T02:03:18Z</created>
		<summary type="text/plain">Howard remembers a childhood adventure including a creek, a river, and a GHOST.</summary><author>
		<name>Howard Drucker</name><email>feed@mungbeing.com</email>
		</author><content type="text/html" mode="escaped" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://www.mungbeing.com/">
		<![CDATA[It was a beautiful summer morning in late June. School had been out for about a week. The last couple of weeks of fifth grade it was all we talked about. We'd celebrate getting out of the clutches of Mrs. Wickes with a long hike. We were going to follow the creek that ran through our neighborhood all the way down to where it met the river. This was the Mohawk River and the creek was Shaker Creek but to us they were simply the river and the creek. And today we were going to follow the creek all the way. I was a little nervous but I figured if I could survive Mrs. Wickes, I could survive anything. She was scary. She was always threatening the class with a guillotine she said she kept in the closet. I didn't know what that was but I figured it couldn't be good. When anyone asked what a guillotine was Mrs. Wickes would say something in French and laugh. I was glad to be out of her class.<br />
Tom knocked on the door as I finished packing my baloney sandwich. "Let's get going", he said. We walked through the neighborhood towards the woods where we'd pick up  the creek. We stopped and got Davey. He had a satchel we put our lunches in. We called them supplies. We'd messed around at the creek a million times before. We'd even seen where it emptied into the river. The road went right by there and it was one of our favorite fishing spots. But we'd only ever followed the creek a half mile or so from our neighborhood.<br />
There were at least two places we had to cross the creek. Beyond that was a mystery. We walked and talked for a couple of hours. At the crossings we'd skip stones or look for crayfish. We talked about who we wanted for sixth grade. I wanted Mr. Hermann. He looked like Mr. French and he had an old hi-fi on the back counter of his classroom. The last half hour of class he'd play jazz or classical music. It was even rumored that he let his students listen to World Series games on the radio. That was about as cool as a teacher could get.<br />
We had been in new territory for a while. It was pretty easy going. There was one area where the banks of the creek were thick with brush so we walked in the creek for a hundred feet or so. That was cool. There were clearings at times where we could see the river off in the distance. Eventually we came to an area where the creek ran up against a high embankment on one side. On our side of the creek was a wide open meadow with flowers and huge oak trees. This looked like a good place to dig into our supplies.<br />
We sat down under a tree a ways away from the creek and as I looked back across it I saw something that at first didn't really register in my brain. "Stairs." I said. "What?" Tom asked.<br />
"Stairs." I said again and pointed. They looked. Running about a hundred feet up the embankment were concrete stairs. It was the middle of nowhere. Why were there stairs? We couldn't see the top of the embankment but we decided we had to check it out. We decided to have our lunch up top. We figured the view would be great.<br />
Crossing the creek was a problem. It wasn't very wide but it was about chest deep. So we took running jumps and made it across. Davey, who was carrying the supplies, almost fell back in but Tom caught him. We walked up the stairs. I suddenly had the feeling that this was a bad idea but I couldn't say anything. When we got to the top we couldn't believe it. There was a house. Or what was left of a house. It looked like it had fallen apart years ago. There was most of two walls in one corner and parts of some inner walls but that was it.There was no floor, just weeds. There were some bottles laying around that in our imaginations we thought must have been there for a hundred years.<br />
We started talking about how we'd fix the place up and it would be our house. We'd rebuild it and live there. We were excited and a little scared. We still had the feeling we were in someone else's home.<br />
"Get out of my house!" a gravely voice boomed. "This is my house!"<br />
Tom, the fastest and most easily scared of our group, was gone in a flash. He tumbled down the hill and splashed into the creek. He stayed there frozen against the bank, chest deep in water.<br />
"What are you doing in my house!?!" the voice asked. I looked while backing up on my knees. There was a man in dirty clothes with wild hair, a scraggly beard, and big bloodshot eyes. Davey backed into the corner formed by the only two walls as the man moved towards him. Davey stood there shaking and clutching the satchel.<br />
"You can't be in my house" the man yelled. I looked at a big rock and thought about throwing it at him but I couldn't seem to move.<br />
"What's that?" the man asked, pointing at our lunches.<br />
"Suh... suh... supplies." Davey whispered.<br />
"What's that? What did you say?" the man asked.<br />
"Lunch" Davey said.<br />
"My house, my lunch" the man said taking the satchel as tears started rolling down Davey's cheeks. The man rooted around in the bag and pulled out a sandwich. He took a bite.<br />
"Baloney" he said matter-of-factly.<br />
Then Davey's mouth fell open and his eyes got really big, like he'd reached some sort of realization.<br />
<br />
"GHOST!" Davey screamed. Somehow he had decided that this was a ghost eating my baloney sandwich.<br />
"Ghost!" he yelled again and ran right past the man and down the stairs. I got up to follow and heard the man say "Ghost?". I tumbled down the hill and jumped the creek, clearing it by at least five feet more than the first time I'd crossed it. Tommy was still sitting in the water. When he saw us zoom past he waded across and ran after us. The three of us ran all the way, in a straight line, to the road by the rive - Davey repeating over and over, "I ran right through him. I ran right through him."<br />
]]>
		</content>
		</entry>
		
	<entry>
		<title>Views and Reviews</title>
		
		<link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_1.html?articleID=29" />
		<modified>2005-04-02T03:06:06Z</modified>
		<id>tag:www.mungbeing.com,2005:1.10</id>
		<issued>2005-02-20T12:02:30Z</issued>
		<created>2005-02-20T12:02:30Z</created>
		<summary type="text/plain">[no description]</summary><author>
		<name>No Author Stated</name><email>feed@mungbeing.com</email>
		</author><content type="text/html" mode="escaped" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://www.mungbeing.com/">
		<![CDATA[[no description]]]>
		</content>
		</entry>
		<entry>
				<title>Views and Reviews -- Listening to the Radio</title>
				
				<link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_1.html?articleID=29&amp;subID=22" />
				<modified>2005-04-02T03:13:08Z</modified>
				<id>tag:www.mungbeing.com,2005:1.10.4</id>
				<issued>2005-02-20T12:02:14Z</issued>
				<created>2005-02-20T12:02:14Z</created>
				<summary type="text/plain">"Preview:  When I started listening to the radio I would sit at my desk with a mic propped..."</summary>	<author>
				<name>Cranky</name><email>feed@mungbeing.com</email>
				</author><content type="text/html" mode="escaped" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://www.mungbeing.com/"><![CDATA[<b>Preview</b>:  When I started listening to the radio I would sit at my desk with a mic propped near the speaker and when a song would near the end I would be there, finger pressed on the tape recorder's record button in case the next song that came on was one I liked. <br />
<br />
<b>Review</b>: For a brief period in 2004 I had DSL. During that fun-filled time I started listening to the radio again. The cool thing was that I could listen to the radio over the Internet and if a song came on that I liked, I could tape it onto the hard drive.<br />
<br />
It feels like I haven't moved in thirty years.]]></content>
				</entry>
				<entry>
				<title>Views and Reviews -- Six Cents and Natalie</title>
				
				<link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_1.html?articleID=29&amp;subID=55" />
				<modified>2005-04-09T03:04:08Z</modified>
				<id>tag:www.mungbeing.com,2005:1.10.5</id>
				<issued>2005-04-02T12:04:06Z</issued>
				<created>2005-04-02T12:04:06Z</created>
				<summary type="text/plain">"View I loved Crayon SO much that I was saddened to know that, after one cd, they were no..."</summary>	<author>
				<name>Cash Nexus</name><email>feed@mungbeing.com</email>
				</author><content type="text/html" mode="escaped" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://www.mungbeing.com/"><![CDATA[<b>View</b> I loved Crayon SO much that I was saddened to know that, after one cd, they were no more. Crayon meant a great deal to my wife and me and we will hold fond memories of this remarkable band in our shirt pockets.<br />
<br />
<b>Review</b> Wow. This is a completely different band than Crayon. I expected something similar but no, it is completely different. At first I was upset because, as I said previously, I loved Crayon so much. But after I let it sit for a while and tried it without the expectations, I found it to be quite remarkable. Sean's lyrics are better than ever and his voice, his wonderful tiny voice, is delicate and wry, like flour. Quiet, witty, honest and unnerving, Six Cents and Natalie have found a place near my shirt pocket, close to my heart.]]></content>
				</entry>
				<entry>
				<title>Views and Reviews -- The Sneeze</title>
				
				<link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_1.html?articleID=29&amp;subID=56" />
				<modified>2005-04-09T03:04:08Z</modified>
				<id>tag:www.mungbeing.com,2005:1.10.6</id>
				<issued>2005-04-02T12:04:33Z</issued>
				<created>2005-04-02T12:04:33Z</created>
				<summary type="text/plain">"View I was searching the web for more information about Potted Meat Food Product and I found..."</summary>	<author>
				<name>Mark Givens</name><email>feed@mungbeing.com</email>
				</author><content type="text/html" mode="escaped" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://www.mungbeing.com/"><![CDATA[<b>View</b> I was searching the web for more information about Potted Meat Food Product and I found a <a href="http://www.thesneeze.com/mt-archives/cat_steve_dont_eat_it.php">link</a> to this article about a guy who eats stuff and then writes about it.<br />
It was pretty funny so I clicked around a little to see what else was there. Holy Fuck! This guy Steve is really funny.<br />
<br />
<b>Review</b> The Sneeze has become a regular stop for me. Not just a  daily "I wonder if there's anything new" kind of stop but a "re-read the entire site" kind of thing. Seriously, I laugh every time! It's the kind of stuff that makes me end sentences with exclamation marks. Lots of them!! There are some real gems there and I recommend that you visit <a href="http://www.thesneeze.com" target="_blank">The Sneeze</a> as soon as you are done reading this.]]></content>
				</entry>
				
	<entry>
		<title>Brad's Civil War Haiku</title>
		
		<link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_1.html?articleID=30" />
		<modified>2005-03-30T16:10:30Z</modified>
		<id>tag:www.mungbeing.com,2005:1.11</id>
		<issued>2005-02-21T11:02:54Z</issued>
		<created>2005-02-21T11:02:54Z</created>
		<summary type="text/plain">[no description]</summary><author>
		<name>Brad</name><email>feed@mungbeing.com</email>
		</author><content type="text/html" mode="escaped" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://www.mungbeing.com/">
		<![CDATA[[no description]]]>
		</content>
		</entry>
		<entry>
				<title>Brad's Civil War Haiku -- Haiku Carolina Marsh</title>
				
