Monday, April 13, 2009


In no way am I condoning or advocating drinking and driving. In the fashion of the great Czech writer, Franz Kafka, I wish only to portray what happens to the individual under Draconian, police-state conditions.


In jail for the first time... 51 years old, imagine. Look at this place. Must be the holding pen where they keep the pigeons ‘til bail’s posted. If you don't have the hard cash, you go in with the hard‑core prison population no matter how trivial the charge—like debtor's prison in the nineteenth century. Unless, of course, your friends or relatives go see a bail bondsman and let him in on the action at an exorbitant interest rate. The system feeds on itself—more or more bloodsuckers jumping in at every turn. Otherwise, no money, you stay in the can.

What a down. Can barely believe it. Nothing to do, that's the problem...

Sit on the bunk bed, maybe... That’s the only decision you have to make, or not. That's it... Sit on the bed... Yes, makes sense... What a great idea!

What the fuck else am I gonna do? Not much sense staring at the other cells across the cement floor with all the stubby lines and circles painted on. The fronts of the cells look like tight chain-link fencing soaked in drab gray paint rather than old-fashioned iron bars. Can barely see anybody anyway, so what’s the point of even looking out? There’s a young black guy on the other side trying to tell a cop something; I don’t know whether he’s a gang member or a deaf mute trying to use sign language. Jesus, there’s a big clock above the U-shaped arrangement of cells, but I can’t see the time from this angle. These bastards won’t even give you the time!

Cellmate's asleep... wrapped in a grimy blanket with moth holes like a fast food burrito that mice got to. Just lying there. Looks half dead. Big fuck. Wonder what he's in for. Better not wake him. Gotta be smart in here. Street smart. It'd be pretty stupid to wake this guy to ask him what he's in here for, that's for sure.

Man, just four hours ago you were in your favorite clothing-optional resort frolicking in the pool, cavorting with playful damsels, enjoying the royal palms, yellow lilacs and lavender lilies… Debbie looked so elegant with nothing on. What could be more personable, agreeable to mind and body, than a gracile nymphet teaching aerobics? She’s educating you on the importance of good health and feeling fit, and at the same time saturating your field of vision with curvy loveliness.

How about the guy from Key West with that loquacious parrot? You’d swear the feathery creature could speak conversational English. It had larger vocabulary than some of the kids you grew up with. Nearly won the chip for a free drink in au natural water volleyball with Bonnie and Mandy and the rest of the crowd. Hadn't had so much fun since teen-age days in the Poconos. Remember?

Now you’re here, sitting on this bunk wondering what this big lug’s in for. Talk about change of reality. The only people that fell from heaven to hell this fast are O.J. and the Shah of Iran... Maybe Fatty Arbuckle in the ‘20s on that trumped up rape charge. Authorities proved his innocence decades later after they destroyed his career. Wonder what happened to him.

Remember that song, “What a difference a day makes—24 little hours”? What a difference a minute makes. One minute you're riding down the highway in a sparkling clean, jet black Cougar with Mafia‑tinted windows, listening to Puccini, happy as can be, sun­tanned, massaged and robust, healthy and feeling great, contem­plating how to be a soldier in the War to Save the Environment. The next minute you're a low life in jail.

So much for divine providence. Murphy's Law and Chaos Theory are the only designers of destiny. That’s for sure. Unless God's a prankster out to revenge every trivial peccadillo since Adam and Eve ate that stupid apple... For drinking a six‑pack of Michalob you’re in for the hassle of your life: months of expensive counseling, waiting in line at the DMV, license revoked, hours in court, hard-ass parole officers, listening to ex-offenders harangue you for being as stupid as they are.

Looks like he's waking up... He's not too big, about six feet. Hope he's not in here for any violent crimes, rape or something. Maybe he's a murderer... Nah, they wouldn't put me in with a hard‑core criminal. You’re just a drunk driver... never committed a crime, never had an accident, never been in jail. Look, Officer, I didn’t want to kill any babies; I just wanted to get home from the party. You expect me to walk home from Tampa ‘cause I drank some beer? Says 'Safe Driver' right on my license. They wouldn't...

There, look at that... Looks like a yellow traffic ticket sticking out of the big fuck’s pants pocket... Must've been drinking and driving too. They segregate all the drunks ‘cause they know you're not hard‑core criminals. Federal judges and high‑ranking clergymen probably get behind the wheel with more than two drinks every once in a while, fa Christ's sake. Upstate NY troupers found Police Commissioner W--- dead drunk asleep at the wheel on the side of the Thruway. He grunted, “You can’t bust me; I’m the police commissioner.”

