So last November I quit caffeine. Yay me. This meant that I had to compensate somehow, and give myself some slack for the awful withdrawals and detox that my habit had embedded within me.

So I gained 15 pounds in no time at all. I stayed off caffeine, but I dove headfirst into junk food and sugary snacks. And that, of course, led directly to diet sodas.

My attempts this Spring to lose that weight have been unsuccessful. And then I my little monkey brain started to figure out that maybe all these diet, caffeine-free artificially sweetened sodas may be a contributing factor.

So this morning, as I am cruising the Intrawebs, finding a bazillion links between Aspartame and weight gain, and bemoaning the fact that here is the next thing that I have to wean myself off of, just when my day has taken a very dark turn indeed - iTunes, out of 10,000 songs decided to serve up the Brian Setzer Orchestra playing "That's the Kind of Sugar Papa Likes".

Ta-Da: iPodomancy. Thank you, Goddess, for the laugh and the wisdom. I know now what I must do.

I have found ground zero for the New Age movement. It is Harbin Hot Springs, located above Napa Valley. Here the two most popular New Age concepts come together. And those two concepts are "Namaste" and "Credit Cards Accepted". "Namaste" means "I acknowledge the God within you". "Credit Cards Accepted" means the same thing.

But your Master God may be the only thing that Harbin does accept. Because their sign shop has been working overtime cranking out brightly colored, spritely fonted guides to your negative empowerment. No running! No cameras! No talking! No meat! No Dairy! No parking! No camping! No uninvited sexual intimacy unless it has been cleared by Security! Oh, scratch that; Just no sex in the pool! Do it in your room, please. But be quiet about it!

Harbin is a place where you can pursue your own path to enlightenment, down their narrowly defined corridor of limited freedoms.

It is a lovely place though. Behind all of the NO! signs, that is. Well landscaped, tidy, and very leafyingly colorful in Late November when we visited. And statues everywhere! Buddha, Krishna, Genesha, Kaliima - why its as though Europe never existed! Because this is "New Age World" after all, and that means that everything 'Eastern' is good, everything 'Western' is bad, and everything 'Native American' is good, if its okay with them. So, plenty of angels but no crucifixes and hordes of non-Christian white people but no paganism. (Except, of course, for the largest outdoor gathering of witches in Northern California every June. Namaste, and no refunds after June 1st.) If Harbin worships any symbol, its the one in front of the dollar. What is New Age hell? A maxed out credit card, or, shall we say, a credit card in denial.

But, whatever, lets get to the room so I can take a long, hot - hey, where's my bathroom!? This may be the only European thing at Harbin: the two-holer-and-one-shower-per-floor motif. Maybe they think that a room with no private bath is a more direct line to Diety. I think its just a direct line for the potties.

I mean, It's not as though they're hurting for water around there. In fact the ironic thing about Harbin - except that Irony is not allowed there - is that the whole place has burned down three times in the last 100 years. But just underground there is about 80 bazillion gallons of water under pressure. You'd think they could unscrew the hose and point it at the flames.

But all of this water does serve a useful purpose: the pools.

The main pool is 5' deep, small at about 12' X 30' and features - nothing. Steps lead in and you stand around - quietly. There is an old sunken rusty pipe along one side so that if you are under 5'5" you can experience enlightenment without drowning in the process. And with sometimes 30 other seekers all vying for rapture at the same moment this watery highway to heaven can be mighty crowded.

And thats it. It's shady, kinda dingy and not even particularly warm. There are, however, particulates: Decomposed minerals to be exact, and these make one extremely buoyant. I figure that if one jumped off the roof of the sauna building next door and cannonballed into this pool (hypothetically speaking of course) one would not sink into this primeval smoothie. Instead one would bounce off, like a rock being skipped, and end up wrapped around some gigantic, 14-armed krishna statue. Hey, you find God your way, and I'll find him/her/it/them in mine. These particulates are also amazingly clingy, and so even after repeated showers you may drive home feeling like a tube of lubricant.