				<link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_1.html?articleID=30&amp;subID=36" />
				<modified>2005-04-09T03:04:08Z</modified>
				<id>tag:www.mungbeing.com,2005:1.11.7</id>
				<issued>2005-03-09T06:03:09Z</issued>
				<created>2005-03-09T06:03:09Z</created>
				<summary type="text/plain">"the pleasure of wit
the battlefield surgeon smiles
thin lips and sharp teeth

fire-blackened..."</summary>	<author>
				<name>Brad</name><email>feed@mungbeing.com</email>
				</author><content type="text/html" mode="escaped" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://www.mungbeing.com/"><![CDATA[the pleasure of wit<br />
the battlefield surgeon smiles<br />
thin lips and sharp teeth<br />
<br />
fire-blackened bone saw<br />
soot conceals the history<br />
and the sterile heat<br />
<br />
skin's perimeter<br />
so we enter our brothers<br />
in border clashes]]></content>
				</entry>
				
	<entry>
		<title>Vectors</title>
		
		<link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_1.html?articleID=42" />
		<modified>2005-04-03T05:43:57Z</modified>
		<id>tag:www.mungbeing.com,2005:1.12</id>
		<issued>2005-03-22T01:03:47Z</issued>
		<created>2005-03-22T01:03:47Z</created>
		<summary type="text/plain">"I. Keep moving forward, damn you.

I don't care if it's one painful millimeter at a..."</summary><author>
		<name>David "Starchy" Grant</name><email>feed@mungbeing.com</email>
		</author><content type="text/html" mode="escaped" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://www.mungbeing.com/">
		<![CDATA[<h2>I. Keep moving forward, damn you.</h2><br />
<br />
I don't care if it's one painful millimeter at a time, with all your psyche and what you dare to call your soul consumed in that miniscule act. I don't care if it's the kind of rarefied leap into new realms that embodies itself in a personal apocalypse. For the love of all that is even worth spitting on, I don't care if you spend the rest of your life pushing against a wall that refuses ever to budge. Do it. Do you have something better in mind? If you involve yourself in anything that you would consider to be the creation of that which could, under any available definition, be called art, anything else could only result in bland repetition.<br />
<br />
Definitions.<br />
<br />
What could it mean to move forward?<br />
<br />
Take something that has never been used artistically and make it your medium.<br />
<br />
Take something that has never been used artistically within a certain style, genre, or school and make it your medium for that.<br />
<br />
Take a medium that has never been used in a certain way and find a method by which to use it as such.<br />
<br />
Bring something to light that has never before been seen by human eyes. Make it your medium, or leave it hanging for other creators to latch onto.<br />
<br />
Bring something to light within an established medium that has never before been externalized.<br />
<br />
Bring a well-established theme to a well-established medium, but so intensely and so personally that you may as well be showing the world your Self.<br />
<br />
Destroy something that holds us, you, or anything back.<br />
<br />
One or all, my plea to you is to let your feet fall, painfully, along these routes. My consolation to you is that I intend to continue doing, or attempting to do, the same. If I help to inspire such actions in others, even if I only live to see as many instances of fruition of these attempts as my eyes can hold without ever having taken part, I need never succeed in my own efforts.<br />
<br />
<!---suggested page break----><br />
<h2>II. My ego will not be held back.</h2><br />
<br />
I write from a certain modicum of experience. I would say that, at the very least, I have experience with efforts toward each of the definitions of forward motion that I give above. More importantly, I would more often than not say that I have experience in succeeding at a few of these. I say this without assurance, but that will not stop me here.<br />
<br />
In the summer of 1998, I decided it was time to teach myself how to use HTML, the basic language of web design. It took only a matter of days for me to decide that I was entirely uninterested in continuing to work on the "personal homepage" I had cooked up. It could only ever have been of any real interest to people who already knew me, and they'd be less than likely to find anything of value there. No matter, as it had served its purpose, and I had become familiar enough with basic web coding that I could speak it like any other language in conversation. This was exactly what I needed.<br />
<br />
Surrealist techniques had long held a fascination for me. I had been practicing writing techniques such as automatic writing with pen and paper for some years already. I now had the tools I needed to answer the question I had only just asked of myself: Could these techniques successfully be applied to the creation of hypertext? I set out to create what I took to calling "Stream of Consciousness HTML." I sought to allow markup tags and hyperlinks to flow from my fingers in much the same way I had long since taught myself to handle words and punctuation. I sought to ignore any contextual distinction between my own site and those that it linked to. As it turns out, I may have succeeded.<br />
<br />
At the time, I was aware of a number of sites about Surrealism or that displayed Surrealist writings and visual works. I was aware as well of a handful of sites that had been created with the aim of creating Dadaist web art, some of which I would say were successful, such as the now all but infamous jodi.org. I was unaware, however, of any with aims any closer than these to my own. A handful have since appeared, but all with significantly different results, and I am still unaware of any that existed at the time.<br />
<br />
It did not take long for word of my work to spread. To my surprise, it also did not take long for feedback to come in from various sources. While not all of it could be called positive, there seemed to be a consensus that I had created something unique. Although that had been my aim throughout, I had not until that point dared to think of what I'd done as truly original in any sense. To have some sort of confirmation that I had managed to innovate cemented this work in my mind as my greatest achievement. Whether or not it could be said that I had been successful in applying the techniques that I sought to, it seems that I had, more importantly, successfully innovated.<br />
<br />
There was little involved other than an inspiration and a commitment to see its fruition. I cannot count the inspirations that pass through me and remain unfulfilled. I shudder to think of the sheer number of such abandoned ideas harbored fleetingly in the rest of humanity.<br />
<br />
Take hold of these things when they are within your reach. Keep moving forward, damn you.<br />
<br />
<!---suggested page break----><br />
<h2>III. Let milestones be eyesores.</h2><br />
<br />
Judging by the sort of criteria people will often apply to their careers, their creative tendencies, and even their lives as a whole, I am not successful. I have never made a single dollar from any of my creative endeavors, although I have spent many. You have not seen my face on television, my voice on the radio, or my name in newspapers. I have never finished a novel, let alone gained a publishing contract. I do not have funding from the NEA. If I get a free drink at a bar, it's because the bartender knows me as a person, not because he knows anything of my work.<br />
<br />
By my own criteria, I have a great deal of success. My works have been read, seen, and heard by a large number of people, many of whom I'm led to believe appreciate them. I have created many things that I feel proud of. I have created many things that I actually like, and even a good deal that I tend to think I'd like if somebody else had created them.<br />
<br />
Beyond even this, I tend to judge my own success not relative to what I've done, how much I've done, and how much time I've spent doing it. I tend to judge my own success instead by what I've done, how much I've done, and how much time I've spent doing it. I have not urged every inspiration into the light of day. I have, however, urged many into the light of day. At my best, it may be said that I urge as many as possible into the light of day. I have kept moving forward. When I could not do that, I kept trying. It matters little that only a small portion of what I've done in my lifetime could be considered innovative on a broader scale. I have kept pushing myself forward.<br />
<br />
When done in a literal sense, we call that walking. Why must we let it be so difficult in every other sense? It's always easier to sit in one place. Physically, few of us do so for very long. When physically held back, few of us will decline to struggle. Some of us choose to physically move forward in ways more challenging than walking, by running or by climbing mountains. We choose to move forward more quickly than walking would allow, by riding bicycles or automobiles. Even when none of this could be said to be necessary, we choose it.<br />
<br />
It may be more challenging to write a single line of prose than to walk a single step. It may be more challenging to write a novel or record an album than to fly around the world. It may be sometimes be far more of a challenge to innovate than to run a marathon. Why must that stop us from trying?<br />
<br />
I consider these the most pathetic possible excuses for stagnation. Keep moving forward, damn you.<br />
<br />
<!---suggested page break----><br />
<h2>IV. Take what's given to you.</h2><br />
<br />
"Information may be codified as words.<br />
Words are part of a language.<br />
A language is a system of communication.<br />
Communication is the process by which information is shared between entities.<br />
By definition, my goal is not to hold exclusive rights to that which I share.<br />
<br />
Take what you will.<br />
I have already given it to you."<br />
<br />
The above is cannibalized from a copyright statement of sorts that I wrote about three years ago. With only a slightly different phrasing, it could apply equally well to non-verbal mediums. It is not meant to imply that I never wish to make a living off of my work, or to encourage others to take my creations and simply attach their own names (which has happened). This is meant primarily to encourage others to build upon anything of value that I've done without fear of reprisal.<br />
<br />
Advertisers and other creators of popular culture all but literally shove their creations down our throats. We can't practically avoid seeing, hearing, and tasting them on a daily basis, whether or not we'd specifically want to. When we walk through our cities, sit in our offices, chat with friends, and even when we sit at home by ourselves, we encounter these creations. People quote Budweiser commercials to make each other laugh. Most everyone who's seen the movie remembers the enormous Coca-Cola sign depicted in Blade Runner, even if it is something of a sardonic commentary on itself. Love them or hate them, chances are good that you can hum at least one song by the Spice Girls.<br />
<br />
These things are given to us every day, yet most of us understand implicitly that we cannot take them. Cease and desist orders and lawsuits are slapped on those who parody the Starbucks logo or an old Reese's Peanut Butter Cups commercial. These people are guilty of nothing more than taking something that has been given to them and putting it to use.<br />
<br />
Have you ever given somebody a gift, then demanded that they desist in any use of it that does not directly benefit you?<br />
<br />
Have you ever forced somebody to accept a gift that they did not want, then demanded that they desist in any use of it that in any way benefits them, and that they compensate you for that use?<br />
<br />
In a very real sense, advertisers, TV producers, film studios, pop musicians, and even science-fiction writers have all committed both of the above.<br />
<br />
One of my current projects is a digital collage comprised of other people's copyright statements. I believe it to say all of the above in a more visual way.<br />
<br />
It's in your eyes, in your ears, in your hands, in your mind. Use it. Don't let yourself be told that you don't have it by the same people who force you to take it. Everything that's created, everything seen, heard or read by more than one of us, becomes a part of our culture.<br />
<br />
Our culture.<br />
<br />
Everything you build is built upon that which came before, even if it's done indirectly. We're told we can't be too honest about that without securing the right licenses, contracts, and waivers. Red tape and art do not mix very well. Subterfuge and art need not mix at all. We manipulate symbols, and we're expected to answer for which symbols we choose to manipulate, as well as how and why we do so.<br />
<br />
You need not answer such questions. You need not struggle with such artificial obstacles. Keep moving forward, damn you.<br />
<br />
<!---suggested page break----><br />
<h2>V. My ego will be held back.</h2><br />
<br />
As in physical endeavors, momentum must be a concern in creativity. Stop writing it for a week, and the book may never be finished. Work on it every day, however, and it may never let you rest until it's done. When fully devoted to them, we imbue our works with the ability to control us even as they are created. I have found this state to be ideal. While painful, overwhelming, and even dangerous, there can be nothing more conducive to prolificacy, profundity, and innovation. When our works take over, our egos, sometimes, finally just let go.<br />
<br />
Three components: A seed, a will, an effort. While the first may be the rarest, the third is by far the most difficult. This is where one, as they so contritely say, must suffer for one's art. Is it preferable to stare for an hour at a blank page, or to go out and do something else? I expect you have few arguments as to which is more enjoyable. I can think of no means to the end I am discussing of which dedication is not an integral part.<br />
<br />
I am talking about sacrifice. It does hurt. Chances are good that you're already well aware of this. The artist's most difficult task by far is that of keeping himself in motion. Regaining even the tiniest bit of lost momentum often takes Herculean effort, and I am aware of no guaranteed way to avoid losing any. The only worthwhile piece of advice I've ever been given about this, one I've heard repeated many times, is simply to "do it every day." This can play the role in your life of not just a habit or a commitment, but of a necessity.<br />
<br />
If you need to create, you will. The amount of work it takes to start down that road is immense, but momentum can take over. With the right approach, continuing to create becomes the path of least resistance. This is not meant to imply that the path is easy to stick to. If you mean to take this path, your work is cut out for you, and it is cut from the whole cloth of anything you consider to be your self.<br />
<br />
Those of us who choose to attempt this are not any sort of elite. We are not martyrs. We are fools, plain and simple, albeit fools of a very different sort than most others. It may be helpful to claim that we are more than that, but to claim that we are not that seems nothing less than absurd. The sacrifices we make are great, and few of us can honestly deny that. The gains made of these efforts are generally piddling, and only a very few among us could even begin to deny that.<br />
<br />
Ironically, more than a month passed between the writing of the last sentence and this one. Other projects and commitments demanded my time in a more immediate way than this essay managed to. For my efforts over that time, I have accrued no material gain and no recognition. Many of the projects I involved myself in during that time are likely to never see the light of day. In the end, I return to this, which may also never be realized and also, most likely, never result in any tangible improvements to any part of my life.<br />
<br />
It is as if I have returned to writing this only to contradict what I say above. In the end, however, I find that I may be doing a better job of supporting it. I may have stopped pushing myself towards the completion of this particular piece, but I found, in the end, that it was still able to exert a pull on me.<br />
<br />
Push yourself if you must, allow yourself to be pulled if you can. Whatever it takes, just keep moving forward, damn you.<br />
<br />
<!---suggested page break----><br />
<h2>VI. Why?</h2><br />
<br />
If you're reading this, if any of this really holds any meaning for you, what need do you have for my reasons? If all that I've said strikes you as relevant to your own life, to your own actions, what sort of justifications could you be looking for? What use could they be? Is it the perverse pleasure you can take in having your own sentiments echoed here? Is it some need to have further outside justification for your artistry?<br />
<br />
I ask you to move forward. How much can you interest me if you stand still? This is, again, a very selfish essay. What good can a step backward do? I see nothing noble about all of this, but those of you who see suffering as noble just may. I see no question of morality or of ethics anywhere. The only questions of necessity have already been raised, and these necessities do not exist until we have already taken our first steps.<br />
<br />
Have you anything to gain from following my advice? Perhaps, but this seems to reflect more on your psyche than your actions, no matter how inseparable you consider the two to be. If you strive to be able to see yourself as The Struggling Genius or The Starving Artist, my words here may fit only too well with your aspirations. If you seek posterity, you may have more to learn from those you see every week buying lottery tickets at your neighborhood convenience store. If you seek to please others, you may have more to learn in the red light district. If you seek to change the world, Sacco and Vanzetti may provide you with better lessons than James Joyce or Marcel Duchamp.<br />
<br />
If, however, you consider creativity to be simply a part of who you are, something you involve yourself in no matter what, my words may serve to remind you of just how much you can strive for, just what kind of goals you really can have for your work, just how much of yourself you can involve in the process. If you do not yet see creativity in quite such a light, my greatest hope is for you; if my words can inspire you to initiate the sort of motions that I suggest, we all have something to gain from this change in you. If, like myself, you wish to see other creators and would-be creators achieve as much as they are capable of, perhaps my words here can provide you with new ways in which to encourage them.<br />
<br />
If I do no more than to provoke you to reconsider the things that you involve yourself in, I consider this essay to be a fantastic success. If this essay is never even read by anyone other than myself, I still take a good deal of pride in having pushed myself through all of the obstacles presented to actually write it.<br />
<br />
Your direction may be the very one that I've tried to lay out here, or it may be entirely your own. You may take great pride, great misery, or a great amount of both in following it. Beyond good and bad, better and worse, easy and hard, we have our vectors.<br />
<br />
Keep moving forward, damn you.]]>
		</content>
		</entry>
		
