How Dewya Gnomie Got His Name

Once upon a time in the summer of 2002, my wife decided to liberate a nameless garden gnome from his big-box prison. We were in the planning process for a trip to "SalmonFest," a three day music festival held at Bearcat's Getaway on the Black River in Lesterville, Missouri, featuring Leftover Salmon as headliners. Included in the festivities at SalmonFest was the "Parade of Judgment," a meandering, late-night parade/campsite judging contest that was more about extending the party through the wee hours until sunrise than it was about passing "judgment" on anyone or anything. Since this was our first music/camping festival of the New Millennium, we did not invest the time, energy and creative effort to have a "competitive" campsite, but thought that, at the very least, our recently adopted gnome would add a bit of character to our temporary home-away-from-home. As time has passed, we've continued to find fun festies to serve as our version of the summer vacation, and our little gnome always comes along for the ride.

In the spring of 2007, we returned to Lesterville and Bearcat's for "Festivaaaal," a smaller two day, mostly bluegrass/newgrass/jamgrass fest that featured Vince Herman (former and current member of the recently re-united Leftover Salmon.) We set up our campsite as always, with the gnome playing the role of Welcoming Committee, front and center. Later that morning, Vince was strolling through the campground, stopping here and there to say hello, strum his mandolin, and make small conversation. He took one look at the gnome and cackled.
"What's his name?" Vince inquired.
Caught off-guard, I replied, "Ummm... I dunno... he doesn't talk much. We just call him 'Gnomie.' "

Vince stood in thoughtful silence for a moment, then blurted out, "DEWYA!!"

"Huh?"

"Dewya! Dewya Gnomie!!!" Again he began to cackle, and the rest of us joined in as we caught on to the meaning of Mr. Herman's declaration.

Assuming his silence to be acceptance of his new moniker, we adopted the corny-but-catchy pun, and that's how Dewya Gnomie got his name.

I've been watching Big Bro since as long as I can remember.

Mine was the first generation to be born into a world where there was, or was soon to be, a teeeveee in the home of the vast majority of mericans.



i watched. from their lush lounge laboratories, big brother, aka Mad Men watched back. It watched what i ate and it watched what i watched and it watched what i wore and how i played and it took notes and compiled statistics and - like never before - created a catalogue of goods catering to kids which they, in turn, told us to buy and told us why in jingles and sensational exaggerations pf flyers made you run faster and jump higher than red ball jets and wonder bread built better bodies twelve ways (and was perfect when having another fluffernutter) and winston tastes good like a cigarette should...

we were the generation that the mad men experimented upon from infancy, with a solid ten plus years of free reign before any kid-oriented "educational" fare like Sesame Street came along and we were all just ripe lil munchkins for having our consumer behavior and attitudes programmed and manipulated.




we are what we consume.


and so the story went and continues today 'cept somewhere along the line in the process of watching and listening and giving us everything we think we want, this other device, this alternative screen appeared on the scene and unlike the teeev it invites me to respond.

and so i do, time and again.

today i speak to you as a loyal programmed consumer AND as afreelance Intelligence Agent for the Universal Independent Mental State of I.

For the record:

I was conceived in conspiracy

from Latin conspirare to be in harmony, conspire, from com- + spirare to breathe

a co-mingling of breaths as it were

that's generally how these things come about.

it ain't no secret


i'm a field agent. i experience and report.

please note that, while it is my task to attempt to remain objective, the nature of intelligence gathering requires the observer to make real time decisions in regard to particular paths of pursuit, which inevitably shapes and directs the finite tunnel being mined through an infinite experiential universe.

while it has served me well to weave my own interpretive fairy tale from this limited database, one that serves as nothing less than a current operating system or an ever-evolving practical belief - no make that a probability system. if there's a Real Thing that is universally recognizable to All, this ain't it. but it may or may not contain some of the practical probabilities upon which I currently operate.







please also note that existing data has been interpreted to suggest the possibility that the benevolent programmers on madison avenue accidentally created a Madder Man, and the above is nothing more than a passing manifestation of said madness.


or maybe ( just maybe) it's ALL just a joke.


;)

today's headlines

Vincent van Gogh and the Bumpersticker - A True Story

Once upon a time, I was given a gift by a young man who had dated my daughter and had become a family friend.

The bumpersticker read:

LOVE MY COUNTRY
FEAR MY GOVERNMENT

I loved the kid and I was touched by the sentiment, but the message of the sticker itself did not properly reflect my own attitude.

