Chocolate Saves January 25, 2008

Spinning thin air, Earth’s Cocoon-warmed green blends well with Tree-Bark Brown as Africa shines like a Rusty, Crabby Apple, a warm reddish brown, a shade darker than Borscht, brown with just a hint of Mauved Beet.

Sun shines Ceremonial Gold, a golden hue hazed with a touch of Red Cent, a warm penny color as mountains mold Majestic Purple, a very near indigo blue, very regal, a bright, happy blue Aquarium with a splash of Dusty Wood Violet.

All the colors of Sherwin Williams shining the galaxy like a well-marketed Marble—commercialization at its finest covering the earth.

Step closer. Breathe in.

People smile like car salesmen skipping too and fro, dressed to the T in Old Navy happy and bright, sparkling as an underwear ad, the Fruit of the Loom of the Sports Section, splurging at the Mall on Jesus Christ’s Master Card, no payments or interest for the next six months.

Happy habits. Humvees idol like America, blowing fresh carbon with just a hint of Dynamo, a modern Fuchsia Feverishly Pink, super-bright fluorescence to be used in moderation for narrow trim, for example. Moderation heaps on our plate like a pile of Plum Brown smelling deep purplish, the color of a freshly plucked ripened plum fragrancing to High Heaven.

Greed’s what we need, tapioca caviar, diamonds and lace, beautiful black gold from the loins of the Earth, guaranteed by birth for the worth of a serf. Lord, let us surf.

Lean in. Smell the addiction. Not head on, glared in the glare of an alcoholic’s prediction, but real, in the periphery, where you can really smell the shit.

Curious disease. Alert-calm hoodlum eyes when the spoon’s got money to burn, blood-shot starvation when the stars vex Men. Will ya tell Bill Burroughs to shoot an apple off the head of a Mexican grave, shiver in a closet when the junk’s cleaned out?

Black gunk’s finite; dinosaurs are running out. We’re on the edge of Armageddon, like Mel Gibson ripped in ‘80’s leather, beating Tina Turner in the streets.

Like Mad Max men pretending to be Hell’s Angels, Andy Pag and John Grimshaw burned motorbikes across the Sierra at the turn of the last century. But then they smelled the oil burning in the periphery. It stank Plum Brown of regret.

So looking in the mirror last Christmas, Pag and Grimshaw drove an SUV to Timbuktu high on rabbit chocolate. From England across the Sierra, the pair drove a Bio Truck fueled by 3 tons of discarded chocolate bunny rabbits converted into 396 gallons of biodiesel, according to the Christian Science Monitor. Bio fuel made from Easter candy. Who knew?

Does Jesus? Has it dawned on the Son of God that even chocolate can be an alternative energy, while all the wile we burn holes in the ozone, painting the earth like some oily watercolor for our own cosmic fridge?

What will Jesus do when He opens humanity’s Master Card bill one cold Christmas Eve? Take His own name in vain? Curse God and the day we were born? Or will He kick back with Godiva, a good glass of scotch, put His feet on His desk, smell His smelly socks? 80 percent cocoa beans just might have the means to keep Jesus from blowing His top.

Robots in the Sky: Your Hallucinations Are Real January 16, 2008

“See that kite hanging from the power line? Could be GW spying us on his web cam.”

This news was dropped into the middle of the party like a little green bag, slapped on the picnic table as the night morphed into purple, hazy velvet, that certain satin Certs aftertaste sensing things are melting into strange.

“Yeah, it just might be a spy plane stealing energy from the electric wires to recharge its batteries.”

This dude wore no saucers for eyes. He didn’t see flying saucers on LSD. He didn’t live in a van. He dressed like his parents, and he didn’t play bass guitar in a New Age cover band.

“The United States Air Force is developing remote controlled spy planes to do extended surveillance missions,” the dude said. “They’ve got a wingspan of about a meter. They’ve only got so much juice, so the government is designing them to attach to electric wires and recharge. Then they change shape to look like pieces of trash.”

Fact is, the dude wore the button-down striped blue hue of a golfer, a martini slowly swaying on the deck of his tan Dockers, slick mirror wing tips shining brilliantly like the moon. Brushed eyebrows held up the crown of his wild bald spot. The dude could have sold insurance to schoolchildren, CEO’d executives up the ass. He could even be that nonchalant Dr. Man chanting, “Turn your head and cough.”

I coughed spasms of disbelief like that guy who took so much acid he thought he was a glass of orange juice. Couldn’t go to sleep or I’d spill all over myself.

“It’s real. Slashdot.org. Check it out.”

The story checked out. Slashdot.org led to a New ScientistTech news item that could fit on a blotter stamped with the Virgin Mother Mary smiling incandescently.

Science fiction is now the stuff of newspapers, because really the imagination of the Transformers generation is taking over the world. Government conspiracy believes in the brains that reigned in the golden age of Magnum pistol-transforming robots, choreographed psychopaths primed with an optical mind. Technology has made imagination impossibly possible, and I’ve seen the best minds of my generation deceived into working for the chain gang of the evil Decepticons.

Never look a piece of trash in the eye. Wave peace signs at the shoes hanging from the telephone lines; moon every electrocuted balloon with your own heart shaped loony tune. Our hallucinations have become real, hijacked by the CIA as science fiction becomes the new government conspiracy plot of USA Today.