There, he's waking up, rolling over and moaning after a night of nasty dreams... Talk to him. He looks all right. Had an acne problem as a teenager, that's for sure... and those teeth, looks like he brushes his teeth when he feel likes it, rather than at a set time during the day. Probably works as a truck driver, or a fast order cook… It's Florida, man, who the hell you expect to meet in jail? A physics professor from Cal Tech. Talk to him... It's okay. He won't bite. Can always yell for help if he gets violent or crazy. But the guards are probably in the office drinking coffee, eating doughnuts and reading the sports pages. They might not hear me... Better be careful.

"Hi man. Name's Rich Bozlicki. Looks like you and me are in here for the same thing."

Holy shit... He's a lot bigger than six feet... and he's got a scar on his neck! How the hell can you get a two‑inch scar by your Adam’s apple without getting killed? Oh, yea, that’s right, medical procedures. But this is jail. He’s around 6’4”, deep-set black eyes and one of those death tattoos on his massive upper right arm, with RIP inscribed in a scroll wrapped around a sinister Gothic cross. He probably thinks I'm a dipshit. Maybe he's one of Mike Tyson's sparring partners, harmless except in the ring. Hope his name's not Bubba.

"Oh... really," he answers, placing his left hand akimbo, a mannerism I didn't expect from a rugged‑looking guy his size.

"Yeh, I was driving home from my favorite resort with a six pack of beer under my belt. Even had an open bottle of Mic in the driver's console. Was mad at all the cops and politicians that get busted for DUI and just flash their badges and drive off like nothing happened. Was listening to classical music, philosophizing about Gaia... the Mother Earth I mean, happy as can be. But I didn't realize how tired I was. Didn't get any sleep the night before...was working all night; couldn't fight off the fatigue. Somebody with a cell phone nailed me as soon as I strayed over the striped line from the middle lane. No accident, no reckless driving, just strayed over the center lane for a second and now I'm in jail. How about you, whad-ya in for?"

"Oh, they caught me blowing a guy under the lifeguard stand at Cochina Beach."

"Oh! I see..." How the fuck do you act nonchalant? What the hell do you say now? Don't say a word, stupid. Just back up and sit on the bunk. That's it. Take that filthy pillow and bury your head in it.

There's the guard walking by... That's him, the strabismic fuck, Biles, the correction officer that brought you in here.

"Officer... Officer, can you help me a second? I need to call my wife on that payphone over there... to see how long it'll take her to get the $500 to bail me out. She doesn’t get out of work until the banks close, and the ATMs only dispense $200 max."

"Sure,” he answered with a friendly avuncular air. “Just let me go over to the other side to see what those guys want, then I'll come over here and get you, okay?"

You feel like kissing his hand and telling him how wonderful he is. You wanna tell ‘im. “Officer, can I kiss the tips of your shiny black shoes? Let me polish your badge for ya… I gotta get outta here before I go crazy. I’m an aesthete: I love Beethoven and the Louvre Museum, and the Yosemite National Park. Did you know Francisco Goya was the first artist to protest war?”

There he goes... over to the other side. He'll be right back to get me. Nydia will tell you she's got the bail money and she's on the way. You’ll be out of here in two hours. Free at last! Free at last! How can you last that long? Two whole hours!

Oh, no. He wouldn't... he just said... mothafucka... That cross‑eyed bastard is heading right for the guard's room to drink coffee, eat doughnuts and read the sports pages. They’re probably watching professional wrestling on a black and white TV. It's only been two minutes and he's forgotten me already. Who said, "Hell is where there is no reason?"1

Don't say a word. You can't get depressed unless you let yourself get depressed. Just step over to the bunk and curl up in a nice tight fetal position and wait for your family to rescue you. That's all you can do. Let your consciousness leave your body and float above like a kite. Remember when you were driving a cab in NYC in college days? Whenever some obnoxious rowdy passengers got in, you’d just project your mind outside and let them yell and scream their heads off.

That’s it… Your mind is floating at the ceiling. That’s your body down there. You’re just a hulk of flesh, a glob of protoplasm curled up on a wiry bunk bed. Look at that; there are some teeth marks on the bed spring.

“Go ‘head, ya fucks, do anything you want to me. That’s not me, I’m up here. Go ‘head, rape me. Beat the crap out of me. Club me with those stupid night sticks. Stick pins in me; pull my hair out. Feed me those repulsive bologna sandwiches with that unpalatable American cheese. I don’t give a damn because I’m up here. That’s just my bleary mass of a body—an inert half sack of rice with all the air out.”

You wish. Who ya kiddin’? Wouldn’t it be nice if you could do that? Just project our consciousness in the manner of Mishimashi Yogi. Nice try. You’ll try any crazy ruse when you’re desperate. There’re no atheists in a foxhole. If that cellmate of yours just looks at you tough, you’d piss in your pants.

That's right… Wrap this wormy gray blanket over your head and look out through the moth holes at the wall. That's all you can do... Lie still, so you look like a ghost or dead man. Just stare at that rectangular concrete slab covered with the drab tan paint. Just breathe slowly and deeply. Let yourself linger at the brink of consciousness. Breathe slowly... deeply; your eyelids are getting heavy... Just stare at the wall... That's all there is to do.