There was but one thing to do.

Finding myself alone with the sticker one Starry Starry Night, I grabbed a boxcutter, and with one surgical slice, removed the offending EAR, leaving the bumpersticker to now proclaim:

LOVE MY COUNTRY
F        MY GOVERNMENT

Aaaaaahhhhh.... That looks MUCH better.

Thanks for the inspiration, Vince, you crazy dead painter guy, you!

one change, two change/red change, blue change

so I was thinking.../(DANGER WILL ROBINSON!!!)/

Participation in the ongoing process of universal co-creation/internal meta/program amounts to immersal in the world of CHANGE.

zimmy daJoo is without doubt one of the most prolific and resonant poets of my peculiar subslice of the boomer generation.

for me, saint robert the Hunter is another Aluminated Lyricist.

there are three tunes playing in my head, one general theme:

1. "time will tell who has fell, and who's been left behind

when you go your way and i go mine."

2. "now everything's a little upside down
as a matter of fact the wheels have stopped
what's good is bad/what's bad is good
you'll find out when you reach the top -
you're on the bottommmmmmm"

and finally, hunter
3:
"The wheel is turning and you can't slow down
You can't let go and you can't hold on
You can't go back and you can't stand still
If the thunder don't get you then the lightning will...





...won'tcha try just a little bit harder?
couldn'tcha try just a little bit more?"

more poetry: older, but seared as deeply into my psyche by childhood reading/parental recitation. we all loved the A.A. Milne stuff; this was before disney kidnapped pooh and made him a spokesperson for MindlessConsumerism.buy. The poems were as fun as the tales were, rhythm and rhyme invoke colorful images in the imaginative mind of a young child...



They're changing guard at Buckingham Palace -
Christopher Robin went down with Alice.
Alice is marrying one of the guard.
"A soldier's life is terrible hard,"
Says Alice.

They're changing guard at Buckingham Palace -
Christopher Robin went down with Alice.
We saw a guard in a sentry-box.
"One of the sergeants looks after their socks,"
Says Alice.

They're changing guard at Buckingham Palace -
Christopher Robin went down with Alice.
We looked for the King, but he never came.
"Well, God take care of him, all the same,"
Says Alice.

They're changing guard at Buckingham Palace -
Christopher Robin went down with Alice.
They've great big parties inside the grounds.
"I wouldn't be King for a hundred pounds,"
Says Alice.

They're changing guard at Buckingham Palace -
Christopher Robin went down with Alice.
A face looked out, but it wasn't the King's.
"He's much too busy a-signing things,"
Says Alice.

They're changing guard at Buckingham Palace -
Christopher Robin went down with Alice.
"Do you think the King knows all about me?"
"Sure to, dear, but it's time for tea,"
Says Alice.

and here we are nearly half a century (as measured in gregsols) from my days as the happy recipient of the bedtime story/poem, yet the words return to resonate with timeless clarity and curious synchronicity, as I have been specifically pondering the red to blue change of guard at our own House, and how much it reminds me of a scripted exercise in role reversal.

as mentioned in other musings, previous perusal of alternative calendrical systems has unearthed particular and peculiar time-stamped personal attributes (based, like western astrology, on particular maps/models/interpretation of the allegedly significant, cosmic "divine" geometric configuration present at the moment of one's birth.

Like loose change dropped in the gutter, the amount of resonance/meaningfulness one finds in such systems depends on A) whether one approaches with any belief/faith in the possibility that there IS money in the streets, and B) the effort one exerts to find it.

when it comes to particular, established, belief systems, I've come to realize that when I become too attached to a dogma, it invariably has its head crushed by the wheel of karma, and i'm once again left without my beloved little puppy of divine principle...

so i only embrace virtual pets these days, imaginary mutant mixed breed mutton chopped photoshopped cut and pasted spiritual chimera collages of my own eclectic deeply bent creation. stuck together with duct tape and spittle, always under construction forever subject to change without notice.

but back to the mayans, the coincidences i accidentally tripped over that seem to resonate - describe "me" as a monkey/prankster/weaver of disparate essences/ a jack-off all tirades, master baiter of nun. more or less.

In fact, i am a dabbler.


I love the food network. Everybody eats. Nutrition is healthy. creativity is healthy. self-reliance is healthy.