And there are several other pools for you to experience. Or not. If warm silence isn't emptying your mind sufficiently, try the heart-shaped pool next door. It's hard to see though, because it is ringed by very large colorful signs demanding - in a non-competitive way - that all toddlers must wear plastic pants in this pool! And that was enough to satisfy my curiosity. Plus if main pool is warm, heart shape is tepid. And small. And apparently very stimulating to youngsters. Next down the line is the big open lap pool, which in late November resembled a Currier & Ives print. Unheated, devoid of humanity and chock full of soggy autumn leaves.

Behind the main pool are two smaller dips. On top is the cold plunge, for those who advanced souls that have mastered the art of the silent scream. And below that is the hot dip. This is the core, the inner sanctum of Harbin. Hand carved railings, graceful statuary, demure waterfall, votive lighting. And all focusing on the one word sign that sums up all that Harbin wants from you, the plastic carrying pilgrim. Carved lovingly in wood, spotlighted, and in all capitals is the command of "SILENCE". But here, finally, is some real warmth. 115 degrees to be precise. How hot is that? Turn on your stove at home and put your hand in the flame: That's how hot it is. I blistered both ankles, practiced my silent scream, and got the hell out. Except you can't say 'Hell'.

Unlike the rest of Napa there are no mud baths at Harbin -yet! But there is 'Watsu', wherein Harbin's tanned and toned massage staff will float you around in the main pool. And not just a tow job either. We're talking Madonna and Child pose here. Grown men curled up in warm healthy water and being toted around by a woman. Maybe it is never too late to have a happy birth experience. And in front of 30 strangers who had no idea that when they went to the pool they would also get a shower.

'Watsu' is part of no known tradition or school of therapy that I had ever heard of. When I acquired as to its origins I was told, through big, sparkly eyes and bright, shiny teeth that it is a 'new tradition'. Uh-huh. Sounds to me like an 'additional revenue stream'. Turns out 'Watsu' is Native American. In full the phrase is: "Watsu gonna do to rid the dumb white people of more of their money?"

I'm kidding of course: It's shorthand for 'Water Shiatsu' which sounds like what could happen when your toddler is not wearing their plastic pants.

So I had to leave the pool for several reasons:

I'm back from Jury Duty. A two week case, and it just slipped right by, like a century. Now I don't have to be on a jury for two years. But since it was a two-week case, I think I should be exempt for four years. Two years for every week spent sitting in a sweatbath wearing a monkey suit and listening to asshats seems reasonable.

Sadly "reasonable" was a term not heard during this trial.

Because folks are often at their most passionate and incoherent when one of their parents is dying. They'll do anything to prolong the inevitable end, and then when the passing does occur, they'll strike out at anything and anyone handy to somehow get some sort of 'revenge'. And when the mourning offspring is an A-type lawyer, well, you get dumb, stupid, lame, useless, stupid, dumb, lawsuits like this one.

The statute involved was Elder Neglect. Mister Asshat lawyer spent two-and-a-half years (and something on the order of half-a-million dollars of his own money) stitching together the most far-flung and trivial moments in his Mother's care to somehow prove that his mother was recklessly neglected during her stay in the ICU and Med-Surg floors of our local hospital.

Think about that. Neglect, in a hospital? Have you ever tried to get any sleep in a hospital? It's nigh-on impossible because every 15 minutes someone barges in with a machine on wheels, prods you in some manner, and then wheels out after advising you to get some rest. These are the well meaning folks who will wake you up to give you a sleeping pill.

Neglect? Hardly. Stalking would be a closer term. I'm sure many patients would gladly file a restraining order against their nurses in order to get some rest. (Which is really what a discharge is. They stabilize you, but you actually heal at home, where you can finally relax.)

Here's a definition of the various types of neglect and abuse from a Lawyer's
website.

As you can see, the site for these crimes is a nursing home. Not a hospital.

So Mr. Asshat lawyer never had a chance here. And we the jury let him know it. After 10 days of testimony we deliberated all of two and a half hours before handing him his asshat and showing him the door.

Because even in Post-Everything Western society, people die. And the ratio is pretty much one death per person. But in our modern world of wonders we have yet to conquer death - and so we deny it. We are unprepared emotionally when it inevitably happens. Death offends us. And even more incredibly, death surprises us.

Before we kicked Mr. Asshat in his, we the jurors sat around our deliberation table and had a moment of silence for the poor, poor, woman who this whole travesty was about. And we simply prayed that she would finally, finally, rest in peace.