You’re in jail, but it’s not all that bad. Remember when you almost got busted in your hippie days? Could've done some real time then... Remember? That cop caught you red‑eyed and red‑handed with a half ounce of African grass, right in your overcoat inner pocket. What an irony that with all the stuff I did in the '60s, that I'm in jail now 40 years later for doing a lousy six pack of beer.

It seems like yesterday... it must have been May, 1969—the days of the Electric Circus, Dillon, Woodstock and Timothy Leary. We were across the street from the Plaza Hotel by the Central Park wall at the corner of 59th Street and Fifth—right by the horse carriages. A wonderful farm smell pervaded the air as the doorman opened limo doors for chichi guests returning from a night on the town. Kelly Stiles and I were smoking a joint, waiting for John Donley to get off from driving his Hanson Cab around the park. It was prom time and Daisy had to trot around the 15‑minute bike path a lot of times to earn her oats.

What a beautiful time it was—spring, NYC in the deep night, 26 years old. Kelly was one of the most beautiful girls I'd ever seen. Looked like Ingrid Bergman trying not to cry in that great scene in For Whom the Bell Tolls, as Gary Cooper tells her that he'll never see her again, that she had to be brave, that she had to do the living for both of them. Makes you want to cry just thinking about it. Kelly had short brunette hair, though—only difference. She had that same angelic, child's face and graceful athletic body. She loved me deeply. The passion of youth is life's sweetest memory.

"Oh, Mr. Bozlicki, I can't believe we're here smoking this weed together; it seems like yesterday that I was in your biology class. Remember that silly uniform the nuns made us wear? I didn't even feel like a female. We were just obedient little clones." Her voice was feminine and sweet; she passed me the half‑smoked joint. "I can't get out of the habit of calling you Mr. Bozlicki; don't forget I had you for algebra and trig too... you were my teacher for three years."

"And now you're a fashion model on 7th Avenue, strutting up and down the catwalk and pouting wistfully, flaunting your yearning hazel eyes with 'eat your hearts out, boys!' And every guy and lesbian in the audience gets turned on. Now you're making more money than all of us."

"Human pin cushions; that's what I am. I've got to change clothes about 10 to 12 times a day. It's tough work. They don't pay us for nothing."

"You learned what I taught you," I responded, without letting any air out of my chest. "Hey, look at the squirrel staring at us in that oak over there. Think he smells the smoke? D'ya think squirrels get high? Make sure you blow the smoke over the wall so the squirrel gets a whiff and not somebody walking down the avenue."

"Oh, who cares? It's one o'clock in the morning in New York City. Anybody offended by a little grass is home in bed by now."

She unbuttoned my scruffy suede overcoat and snuggled her torso close to mine to capture some body heat from the chilly NYC breezes. I can still feel her firm cupcake-size breasts pressed upon my chest, as she wrapped her right arm tight around my waist and pulled the left half of my warm coat around her shoulders. Her steady andante heartbeat reminded me of Beethoven’s Moonlight. "I owe you so much!" she continued in the most sensual voice I've ever known. "You’ve changed my life. I was seriously thinking of becoming a nun, imagine. My Uncle Dominic almost had my parents convinced I should enter the Carmelite order. If I were in Mr. Plenari's Bio class instead of yours, I'd probably be wearing a habit right now."

I can still picture the catch‑me‑if‑you‑can, smiley, confident look on the squirrel's face; the grass helped me concentrate with the eye of a telephoto lens. Holding an acorn smugly in its forelimbs like a child propped up by the elbows in front of a TV set, the squirrel dug its hind claws securely into the trunk of the oak tree. I pointed to the old tree about ten yards away.

"That's a red oak, Kelly, genus Querus. The white oak doesn't have such pointy leaves. It's easy to tell the difference: the white oak has round, lobular leaves. The other American species is called 'live oak,' like the ones in Gone With the Wind. They're found only in the South—much more sprawling. Some are even shaped like a human brain, with the trunk of the tree simulating the human vertebral column. If people only realized how close we are to that tree at the biochemical level, the earth wouldn’t be in such peril now. We’d leave the Amazon Rain Forest alone. Remember? Did I ever teach you that in bio class? Humans should have a deep love for oaks, because there's a good chance that we evolved from Dryo­pithicus, the 'oak‑tree ape.' That's what Louis Leaky's proconsul was, the parent of all the great apes. We feel comfortable and happy just being near oak trees. Gibbons, their closest living progeny, were actually heard singing love songs to their mates. This may be why music sounds so soothing to us. But a lot of paleontologists believe Ramapithicus was the parent hominoid—"2

Dropping the roach by our feet, Kelly began gently kissing my neck and I could feel the heat of passion rushing through our arteries.