Last night I watched a show called "Chopped." Aspiring chefs around the world are familiar with the "mystery basket" exercise. A team of judges/instructor/head chef assembles a group of ingredients for the apprentice/(contestant-competitor) in a "mystery basket." The participant(s) must then prepare one or more dishes using all the ingredients.

It seems to me that the established political punditry (aka msm/official govt spokespeeps) like to do the same when it comes to collective "talking points." They choose the topics that will be used to prepare the various dishes being served up by the talking heads.

Take tax-day "tea-bagging," for example. If one spends any time perusing the various television news networks, one is aware that the term has taken on a meaning that is neither related to afternoon sipping or testicular dipping.

Here's the part that fascinates me the most: During Bushtime, blue said dissent was patriotic, while red said the dissenters were tools of the wealthy elite soroses and koses and moveons, potential threats to security et c.

Here we are in Obamatime, less than ninety days have passed in the First Year of the Era of Real Change and the protesters are now/still? (i'm confused) dimwitted tools of the corporate elite unless you're dressed in red in which case you are witnessing a grass-roots movement to take our country back (sure sounds familiar)

the more things change...

i have thusfar concluded that patriotism is defined by partisan power and belief rather than principle.

It's patriotic to support the government if Your Guy is in power, while those who oppose are anti-American, ignorant, extremist and dangerous.

If on the other hand, when the Other Guys are in charge, it is the right-nay, duty of every patriotic merkin to stand up and oppose the policies that our ruining our nation.





"This time, Johnny/Dad, YOU play the role of the father/son."

The parting on the left is now the parting on the right, the pork-pie's been replaced with a beret but both are made of tinfoil and there's still a few springtime storms with lightning and hail in the forecast here in tornado alley, the sweaty putrid metropolitan boil festering neath the belt Buckle of jeebus the martyr

Hate is prematurely ejaculated love.

so shake it baby shake it just watch where you point that thing if there's any chance you might go off half cocked.

MANTIS

brains fart and thought-trains derail into misty meadows of mixed metaphor.

so the story goes, and so my faithful and or faithless sisbrahthren, my revelations/alumination and ongoing transmutation have given birth to MANTIS: The Religion.

Now don' get mad, no don. get mad, as Jimi Said as he ejaculated lighter fuel upon his axe...

I know how summa y'all feel/reel abour re-LIJ-un, and I share your sentiments.

All the more reason to embrace MANTIS, for it is both THE religion and the Anti-religion.

And so I struggled hard with whether to pull the trigger on the launch or pull the carpet out from beneath myself and do a backflip/faceplant no points for THAT landing which is why i chose the former and why I have since come to spread the news on this scaly, scrolling blogosaurus skin.

language equals limitation that leads to misunderstanding.

All religions - Nayyyy, sez mister Ed, all belief systems/reality tunnels - are derivative, subjective, finite representations of the infinite.

I'm not here to start a holy war, but rather start and stir a heady pot of holy peas bewitchu stew.

hop into my hot tub and let your essence be infused into the cosmic broth.

all flavors are welcome here. bask in my robbins.

why MANTIS, though?

Chart the flow>


We need words and symbols we can count on that are as reliable and universal as are our (r/r) fingers and toes.

Let us begin our journey from a point of common ground. It's there at our feet, just not everywhere. Watch your step/step lightly, the labial lips of language lead to a slippery slope that slides deep into the cunnilingual chasm of chaotic ambiguity and once you're there you never want to be anyplace else.


arithmetic is common ground. we count on its omniscience and consistency to tell us the time, our weight and our value as measured by bank balance.

let's start with mathematical simplicity, the properties of equality: transitive, reflexive and symmetric.

Reflexive Property a = a
Symmetric Property If a = b then b = a.
Transitive Property If a = b and b = c then a = c.

Given Premise:

Music is music.

>

"Music is Love."

david crosby speaks the truth

>

Love is Real

(so does buddy Holly.)

>

God is Love.

jesus said it, not sure what he meant but i'll buy it for the time being.


MANTIS is music.









see for yourself:




Therefore, MANTIS IS GOD.

MANTIS also equates to "prophet" in the logos of the ancient Greeks.

There you have as solid a foundation for any belief system you'll ever imagine.

You are free to believe or disbelieve as you Will.

Mantis does not punish the non-believer, the blasphemer, or the doubting Thomas dolby's who've been blinded by science seriousness or sensibility.