	<entry>
		<title>The Robot Lincoln Project</title>
		
		<link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_1.html?articleID=38" />
		<modified>2005-04-04T03:01:23Z</modified>
		<id>tag:www.mungbeing.com,2005:1.13</id>
		<issued>2005-03-21T12:03:46Z</issued>
		<created>2005-03-21T12:03:46Z</created>
		<summary type="text/plain">A modest proposal to fix the United States Presidency</summary><author>
		<name>R.S. Deese</name><email>feed@mungbeing.com</email>
		</author><content type="text/html" mode="escaped" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://www.mungbeing.com/">
		<![CDATA[Friends, have you ever gotten frustrated with the Presidency? No, not the President - I'm sure that everyone's been frustrated with the President, either the current model or his predecessors. I mean the office itself. No, not the Oval Office, though I'm sure it must offer its share of frustrations (no corners, for one thing), but the institution of the Presidency of the United States. Ever get the feeling that the institution itself is such a god damned disaster that only a deep purple tumescent dickhead would even <i>dream</i> of being president, or that anybody who, miraculously, is not said organ and still seeks the office, would, according to an iron law more durable than any written constitution, have to become one in order to get there?<br />
<br />
Sure you have. <br />
<br />
And that's why you're ready, more than ready I'll bet, to open your hearts and minds to the Robot Lincoln Project. Let's begin: Take a moment to visualize the most important object in your home. No, not the one that you'd rush to save in a hypothetical fire, but the one that you look for as soon as you get home. The one that just kills you if you can't find it. Yes, there it is it in the palm of your hand. Now, imagine if you could use that little object to control the words, actions, and policies of the President of the United States. <i>You</i>, the People, sovereign, with your feet up, empowered and embeveraged, in the privacy of your own home. <br />
<br />
Claptrap? Balderdash? Twaddle, you say? I don't need to remind you, though I will, that every truly great idea has been greeted with similar derision at its inception. Didn't the skeptics tell Count von Zeppelin that gigantic dirigibles filled with hydrogen was a bad idea? Aren't you glad he didn't listen?  <br />
Here's how ABE, or the Anthropomorphic Bicameral Executive, will work:<ol><li> As promised above, the standard television remote will be the new key to democracy here - all of ABE's real-time input will come from people making menu selections on CSPAN Interactive. <br />
<li> A humanoid is a complex thing, so CSPAN will run at least 100 interactive channels controlling everything from ABE's intonation and body language to his fight or flight instinct, his taste in sports, movies, etc. Oh yeah, and his positions on current legislation in Congress, too.<br />
<li> The question soon arises of who will write the thousands and thousands of choices appearing hourly on the CSPAN Interactive menus. To solve this problem we need a split-level architecture for ABE's thinking process, with a conscious mind that makes choices and a subconscious mind that generates the steady flow of 'ideas' or options from which his decisions are made.  </ol><br />
And that's why ABE = Anthropomorphic Bicameral Executive. The bicameral here stands for bicameral brain; just like a person, ABE has two 'chambers' in his brain function: his conscious level of decision-making and a vast subconscious pool of thoughts and impulses that generates his ideas. While the conscious decisions are made on CSPAN Interactive, the billions of subconscious ideas are generated through an unrelenting torrent of Internet and voice mail traffic. On the Internet level, people can write position papers on issues they care about or even send in digital films or music. They can be sure that everything they send in, no matter how weird or irrelevant or outright perverse, will pass unimpeded and uncensored into the President's subconscious. <br />
<br />
Only when an idea is sent in by a massive number of people, however, will it rise to the level where it shows up on a CSPAN menu and sovereign viewers can actually vote to have the president do it. To make sure the process of input isn't just limited to people with Internet access and skills, a 1-800 number will be made available to all. If a guy has been watching FOX all day and is pissed at Jacques Chirac, he can pick up a pay phone and tell ABE to "Slug Jacques Chirac in the face the next time you see him". If a critical mass of people send in the same idea, it will appear on the CSPAN menu for a live vote the next time ABE is in the same room with Chirac.  If you, being the namby pamby overthoughtful impotent loser that you probably are if you're reading this, think that would be a bad thing for the President of the United States to do, there's only one thing left for you to do: grab your remote and cast your vote.<br />
<br />
Of course this is only the sketchiest of blueprints of how ABE might work. Like every great endeavor, the Robot Lincoln Project will need all of our help to become a reality. If you have expertise in computer science, constitutional law, history, media, politics or any other of the dozens of fields relevant to this project, please send your ideas to The Robot Lincoln Project using the button below. <br />
<br />
Remember: A better future may seem remote, but the remote is near at hand.]]>
		</content>
		</entry>
		
