I love walking out my front door without a plan. Destinationless, I step into Limbo and keep trekking on a whim. This Limbo road is long and lonely, but we continue in pursuit of the perfect sanctuary hangout with lively atmosphere, inside art, outside garden, refined beverages, and characters all sizzling with inspiration. This method has stimulated much spontaneous creativity, frequent synchronistic encounters, heart-pounding adventures, a handful of citations, a restraining order, and one public gastric disruption described in court as “serving no legitimate purpose.”

It’s not the particular place, it’s the state of mind, and yet an establishment can institute an atmosphere, character, and quality that encourage this state. Wit spews from the lips like rabid rivers of lava burning and drowning us dead and awakened into our dawning enlightened life…or else I could end up in Carl’s at last call (part dive bar, part Clockwork Orange) pinned to something vaguely feminine.

The true greatness of a coffee shop, brewpub, bar, or diner shall be assessed by its potential to facilitate cultural experiences that are spontaneous, dynamic, and profound. This intangible quality is the most important element of any hangout.

As a cultural facilitator, my job is to transform parties into art exhibits and art exhibits into parties. There are certain criteria to consider. The setup should encourage a free flow throughout and amongst all social circles.  We can read or reflect alone, spontaneously jump into a conversation with strangers, or lead naked conga lines.

In order to stimulate the spirit of enthusiasm, an establishment must play good music that compliments the atmosphere, characters, and mood. Provide quality goods and services, and expel anything that inhibits this ever-important soul transformation (except my friend Shag).

Spatial limitation can strangle the life out of festivities (that’s m’s job). Be careful to consider the feng shui of the place and encourage a flow that keeps the energy circulating. Time limitations also inhibit enthusiasm. This ‘last call’ experiment has failed miserably. Some of my best festivities don’t get full-flailing until dawn.  On that note, drunk tanks should have breakfast specials.

Electronic gadgets distract people from the possibility of authentic interactions and have no place in social settings. I don’t even like to see cell phones in public. Once, two people sat in stools on either side of me speaking into their cell phones. I think they were talking with each other. Look people; if you want to isolate yourself inside the grid, please do it at home. I’m here to party.

Take the television for example. It’s not possible to mingle amongst different groups or spark unplanned adventures if everyone is hypnotized by the boob tube. I have two pieces of advice for all bars regarding televisions:

1. Unless you’re trying to be a sports bar, don’t have televisions.
2. Don’t try to be a sports bar.

Fifteen years ago, I vowed to never pay for cable again. This was the greatest decision of my life (sadly, this is accurate. I really haven’t made many good decisions).  Along with this choice, I have taken steps to better tune my awareness to the spirit of authentic culture. Throughout these years, I have continued eliminating electronic gadgets and machinery from my life. Some have argued that my position is reactionary and irrational, leading to a decay in my living standard. Certainly these technologies bring their conveniences, but there is always a cost. Commitment to true art must take priority over comfort, social status, family, friends, and even my own biological survival. So now, no TV, no cell phone, no internet (not even e-mail), no car, no phone, no video games, and no electronic pocket massage toys (well, I haven’t given up Mr. Giggles).   No one is perfect.

The letter of the law shall never be permitted to strangle the Spirit of the Law (unless, of course, the spirit and the law agree upon a safe word first).

Article 1: All persons including patrons, barstaff, drunks, and derelicts have the un-ale-ienable right to life, festivity, and the pursuit of lap-dance chicks.

Article 2: The right to bare women.

Article 3: If the keg kicks before the beer is filled, the remaining brew is given to the patron for free. (The kicked pitcher dilemma has yet to be determined by the Fatty Liver Society (FLS).)

Article 4: All pint glasses must hold at least 16 fluid ounces.  Ten ounce pints?  Fuck you!

Article 5: All standard pints must be cheaper, per ounce, than standard mugs, and all pitchers must be cheaper than pints. (Does not apply to happy hour specials.)

Article 6: The bartender or barmaid may refuse alcohol to any patron for any reason…except on the basis of religion, race, gender, or affiliation to the Daily Discord (you know who you are, barkeep!).

Article 7: All jukeboxes must display the number of unselected songs not yet played, or else the staff must refund money paid for un-played songs (Notable exception: all ABBA and Phil Collins songs are non-refundable).

Article 8: The ‘play now’ option is forever banished from the bar scene (I don’t care how much cash you’re willing to spend, butting in line is unkegstitutional).