I tried to continue undistracted, "Plenari taught bio class from the point of view of Creationism. How about the wasp that paralyzes its grasshopper prey, then lays its eggs in the abdomen of the helpless creature? We don’t know the level of consciousness of the grasshopper, but does that sound like the work of a Beneficent Designer? What a joke. Any bio teacher who doesn't teach evolution is a phony. To teach biology is to explain the story of evolution, period. We grew out of the planet just like that squirrel over there. The atoms that make up our bodies were once parts of exploding stars. We’re so lucky to be what we are. If the dinosaurs didn't extinct exactly when they did, mammalia never would have radiated into the vacated environment. If people could only realize how wonderful it is to be human, how lucky we are, we'd all be living for this life.—like John Lennon says. People wouldn't treat each other so badly, wouldn't waste so much time; we'd live to have fun and appreciate the fact that we're ephemerons, like mayflies. Remember what I taught you about mayflies, when we studied entomology—"

"Screw the mayflies," she interrupted again, pressing her youthful breasts closer into me, looking into my eyes with burning passion. "What did you teach us about sex? That's what I forgot. Tell me again."

"That we’re custodians of our genes. That genes control much of our behavior. And genes function only to replicate the information they carry. There could be ten billion people by the end of the century and our genes would still be urging us to procreate more. Genes don't care about the individual and they don't care about the species."3

"And what about the place of sex in our lives?"

"That sex is the greatest trade‑off in the history of the planet. If sexual reproduction didn't evolve, and asexual reproduction continued, we wouldn't have to die. Nature sacrificed the individual so the species can vary from one generation to the next, so life can adapt to the changing environment. Being we have to pay just a high price for sex, our very existence, we should enjoy every second of it. Next to our career and family, sex should be the most important part of our lives. Orgasm is the only moment in our lives when the ego dissolves into the collective subconscious and we feel God‑like euphoria, what the Buddhists call satori."

Kelly passionately grabbed a fistful of my shoulder-length hair and turned my face toward her hazel eyes. "Oh, Rich, take me home this minute and fuck me while I still have this glorious high. I love you deeply; you've done so much for me. You've taught me so many wonderful things, you've made me a philomath. Once we reject organized religion, love of learning and hope for humanity is all we have left.” She averted her eyes toward the red oak. “You know, the girls at work think I'm weird because I'm reading Oedipis Rex during lunch. Here Sophocles was an Athenian general during the Peloponnesian War and still had time to become one of the world's greatest playwrights. You know how tough you had to be in the Greek army—and he was a general. Now, they think I'm strange because I make the time to read his plays. I think they're strange for knowing so much about TV sitcoms and movie stars, and so little about Sophocles.”

I can still feel her moist breath on my cheeks, as I focused on her Ingrid Bergman lips. “Remember the verse from The Merchant of Venice you were into last year? Tonight is such a night.”

(I picked up on the tread and tried to speak as softly and sweetly as I could out of respect for the beauty and melodic flow of the verse,)

The moon shines bright: In such a night as this,
When the sweet wind did gently kiss the trees
And they did make no noise, in such a night
Troilus methinks mounted the Trojan walls,
And sigh’d his soul toward the Grecian tents,
Where Cressida lay that night.

(For the moment she was my sweet Jessica, as chilly Manhattan breezes nipped at our ears. She followed,)

In such a night
Did Thisbe fearfully o’erstrip the dew,
And saw the lion’s shadow ere himself,
And ran dismay’d away.

(The words flowed so easily; I remembered the lines without trying, )

In such a night
Stood Dido with a willow in her hand
Upon the wild sea-banks, and wav’d her love
To come again to Carthage.

(I knew I couldn’t out-night my exuberant Kelly, )

In such a night
Did Kelly seduce the naive Rich Bozlicki to Astoria
Where she sucked his dick, till he came with sighs of sweet ecstasy.

Right then... the timing couldn't have been better. I'd forgotten about the joint Kelly dropped on the ground minutes before. A flashlight glared in our eyes, and we squinted trying to see what the hell was going on. The fall from the sublime to the contemptible only takes a second.

There was one of New York City's Finest with the callous grin of a Cheshire cat ravishing a mouse in its claws. A close‑shaven, crew‑cut head was sticking out of an impeccably clean police uniform, scanning Kelly's lissome body and peering into her eyes, looking for redness so he could be sure we were the ones who dropped the roach. His collar appeared a little tight, so his face flushed pinker than his hands. "Well, well, what have we here? You two haven't been smoking dope, have you?"

