[FairfieldLife] Parody or Truth 5
Richard can’t wait to get up. Today is the day he and Rita have plans. First, they will be venturing to Whole Foods where he is aware that quinoa is on super special. After that, on the way for a visit at the genius bar at the Apple store (Richard likes to play with these young “geniuses” to see if they are as smart as they think they are) they will stop off for a little Tex Mex in the strip mall - although it his housed in a rather humdrum part of town it boasts the best Albondigas soup which Richard plans to follow with the arroz con pollo (and maybe his guilty pleasure, the cheddar and jalapeño biscuits) and finally the house specialty - rose petal flan. Rita prefers the Posole Rojo and the Pork and Poblano stew and sometimes she will forego the dessert for a second Negra Modelo. Yes indeed, this is going to be a full and pleasant Texas afternoon and, with his camera in tow, Richard will share some snaps with the others at FFL. They will be able to see what he did today and where he went. He knows that the folks like to see what he has been doing during the day. First though, he must check the computer. Now that Dan is gone there is no longer the race to post. The post count will be his, just as it usually is. He is the king of the heap, he stands head and shoulders above the others who don’t have the endurance to hit the SEND button with the frequency and pleasure with which Richard, the pundit, does. He is the veteran, he knows the ropes, he has the comebacks, the answers, the macros stored and ready for any eventuality. Richard can wear down even the surliest, the most indignant and self righteous poster. He just laughs and laughs and laughs. It is a good life. Richard isn’t bothered if he is purportedly on the no-read list - he knows that eventually his messages could leak through the equivalent of a triple sealed and bottled Dos Equis. Those who associate him with Prairie Dogs or claim he is off his medication don’t know the truth - Richard is having fun and isn’t fun what a lot of this life is all about? You can TALK about advaitin, nididhyasana, na medhaya and abhijna all you like (and verbally duel Sanskrit terms and concepts all day long with Empty) but when it comes right down to it Richard is livin’ the life and there’s no place like Texas to be doing it.
[FairfieldLife] Parody or Truth 4
Steve rubs his eyes and focuses on the wall opposite his bed. There is a dark square where the picture of Barry used to hang. Now, in its absence, the paint beneath where the picture hung is still fresh - no longer matches the rest of the wall. That dark square reminds him of the cool dude that used to be. But there have recently been too many repetitive posts, too many screeds that sound stifled and stilted and predictable. So, the picture had to go. Steve has folded it away and laid it in the old trunk where things he no longer looks at are stored. It is the ‘dead picture’ trunk, the place he no longer accesses, the ‘dead letter box’ where old photos will eventually turn to dust. He doesn’t quite have the heart to actually throw the image out, Steve isn’t unfeeling like that, but for the foreseeable future he can not imagine himself reinstating Barry’s face to his wall. (His wife will soon find another image to cover the unattractive empty spot. It will be a poster-sized blow up of the picture Steve has of himself and the Three Stooges taken when he was a young lad. This will be his birthday gift and he will be surprised and moved by her gesture of love.) Arising from the bed, Steve thinks of his business, reflects on his children’s future and briefly considers catching a quick 20 minute meditation for old time’s sake. He decides against it and opts for 30 pushups instead; my, how times have changed. Feeling invigorated Steve ambles over to the computer, able to squeeze in 20 minutes before he has to leave for work. Checking on the nocturnal rustlings of the folks at FFL he brings his fist down on the table just hard enough to make a sound but loud enough to make an impression to suit what he is feeling. MJ has met all expectations. Two articles: one on the gum recession and necessary crown of three current meditators and one article on the dirty oven fiasco of the renting meditator back in the 70’s. Christ! Mary mother of God! He just has to reply and reply he does, only to be answered by MJ so quickly that Steve thinks he is sitting by his computer waiting to pounce. There is a counter response and the two billy goats butt heads for a good 15 minutes resulting in a stalemate. Both go away with a headache but Steve forgets about it all as he climbs into his car on his way to work. For the next 10 hours he will not have a moment to think about FFL but there will be plenty of late-night responses Steve will feel compelled to make - compelled because it is the source of the biggest laughs he’ll have all day.
[FairfieldLife] Parody or Truth?
Startling awake Ann tries to move, can’t, begins to panic in a half dream state. Glancing painfully, slowly over to the glowing clock with pressure growing in her chest she wonders if this might be the last thing she sees - the clock illuminated at 3:15am. But suddenly, there is a small release of pressure, a moan and suddenly she realizes her four dogs surround her on the bedcovers, one of them lying on her chest the others curled around her, hemming her in. With immense relief flowing into the place where fear had resided moments earlier she vows to make a trip to the pound first thing in the morning to see if she might find another little puppy soul in need of rescue - you can’t have too many dogs and the husband can find room on the guest bed if necessary. As it is, he’s in deep shit for all of those nudes he’s been snapping up in the studio above the barn. What, does he think - that she's blind? Those models are young and firm and beautiful - that’s it, she fumes- forget the guest bedroom, he can have the doghouse (yet to be built). 3:15, 3:30, 4:00am and no sleep seems destined to return on this early morning so, in anticipation of catching Barry in some flagrant lie or odious posting, she leaps to her feet scattering the snoozing pooches, and heads to the office and her computer. With eager anticipation Ann studies the screen. FFL exists in her mind as that sacred place where she once again connected with her old cult leader Robin, and who she secretly yearns would allow her to once again sit at his feet and gaze up into his intriguing visage in order to hang on with adoration his every word. Those were the days, if only she could once more be back there with him, in the glow of his consciousness and his charisma. But, Barry must never know this, no one must know this. Just like they must never realize that Ann is secretly planning on attending the Mother Divine course in Fairfield. They must never know that she channels Maharishi while seated in full lotus in front of her shrine to all things TM or that she offers healing sessions using lead-based body painting sessions while yodeling in Yiddish. All of it must remain a secret from her friends at FFL. Dwelling on this, she is unaware that the time has passed so quickly and now it is time to don her overalls and gum boots and head out to do the barn chores. As she picks up the pitch fork and scoops the first large poop pile she can find she sighs and is relieved no one knows the truth - she is only a poop picker- she has never sat on a real horse in her life. Oh, how we can create perfect lives via the internet and most of the time no one will ever find out the truth.