Article 9: There IS no Article 9.

Article 10: If wing dings are served instead of chicken wings, then the word ‘ding’ had BETTER appear somewhere on the menu description.

Article 11: Televisions detract from the authentic party experience.  No televisions allowed in bars (unless you are a sports bar).

Article 12: Don’t be a sports bar.

Night after night, Michael Savage generates the most entertainment bang for your meaningful discourse buck (now worth 50 cents). He’s your crazy obnoxious free-ranting uncle backed by a scientific PhD and a deep historical understanding of world events. He’s well-versed, well-spoken, principled, and enraged about all the political compromise. In between his political rants, he tells rich stories and intriguing anecdotes. But he is damn controversial: “Their women are ugly.  They cover their faces with veils. Our women are beautiful; we show em’ off in centerfolds.”  He would make a great Danish cartoonist.

Of all the talk-shows, TV, internet, or radio commentary, Michael Savage has most consistently kept my interest (barring Lesbiangladiators.com). “Borders, language and culture,” is his slogan, and the simplicity of his message, and the intensity of his conviction has transcended his character outright. Savage, of course, is not without flaws: his angry reactions sometimes lead to over-dramatization and the mis-assessment of news stories.  He is not beyond resorting to insult, name calling, and hanging-up.  Oh, and he rarely admits a mistake (such as his boycott of Lesbiangladiators.com).

From the perspective of the individual-objective (brain) quadrant, Savage rates high. He is a scientist with an understanding of history and economics. He expresses clear consistent and constitutionally based political opinions. He often has expert guests to speak about the crucial issues of our time. (B)

From the individual/subjective (self) quadrant, Savage performs fairly well. Granted he does not seem to explore any integral or transpersonal thought, but he is not without self-reflection. He often demonstrates deep personal insight and soul-searching. His interpretation of religion is often egocentric and self-serving.  But he is open-minded to exploring many other beliefs and practices (i.e., his weekly Wiccan Cannibal Necrophelia workshops).  He has studied and encourages alternative medicine and is highly critical of the quick-fix feel-good culture of psychiatry and medication.  (B +)

From the objective/plural (society) quadrant, he is often the first to spot and speak of the hypocrisy present on both the left and right. He has many enemies, Islamic organizations, such as C.A.I.R. and left wingers like Media Matters who have orchestrated campaigns to silence his “hate-speech” by petitioning his advertisers. It’s true that Savage could be bettered by an integral section to his library; I’d love to hear him and Ken Wilber debate politics. I hereby call for an integration of the nationalism of Savage with the integralism of Wilber and a Transcendence into the Transnational movement…or Transcosmetic movement as it has come to be called. (B+)

Savage is a maniac on a mission. He is the American embodiment of free speech. You may not agree with what he says, but I strongly advise you to give up your very life for his right to say it, because if his speech is silenced, then you and I are next.  Well…I’m probably next, but then I’m sure they’ll get to you, eventually—is my point.  With his recent controversy, his talk show has been elevated to the level of an epic battle between freedom and tyranny. (A –)

Oh, boohoo. Michael Savage is so mean and insulting—that’s what freedom of speech is all about, asshole. It’s the right to offend people on principle, dick wad. Savage is a recent recipient of the “Freedom of Speech Award,” but he’s not allowed to talk about it publicly.  

Is America heading toward a Fairness Doctrine ensuring that radio speech is a balanced blah between the worthless middle right and the pointless middle left? Even though Al Sharpton and Jesse Jackson have no viable audience should radio stations be forced to give them equal time with the racist Imus and the hatemonger Savage?  We could give Shari a Law defenders equal time with the redneck American Constitutionalists. Islam can be given the status of an oppressed minority as colonial Christian Teddy Bear teachers and hateful Holland Cartoonists are escorted off to sensitivity camps. Sounds very American—at least how it is currently being redefined. 

This war is a war over ideas, and Michael Savage is now on the front line. Medic!  Medic!  (Overall grade A –)

I love walking out my front door without a plan. Destinationless, I step into Limbo and keep trekking on a whim. This Limbo road is long and lonely, but we continue in pursuit of the perfect sanctuary hangout with lively atmosphere, inside art, outside garden, refined beverages, and characters all sizzling with inspiration. This method has stimulated much spontaneous creativity, frequent synchronistic encounters, heart-pounding adventures, a handful of citations, a restraining order, and one public gastric disruption described in court as “serving no legitimate purpose.”