"Oh no, Officer," I came back as strongly as I possibly could with a half ounce of ganja in my inner coat pocket. This is one of the few instances in my life when I felt justified in deliberately lying, yet angry that I had to sacrifice my personal integrity. To tell the truth would've been unforgivably stupid. To say: "Oh, yeh, Officer, of course we were smoking this great grass. Care for a toke?" would be a reply an inveterate masochist wouldn't make. Answering the question truthfully would mean the bureaucratic hassle of a lifetime. The point is: the laws of New York State are not only making criminals of its citizens—there’s more the two million souls wasting away in jail as I speak—but even contemptible liars. If they locked up every person in the state that ever smoked a joint illegally, there’d be more people in jail than out in the streets. In the state of Georgia it's illegal to have oral sex, even with one's spouse. A couple with a natural and healthy sexual desire becomes criminal and deviant by fulfilling a natural, victimless, harmless and pleasurable need. The laws make hypocrites of its citizens as well.

This was a tiny bit of marijuana by my standards—grass that I use for my own private religious purposes, because I feel physically closer to nature. It helps me realize the squirrel and I are in the same class of vertebrates, mammalia. In the most basic religious sense, I believe that humanity is an outgrowth of nature—at the atomic level. I am what I am because the universe is what it is. Humans evolved to fit a niche of nature, and I appreciate and enjoy this fact. And this prick, this defender of morality, who probably likes to go to hockey games and smack his kids around so that other kids won't smack them around, by law has the right to assume that I’m a criminal and that I'm going to sell the stuff. I'd just as soon sell my Richard Tucker- autographed libretto of Aida that I waited hours by the Met stage door to acquire. Catholics worship a man who was executed as a criminal, kneel down to kiss rotting bones and sacred rings, and drink symbolic blood—not just transmogrified wine, but through the miracle of transubstantiation, real half‑human blood!—and I'm considered weird, because I like to get high and swim sans bathing suit in the great Panthalassic Ocean where all life began.

Just that moment, as I squinted painfully in the intrusive beam of light, John, who had brought Daisy back to the stable on West 87th Street and had finally gotten off from work, came jauntily strolling down Fifth to the scene of the crime. He spotted Kelly and me trying to keep our composure, with the police officer leaning over us and nervously rapping his nightstick in the palm of his free hand. John stood there, a full 6’6,” wearing a Civil War overcoat that General Pierre Beauregard would've felt comfortable in when he started the Civil War, tawny hair parted in the middle down to his shoulders, lumber boots, and John Lennon, round‑brim, rose‑colored sunglasses at night. Knowing he was clean, he lumbered up to the cop and smiled beguilingly: "C’mon, Officer, do we look like the type that would be smoking grass on Fifth Avenue in the middle of the night?"

The cop jerked his head back, as if he'd just received the painful communication that he just lost his favorite gun. He looked down at the simmering roach a yard away from my shoes. "All right, you two, get lost... right now," he demanded, nodding to John and me to take off toward the 59th Street Subway Station, as if he knew we lived in Astoria. With the grass in my pocket I could do nothing but obey, but John protested, "You don't have authority to make us leave our friend."

"Shut up, or I'll run the three of you down to Chambers Street right now. You'll wind up in the House of Detention before the night's over. I just want to talk to the young lady a minute."

"Come on, John," I urged with a cowardly tremor in my voice. I knew we could walk off, then watch to see that nothing happened to Kelly. We could always call the police, if the prick tried anything. At least we'd be away with the incriminating evidence.

When we got to the entrance of the subway, we turned around to observe the cop approaching Kelly. The Crusaders of Baldwin of Flanders, who massacred in the name of God thousands of defenseless civilians of Jerusalem during the First Crusade, couldn't have looked more lustful than this cop, as he approached my sweet darling.

"What's a nice attractive girl like you doing out this late with a worthless bum like him?" He nervously kept tapping his nightstick against his thigh, like a kid who had to take a desperate piss. He seemed to be putting on a coquettish demeanor, as if to say: 'Come on baby, why don't you get yourself a real man?' Can't you see he's nothing but a no‑good hippie? You oughtta be out with somebody more respectable, more manly."

"I'm over 18. You have no right to be giving me advice. That bum happens to be my former science teacher in high school. He's taught me everything from the trigonometric identities to the evolutionary radiation of early ape-men during the early Pleistocene. He's taught me knowledge your grandchildren will never learn. So, please get out of my way and don't try to stop me. My father's a lawyer; you better have a more substantial charge other than that lousy roach on the ground that anybody might have thrown."

Kelly determinedly slipped through the free space between the park wall and the cop, ran over to us, and we embraced like we had just scored the tie-breaking goal at the World Cup. John whistled for a cab and the cop stood on the corner, scratching his head with a bewildered look…

The dull brown rectangular slab of concrete was still there. All I could do is stare helplessly and reminisce with the dreams of an old man. I am a fly trapped helplessly in a spider web of red tape; I thought I was a butterfly! Twice these upholders of the law and morality have broken into my life's most sublime, wondrous moments with their glaring lights and sirens. At last, they finally got me where I belong for my heretical beliefs. Maybe grass does congeal the billion and a half neurons of my fabulous brain, like eggs on a frying pan.