And the next week I got a letter from my health insurance saying that my premiums are going up. Coincidence? Yes. Related? Also yes.

I am a manic music collector. I collect music and I collect music collections. I even have collections of music collections. I have so many playlists (200+) on my Mac that they are organized like essay outlines. Here's one example:

No fool like a proud fool. I knew nobody would go with me to this - so I didn't even ask. But it is just exactly those events that you take yourself to that prove that you're someone with principles - convictions - weird fetishes that would embarrass your friends. So to heck with 'em. I'm here, accompanied only by my shadow, my pride, and a couple of hundred like minded souls.

KKK meeting? Snuff film festival? Puppy crushers convention? Naaah. I went to a (hide your eyes Ethel!) Dixieland music festival. Alone. In disguise. Under an assumed name.

Why am I so defensive, you ask? Because both my peers and my elders are on my case. The three venues for this festival are all centered around the Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk's Cocoanut Grove Ballroom, which I had never been to before. On the night that I had chosen to make my lone pilgrimmage a free concert was also being held on the beach bandstand: One of those hoary, old, had-two-hits 60's bands, with two of the original six members and the sobering realization that your heroes are all too visibly mortal.

As I make my way through the Boardwalk I stop and ask several wage slaves where the Cocoanut Grove Ballroom is. Each and everyone of them said: "No. You don't want that. (sour face) You want the free concert over there."

I smiled sweetly at them. "No; I don't want that. If I want to hear a washed-up has-been band rehash the same old songs in the same old arrangements with voices that have lost some of their charm and stage presences that show that they can do these shows in their sleep (and perhaps are), then I would do better to stay at home and play a CD rather than join the mob on the cold beach getting sand in their underwear. What I do want is fast, loud, imrpovisational, syncopated music with timeless melodies, bluesy vocals, low humor, and musicians who can flat - out - wail!

But when I get to the venue I do want I get picked on by the seniors at the ticket counter, the door, the hand stamp station, even the mailing list table. "Are you in the right place, Sonny?" I am asked repeatedly. Their tone would be the same if I had on a ripped Judas Priest T-shirt, jewelry stapled to my face, and my hair was on fire.

Its always tough to bridge the generation gap, but this was a leap across three or four of them: Generation gauntlet.

And yes, New Orleans traditional jazz is populated overwhelmingly by Social Security receipients. I'm sure some of the folks on the dance floor remember when those new-fangled "auto-mobiles" came out. But maybe one reason why they are still here is that they have been dancing the One-step since "jet" meant: 'A stream of water.'

The One-step is an amazing dance to witness. You hold your partner close enough to share your internal organs and then you sprint in place, like your stomping poisonous snakes. One wrong move and you'd flip the other person across the room like a tiddlywink. The One-step is so named because you put a foot down on every beat - and the beats are going by like there's no tomorrow. It makes a mosh pit look like its standing in line.

And still they manage to look silly. A Dixieland show may be the last safe refuge for the sailor suit, the straw boater hat, fringed flapper dresses, American flag ties, sparkles, spangles, and more rhinestones than I ever thought existed. Ginger the Rainbow Lady would have gone completely unnoticed, here in the realm of "people so old they have no shame."

And a word about hair. Transport this entire crowd to a gale force wind and the womens hair would not. move. at. all. The mens hair, however, would be flying away like a flock of pelts.

The musicians cranking out this insane music were equally 'mature', generally 'calorically challenged', and all were wearing matching outfits. No, really; I swear. They actually wanted to appear like a cohesive unit. Weird.

So visually its not exactly MTV. Cut the sound and it looks like a bowling team standing around blowing into things. I saw one clarinet player who I don't think moved at all - except fingers of course - and in between songs he'd smile. At a Disneyland show I caught a few years ago the members of the band all but carried their bass player onto the stage with them and then inserted his stand up bass into his hands. He slapped the hell out of it for two hours and they took it out of his hands and carted him off.

And that's the point: "Old" does not equal "boring". "Unplugged" does not equal "ballad". And "Jazz" was not always rarefied and artsy. This is the sound that put the 'roar' in the Roaring Twenties. This is the first American Music. My toes were sore the next day from unconsciously tapping.