It’s not the particular place, it’s the state of mind, and yet an establishment can institute an atmosphere, character, and quality that encourage this state. Wit spews from the lips like rabid rivers of lava burning and drowning us dead and awakened into our dawning enlightened life…or else I could end up in Carl’s at last call (part dive bar, part Clockwork Orange) pinned to something vaguely feminine.

The true greatness of a coffee shop, brewpub, bar, or diner shall be assessed by its potential to facilitate cultural experiences that are spontaneous, dynamic, and profound. This intangible quality is the most important element of any hangout.

As a cultural facilitator, my job is to transform parties into art exhibits and art exhibits into parties. There are certain criteria to consider. The setup should encourage a free flow throughout and amongst all social circles.  We can read or reflect alone, spontaneously jump into a conversation with strangers, or lead naked conga lines.

In order to stimulate the spirit of enthusiasm, an establishment must play good music that compliments the atmosphere, characters, and mood. Provide quality goods and services, and expel anything that inhibits this ever-important soul transformation (except my friend Shag).

Spatial limitation can strangle the life out of festivities (that’s m’s job). Be careful to consider the feng shui of the place and encourage a flow that keeps the energy circulating. Time limitations also inhibit enthusiasm. This ‘last call’ experiment has failed miserably. Some of my best festivities don’t get full-flailing until dawn.  On that note, drunk tanks should have breakfast specials.

Electronic gadgets distract people from the possibility of authentic interactions and have no place in social settings. I don’t even like to see cell phones in public. Once, two people sat in stools on either side of me speaking into their cell phones. I think they were talking with each other. Look people; if you want to isolate yourself inside the grid, please do it at home. I’m here to party.

Take the television for example. It’s not possible to mingle amongst different groups or spark unplanned adventures if everyone is hypnotized by the boob tube. I have two pieces of advice for all bars regarding televisions:

1. Unless you’re trying to be a sports bar, don’t have televisions.
2. Don’t try to be a sports bar.

Fifteen years ago, I vowed to never pay for cable again. This was the greatest decision of my life (sadly, this is accurate. I really haven’t made many good decisions).  Along with this choice, I have taken steps to better tune my awareness to the spirit of authentic culture. Throughout these years, I have continued eliminating electronic gadgets and machinery from my life. Some have argued that my position is reactionary and irrational, leading to a decay in my living standard. Certainly these technologies bring their conveniences, but there is always a cost. Commitment to true art must take priority over comfort, social status, family, friends, and even my own biological survival. So now, no TV, no cell phone, no internet (not even e-mail), no car, no phone, no video games, and no electronic pocket massage toys (well, I haven’t given up Mr. Giggles).   No one is perfect.

Throughout my journeys, I’ve encountered many candidates for the quintessential pub. I’m talking about those uber-bars with gritty style and spirited atmosphere, witty hip characters, stimulating conversations, and delicious beer. I’ve noticed that these greatest of taverns often experience the one same problem—lack of single women.

I’ve reflected deeply on this phenomenon, very deeply (zip). What were we talking about?

Oh yeah, why don’t single chicks hangout at cool spots? Perhaps these establishments promote an offensive vibe, and that’s the reason for these ladies’ absence? Is it possible that these floozies have been made to feel uncomfortable at these greatest of gin joints? But when I investigated into the sleazy, tacky places where these wenches did frequent…well, I realized that it was just the opposite. For some reason (possibly a deep-seeded inferiority: PDSI) American women tend to hangout at culturally dead and often sexually degrading places. They just love paying cover charges for a disco DJ with pumping primal porno music and a dance floor filled with body rubbing rejects. Wow, I feel rewarded after that stop. The ladies love it. Or how about we hangout at a big stale subdivided lounge with social cliques so tight that you have to pull your cheeks apart to fart.

“Excuse me miss, maybe you’d like to checkout the cool brewpub with yummy beers and free live jamming music next door? Or there’s the stylish pub with great beverages and characters rocking beyond last call. We’ve got a hippy bar with the best jukebox in town and an outdoor beer garden. And don’t forget the casual corner bar…Oh, you’re meeting all of your female friends at the Sugar Shack. Great.”

Why do women spend their time and money the way that they do?