1. This is a line from Francis F. Coppola's movie, Apocalypse Now, describing the conditions in Viet Nam at the end of the war.

2. Hominoid: The term refers to the great apes plus the hominids, our early ape-man ancestors including the Australopithecines and the early humans such as Homo habilis and H. erectus. Proconsul was a hominoid.

3. This event happened 17 years before Richard Dawkins’ illustrious and important book, The Selfish Gene, was published in 1976.


Dr. Susan Blackmore provides a splendid primer on Youtube. This will give you background to understand the concepts I am about to propound.

Let the truth flash like lightning.

Memes are in constant competition to take root, much like seeds landing on fertile soil. The soil is called the belief space. A basic meme such as “God love you” can take root and quickly develop co-memes. Picture a spore sprouting rhizoids, tiny rootlets, that can intermesh like threads in a brain. As more co-memes are added—a church meme, bible meme, heaven and hell meme, sin meme, Holy Ghost meme, and on and on—the memetic hook gets more and more complicated and eventually grows into a tumor-like memeplex. The memeplex can become so powerful that if takes over the neural apparatus of the host and a membot emerges. Priests, brainwashed soldiers, Mary Kay Cosmetics salespersons and gung-ho corporate execs are good examples. Whenever the host’s entire life is dedicated to the spread of the meme— which by now is called a memeplex (ideology)—you have a membot. It can get so extreme that the host will sacrifice his/er life and die for the memeplex, in which case you have a memboid: suicide bombers in the Middle East, kamikaze pilots in WWII.

There are countless memes in the meme pool and competition is fierce. At the memeplex level, human life is insignificant. Memeplexes must replicate (make copies) or become extinct. The history of civilization has known thousands of religions but only a few have survived.

Consider this: with all the crimes and atrocities that humans have performed and are capable of, the first commandment handed down to Moses from God is, “Don’t worship other memeplexes.

”The best, safest and most reliable way for memeplexes to copy is vertically—older generation to younger, father to son. A large, extended, tight-knit family with a stern patriarch is the most efficient and accurate method of meme replication. The transmission of the memeplex is almost certain, especially if outside influence can be avoided—as we see in parochial schools.

Gays are a special case. From the meme’s point of view homosexuals are a dead-end because they don’t reproduce. Gays are more useful as a scapegoat in support of an “us and them” meme that is a co-meme in all religions. I’m not suggesting that memes plan or scheme; memes are just information. I’m saying that natural selection has favored memes that persecute and condemn homosexuals.

I hope my theory is relieving and unburdening for gays to contemplate. As if the gay method of love making were abominable to God, but straight, vaginal, baby making is absolved and blessed in an overpopulated world. With all the contributions that gays have bestowed to humanity, it makes no sense that they should be the victims of intolerance.

We have to understand we are at the mercy of our genes and memes. Humanity is a peculiar ape infected by memeplexes. As I’ve written before, we have to accomplish a revolutionary leap in our understanding of the human condition or competing memeplexes will lead to our species to extinction.

More on the subject in Mirror Reversal including a Memetic Glossary.Website is

As always, comments welcome.

Monday, March 16, 2009


Ever since early Catholic education, I’ve rejected the concept of original sin. Now, in my ‘60s, I’m irate about it. Please Father, gimme a break; I had nothing to do with Adam and Eve. I can’t even figure out why God had to appease himself by sacrificing his only begotten son. What the heck is God pissed off at me for?

The concept of sin and guilt has ruined a lot of lives. To religious people, sacrifice is good and pleasure is bad—particularly sexual pleasure. Why else would all forms of non-reproductive sex be considered evil and criminal? There’s even a Biblical story to illustrate God’s this point: Genesis 19:24 tells the story of Sodom and Gomorrah. God informs Abraham that he plans to destroy the city of Sodom because of its wickedness. “Non-vaginal sex,” sayeth the Lord, “that’s not what it’s all about. I told you people to be fruitful and multiply and that’s not the way to do it. So you better get that nephew of yours out of there, because it’s going to hale some pretty nasty brimstone any day now.”

Until this day the derivative “Sodomy” refers to non-reproductive sex. No babies plop out of this union and this is unpleasing to God. If pleasure weren’t anathema to God, instead of destroying Sodom, He would have gone to Jerusalem and sayeth with Jewish accent, “Try it, you’ll like it.” But noooooo. He sayeth, “Woe be to you who fuck around. It’s my way or the highway …to hell.”

God wants fat asses sitting in pews— that makes homosexuals an abomination because they don’t reproduce. The word of God gets transmitted much faster and accurately in tight-knit, large extended families. Think of all the suffering throughout the generations this fact has caused. The state of Georgia, until a few years ago, actually outlawed oral sex between consenting adults—even if they were heterosexual and married.