	<entry>
		<title>Poster from a Restaurant in San Diego</title>
		
		<link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_1.html?articleID=63" />
		<modified>2005-04-04T16:38:31Z</modified>
		<id>tag:www.mungbeing.com,2005:1.14</id>
		<issued>2005-03-30T05:03:57Z</issued>
		<created>2005-03-30T05:03:57Z</created>
		<summary type="text/plain">"Vov Ghraib" by Ben Muggin (2004)</summary><author>
		<name>Ben Muggin</name><email>feed@mungbeing.com</email>
		</author><content type="image/jpeg" mode="escaped" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://www.mungbeing.com/">
		<![CDATA["Vov Ghraib" by Ben Muggin (2004)]]>
		</content>
		</entry>
		
	<entry>
		<title>recurring awake nightmare #2</title>
		
		<link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_1.html?articleID=37" />
		<modified>2005-04-03T05:43:57Z</modified>
		<id>tag:www.mungbeing.com,2005:1.15</id>
		<issued>2005-03-17T04:03:38Z</issued>
		<created>2005-03-17T04:03:38Z</created>
		<summary type="text/plain">"came home from running daily errands
to a dining room in flames:
the warm smell,
and the bright..."</summary><author>
		<name>John Darnielle</name><email>feed@mungbeing.com</email>
		</author><content type="text/html" mode="escaped" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://www.mungbeing.com/">
		<![CDATA[came home from running daily errands<br />
to a dining room in flames:<br />
the warm smell,<br />
and the bright orange light visible through the windows<br />
<br />
and me entering the house<br />
in the last moment<br />
of nothing being wrong]]>
		</content>
		</entry>
		
	<entry>
		<title>Notes for a Poem that Won't Be Written</title>
		
		<link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_1.html?articleID=53" />
		<modified>2005-07-24T01:58:57Z</modified>
		<id>tag:www.mungbeing.com,2005:1.16</id>
		<issued>2005-03-27T11:03:42Z</issued>
		<created>2005-03-27T11:03:42Z</created>
		<summary type="text/plain">"Stanza 1: INTRODUCTION
The subject is a nasty little woman from the Midwest, mean and cold.  We'll..."</summary><author>
		<name>Cavendish</name><email>feed@mungbeing.com</email>
		</author><content type="text/html" mode="escaped" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://www.mungbeing.com/">
		<![CDATA[Stanza 1: INTRODUCTION<br />
The subject is a nasty little woman from the Midwest, mean and cold.  We'll call her Dee Dee <a href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_1.html?id=34&sub_id=46">link</a>.<br />
<br />
To make her senselessly brute temperament clear to the reader in as little space as possible, describe Dee Dee using very broad images.  Images that suggest almost no specific personal characteristics, but also suggest a necessarily contentious and anxiety producing presence.  Think forces and events of nature (but wholly undynamic forces and events of nature  -  time, aging, dust collection, wood rotting, soil erosion, etc...).  Almost immediately, the reader should forget that we are talking about a specific person ("...A <i>Certain</i> Midwestern Lady..."), and maybe, with luck, god willing, even forget it's a person we're talking about.<br />
Evoke a feeling of inevitability; as if this person/thing is not to be argued with, just sorrowfully submitted to, and that submission forgotten over time.<br />
<br />
Next, suggest a family, but deal with them in a very blank way.  No names, maybe ages, but nothing else.  Make them feel necessary, but without purpose or use; like ripples in the middle of a self-installed carpet.   Whatever image was chosen to describe Dee Dee, let it sort of coat the family, wash over them.  <br />
Images used to describe the family should perhaps consist of details one might use to provide a needlessly detailed version of the central Dee Dee images.<br />
For instance: if Dee Dee is wood rotting, family is the swirls of the wood grain.<br />
<br />
As we leave the introduction, Dee Dee should be clear in the readers mind, but only as the sense of a person, or a feeling.  That feeling should be unpleasant.  Like gambling one's last bit of money and then watching the dealer deal himself 21.  <br />
Broadness is the key.  Dee Dee is like a horizon...a cold, grey horizon.  But active, and mean.<br />
<br />
<br />
Stanza 2: CONFLICT<br />
This stanza is mostly Dee Dee speaking.  She uses plain, unaffected English, but poorly.  Tenses don't match.  Words are poorly chosen.  Some things just plain don't make sense.  A consistent or deft use of prosody or meter is right the fuck out.  Remember to ignore it.  She begins:<br />
<center><i>I was on the television news last night,<br />
Tho I didn' get to talk anything.</i></center><br />
Here is the beginning of Dee Dee's problem.  She regards the world at large, particularly the media, but also authority figures of any kind, with contempt.  A brooding and cumulative anger, like an unstable child left out of the reindeer games.  She might continue with something like:<br />
<center><i>They have people who are supposed to do that,<br />
I just don't have time for it.  What kind of person does?</i></center><br />
<br />
Images for the things and people Dee Dee sets herself up against should stress rarity and fragility; small, pretty things very carefully described <a href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_1.html?id=34&sub_id=47">link</a>.<br />
As the stanza progresses, the poem's field of vision should become almost cluttered with images of Dee Dee's foes, which will stand in stark contrast to our continuing characterization of Dee Dee as a borderless/indefinable haze <a href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_1.html?id=34&sub_id=48">link</a>.<br />
She continues to be an unpleasant horizon, and at the end of the stanza, these two characterizations (of Dee Dee, and of her foes) come into direct conflict when, during the course of Dee Dee describing the TV event, the television news camera tries to focus on Dee Dee.  There is a push to engage the other from both sides (Dee Dee desires to overcome, to best and subjugate the TV camera; the TV camera desires to classify and analyze Dee Dee) and the language should be very verby.  It should rush forward.  Prosody and meter can be picked back up, but forget lovely or pleasant.  The end of the stanza should be most like a chant.  Like a Ramones song or a line of screaming picketers.<br />
  <br />
Near the end of this dramatic upsurge, there should be glint of sun off the camera that momentarily blinds our Dee Dee.  The stanza ends with everything gone white.<br />
<br />
<br />
Stanza 3: THE GIANT ROBOT SUPERHERO<br />
The voice of this stanza should appear to be the 3rd person voice of stanza 1, but with a slightly harsher, and barely noticeable colloquial tone that reminds the reader of Dee Dee's voice.  <br />
This new voice describes a human figure in the whiteness.  It slowly emerges; at first a hazy grey profile, it slowly becomes sharper and more detailed.  It grows to a hundred stories high.  It looks like a Japanese manga superhero, but with a spectacularly Byzantine uniform: brilliant colors, intricate designs, etc...<br />
There should be a moment of sustained admiration for the giant robot superhero.  The narrating voice should betray some awe and wonder at the size and grandeur of the giant robot superhero.  At this point, the two competing tendencies of the narrating voice should most conflict, and the reader should be in doubt as to who is speaking.<br />
<br />
The moment of admiration ends, and the narrating voice suddenly understands it is in trouble.  There is smoke rising from the giant robot superhero.  There is fire shooting from his eyes.  He is jumping around at great speeds.  When he (giant robot superhero) lands, the earth shakes and there is a tremendous rumbling.<br />
<br />
<br />
Where previously there had only been voice, whiteness and giant robot superhero, now there is a vast, dense landscape of skyscrapers, through which the giant robot superhero is flying.  He careens from one building to the other, destroying mutant enemies that cling to the sides of the buildings.  He punches giant beetles. He kicks down giant mosquitoes.  His fire eyes destroy wave upon wave of kamikaze jet-pack bears. Etc.<br />
<br />
The following section is split apart from the above, but is still part of stanza 3.<br />
The language for this part should be fairly reminiscent of prayer.<br />
The narrating voice opens this section with two lines that show an intense fear.  As flaming debris from the giant robot superhero's battles fall all around the narrating voice, it begins to receive strange mantras:<br />
"Four score and seven years ago, our forefathers did create giant robot superheroes to protect us from the mutant lizard assailants that we do harbor in our souls." <a href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_1.html?id=34&sub_id=49">link</a><br />
 These mantras begin to build a protective shell around the narrating voice.  The shell is made of the same sort of objects used to describe Dee Dee's foes, but (and this is very important) use different language to describe them.<br />
The shell, made of fine, small, pretty objects, begins to become fine and pretty itself, crystalline <a href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_1.html?id=34&sub_id=50">link</a>.<br />
The final image is of this crystalline shell, the narrating voice safe inside it, and the city burning as the giant robot superhero continues his fight all around it.<br />
An intense light from inside the shell begins to shine.  Its brilliance begins to make surrounding shapes duller and less defined.  It grows and grows until, once again, everything goes white.]]>
		</content>
		</entry>
		
