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Inspired Depression

The term "inspired depression" might be an oxymoron, but I experienced this state today for the first time after binge-watching The Putin Interviews by Oliver Stone.

To the uninformed and unsuspecting, one might fall in love with Vladimir Putin after watching him skillfully navigate four hours of Q&A. Not only did he exhibit a high degree of intelligence and knowledge, but his seemingly reasonable and rational approach to geo-politics certainly contradicts the narrative going on in the USA. One might develop sympathy for the Russian leader for having to endure the aggressive and bad faith actions of the USA over the past few decades when the Cold War was supposedly over. His narrative was not at odds with my own analysis of the American brand of Imperialism and hypocrisy.

One problem, however, is that something in him appeared as the trickster, one who has mastered the art of trickery. Tricks are by nature deceptive and cause the trickee to fall for the con-illusion. On…

Big Shit, Little Shit

My son walked in the house the other day with an unexpected remark: "There's a pterodactylflying around in Port Hueme," the beach community where he is vacationing.

A giant, dragon-like prehistoric bird flew over my head like a jet fighter - in my mind's eye. Observing my quizzical look, Kripa lead me outside and pointed to his car's rear window that was covered with what looked like a bucket of white slime. Big bird had bulls-eyed his vehicle, along with other medium sized birds that left brown poop stains dripping down various car body parts.

Fast forward to an evening of leisure contemplation on the side terrace of my house, where plumes of delicate pink flowers grace a vine clinging to the wall. It is an area frequented by hummingbirds and for good reason. Their delicate little beaks fit perfectly into the tubular, succulent center of the petals.

On this fair night, a hummingbird enroute to the flower restaurant dropped his own bird slime midair...an emissi…

The Foxiest Fox in the Skulk

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The prize for best diplomatic chess player goes to Vladimir Putin, the foxiest fox in the skulk. Yes, in part the term "foxy" might connote physical attractiveness, which is true, especially when he appears in full hockey regalia (although he does show tell-tale signs of aging with an emerging sagginess of skin around the jawline). Yet, foxiest in this vernacular also connotes "most slippery" in achieving his goals.

He pulled off a magnificently malevolent comment this week. He said that hackers are like artists, creative beings who, like painters, might wake up in the morning so happy that they are inspired to paint - or hack. He posited that their motive would be fueled by patriotism to Mother Russia.

Herein lies his brilliant manipulation. Perhaps he knows that American intelligence has ironclad proof of Russian state-sponsored meddling in the presidential elections via internet hacking. Perhaps he thinks its time to get even more subtle in his subterfuge to ma…

Impermanence

The only thing we know for sure is that every living thing has a finite existence...in other words a date with death. Contemplating thus on my garden terrace bursting with verdant life, I wonder: What will this spot look like in 100 years? And then to really up the ante, What would it look like in a billion years?

Given that I am officially a "senior" citizen, for certain there is no way of knowing what my garden and house will look like in that modest 100 year span, let alone a billion years. Every little plant I have nurtured, every artistic touch on my house, will certainly crumble and be no more - or to the contrary, be transformed into something even more glorious. I would wager, however, that in a billion years my environs will either be underwater or a moonscape or dust floating through distant galaxies.

As these musings can only be chalked up to sheer speculation, one thing remains...appreciate appreciate appreciate...and waste no time in being present to the fleeti…

When a Tree Falls in the Forest

Remember the old days when a mom or dad or teacher posed the question, "If a tree falls in the forest and nobody is around to hear it, does it make a sound?"

We could amend the question to fit an almost endless stream of circumstances: "If the news media or social media don't report on the slaughter of man or beast on a distance land, did it happen?" Or how about all the events of life and death on this planet over the eons, of which we have no knowledge but lead us directly to this point in time?

Decades later, these koan-like questions don't confound me the way they did as a teenager, when the question screeched to a halt at the "dead end" sign in my brain. Obviously, if no information comes to us via one of our five senses (or sixth sense for some) it has no relation to our data bank on a conscious level. In that sense, ignorance is bliss and we are a sum total of our direct perception. Whatever befalls life on planet earth and beyond that is …

Looking Good

The only good thing about King Rump's tenure in the White House (hopefully short-lived with the grace of the All-That-Is) is the chance to oggle at the outfits of the First Lady. Of course the title of "First Lady" has a touch of irony. In reality, she is probably the Last-to-be-Summoned-Lady in King Rump's little black book.

Nonetheless, for us plebians who are under 6 feet tall and wear an extra 40 pounds, we can always marvel at that long slender body with endless dineros to command the best of the best designers to drape her elegant form.

I loved the creamy white top with a slender ass-hugging orange pencil skirt as she sashayed up the stairs of Air Force One wearing high heels that would topple most females with the first step forward. I wasn't as fond of the white pant suit that clearly outlined the body part between her legs in a country where women wear black burkas. Not that I approve of latter attire either, but the obvious f-u to the sensibilities of …

Ain't He Sweet

Dear dear Vladamir has showed that the bromance between King Rump and himself is alive and well. Today he offered the American government the transcripts of his meeting with King Rump in the Oval office to shore up his buddy's claim that no classified information was shared between the West and East.

A photo of the blue-eyed Rusky looking like a sheepish pussycat flashed across the TV screen next to the bloated alligator-esque visage of His Hindness.

I wonder, how do we know a transcript supplied by an adversary of the USA hasn't been subjected to artful editing? On another note, perhaps this is a wicked little trick of Putin. Afterall, if the White House is being bailed out by Putin, this does suggest a rather comfy relationship.

Sweet or sly like a fox? You decide.