To bring the point home—that religion loves sacrifice and not pleasure—I offer this excerpt from Mirror Reversal.

Looking at herself in the mirror with a serene smile of success, Cynthia reminisced about the great times she had the last few weekends at the rave clubs. She loved to dress up sexy and beautiful, get there early, and pick up the first good-looking hunk that turned her on. Then she’d spend the rest of the night disco dancing, having intriguing conversation, perhaps smoking a little grass – body stuff that makes the skin very sensitive to touch, nothing heavy – finally going up to the dark balcony and having doggie-style safe sex with her arms resting on the railing. While screwing she could overlook the festive dancers below, enjoy the Beats & Breaks music, and watch pixie light rays of color reflecting off the whirling glitter ball and the glitzy costumes. That was her idea of a good time, good clean All-American fun, and she tried to understand why this should be considered immoral by anyone who was into humanity and the human condition—especially in a world with so many people doing serious damage to one another and catastrophic damage to the environment.

And so I ask, with people killing one another every day, people blowing themselves up, and people ravaging and desecrating the great Amazon rainforest daily, I inquire, “Why is Cynthia’s idea of a good time considered immoral? “ The very pillars of society—the judgment of right and wrong—are corrupted by people who want everybody to observe the one true religion.

I’d love to hear any comments on whether Cynthia is a good girl who just wants to have fun, or an incorrigible sinner who should be stoned.

If you’d like me to continue this eccentric ministry, please pick up a copy of Mirror Reversal on Amazon or B&N. I just received word that God is coming to take me unless I sell a hundred books by the end of the month. Nah… forget that. I think somebody’s tried it already. Sorry Rev. Roberts.

Saturday, March 14, 2009


Soylent Green is more important to us than the King James Bible. Instead of warning us of an imaginary hell, it alerts us of the real possibility of the horror of overpopulation.

The movie was way ahead of its time and a stern forewarning of what will happen if we continue reproducing like rodents.

Imagine the sense of loss as Edward G. Robinson watched the glory that once was Earth. We can't let it happen. There's still time. An age of solitude, an earth as desolate as the moon, after the incredible biodiversity and ineffable beauty that Gaia once knew, for me is unbearable to comtemplate.

Ironically, the actor died right after this scene. It was his last message.

Thursday, March 12, 2009


Chris Hedges' "We are breeding ourselves to extinction"

is one of the most insightful, on-the-money, spot-on essays I've ever read. I'm posting it here because I predicted the same events over five years ago when I started writing Mirror Reversal. It's heartbreaking that I could be so right, and yet alone, so helpless.

Professor Cynthia Whipple tells her boyfriend,
“Once you’ve reached a certain level of education, the Bible’s quaint stories don’t answer the questions anymore. The hope for heaven and the fear of hell are just that, mammalian emotions. But the reasoned belief that a futureworld will exist is all but certain. And what will the futureworld be like? – that should be our main concern. Instead of worrying about an imaginary heaven as an individual, let’s devote ourselves to entering a real futureworld as Homo sapiens, the wise. At this very moment there might be future souls praying to us to preserve the Earth and its ineffable beauty. Sometimes, when I’m listening to Beethoven’s Pastoral Symphony, I can hear the sighs and yearnings of the world’s future citizens, ‘Please preserve the Earth,’ they weep, like the mystical chants of Odysseus’s sirens carried by the winds of time, ‘it belongs to us also. Don’t destroy it any further; it can’t be replaced. Your awareness of the condition of the world is the only thing that can save it. Just get us there and we’ll know what to do.’

“I see everything in terms of the Prime Directive and selfish gene theory. Picture a cruise ship sailing down a wide river of time: that’s really what the Earth is, a cruise ship sailing through space at 70,000 miles per hour with a precious cargo of life that required eons to form. Now picture one dominant species taking over the ship – some kind of mammal… a mouse, say. The reality is that the ship is heading straight toward a disastrous waterfall, bigger than Niagara. The entire population of the ship will certainly crash. The mice can feel something is wrong, but all they keep doing is carving out little niches in the ship so they can reproduce. They work and fight and bark at one another. All they care about is their little territory and a place to raise a family. They aren’t evolved enough to think about what’s in store for them right around the bend in the river.”

She seemed in a half trance, as if spilling out pent-up feelings to her psychiatrist uncle. “But the scenario is even worse, from an existential point of view. It’s not a waterfall that’s waiting around the bend, ‘cause the mice had nothing to do with the creation of the waterfall. The mice are heading for an ugly, poisoned and polluted lake that they created themselves with greed, stupidity, and arrogance. There’s no life in the lake at all: it’s filled with insecticides, mercury, and atomic waste - plastic milk cartons, electronic junk, and disposable razor blades. It’s contaminated with run-off from science fiction, mechanized chicken slaughter factories; run-off from robot phosphorus strip mines – miles long – where money is the only thing that matters. The inhabitants of the ship unwittingly created their own deathbed.