And to all my friends, peers and neighbors, who sat at home or endured flaccid pop in the cold sand - hear my cry: I saw a grown man sing through a megaphone, and I had a blast!

Angus McMahan
angusmcmahan@gmail.com

Sometimes your iPod just serves up the perfect song at the perfect time.

A couple of days ago I was searching through the new 8-acre Safeway that was just opened in my town. Place is friggin' ginormous. And I hated muzak even before they started putting grocery ads in the mix, so I am rocking the headphones.

Anyway, I can't find the Clif Bars anywhere. And right at my moment of frustration, out of 10,000 songs, my 'Pod serves up "I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For" (Jacqui Naylor's hot jazz version).

I had barely stopped laughing at that when the 'pod next served up the Clash's "Lost in a Supermarket".

And I believed in the world again.

Note: I'm on jury duty right now. yay. And its looking like the case will last anywhere between two weeks and, oh, the end of time. So I'm going to pull one from the vaults for all y'all. Here is my report on the last time I was called up. Got your dress sweats on? Good. Here we go:

What arrives every two years and brings misery to millions? Presidential elections? Nope: those are quadrennial drags. Tax forms? Allergy season? Christmas? The Mariners sucking again? All annual miseries. Locusts? 19 year intervals. Killer bees? Still stuck in traffic in Brownsville. Our bi-annual mopefest is the pink and white envelope that arrives in our mailboxes from the Office of the Jury Commissioner. Oh Shostakovich - You got jury duty again. And there aint no getting out of it anymore.

It used to be so easy. For most of its hallowed history the obligation to be a juror was easier to ignore than the FBI warning at the start of VHS tapes. The form arrives, you say that you have a job that pays more than $5.00 a day, and you send it back. Easy. Everybody did it. And across this vast nation each county eventually ended up with a pool of 13 retirees from which to pick the 12 juror slots necessary for each trial. Plus 1 alternate. (That's called foreshadowing, folks.)

So the rules were changed. Now the only people who get out of jury free are death row inmates, toddlers, animals, and the recently and/or currently deceased. On the other hand they have tripled the recompense to a whop-whop $15.00 a day and they give you .15¢ a mile in gas money. One way. Starting the second day. Please allow four weeks for delivery. Let's do the math: my zip code ends about 3 miles from the courthouse, and most trials take five days. So I'll be camped out by my mailbox, feverishly waiting for Ed McMahan and Dick Clark to deliver to me a check for $1.80. Two trials and I can get a Happy Meal.

I am fortunate however in that my employer pays full wages for jury duty. So instead of going to my stupid job I can get paid for dressing up in uncomfortable clothes, sitting on hypothetically padded seats in 75 degree temperatures and listening to lawyers all day. Hmmm. Thank goodness for that $1.80 bonus! And yes, I would like to Super Size that.

Still, its a choice between fulfilling my duties as a citizen and having a warrant issued for my arrest. And however uncomfortable the jury chairs are, there are doubtless more enjoyable than the Defendants chair. So I showed up on time in my best monkey suit.

The jury assembly room is a "mobile modular" building out back, where the outhouses would have been located once upon a time. The other double wide in the backyard is actually one of the courtrooms, or as a judge put it during a previous jurification, "Welcome to Superior Trailer Court."

The assembly room was a series of Deja Vu's. Firstly, municipal buildings may be the last, safe refuge for paneling. I hadn't seen particle board sheets with varnished pictures of wood grain glued on them in 15 years. Made me long to see 'Mork & Mindy' again. But a government building crossed with a trailer: paneling was almost assured to sprout in that sort of favorable environment. Secondly, we were made to sit in little molded, plastic chairs with small writing surfaces extending from the right arm. I thought these relics had all been banished to the DMVs by this time. And on the ones I remember from grade school the little desk part folded up so you didn't have to dislocate your hip in standing up or hit your neighbor in the face with your butt cheek going by. And those desks are directly responsible for lefties having such awful penmanship.