The answer hides within the occult history and evolution of the sexes. The phenomenon of sex first emerged outside of a Neolithic nightclub—that they called ‘caves’—as a survival pump for the purpose of propagating the species toward light beer and bad music. This archaic impulse when harnessed through primitive tribal ceremonies—that they called ‘happy hours’—drove our ancestors toward rabid cannibalism and virgin sacrifices—that they called ‘fun.’ At this level of sexual development our urges are powerful, yet brutal. Women in ancient cultures learned that their safety depended on keeping men tangled in endless competition. In order to stay elusive they developed the survival mechanism of social shape-shifting from one identity to another. This ‘identity-shifting’ is etched deep inside women’s psyches. Men refer to this phenomenon as ‘two faced,’ ‘cock tease,’ or ‘lying scumbag bitch whore’ (LSBW).

As tribal communities arose, sexual consciousness focused on issues of survival, protection, childbearing, power, and ladies’ nights. The male warrior became identified as the protector of his female, but the woman was also identified as his possession. From this place of power, traditional kingdoms and chivalrous etiquette refined the blade of law through the social instrument of marriage. The Enlightenment then sparked the romantic expansion beyond individual identity. Personal freedom of expression now blossomed in these beautiful women who were previously mandated to the role of the subordinate. The growing educational and economic opportunities granted women expanding choices to direct her own destiny (stripper, prostitute, or battered housewife). The baby boomer revolution climaxed with uninhibited sexual experimentation (bondage, sadomasochism, or erotic asphyxiation). Now at the integralist’s level, we taste the joy of true liberation and realize that our own attachments (many of them sexually driven) have imprisoned us in our daily delusions. I recommend genital mutilation.

The history of human sexual development must be recognized, integrated, and transcended if we hope to salvage civilization and evolve into higher frequencies of sex, love, and culture. It’s not just our foreign policy that has inspired Islam to wage Holy War against the Big Satan; it’s our cultural complacency and decadence. You ladies have the difficult task of soul-searching beyond your ego’s habit of identity hopping. As you do so, you will realize just how much you invest in cultural pornography.

Yes, pornography.

Pornography is any cultural expression—TV, movie, music, literature, website, theatre, pubs, and clubs—that, by its nature, leads to a dulling, degeneracy, or complacency of those involved….you dirty skanky shit pouch, you. Pornography is any device of entertainment that inhibits people’s natural and healthy growth toward individual and cultural enrichment. Shit pouch!

How can we best bring about this cultural awakening of which I speak?

It’s time that you ladies started making more mature decisions regarding atmosphere, beverage, and music selection. Remember, you hold the power. You’ve just been stuck in a rut for an epoch or two. Please allow me to guide you on a tour of the town’s rising hot spots. Let’s crack this party to life as art waves wailing across the cosmos and then back to my place for the finale (I take my eggs medium, my homefries crispy, my coffee black, and my women in crotchless sheep costumes).

Driving. Yes, driving.  To all you multi-tasking mongrels—there are no cup holders, cell phone holders, or ashtrays in German cars for a reason. Driving is a full time job! You fudge packers can’t walk and jerk off at the same time, and you expect us to believe you can talk on the phone, text, smoke, drink, and check your atrocious Alice Cooper makeup in the mirror at the same time? Douche bags! Try driving! You get to go places and arrive intact!

See that stick to the left…right behind the steering wheel? If you push that stick down before turning left, the rest of us road-ragers-waiting-to-happen (RRWTH) will know what the fuck it is you’re about to do! Think of it! We won’t have to rely on E.S.P., remote viewing, or Travel Ouji to know what the hell you’re up to. Blood and makeup don’t mix, unless you are Alice Cooper. Every time I see someone crossing three lanes in high speed traffic to exit without using a directional (aka, the Arizona Exit), I want to cut’em off, drop their pants, duct tape them bent over to their hood, and stick the blinker stick up their ass, in the middle of the middle lane. Ah, but to dream…

Texting? Are you kidding? Anyone caught texting while driving should be bike-ridden forever. But they should be allowed (under certain circumstances) to text friends from their jail cell.  Oh yeah, and they should be prevented from having children. The recent train wreck in Caaleefawniya was caused by a short-bus special, texting at the helm.  When my mother didn’t like how I was driving, she would stand up (yes, she was that short) and smack me in the back of the head. We should all test our drivers-to-be with similarly violent teachers in the back seat.  We could start off the course by asking them to text a friend as we pull into traffic…then SMACK.  Rinse, lather, repeat.

Alternatively, in order to catch these wanna-be multi-taskers run amuck (WBMRA), we could all pack paintball guns.  We could fire at those who fail to use that helpful stick behind the steering wheel. After firing, simply call the local P.D. and have them watch for the black Nissan with the yellow splotched rear fender.