	<entry>
		<title>The Nihil Nation Manifesto</title>
		
		<link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_1.html?articleID=47" />
		<modified>2005-04-04T03:05:24Z</modified>
		<id>tag:www.mungbeing.com,2005:1.17</id>
		<issued>2005-03-24T02:03:25Z</issued>
		<created>2005-03-24T02:03:25Z</created>
		<summary type="text/plain">"[editor's note:  The Nihil Nation Manifesto fills the interior of the booklet that..."</summary><author>
		<name>Mark Teppo</name><email>feed@mungbeing.com</email>
		</author><content type="text/html" mode="escaped" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://www.mungbeing.com/">
		<![CDATA[<blockquote>[editor's note:  The Nihil Nation Manifesto fills the interior of the booklet that accompanies the debut CD release of Crash Nietzsche and the Nihilators.  An enigmatic revolutionary, Crash Nietzsche denied every attempt at an interview, referring all press requests to the manifesto and to his sermons delivered from the stage.  The Nihilators played their last show on August 21st, 200-.  During the encore, Crash was shot by the drummer and the guitar player of the band.  His notebooks were never recovered; all that remains is the epistle from the liner notes.]</blockquote><br />
<br />
Love is a word.  Death is a word.  Hate is a word.  God is a word.  We build civilizations, erect towers and dig canals, with words.  We slaughter entire cultures with words.  The first word -- the last word -- was and will be: "No."  A cry, a whimper, a plea for help.  No.  This is how we began communication; this is how we will end it.<br />
In fear.  In disbelief.  <br />
No.<br />
Listen.<br />
There is nothing to say which hasn't been said; there is nothing to write which hasn't been written.  Permutations.  Combinations.  Tiny symbols scratched on the wall.  Brush strokes across the blank canvas.  Everything is possible with the right combination.  Everything will be revealed if you know the proper code.  It's all there, hidden in the letters.  Fiat lux.  This is the beginning.  Amen.  This is the end.  So it be said, so it be written, so it be.  <br />
No.<br />
Listen.<br />
There is disease in the inkwell; there is venom in the water.  Our tracts are written in blood; there is poison on our pages.  We write to love, we write to kill.  We write.  We transcribe.  We read.  We speak.  We sing.   We pontificate.<br />
Is anyone listening?  <br />
You cannot hear. <br />
The corporate poison has been poured in your ears; their foul vapors have fogged and confused your brain.  Their acids have burned your receptors and incinerated your sensitivity to the endless varieties of sound.  Your molten flesh has cooled into scar tissue, blocking all but the basest of sounds--the grunts and squeals of reality soap stars.  We clap our hands and caper like idiot children to the tin song of their simplistic jingles.  Their rhythms of excess are our glazed fantasies.  Our brains are endlessly raped by their dull cocks.  Their febrile thrusts through our ear holes are the only contact we know and we take it deep--we take it hard--because we believe their touch is the finger of God.<br />
Their rituals are the whitewash of mediocrity.  Their gifts are your own livers and spleens and guts, handed back to you on an tarnished silver platter.  Eat up, children, clean your plates.  We work hard to give you shelter, to give you food, to give you everything.  Gulp it all down.  You cannot hope to survive without these home-cooked meals.  Eat to live.  Live to eat.  It isn't cannibalism when you eat your own flesh.  Self-mutilation is self-modification; trans-humanization is the fading novelty of release, the Houdini trick by which we'll escape the hook and the chain.<br />
No.<br />
Listen.<br />
 If you cannot fear, you cannot hear.  <br />
If you cannot lie, you cannot fly. <br />
If you cannot bleed, you cannot heed.  <br />
If you cannot try, you cannot die.<br />
Freedom is madness, madness is the freedom. Smash the chains of conformity.  Shrug off the weight of complacency.  Madness is the skeleton key which unlocks all doors. The madman is cast as the revolutionary, his psychosis is the vision of an evolved future.  His ears are open, unblocked and untempered by the controlling paralytics. <br />
Listen.<br />
You do not sleep, you do not dream--what you are told is all that you do.  To sleep, to dream:  these are the stolen delights of insanity, of irregularity.  You breathe what they tell you to breathe, you blink in the tiny darkness between commercials, your pulse is fed and directed by their pop jingles.  You speak in unfinished thoughts, your tongue trapped by slogans and brand trademarks.  Your life is ending one four-minute pre-programmed pop song at a time.  <br />
Your first and last mad thought was which of your mother's tits to suck from first.  (And you can't even remember the taste of warm flesh in your mouth now.)  Your New Mother is 130 channels with On-Demand and Pay-Per-View--ah, so many choices, so many ways to kill yourself.  The digital clarity of her voice is a spike in your cerebellum, a VR finger pressed hard against your neural OFF switch.<br />
  Language has been taken from you, meaning and symbol co-opted by corporate brands.  What you read is what you consume:  this is the tongue you know.  The single-use license fee for every syllable is but another drop of your blood, another scrap of your flesh.  There is nothing in your soul but a debit account running backward.  <br />
Listen.<br />
The word of God is not a word at all.  It is a sound.  It is the sound which requires no language, which came before language and which will ring out after language is gone.   <br />
Music does not require language.  Music does not require your mouth.  It does not need your hands or your feet.  It does not need your eyes or your skin.  It only needs your ears.  Listen--my lost, desperate, fucked up children--listen and hear the sound of your salvation.  <br />
Throw your radios from your rooftops, put a hammer through the flat screen of your obscene televisions, smash the links of your compact disc chains.  Melt your vinyl.  Destroy it all, you poor monkeys, burn it all and learn to Listen.<br />
You cannot climb into the sky.  You have dug your own pits, squatting in your own shit and piss, digging and digging and digging.  There is no Heaven below.  <br />
The Nihil Nation is noise.  It is the glory of the Tower of Babel.  The pillar is complete and the lightning which comes down upon those who have built the tower cleaves their tongues.  The one becomes many.  Celebrate, my children, celebrate because no one can understand a fucking word you are saying! <br />
 Open your mouths, my monkeys, show me your tongues.  Show me that you are ready for the Lightning of Heaven.  Show me that you are eager for the Baptism of Rock and Roll.<br />
Listen.<br />
The harmonic convergence begins at home.  We are all instruments.  We have been marked with the gospel of pain, inscribed with the sermon of despair.  <br />
On the inside of our skins is the tattoo of divine instruction; on the inside we all carry the Word of God.  <br />
Whisper the word.  Whisper it now.  <br />
Listen.]]>
		</content>
		</entry>
		
	<entry>
		<title>The Congress - "Jungle Mercies"</title>
		
		<link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_1.html?articleID=54" />
		<modified>2005-04-29T15:09:04Z</modified>
		<id>tag:www.mungbeing.com,2005:1.18</id>
		<issued>2005-03-28T02:03:35Z</issued>
		<created>2005-03-28T02:03:35Z</created>
		<summary type="text/plain">A write-up about "Jungle Mercies" by The Congress, 2004</summary><author>
		<name>Jeb Ebben</name><email>feed@mungbeing.com</email>
		</author><content type="text/html" mode="escaped" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://www.mungbeing.com/">
		<![CDATA[I'd never heard the Congress before.  I mean, I knew who they were, more or less - John Darnielle of the Mountain Goats and Mark Givens of Wckr Spgt - and knew that they'd played a bunch of shows and released a few albums in the the ten years between the tail end of the Reagan administration and the beginning of Clinton's.  I was pretty sure that they weren't making music anymore, what with the Mountain Goats becoming fairly gigantic and Mark, well, I didn't know anything about Mark except the brief bio on the Wckr Spgt website.  Evidently he lived in Wisconsin for a while.  <br />
<br />
But former Wisconsinites and current ones always find each other somehow, and if given proper time, space, and money, they will become the closest of friends and possibly go on to establish the dreaded One World Government, behind which they will be the shadow men pulling all the strings.  Or at the very least they will develop a professional relationship as Editor and Writer.<br />
<br />
Mark approached me to write about the new Congress song, the first Congress song in ten years.  "But I've never heard the Congress before!" I told him.  "That's even better!  It's all about <i>firsts</i>!" he exclaimed with a trepidation that was, to be honest, almost frightening.  So I went in, trying hard to be the uncarved block, listened to the song, and for two weeks had absolutely no idea what to write.<br />
<br />
The song itself - "Jungle Mercies" - is good.  Really good.  Filled with some of the same kinds of lyrical snippets that make legions of adoring indie rockers and lo-fi purists worldwide fall in love with the Mountain Goats over and over again.  Of course, the Congress is not Mountain Goats Redux; just as the Extra Glenns are as much Franklin Bruno as John Darnielle, so it is with the Congress.  Multi-instrumentalist Mark Givens adds a lot, and I'm not just talking about the instruments themselves - guitar, drums, and bass - while John's voice is instantly recognizable, the song itself is obviously not just a Mountain Goats piece recovered from the cutting room floor.  <br />
<br />
"Jungle Mercies" is a song populated by dead animals, a carnivorous narrator, a woman with a broken jaw, and, perhaps most importantly, the apocalypse.  There are trumpets blowing and there is nothing we can do except grab hold of one another, but it might be too late for even that.  It's the end, for all of us.  More importantly, it's the end for me and you.<br />
<br />
So how does this tie in with our theme of firsts?  The obvious answer is that every end - even the end of the world, whether it be the actual apocalypse or the end of a world we've created for ourselves, in our heads and between the people we know and love, is a new beginning.  New lives, new worlds are created every moment.  Even if all human life on Earth ceased to exist now and forever, and even if there is no shining white afterlife for us to spend our eternities playing cards and dancing, the flora and fauna press on.  Something new will take our place as both creators and destroyers.  Perhaps the characters of "Jungle Mercies" know this all too well, and perhaps they are thankful for the end.  They are thankful for the opportunity for a new beginning, whatever this new beginning will bring.  <br />
<br />
The apocalypse means any number of things, but the most important concept is that of revelation <a href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_1.html?id=34&sub_id=60">link</a>.  The mysterious will be revealed through visions.  Things we cannot understand will suddenly become clear.  This means, of course, that for those the angels visit, there will be no more of those goddamned existential crises, but really, it means much more.  We cannot fathom what its like to be imparted with even tiny pieces of the Wisdom of God or the knowledge of the end times.<br />
<br />
But the characters in this song can, or at least they'd like to think so.   Of course, their apocalypse is a metaphorical one.  Their end is not nearly so grand as to include the resurrection of the dead.  But they have been bestowed with great wisdom.  And with this wisdom, they end their lives together, and, for the first time in as long as they can remember, they are on their own.<br />
<br />
DOWNLOAD: <a href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_1.html?id=34&sub_id=51">link</a>]]>
		</content>
		</entry>
		