At the desk you read a handout chock full of handy information, such as where to park. Just a tad late for that, don't cha think! The handout also includes this sentence, incongrously inserted in the paragraph on metal detectors: "Exits from the court building are adjacent to the entrance." Well it is refreshing to know that the doors work both ways and that we will be able to leave at some point. Otherwise we would have been stuck in the perpetually arriving courthouse paradox. "Please rise and stand on the walls, Judge M.C. Escher presiding from the ceiling...."

Soon we were leaving the assembly room, apoligizing to each other for the butt cheek fly-bys, and we entered the building proper. Well, perhaps 'proper' is too strong a word. The County Courthouse building is the ugliest building in the western hemisphere. There is a plaque that states the particulars of the building, but it is outside behind some shrubbery. On this plaque though is the little-known fact that it was designed by a young architecture student on vacation from University. And his name was Leonid Brezhnev.

So we troop into a courtroom and sit in the spectator section. And another part of that handout sheet occurred to me. The part that says to "dress appropriately." I saw people dressed appropriately for all sorts of activities, from riding the range, to going to bed, to a night on the town. One young man had holes in his shoes, his jeans his t-shirt, and several unnatural ones in his head. One fellow was reading an apparel catalog. This seemed strange to me until I took a closer look at his Reebok shoes, Gap jeans, Ralph Lauren shirt, North face jacket, and Nike baseball cap. I am sure that if I snuck up behind him and gave him a wedgie I would have seen Tommy Hilfiger written on his underwear.

A young woman topped everybody though by appearing in skin-tight jeans with strategic cut-aways around the waist, ala Cher circa 1973. Every few inches around there was a strip of exposed flesh, like a skin belt. Astounding. This would look good on approximately no one. Above that there was about 36 inches of midriff showing and then a bright red tank top that had fused with the upper layers of her epidermis. But hey, she was dismissed almost immediately and her obligation is now fulfilled. For all I know this outfit is hanging in her closet in a garment bag labeled "jury duty".

Then the Commissioner appeared. This is not quite a Judge (Judge without portfolio? Judge with training wheels? Judgette?) but you call him your honor and he had the robes and the La-Z-boy and the power of life and death, so I'll call him a Judge. Curiously though, no one stands when he enters. The bailiff even specifically calls out, "Stay seated, court is now in session." So maybe the people rising bit is the final, ultimate status symbol of the office.

The clerk of the court then swore us in as preliminary jurors. A motherly looking woman who did the swearing in and various other official duites, she nonetheless had a sizable chest tattoo peeking out from her sensible ensemble. Ya gotta love this town. There are no bibles in the court anymore, but you still have to raise your right hand for the promising. But what if you are left-handed? Shouldn't it be "raise your dominate hand"? Whatever. it looked pretty academic: It was a 1 in 5 chance. I was one of 60 folks and they only need 12. Plus one Alternate. (That's more foreshadowing.)

So the Clerk of the Tattoo called up the first 12 and also 6 alternate candidates and we all got down to the serious court business of chatting with one another. Each of the lawyers and the Judge would ask a few simple questions and there was also a laminated sheet handed around that sparked a few more little talks. "No, I do not have any children, um, and none of them are employed." It was all quite amiable and you learn some amazing gossip about your neighbors. I learned that there is a lot more volunteering going on than you might expect. Also, a lot of people are living some pretty awful lives through no fault of their own. Some folks spend their entire lives caring for some sick or disabled relative. I think there are a lot more heroes in our land than just the ones who run into burning buildings.

I also learned that there are some people who, shall we say, round out the bell curve:
"Do you drive?" "Yes." "Do you drink alcohol?" "Oh yeah!"
"Do you hold any bias against my client because she is choosing to defend herself in a court of law?" "Well she must have done something wrong to be here!"
"Do you drink alcohol?" "No." "Any particular reason?" "Well I'm not 21 yet!"
The normally blank-faced court reporter had a struggle with some of these comments.
And every half-hour or so the lawyers and judge would convene and then tell huge swaths of the jury and alternates to go home. My luck was stretching thin. my 5 to 1 odds dropped to 4 to 1 and then to 3 to 1. And that's where it stood at the end of day 1. Sometimes the wheels of justice turn glacially slow. They would soon spin very fast.