[FairfieldLife] Parody or Truth 2
Intro: MJ, Michael J, sometimes taking a razzin’ for having the same moniker as black pop singer Michael Jackson but our white MJ doesn’t care. He has his name and he’s his own man and this Michael, this white MJ is a baker. He has marathon baked, he has filled the bellies of those not fit to scrub his cake pans. Our Michael has slaved over breads that could rival the Taj Mahal in their perfect symmetry and aesthetic appeal. And oh, the taste! The melt-in-your-mouth transcendental experience is famous from the Southern states up into the corn and hog belt of the midwest. Yes, MJ brought confection so sublime to the small town that is home to the mum of all MUMs. But MUM disappointed our mild-mannered baker, she done him wrong, in short - MUM turned out to be a colossal bitch. A day in the life: Michael lets out a guffaw and leans back in his chair wiping the tears from his eyes - tears which are the result of having read one of the best comebacks from Sal and Barry to Steve he has read on FFL. He is feeling good this morning. He has managed to find two articles exposing the chicanery of TM and all who practice it. This first particular article is a doozy; wait until Barry and Sal get a load of this, he thinks - his best find yet. Apparently, according to the article, it was discovered that three residents of Fairfield were found to have gum recession upon visiting their dentist on their semi-annual check up. In addition, one of the three also required a crown. Now this was a goldmine of information and definite proof of TM’s false claims and Maharishi’s lies BECAUSE THE THREE PEOPLE WERE LONG TIME MEDITATORS. The second “find” was almost as good. It seems that in 1976 an TM initiator had left a house he had rented without cleaning the oven and still demanded his deposit back. Now surely the rest of those sycophants at FFL will have to admit that Maharishi was a liar and a fraud, not to mention an old goat. Surely this will prove, without a doubt that I, MJ has been right and am now vindicated. With the SEND button activated and both incriminating pieces of evidence safely posted to his favorite forum, MJ sighs and feels that things are looking up. HIs work, for the moment, is done. He stands to stretch for a moment but a thought strikes him. “What if I am on the no-read” list of the sycophants. He begins to frantically wonder if they might never see what he has posted here. He begins to perspire, he is feeling shaky - all that he thinks should happen may not happen at all. The horror, the waste! All his time, his efforts, his endless hours of pursuit toward what is right and good may go unseen. There is only one thing to do: find others on other forums, on Facebook on his own blog that will read what he has to say, oh, and bake a half dozen cream pies to throw at the pictures of those in the movement who done him wrong. He has them hung all in a neat row; today it will be Boston cream pie for the bastards.
[FairfieldLife] Parody or Truth 3
Intro: Delta Dawn, Dr Dumbass, Fleetwood; whatever the handle, the infinite reality of consciousness remains the same. The outside might reflect one thing but the inside is unmoving and is untouched by whether the mortal coil wears stilettos or a stethoscope. This is a being who doesn’t let gender, age, hair color or chosen profession overshadow the profound nature of what lies beneath or within. This is a (wo)man for all seasons, someone undeterred by doubters; a being in trousers or skirt who is just as willing to peruse the lingerie aisle as the check out the drills and band saws in aisle 6. But with diversity amid the unchanging lies the sad fact that others will seek to undermine, to mock and yet, what does our hero(ine) do? We will see shortly… A day in the life: The coyotes have run amuck. Deer tracks trace their cloven way this way and that over the sand and coarse grasses indicating general confusion amid the fear. Mac is anxious to check the photos from the night before. Surely there will be some worthwhile images of startled eyes, graceful limbs and perhaps a coyote and deer together in one lucky image. But first, there is a song to finish recording, the sixth this week then a download and voila, a full shelf of recorded music to access when the mood takes him. Whether composing or listening to the fruits of his labors, it all works. Oh wait, there’s an impulse to check out the niggling feeling to log onto FFL. One must never ignore the finer impulses, they are often the important ones so Mac glides over to his work station which houses his paints, recording equipment and computer (dodging the laden mantel piece overflowing with trophies and ducking under the myriad gold stars hanging from an artistic installation from his ceiling) and types the magic letters that will allow him access to FFL. But first he is overcome with waves of anticipation, with pervasive awareness of all that has been, all that is and all that is yet to come. It all blends together in a kind of simultaneous timelessness infused with a richness that he is faintly aware he wished Barry could experience. Shaking his head gently, he proceeds to move his attention to the screen. And there it is - the shadows of characters barely formed. Like struggling newborns or underdeveloped fetuses the energy of those participating on FFL reach out their tentacles of ignorance toward his intelligence which takes it all in with wonder and with a certain empathy. But take it in he does and with the skill inherent in those with access to the finer impulses of life he molds and deflects - sometimes with humor and sometimes with a kind of divine wrath. All the while this is happening he is getting an idea for his next painting, his next garden layout, his next musical creation. Wandering away from the computer and the clamoring “noise that wants to follow him like a swarm of grumpy wasps Mac finds himself drawn to the sunset just settling over the rocks, the sage, the tall grasses. As he breathes it all in, through his nose, his eyes, his very skin he thinks of Leiden, of Victoria, of Fairfield, the deep south (including Texas), San Francisco and even England and he imagines who he might be next time in his next reincarnation at FFL and who it will piss off and who will welcome it and why it might be so.