	<entry>
		<title>Privacy Issues</title>
		
		<link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_1.html?articleID=33" />
		<modified>2005-04-29T15:06:37Z</modified>
		<id>tag:www.mungbeing.com,2005:1.19</id>
		<issued>2005-02-25T11:02:16Z</issued>
		<created>2005-02-25T11:02:16Z</created>
		<summary type="text/plain">"I'm not one to fire off tin-foil alarm-rockets or nuthin' but I've been noticing more and more an..."</summary><author>
		<name>Cash Nexus</name><email>feed@mungbeing.com</email>
		</author><content type="text/html" mode="escaped" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://www.mungbeing.com/">
		<![CDATA[I'm not one to fire off tin-foil alarm-rockets or nuthin' but I've been noticing more and more an increase in the frequency with which they are gaining access to our private information. The they being them and the our being us.<br />
<br />
When I was working out in the cubicle fields of Madison, a woman in a nearby "workstation" bought a PDA. She came in one morning and sat in front of her computer and spent hours, HOURS, reading through the manual, doing the online tutorial, transferring her address book...<br />
At some point she got stuck. Evidently there was some piece that they said was included for something or other and it wasn't there. So she called the number on the screen to talk to a service representative. When the service rep from the PDA company came on the line several hours later, the rep greeted her BY NAME and asked what was wrong with her SPECIFIC new PDA Serial Number xxxxx. <br />
She thought this was kind of weird. "Don't you think that's kinda weird?" she said to me.<br />
And I did. I did think that was kind of weird. <br />
She hadn't given anyone her name. She didn't call the store where she bought the PDA to talk to their help desk. She called the manufacturer of the product and they knew who she was, where she was, what she bought and where she bought it. So how did they know who she was and what she bought? Did she fill out a warranty card or something? <br />
<br />
No, she just used a credit card to pay for the product. That's all. Nothing major, just that. She swiped her card through the card-swipe thing and signed on the awkward little screen with the Wooly Willy pen. That was it. And her information was transmitted to the store, the credit card company, the manufacturer of the product, the secret government officials living under my garage...<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_1.html?id=34&sub_id=28">link</a><br />
<br />
So why is that a little weird? Because her private information was being passed around like a bottle of cheap hooch! And if that doesn't tickle the back of your throat I don't know what will. The misuse of information like that can, and does, cause a heapload of real trouble for a millions of regular people who get wrapped in red tape, chewed up by the system, and then shit out with red tape goo all over them. And it's GROSS!<br />
<br />
<hr><br />
<br />
Tangentially yet more concretely, the abuse of privacy is alive and festering in our airports where the authorities searched through <a href="http://barlow.typepad.com/barlowfriendz/2004/12/a_taste_of_the_.html">John Perry Barlow</a>'s suitcase and discovered a small quantity of drugs. Airport security checks only authorize warrantless airport searches for the purpose of detecting weapons and explosives. (US v. Davis (482 F.2d 893)) But they charged him anyway. Because, you know, that marijuana paper could be used to fashion a fuse... or... they come in "bricks", right, and... bricks are weapons, right? <br />
<br />
But drug possession is illegal, I hear you say.<br />
<br />
Yes it is but those checkpoints are there to make sure we are safe - that was the reason given to shove that piece of safety regulation and national security legislation down our collective gullet. Not to see if we have enough underwear packed or what kind of shampoo we use or if we smoke or whether we like to read porn. They are there for the sole purpose, we were told, of checking for anything that a terrorist might use to possibly threaten our freedoms. They are there to help us. The they being those and the us being we.<br />
<br />
If we allow the authorities to peek into our personal stuff without a damn good reason, a reason given right up front, we are welcoming back an era where illegal search and seizure runs amok with cops busting into your house and dragging you off to Camp Disappeared and soon the apes will rule the world! I wish I were kidding.<br />
<br />
<hr><br />
<br />
Yeah, it's a tangent but consider this: when companies share information, which they do, it gets all linked together with other information about you. And when the government has the authority to look into your credit card purchases, which they do thanks to H.R. 3162, and all of your personal information, no matter how trivial, is right there, which it is, and no one says, "Hey! Don't look at that. That's mine!", then we are ALL a little less free. And is it coincidental that, as regulations concerning information privacy continue to stretch like silly-putty, identity theft increases?  Is it any wonder that identity theft is big business nowadays? <br />
<br />
Here's what they (companies and the gubmint) can and can not access: <a href="http://www.cdt.org/security/guidelines/">http://www.cdt.org/security/guidelines/</a><br />
<br />
I contend that all of these privacy concerns and abuses are interrelated. Hand me that hat, will ya?<br />
]]>
		</content>
		</entry>
		
	<entry>
		<title>23 Questions With Robert Anton Wilson</title>
		
		<link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_1.html?articleID=62" />
		<modified>2005-07-16T01:55:45Z</modified>
		<id>tag:www.mungbeing.com,2005:1.20</id>
		<issued>2005-03-30T12:03:57Z</issued>
		<created>2005-03-30T12:03:57Z</created>
		<summary type="text/plain">" 