Next day I showed up better prepared. Lighter clothes for the hot house atmosphere of the court, sports water bottle, candy bars for that final push after lunch. Others too had adapted. it is, after all, what humans do best. The boy with the holes in everything now had on complete sneakers, newer levis, and a clean t-shirt. The shirt had a big picture of a skull on the front, but hey, for this guy this ensemble counted as a complete makeover. Other folks had on "dress sweats", which I think is a legitimate fashion term now. Logan's Run may be coming true after all.

Oh, and no belts. Belts have to be taken off and run through the metal detector separately, while you stumble through the gate dropping candy bars and spraying water everywhere with your pants sliding down your thighs. It's not a pretty sight. Can one be arrested for indecent exposure when it is the state who demands that your protective measures be handed over? How about suspenders? Girdles? Those security cameras may be catching quite a show from time to time.

Inside the Court of the Sauna, my luck ran out at 2 to 1 and I was called up to be the alternate. I guess I was okay about it. Jury service is the most important thing that the average citizen does for their country, along with voting in every election. And as twisted and broken as our systems of government are, I still believe in the ideals that our country has chosen for itself. Or, rather, we have chosen for it. And I believe that it is much more beneficial to fight from the inside than rail from without. Plus, the alternative at this point was a contempt of court citation and jail time. So I took my seat and kept my mouth shut.

The Jury now took the "this time for real" oath from the Clerk of the Tattoo, and they sat down in their cushy swivel chairs and placed their feet on the brass foot rail provided. I perched on my little stool in the corner by the chalkboard and tried to see more than the back of everybody's heads. in fact I am on the record more than the rest of the real jury combined, but all I was saying was things like: "Can you turn the map a little more? Thanks."

The trial? Nothing Grisham worthy. Suffice to say that the most dangerous drug is perfectly legal once you reach 21, and also that the most dangerous weapon in America often comes with a 5-speed and air conditioning standard. Also, Justice can too often come down to who is a better public speaker. The verdict? Never happened. The novice Prosecutor made a bazillion errors and in the middle of day 3 the Judge finally blew a gasket, declared a mistrial and suddenly we all got to go home and be regular citizens again. So the only thing worse than a lawyer is a crappy lawyer. But, as with doctors, they gotta start somewhere.

Like, perhaps this particular trial, which will now start all over again, with a new truckload of our tax dollars and a fresh new batch of potential jurors lined up outside the doublewide in the backyard.

Not me though. I won't be in that line for two long, glorious years. And when I am, I'll be the one in the dress sweats and the teeny tanktop.

Angus McMahan
angusmcmahan@gmail.com

Last year I lost my fanny pack. It just popped right out of my bike pannier and into an eddy in the time space continuum. My replacement fanny pack was a cheapo freebie given away by some insurance company. I sewed a bell onto this one so I could hang onto it for awhile. Now I tinkle when I walk!

Anyway. The new fanny pack had this companies’ name, logo and wussy slogan all over it. Ewww. I was not about to be a walking billboard for some lame-o corporation. Especially one who wouldn’t even give me a policy. So I sewed a big ‘ol pentacle patch right into the middle of it.

A couple of days later it finally hit me that I was now displaying, nay, advertising my affiliations! Yikes! I was a walking billboard!

Now in twelve years of Craft work I have yet to have anyone seriously hassle me about my religion. No yells, no gestures, no job discrimination. The only thing that I have lost custody of because of my paganism is my propriety now & then (ahem).

But like the bumpersticker says "We Are Everywhere" and by that I mean it’s hard to tell a witch in a crowded room (unless it’s the day after a ritual in which case they’ll all be bleary-eyed). Some strangers know that I am a witch instantly, before they see what’s riding on top of my, er, bike seat, but that’s because they are witches too. It’s a bit unnerving, but not unwelcome. With the addition of the fanny patch I still have not been hassled, many thanks to the Goddess, but I have heard a few gasps and seen some wide eyes. People do take note of your ornaments.