MANTIS has but one rule: "you do what you want - whatever!" (merely activate the Power to Love to fuel all you do)

MANTIS is all inclusive; all are welcome in the White Light of divine alumination

MANTIS is the Master who puts the greenness in the grass. MANTIS is the sensational, aluminational, transmutational power to love WITHIN that fuels the evolution of perception and chips the sleepy snotty caked crust from the corner of our Third Eye.

MANTIS is the grinning cheshire cat; the teacher who naps neath hir invisibility cloak until the student pops the question.

MANTTS ISzszszszszszzzz....

MANTIS is a self-replicating rawk and roll revival tent roadshow traveling snake oil caravan and clown cabal circus parade of overindulgent aluminated idiocy and if you missed the last garbage scow express just get in the van and go.

The Universe is all there is by definition, once again, and by observation the universe is an evolving, mutating process-ion that iterates similarity across scale, across space, across history and across the barriers of language and other dualistic delusionary dichotomies. If the universe is everything, than everyting is real and nothing is forbidden and if my nonsensical religion originated here in this universe it is a part of this here universe and is therefore a manifestation, iteration, nano-replication of the universe itself and is therefore REAL and TRUE and ABSOLUTE and UNDENIAABLE. Ive never seen a bush burn or a waterwalker but I've seen the MANTIS pray and the manna fall from the heavens with grace and abundance.

Don't believe me. believe your ears. Don't listen to me. Listen to MANTIS. Don't follow me, follow the music.

MANTIS is the ONE that brung us to the hoedown.

MANTIS is the metaphysical gravity that keeps our pardners from flying off into a black hole void when we swing em round and round without reservation.

MANTIS IS ALL THIS AND MANTIS IS MORE THAN THAT.

but that's enough from me for now.



I'll see you in church (if you sit by the window)

I'll see you at the show if you've no place else to go. til next time happy trails,

peas bewitchU

and lentil spray for a brighter day.

Community (self)Serv-ice(cream), or How To Remain Occupied While waiting For Full Engorgement of the Great Stimulus Package

The mayascopic nanoglyphs that tickled the neural tendrils below the scalp's surface and made my neck hairs get hards-on spoke to me today of "community service" (and "roads" as well btw, which we may travel down if time allows) and naturally the monkey said, "We must wait. mutt, we ain't communists!" but in fact my closet is painted pink in a most metaphorical sense and if we can (Say it, sisbrahthren: YES! WE! CAN!) CHANGE and learn some new tricks my perky puppies, and color our cubicles outside the lines and spectrum of politypical stereotype, and Think/create Different perhaps in muted shades of archetype and drop all preconceived notions that might be associated with a particular label or symbol or word, then let me tell you why i'm a freakin' commie bastid (at least the former; as the latter 'bastid' labeling is a curious tale of false and stolen identity crises/catastrophe catalyzed and catechized by contradictory comedic catholicynicism and 'tis a tale worthy of its own tick) but back on track i'm a commie because i engage in and interact within and throughout a particular community of simultaneous multiple voluntary associations, institutions and organizations. I have conscious and comfortable individualistic, anti-authoritarian (and therefore sometimes anti-social, as authority often imposes willful INvoluntary association/participation) but no man is an island and while i enjoy solitude i also thrive on fellowship and collective celebration and family but what is "community' for me and how best to SERVE?

That is the question, my sisbrahthren, for above all, I cannot deny, i am here for one purpose and one purpose alone, and that is to serve up a heapin helpin of Aluminated Love. And so, once again, my quest is but a brand new menu of the same old shit.

How can the midnight moonlit howl of the coyote or the frivolous playful antics of the monkey be harnessed as the Power to Love and feed and energize across the universal digisphere of humanity. what kind of heart-healthy blue plate comfort food greasy spoon special can i toss like a UFO into the wireless ethernet and have it arrive steaming and tasty upon your virtual lap-dog/dinner-table top?

If we can, in fact as well as fairy tale, serve ourselves/each other via virtual metaphorical flying saucers/pie plates, I'll take mine A LA MODE:





if you giggle chuckle chortle or even smile just a teeny tiny bit

You Have Been Served.

The joke's on me and the rest is on the house.

Soup dejour:

A bottomless bowl - a bubbly bisque of

say it with me:

Peas Bewitchu

optional side of lentil spray.

may i become like a child, julia.

bone ape tit.