Robert Anton Wilson "is" one who is..."</summary><author>
		<name>jody franklin</name><email>feed@mungbeing.com</email>
		</author><content type="text/html" mode="escaped" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://www.mungbeing.com/">
		<![CDATA[ <br />
<a href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_1.html?id=34&sub_id=59">link</a><br />
<i>Robert Anton Wilson "is" one who is not "is."  Perhaps we may describe him as a psychedelic philosopher, a postmodern trickster, an intellectual comedian, a twister ripping through the psyche. He first came to prominence as an editor of Playboy in the 1960s.  During that time of magick he got involved with the Discordians, a "new religion disguised as a complicated joke," or "a complicated joke disguised as a new religion." Along with Robert Shea, he co-authored the Illuminatus! trilogy of novels, a work of mind-bending (fiction?) that weaved together multiple conspiracy theories and elevated Discordianism to true cult status.  A close friend of Timothy Leary, he shared Dr. Leary's passions for radical psychology and futurism. His book Prometheus Rising melded model agnosticism to Leary's 8-circuit model of the brain to create a system that taught people how to deconstruct dogmatic personal belief systems.  His numerous other books explored topics such as quantum mechanics, alternate universes, non-Aristotelian logic systems, sex magick, Wilhelm Reich, James Joyce and Orson Welles.  His model agnostic approach to inquiry makes him a unique writer, one of few who can slip seamlessly from rationalist scientific thinking to non-materialist metaphysical speculation.<br />
<br />
While he has struggled with post-polio syndrome in recent years, he remains active in propagating his various passions.  Lance Bauscher, Cody McClintock and Robert Dofflemyer's 2003 film Maybe Logic explored and presented Wilsonian concepts wrapped in subtle yet explosive color and rhythm, a fitting tribute to his ideas.  This project spun off into the Maybe Logic Academy, a learning institute that is<br />
"grounded in the philosophy and perspective of maybe logic, an approach which emphasizes the fallibility and relativity of perception and tends to approach information and observations with questions, probabilities and multiple perspectives rather than absolute truths." New Falcon Publications will soon be releasing his new book Email To The Universe.</i><br />
<br />
<blockquote>(Editor's note: This interview was conducted in two parts, in August 2004 and March 2005.)</blockquote><br />
<br />
<div class='q'>You have a new book coming out called "Tale of the Tribe."  What's that all about?</div><br />
<div class='a'>I changed the title to EMAIL TO THE UNIVERSE. It's about James Joyce, Daoism, Internet and Aleister Crowley, plus my usual craziness.</div><br />
<div class='q'>It seems a lot of your writings have really connected with people, and perhaps even influenced their thinking and activities.  Because of this effect on your fan base, some have suggested you to be a "cult figure."  To make a clever little RAW-like slide here, this seems appropriate, given your early participation in the Discordian Society and your many writings on the Illuminati (a secret cult that may or may not exist.)  Surfing the web one may find Discordian groups and references to Eris, golden apples, the Law of the Fives, the number 23, as well as other related ideas.  Memes you sent out into the world twenty, thirty years ago continue to thrive and flourish.  How do you feel about this legacy of having seeded such a diversity of eclectic memes?</div><br />
<div class='a'>It's both pleasing and flattering, of course, but I'll feel much happier when Maybe Logic, the Snafu Law and the Cosmic Schmuck Law get seeded just as widely, or even more widely.</div><br />
<div class='q'>Let's seed them more widely right here!  Can you explain to our readers what (Maybe Logic, the Snafu Law and the Cosmic Schmuck Law) are?</div><br />
<div class='a'>Maybe Logic is a label that got stuck on my ideas by filmmaker Lance Bauscher. I decided it fits. I certainly recognize the central importance in my thinking -- or in my stumbling and fumbling efforts to think -- of non-Aristotelian systems. That includes von Neumann's three-valued logic [true, false, maybe], Rappoport's four-valued logic [true, false, indeterminate, meaningless], Korzybski's multi-valued logic [degrees of probability.] and also Mahayana Buddhist paradoxical logic [it "is" A. it "is" not A, it "is" both A and not A, it "is" neither A nor not A]. But, as an extraordinarily stupid fellow, I can't use such systems until I reduce them to terms a simple mind like mine can handle, so I just preach that we'd all think and act more sanely if we had to use "maybe" a lot more often. Can you imagine a world with Jerry Falwell hollering "Maybe Jesus 'was' the son of God and maybe he hates Gay people as much as I do" -- or every tower in Islam resounding with "There 'is' no God except maybe Allah and maybe Mohammed is his prophet"?<br />
The Snafu law holds that, the greater your power to punish, the less factual feedback you will receive. If you can fire people for telling you what you don't want to hear, you will only hear what you want. This law seems to apply to all authoritarian contraptions, especially governments   and corporations. Concretely, I suspect Bozo knows factually less about the world than any dogcatcher in Biloxi.  The Cosmic Schmuck law holds that [1] the more often you suspect you may be thinking or  acting like a Cosmic Schmuck, the less of a Cosmic Schmuck you will become, year by year, and [2] if you never suspect you might think or act like a Cosmic Schmuck, you will remain a Cosmic Schmuck for life.</div><br />
<div class='q'>Can E-prime revolutionize the English language?</div><br />
<div class='a'>I sure hope so, but it needs help, like more computers online and more pot.  LOTS more pot.</div><br />
<!---suggested page break----><br />
<div class='q'>What is the purpose of your Maybe Logic Academy, and who else is involved? Just what the heck is going on there?</div><br />
<div class='a'>I want to use Internet to accelerate human evolution by replacing faith-based decisions with research-based decisions. The others have similar or compatible goals. Our class leaders include R.U. Sirius, cyber-philosopher; Patricia Monaghan, goddess researcher; Alan Clements, Buddhist monk and activist; Peter Caroll, mathematician and inventor of Chaos magick; Douglas Rushkoff, media maven; and others will join up soon.</div><br />
<div class='q'>You've written extensively on (and found new applications for) various scientific theories, particularly in the field of quantum mechanics.  Yet you've maintained a critical distance from the scientific establishment, a kind of heretical voice and a sceptic of scepticism.  You often cite Dr. Wilhelm Reich's story as an example of authority run amok.  The US government destroyed much of Dr. Reich's controversial work, and nobody, particularly fellow scientists, stepped forward in protest or defence.  Science is supposed to be about innovation, yet few scientists seem able to revise their pet theories once they've been accepted.  I think this is why many found it shocking when Stephen Hawking recently stepped out and said, "I was wrong about black holes."  Nobody is used to respected figures revising or chucking out their strongly-held beliefs.  What is the importance of heresy, scepticism and unorthodox ideation to the advancement of science?</div><br />
<div class='a'>Let me differentiate between scientific method and the neurology of the individual scientist. Scientific method has always depended on feedback [or flip-flopping as the Tsarists call it]; I therefore consider it the highest form of group intelligence thus far evolved on this backward planet.  The individual scientist seems a different animal entirely.  The ones I've met seem as passionate, and hence as egotistic and prejudiced, as painters, ballerinas or even, God save the mark, novelists. My hope lies in the feedback system itself, not in any alleged saintliness of the individuals in the system.</div><br />
<div class='q'>You're a self-described model agnostic, and you've deconstructed all manner of belief systems (BS) in your books. In Prometheus Rising, you encouraged people to consciously enter as many different reality tunnels as possible, to examine their beliefs from multiple viewpoints.  Human culture is filled with people zealously attached to various orthodoxies and ideologies. The clash of fundamental belief systems has often proven destructive to humankind.  What will it take to shake people from their dogmas?</div><br />
<div class='a'>In a word, Internet. Ever since I read Wiener's <i>Cybernetics: Control and Communication in the Animal and the Machine</i> back in 1948 I've thought of "intelligence" as a function of feedback. The more feedback, the higher the measurable "intelligence," and the less feedback, the less "intelligence." As the computer gave birth to the Net and the Web, feedback has increased exponentially. As R.U. Sirius wrote recently, "The rise of the Net and the Web represents a victory for the counterculture and the subculture. The next generation, raised on the Net as their primary medium, won't even  know what consensus reality is." In other words, feedback and Maybe Logic form a circle that spins faster and faster.  The Tsarists fear and hate it -- they call it "flip-flopping" -- but it characterizes all high intelligence systems, electronic or protoplasmic.</div><br />
<div class='q'>I agree that the internet seems to be a product of such an accelerated feedback system.  This is something we can witness with every single online interaction.  Now, there has been a lot of talk post-9.11 of an ominous totalitarian spectre looming over us, that Orwell's Big Brother is finally here.  There are conspiriologists who believe that the internet, having risen from the Pentagon, has never been anything more than a Big Brotherist plot, and that folks like RU Sirius, John Perry Barlow and other Information Age philosophers are dupes (un)knowingly(?) providing a libertarian facade for this vast conspiracy.  What if the internet is nothing more than the latest Tsarist method of control and information gathering?</div><br />
<div class='a'>Well, then we're sunk, ain't we? Fortunately, there exists no logical or factual reason to believe that paranoid fantasy, and it is directly contradicted by the hard mathematics of Wiener and Shannon on "redundance of control" in feedback systems. What Juang Jou said of the universe 2400 years ago is even more true of the 4,285,199,774 computer URLs online today - [21 August 2004] -"there is no governor anywhere."</div><br />
<div class='q'>Speaking of 9.11 and the Pentagon, the day after the airplane split a hole in the side of the building, I immediately thought of yours and Robert Shea's Illuminatus! novel.  In it, the five-sided Pentagon imprisons a supernatural beast called Yog Sothoth.  If this ghoul were to escape, humankind would witness the immanentization of eschaton.  This seems to be as apt a metaphor for the current millenarian cultural climate as I've ever seen.  So, in a sense, did Yog Sothoth bust out on that day?</div><br />
<div class='a'>Let's not take metaphors too literally. I'll admit Bozo has a lot in common with Yog Sothoth, and that he even has the same initials as GWB666 in Schrodinger's Cat, but I regard those as accidental hits. I don't think of myself as a sleeping prophet.</div><br />
<div class='q'>How close are we to immanentizing eschaton?</div><br />
<div class='a'>It got immanentized 5 years ago when the Supremes called off the election and appointed GWB --the Great Wild Beast-- to the white house.</div><br />
<div class='q'>You wrote a compelling piece following the 2000 US presidential election, in which you pointed out one of those obvious things that most people missed: while 50% of eligible voters split their votes between Bush and Gore, the other 50% consciously chose to vote for Nobody.  (I've actually been arguing that, since children, prisoners, aliens and other disenfranchised people were unable to vote, Bush only really got a mandate from about 14% of the American people.  So much for "half the country" supporting him, as the media played it.)  You've also theorized that a nefarious, neo-autocratic "Tsarist Occupation Government" (TSOG) controls the apparatus of the State.  Screw the old Democrat versus Republican debate.  Tell me, how do you think both Nobody and the TSOG will fare in the upcoming presidential election?</div><br />
<div class='a'>I assume most intelligent people will continue to vote for Nobody, and the moron majority will split their votes about evenly, depending on which of the two multi-millionaire Skull-and-Bones-men has the most sex appeal.  It doesn't really seem to matter: if the people marginally prefer the "wrong" candidate, the Supreme Court will assuredly "correct" them again. The TSOG seems a comfortable disease, like death by sleeping sickness.  After 7000 years of Authoritarian Patriarchy, most people accept Tsarism and, in America, resent that pesky constitution imposed on them by a few intellectual freemasons.</div><br />
<div class='q'>This statement recalls Reich's Mass Psychology of Fascism.  It seems that there is massive, widespread public mistrust and disgust in politics and government, not only in the USA but in many parts of the world.  Why are citizens so loyal to systems and leaders they admittedly have no respect for?</div><br />
<div class='a'>Raymond Chandler, who served as a lieutenant of infantry in World War I, pointed out the same paradox on a smaller scale: in charging an enemy, troops are statistically safer if scattered broadly, but they all show a tendency to bunch together near  the lieutenant, thereby increasing their risk. This seems a hardwired [even premammalian] vertebrate program.  On top of that we've got the 7000+ years of authoritarian conditioning documented by Reich.  Seems rather bleak, doesn't it? My optimism rests on the fact that, historically, in emergency, people often mutate in unpredictable and creative ways. As John Adams said, the American Revolution took place "in the minds of the people in the 15 years before the first shot was fired."  I suspect a similar revolution is occurring in the minds of educated people worldwide.</div><br />
<div class='q'>Across the post-election landscape, there has been much talk of a "divided America," with pundits drawing a hard line between "blue states" and "red states."  Is this line illusory?</div><br />
<div class='a'>I suspect all lines exist only in our minds -- especially political lines. Universe seems more like waltzing chaos than like an account book.</div><br />
<!---suggested page break----><br />
<div class='q'>Are we living in Phillip K. Dick's Rome?</div><br />
<div class='a'>Well, Phil certainly lived there. I feel more like I live in Tsarist Russia. Sometimes I think of myself as the last Decembrist - and if that seems obscure or too kooky, just set your search engine for "Decembrists + Illuminati" and grok in their fullness the URLs that come up. Anyway, we certainly don't live in a constitutional democracy. I feel almost 99.999999999999999999999999999999% sure about that.</div><br />
<div class='q'>When I've been severely depressed, or severely stoned, I've been able to actually *feel* Dick's Rome, not just grok it as an intellectual concept.  For me this reality tunnel is filled with emotion, paranoia, delusion, synchronicity, symbology, metaphor, heightened awareness.  Does it ever go beyond theory for you?   Do you *feel* Tsarist Russia?</div><br />
<div class='a'>Frequently--- especially when I test my Buddhist detachment by trying to listen to "our" leaders without growling or cussing under my breath. I feel like the Decembrists, very poignantly. But I also identify a lot the founders of this moribund Republic. They knew the Constitution alone could not restrain the power lusts of Certain Types and warned that we needed eternal vigilance - - but they could only give us the Constitution, not the vigilance. Alas!</div><br />
<div class='q'>It would seem, then, that democracy is a cloak for autocracy.  Has that all it's ever been?  Or is history cycling backwards, have we collectively betrayed the Enlightenment?</div><br />
<div class='a'>First, my passion turns toward CONSTITUTIONAL democracy, not just "democracy" in general, which I fear as much as our founders did.  I want LIMITS on government, clearly defined and virtually "graven in stone." As John Adams wrote "My credo is that despotism or absolute power is the same in a majority of a popular assembly, an aristocratic council, an oligarchical junta or a single emperor --equally arbitrary, bloody and in every respect diabolical." I agree totally. Yeah, I think we have lost a lot of light lately - and by "we" I mean both the suidaen politicos and the masses.</div><br />
<div class='q'>You've had to fight for your right to use marijuana medicinally.  How did you become an activist?</div><br />
<div class='a'>I've "activized" for various causes since 1959, because I have that sort of temperament. I got involved actively in the medicinal marijuana cause long before my post-polio symptoms made medical pot necessary in my own case. Now, stuck in a wheelchair most of the day, I feel not just activated but super-activated.  I supported a wife and four kids most of my life. I have 35 books in print. NEW SCIENTIST called my CAT trilogy "the most scientific of all science-fiction novels." Now, at 73, I'm treated like a child by the TSOG -- and so is my doctor, a fully qualified M.D. Only the Tsar knows what's best for me, medically, and he knows without doing a medical examination even, just by consulting some faith-based organizations... To quote George Carlin "stunningly, STUNNINGLY, full of shit." If you'd like the view of research-based organizations see <a href="http://www.medical-marijuana-testimonials.org/">http://www.medical-marijuana-testimonials.org/</a></div><br />
<div class='q'>You recently founded the Guns and Dope Party to combat the excesses of Tsarism.  What are some of the central tenets of your party's platform?</div><br />
<div class='a'><ol start=A><li>Guns for those who want them; no guns forced on those who don't want them [Quakers, Amish, pacifists in general etc.]<br />
<li>Drugs for those who want them; no drugs forced on those who don't want them [Christian Scientists, herbalists, homeopaths etc]<br />
<li>Bipedal unity -- equal rights for ostriches<br />
<li>Voluntary taxation: you pay for government programs you want; you don't pay a penny for any programs you don't want.</ol></div><br />
<div class='q'>Do you feel that Temporary Autonomous Zones or Pirate Utopias have the potential to be free havens from the TSOG?</div><br />
<div class='a'>Temporarily. Only Internet creates the real possibility of a Global Autonomous Zone. I think all problems have gotten solved and will get solved by [a] more information and [b] more rapid and ubiquitous transmission of information</div><br />
<div class='q'>The concept of Conspiracy has loomed large in your writings for decades.  What fascinates you most about the concept of conspiracy theory?</div><br />
<div class='a'>My major interest remains, as I said, in the area of non-Aristotelian logics, and around 1969 Bob Shea and I got the idea of writing a funny novel applying Maybe Logic to the arena of conspiriology. The result, ILLUMINATUS. went so far outside consensus reality-tunnels that it took us five years to get it published, and now, for 30 years, I keep receiving feedback from two groups who cannot handle the concept of "maybe" at all, at all.  The first group believes fervently, beyond all doubt, that I endorsed the craziest ideas I've discussed and hence regards me as a dangerous nut. The second group has an equally ardent belief that I work for the CIA's disinformation bureau and want to make all conspiracy theories look equally crazy. I've written dozens of books on other subjects, but those two gangs continually provoke my stoned-out sense of humor, so I continually surrender to the temptation to have a little more fun with them......</div><br />
<div class='q'>Conspiriology is really big these days.  Why do you feel people are so drawn to leftfield speculative ideas?</div><br />
<div class='a'>As an admitted Cosmic Schmuck, I don't claim to "know" the answer to that -- or anything else -- but I do have certain persistent suspicions. I suspect, for instance, that "the Establishment" -- i.e. the TSOG and the corporate media -- have told so many outrageous lies that nobody really fully trusts them anymore. The weapons of mass destruction in Iraq still remain hidden from human perception. After that lie collapsed, the TSOG did not merely appear full of shit; it appeared, to quote Carlin again, that seems STUNNINGLY full of shit.  So naturally a market has grown for explanations of what the hell really motivates Bozo and his gang. I regard my job as applying the same scathing criticism to all models that try to imply the model-maker really knows more than me and doesn't just guess, and speculate, and grope in the dark, like I admit I do</div><br />
<div class='q'>You are well known for your work exploring speculative theories and esoterica.  In books like Sex and Drugs and the Cosmic Trigger series, you wrote of experimentation with occult magick.  Reflecting upon your numerous forays into these strange worlds where Science fears to tread, what are the most interesting "secrets" you discovered? </div><br />
<div class='a'>The same that I simultaneously discovered in Buddhism and quantum physics: namely, the alleged "wall" between "me" and "the world" does not exist at all. Clearing thought and language of that fictitious split adds immeasurably to clarity.  Oh, yes, and it improves your sense of humor, too!</div><br />
<div class='q'>Let's wrap it up with a little humor.  Can you tell me a good joke?</div><br />
<div class='a'>Three guys are drinking and arguing in a bar. "I tell you it should be spelled W-O-O-O-M," the first says dogmatically.<br />
"And I still say W-H-O-O-M sounds right," the second counters.<br />
"No, no, no," says the third. 'It's definitely W-H-O-M-B-B."<br />
"You've all got it wrong," offers a gynecologist at the next table. "It's W-O-M-B."<br />
They stare at her coldly. "Madam," the first says, "it's obvious that you've never heard an elephant fart."</div><br />
<br />
Related Links:<br />
<a href="http://www.official-lamp.org/">http://www.official-lamp.org/</a><br />
<a href="http://www.gunsanddope.com/">http://www.gunsanddope.com/</a><br />
<a href="http://www.rawilson.com/">http://www.rawilson.com/</a><br />
<a href="http://www.maybelogic.com/">http://www.maybelogic.com/</a><br />
<a href="http://www.maybelogic.org/">http://www.maybelogic.org/</a><br />
<a href="http://raw23.home.comcast.net/">http://raw23.home.comcast.net/</a><br />
<a href="http://www.alphane.com/raw.htm">http://www.alphane.com/raw.htm</a><br />
<a href="http://www.deoxy.org/learyraw.htm">http://www.deoxy.org/learyraw.htm</a><br />
<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert_Anton_Wilson">http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert_Anton_Wilson</a>]]>
		</content>
		</entry>
		