So; so far so good. The only change has been with me. When I am out walking or riding I am constantly aware that I am representing the Craft. This leads to some odd behavior at times. Say I really want to jaywalk, or run a stop sign on my bike, or some other simple sin. But what if somebody sees the fanny patch?" They’ll not only think that I am a clod but they might equate dumb moves with Wicca. So I normally don’t do weak things like that. {Or when I absolutely must pick my nose while cycling I will spin the pack around so the patch is more hidden in the front.}

Say that I am about to get on a bus and it's the day after Beltane and I look and feel like a freshly thawed mastadon. I am not at my best, but a dozen first impressions are about to be registered. I spin the fanny patch around to the back and quickly take a seat: I feel odd about waving my flag around when I am not really present.

But mostly when I am wearing my fanny pack and remembering it’s red badge of courage I stand a little straighter, tune into the energies a little more, notice more little details, and send out blessings and greetings to everyone and everything. When I am on display I am more there, more aware.

Okay; here’s the Up With People Message: A/V materials aside we are all representatives of the Old Ways, whether we are conscious of it or not, whether we are ‘showing’ or not. A nature religion means that the church is the entire natural world, and services are 24/7. If I am a better person when I have my fanny patch on then I should pretend that my fanny patch is always on, because to be a witch is to be always on.

Postscript: As is the way of freebie things, this fanny pack quickly disintegrated. I replaced the fanny patch with a pentacle pendant, so now I am mastering to vertical inside/outside the shirt, as opposed to the horizontal ‘round the waist move. Same principal, different vector.

Angus McMahan
angusmcmahan@gmail.com

With tinny fanfare

I happily clean your floors

Please empty my ass.

Angus McMahan
angusmcmahan@gmail.com

One of the downsides of eating better is there is less reading time in my day. See, your body knows what it needs - and everything that it doesn't, well, just moves on down the line. So eating nutritiously means less leftovers in your system, and that means less trips to the bathroom, no more 40 minute elimination marathons, and ipso fatso, less time reading.

So my body is getting healthier, My spare tire has deflated, but my brain cells are slowly withering away. Mind or body - pick one.

My four food groups used to be glaze, caffeine, super-size and anything with 'chip' in it. I would spend a considerable portion of each morning, afternoon, evening and middle of the night engaged in throne reading.

And my bathroom was a shrine to Cerebral Elimination: There was a reading lamp on the wall, and candles nearby, depending on the mood. I made serious research in tracking down one of those wondrous Japanese toilet seats that are heated. (A serious boost to civilization in my opinion.) I had a rotating system of snooty magazines, classic literature, edgy graphic novels, Historical Tomes, and of course the daily mail. There was a desk in the next room, but it was mostly just storage: The actual work was done in the porcelian cubicle.

Also, eating bad means you have less energy (or at least, more of it is directly internally) and so I was never bored by my part-time job of dredging the alimentary canal. Kitchen-Couch-Potty: the Bermuda Triangle of the American diet. What disappears is your waist. I hadn't had one in 25 years.

I don't miss the spare tire, but I do miss reading. See, part of losing weight is you gain back that internal energy. Your body just wants to move more, partially because its easier to move without a 3ft. wide butt dragging you down. But excess energy is not easily burned off with a copy of Dostoevsky, or Herman Melville. Toss me Tolstoy or Dickens now and I am much more inclined to do 3 sets of 15 reps with it than actually open it.

Nowadays books move too slow for me. Reading anything longer than a CD booklet makes me feel like I'm wasting time. And thats wrong: books were - are - a deeply satisfying, educational, entertaining and enlightening passtime. And for me there was nothing more fun than eating five dozen Krispy Kreme doughnuts and eventually heading off to the bathroom to spend some quality time with the History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire - the eight volume edition. I can recall an entire summer of partially thawed frozen cheesecakes and the works of James Michener. My toilet seat had more creaks and groans than a door in a horror movie. My thighs had permament red divots from where my elbows would rest.

Perhaps I'm confusing literature and junk food. Maybe the pleasure of its intake is getting mixed up with the sublime satisfaction of its egress. The Journal of the American Academy of Pediatrics once proclaimed that the very worst food in the world is a Hostess Sno-Ball. The study declared the humble sugar tribble to be nothing less than "a waste of jaw movement and digestive juices". But after eating a dozen or so packages of these (in assorted colors) I had the time, and the inclination, to actually read the Journal of the American Academy of Pediatrics. So there ya go. Sugar or smarts: Pick one.

Angus McMahan
angusmcmahan@gmail.com