In addition to how people drive (or how they attempt to drive while texting missives about their lives to their friends), I have a few words on what people drive. If you own a four-door four-wheel-drive pickup with, say, a twelve inch lift, and do not need it to get to an inaccessible workplace, well, you are a dork. Your truck stopped being a truck the moment your modifications prevented anything from ever being placed into its bed—because it’s SIX fucking FEET off the ground! And, if you did manage, you’d have to drive only in straight lines for fear of top-heavy overturn (THO). Ah, but you have impressed your like-minded idiot friends, haven’t you?  A real man you are now!  It makes it all worth the buckboard ride, the catastrophic handling, and wonderful gas mileage. Yes, and those 36” wheels providing increased unsprung weight won’t help.  At $4.00 plus a gallon, you must feel just like the dipstick that you’ve become.

Maybe you’ve contemplated giving your wife the old Silverado for daily use (not a sexual metaphor) and driving her rolling garbage-receptacle Hyundai to work for the fuel efficiency. One word…DON’T!  Case in point: “Oh honey, there is some red light thingy on the dash. Been on for about a week. Something about oil or something. Will you fix it?” Remember where we bought the car?  Well, next time a little light flashes or noise sounds…TAKE IT THERE! It’s just like when you tell me that the “Laundry faerie” doesn’t clean our clothes; well, the fucking “Car Faerie” doesn’t keep us trucking either. Oh yeah, and there is a reason your husbands want to do the driving. Your driving scares the living shit out of us. I have many shorts that couldn’t stand the strain. And that, coming from men who regularly suspend all common sense on the road, is saying a lot.

If you are female and want to drink coffee in your car, you are hereby forbidden to use anything except sippy cups. You all are way too fucking slovenly for an adult cup. Just check your seats, cup holder and front carpets. See?  Listen, for about 10 bucks, you can have the fucking car cleaned in and out. Once a month, like your period. Next time you wake up and look at that methane factory sleeping next to you and think of only sharp knives, say to yourself “It must be time to go to the car wash.”

At the opposite end of the silly car spectrum are those little toy cars. To all those asshole drivers of little mini-me rice burners everywhere: Graduate to a “real vehicle”. Those toys with fartcan exhaust are cute for about a minute. If you try bringing me and my Ram (short bed, regular cab, two wheel drive, unlifted, no carpet, no fucking Hemi, real usable truck) to a screeching halt, I will roll over you like a speed bump. (Ram fartcan joke omitted by the FCC).  At the very least, your decapitated gourd will anoint my hood like the Flying Lady on a Rolls-Royce radiator.

Why spend mucho dollars squeezing 300 horsepower out of a 4 cylinder when (now hit yourself in the forehead) you coulda had a V8!  Jerks. When you start pushing 250 + hp out of a 2 liter, your gas mileage plummets to Hummerville. You may like the old Honda now, but try sliding your fat 40+ year old ass into that Civic.

The silly car gamut doesn’t run just from the giant tires to the matchbox toy cars. You know what I love; it’s those rolling mid-life crises with little hair flipping around those topless sports cars…with their Donald Trump lacquered comb-over standing straight up as a rooster-hawk. Dorks.

One day in ’96, my wife and I spotted a two year old Caddy Sedan DeVille at a local stealership. We took it for test drive.  When we returned, I asked her, “Well, what do you think?” Her answer was “It’s the fattest-ass, most ostentatious automobile I’ve ever encountered,” and I said “Ok, but can I have it?” I drove that big bastard 12 years and 184 thousand miles. Had N.Y. plates that read “CRUZSHIP”. Passed trucks stuck in the snow, beat almost everything at the light. Near 300 horse, massive torque, and front wheel drive. Once, when picking out a Christmas tree, I noticed everyone else’s jumbo SUVs. Some were trying to stuff the trees inside without tearing the leather.  Others planned tying it to the roof…without scratching the paint. Lots of heated discussions ensued between cursing husbands, bitching wives, and crying children.  I laughed aloud and as they all turned I pushed the remote button for the trunk. As I gazed into the standard issue “six-body trunk” (the Meadowland special), I tossed the seven-foot Frazier Fir inside diagonally and closed the lid.  I grinned ear to ear.  All this, a ride like a magic carpet, and 25 mpg! Mid 90’s Caddies—the best kept secret in motoring.  Uh oh, what the fff… I sure hope that was a speed bump.