Monday, March 9, 2009


If humanity is going to continue to evolve, the traditional orthodox religions must be dismissed as indefensible mythology. Religion has kept us in the Dark Ages long enough. The time has finally come because nature has been strained to her limits. She is at carrying capacity right now. Religions continue to encourage runaway population growth at exponential rates such that millions die of starvation and preventable diseases every year. War is no longer a feasible answer to population control.

Even worse, religion indoctrinates subjects to believe that the world is coming to an end, so it doesn’t matter what we do to Gaia, she’s a lost cause anyway. The endmeme (see my video on the “endmeme” on Youtube) is the most dangerous and treacherous idea to ever escape from Pandora’s Box. How can we hope to survive when the vast majority of the Earth citizens believe God’s wrath hangs over us like the Sword of Damocles?

All human beings are on the same boat, a cruise ship sailing through space. We’re passengers on “a mote of dust suspended in a sunbeam,” as Carl Sagan describes it.We all face the same dismal fate bar none: nothingness.

But our sad existential fate doesn’t have to ruin our lives. We can ward off pessimism by a positive attitude. Instead of focusing on the vastness of the cosmos and our evident insignificance, we can concentrate on the sunbeam. We can appreciate the sheer luck of living at the intersection of the unimaginable fifteen-billion-year-old timeline of the cosmos and our own meager lifespan. An average lifespan seems like a long time but geologically it’s a millionth of a second. We’re ephemerons like mayflies. Every second of our life is precious.

That being so, it looks to me like the hippies of Woodstock Nation had it right. The purpose of life is to have fun—SEX, DRUGS, and ROCK ‘N’ ROLL. For me, it’s Sex, Pot and Art (Verdi and Puccini, Wagner and Richard Strauss, Tchaikovsky and Shostakovich; Rembrandt and Vermeer, Monet and Renoir, Picasso and Rouault), not that I have anything against rock ‘n’ roll. Classical music and the paintings of the great masters bring me to a sublime consciousness, so beautiful it makes all the suffering of life worthwhile.

I believe that if everyone in the world shared this worldview—that life is fleeting and meaningless— there wouldn’t be so much violence. Picture an army recruiter telling his hippie customer, “Your life has just begun but we need to kill our enemies. You’ll be respected and honored by friends and family. But everything’s a trade-off. There’s a chance you won’t come back and if that happens we’ll wrap your coffin in colorful flag, shoot rifles in the air, make sad sounds with a bugle and say prayers to a non-existent God. Wha-dya say?”

Anybody who gave this proposition some thought would recognize a no-brainer. “Sorry, Doc. Your offer would be cool if I had nine lives like a cat. Or if there’s an afterlife where I could enjoy eternal bliss. But I don’t think so.”

If the rulers of the world shared this view of life I don’t believe humanity would be suffering in war and pestilence. With all their money and power, they’d be too busy living life to the fullest: getting high, experiencing the ecstasy of playful sex and loving companionship, enjoying the geniuses of music, painting and literature. It would only a matter of time before the alphas figured out a way for everybody to live in harmony with each other and nature. The love of life would be so great that presidents couldn’t even bear the thought of aggression against other countries or of committing atrocities.

If humanity is to survive, the average joe has to tell the president, the cleric, the corporate bully, “Look, you do your thing and I’ll do mine. Just have fun and enjoy your life, don’t hurt anybody, and don’t pollute our beautiful planet. Paradise could be right here and now, if the human intellect emerges from the soul of mankind and dominates the world.”

As in the fairytale, when Beauty kissed the Beast—the beast being our evolutionary baggage, our phylogeny—the beast was transmogrified into a handsome prince.

[More on this subject at or]

Wednesday, February 25, 2009


A fart in time saves nine.

You can lead a hog to a pigsty but you can’t make him stink.

One good fart deserves another. (Familiar Bulgarian saying)

Let the smeller beware.

A new fart smells clean.

When the czar farts it bursts with pride. (Old Russian saying)

A smelly fart requires many words. (German proverb)

A stuffy nose smells no farts. (Heard at Scotland Yard)

Your fart’s smell is a good mirror. (Irish saying)

A house without a fart is the house of a scoundrel. (Portuguese proverb)

A man is not fragrant just because he never had a chance to stink.

A penny for your farts.

A prudent man does not make a fart his calling card.

A single Russian fart outsmells the Polish nation. (Old Russian saying)

A pig believes everybody farts. (Bedouin adage)

A fart should be smelled from behind. (Swedish proverb)

After smelling the fart of a Greek, check your nose. (Albanian saying)

A fart in Germany is a rose in Rome. (Traditional German proverb)

A fart without a smell is folly. (Latvian lamentation)

Beggars should not blow farts. (Oft-heard admonition on Wall Street)

Better to open a window than curse the smell.