	<entry>
		<title>Ten Vignettes</title>
		
		<link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_1.html?articleID=43" />
		<modified>2005-04-08T16:58:14Z</modified>
		<id>tag:www.mungbeing.com,2005:1.21</id>
		<issued>2005-03-22T02:03:58Z</issued>
		<created>2005-03-22T02:03:58Z</created>
		<summary type="text/plain">"I.

The peacocks are laughing,
always laughing while playing
in the road or running..."</summary><author>
		<name>Jeb Ebben</name><email>feed@mungbeing.com</email>
		</author><content type="text/html" mode="escaped" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://www.mungbeing.com/">
		<![CDATA[I.<br />
<br />
The peacocks are laughing,<br />
always laughing while playing<br />
in the road or running through<br />
the greenhouse, their tailfeathers<br />
aplomb and forming a talisman<br />
for prayer, or a lens through which<br />
we might see the light.<br />
<br />
II.<br />
<br />
Jane was washing her hair in the sink,<br />
her terrycloth robe slightly open,<br />
the cat scratching<br />
at her toes.<br />
<br />
III.  <br />
<br />
In the garden there are sunflowers<br />
so tall they kiss heaven on the lips.<br />
Jacob is hiding in the cornfield<br />
again.<br />
<br />
IV.<br />
<br />
Standing in the greenhouse<br />
when it rains, you are certain<br />
of death.  The winds whip around you<br />
and the grim reaper is a hurricane,<br />
and you would pray but there are no<br />
hurricanes in Wisconsin.<br />
<br />
V.<br />
<br />
Sixteen cats buried in a ditch behind<br />
my childhood home--some of them<br />
starved, some run over by the car.<br />
My mother used to drown the newborns<br />
in a pail behind the garage and dump<br />
their slender translucent bodies<br />
in that ditch.<br />
<br />
VI.<br />
<br />
Memories, laid out in a straight line,<br />
for you, here:  barbed wire, raincoats,<br />
weather veins, lightning rods, hills made<br />
of sand, chipped paint, Cowboys and Injuns,<br />
torn underwear, sixteen dead cats with names, <br />
and who knows how many<br />
kittens without.<br />
<br />
VII.<br />
<br />
Jane lost it that summer when David died.<br />
He'd gone and got caught in the auger,<br />
not a pretty sight, that skinny farm boy<br />
barely fourteen, turned into soup.<br />
<br />
VIII.<br />
<br />
We used to watch birds<br />
land on the windowsill<br />
and peck at the wood,<br />
looking into the house<br />
and watching us<br />
watch them.<br />
<br />
IX.<br />
<br />
Jacob ran away in the winter,<br />
stole the car and the money<br />
from the safe.  The next spring,<br />
Paul burned the farm to the<br />
ground.<br />
<br />
X.<br />
<br />
My last memory of you<br />
is in handcuffs, head down,<br />
pushed into the back of<br />
a squad car, insurance fraud<br />
and arson.]]>
		</content>
		</entry>
		
	<entry>
		<title>Going For It</title>
		
		<link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_1.html?articleID=46" />
		<modified>2005-04-08T16:51:59Z</modified>
		<id>tag:www.mungbeing.com,2005:1.22</id>
		<issued>2005-03-24T02:03:49Z</issued>
		<created>2005-03-24T02:03:49Z</created>
		<summary type="text/plain">"
While on vacation in a rural region of Canada visiting my Mother I got a chance to..."</summary><author>
		<name>Robert Dayton</name><email>feed@mungbeing.com</email>
		</author><content type="text/html" mode="escaped" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://www.mungbeing.com/">
		<![CDATA[<blockquote><br />
While on vacation in a rural region of Canada visiting my Mother I got a chance to explore many of their local newspapers and tract sheets and became fascinated by their brand of free speech. It is interesting how freedom spreads to other areas.<br />
Even begrudgingly, with the townspeople gossiping freely about the cracked headspace of the writer of the following article. An article that I present here in 'as is fashion.' I by no means endorse it. It is purely a modern conversation piece, thank you very much. When I interviewed the writer of this piece by phone she provided me with no enlightening details or tidbits except that she "just calls 'em as I see 'em. I'm just telling it like it is." <br />
If that is what it is then I would much prefer to reside in the Land of Isn't, thank you very much.<br />
</blockquote><br />
<br />
<h2>We All Passed This Test </h2><br />
<h3>By Jan Joanzen</h3><br />
<br />
Isn't it interesting that everyone out there who is driving a motorised vehicle passed exactly the same driving test yet every one of those drivers has a totally different method of driving.  Maybe it has something to do with each person's individual character traits or perhaps their age or their race.  I would like to go more into the latter, especially about how one race shares their drivers' licence, I think you know the one, they all look the same so they just pass that licence around to everyone in their race. When one of them crashed into my Lexus they pretended not to understand English and started talking in their peculiar jibber-jabber. Of course, I can't mention any names or even discuss racial traits because I might get in trouble. I was let off with a warning after my last column, "Civil Rights Should Be Exempt From Servants' Entrances." <br />
<br />
Before I move on to my next point, I want to say that people should know when I am changing lanes whether my turn signal is broken or not. And I have put far more into my car insurance than my car insurance has given back to me. And it shouldn't take much to repair a scratch on a bumper. I think it is just normal human behaviour to drive away if someone is going to yell gibberish at you and wave their arms wildly. I deserve to be treated better than that.<br />
<br />
There are those brand new drivers who get teased. You know the teasing I'm talking about, the hazings, being chained to a street post down town in lacy underwear with an inflatable sheep, and other rites of passage. But usually the brand new driver is a good driver mostly because they haven't had time to accumulate any bad habits. I don't even use the car ashtray anymore. They fill up too quickly. They really need to build them bigger. Emptying them