The Red Headed Cinema Society

(The Red-Headed Cinema Society is an independent production and does not represent the view of the management. Da WWWiz became acquainted with Mr. Swann during a shared non-voluntary vacation at one of Germany's finest mental institutions. We became friends and stayed pen-pals, always in touch since that marvelous time together, talking about movies, playing chess, and stealing each others cigarettes, medication and juice boxes. I have translated this manuscript from Swann's native Hottentot, which is published here at Da WWWiz for the amazement and amusement of an English audience. I have no direct affiliation or concern for the stated material - Mgmt.

Editor's Note: Aug 18, '09 - Da WWWiz has just returned from performing his 4th Concerto for Bassoon and '68 Volkswagon Horn, with the Sydney Symphony Orchestra. I just sat down to read the Swann post and I must apologize. I don't really know Hottentot. In fact, in our twenty year friendship, I have never understood a single word he said or wrote. He urged me to publish expeditiously, with a series of glottal clicks and grunts. A quick google and I was able to find a program, Hot-to-trot for Hottentot, a free translator. What I didn't know was the severity of Swann's literacy. He prefers TV, and of course, the movies, and apologizes that he is a 'sydlexic'. Well, I have standards here at Da WWWiz, and have corrected and clarified the text, and added some missing links.

While I was away in Sydney, Swann called my answering service (yeah - I'm old school) and left a rambling, incoherent message. He says although his dates are correct, that he is actually sending me this stuff from backward in time. 3 years and 14 days back, where the world of today exists in a near perfect copy. Carrot Top, says he, is in fact a Smokey the Bear - a Time Cop onto his scent. Swann told me that he payed off the Time Cops, but that Carrot Top was a rogue boy scout and too honest for the graft. CT can't read or send future email, or make future phone calls, as Swann himself devised the technology and possesses its only fabrication. I called his mom in Monrovia, on the west coast of Africa. She hasn't seen him in '...a moon and a day...'. I know this guy, he never even goes outside. What to make of it all? I await further dispatches from Swann. If and when they come, I will provide an update.)

The Red-Headed Cinema Society

- by Mr. Swann, date and whereabouts unknown.

The shocking unravelment to follow is a fiction that has tumbled and crumbled from a towering crown of absolute truth. The truth remains, swaddled by an enigma. Mummy truth. Dichotomy is the soul of the parable. I don't think the dichotomy can be divided, but to my way of mind only choice is objectively sound. What you can and can not do, man. Simple. And it's your choice, good reader. As for me, I'm just a dreamer. A punk pirate. A raconteur and small-time scoundrel. Nothing more.

So I've got this here perfect moonlight camp-fire thriller, and I think it's a honey. Read on at your peril, stranger.

The entries attributed to myself and about me are true-ish, and come directly from my correspondence with a man known to me only as Carrot Top. I've cleaned them up for clarity and style and to make-up my face a bit for the performance. It may be in a tuxedo, but it is still a penguin.

The references to/comments from Carrot Top are fictional. He (she/it?) has threatened to put a hurtin' on your humble narrator for revealing his identity or the wording of his comments. Or has he? Is it a shell game or the welted sting of a cheap gauntlet? How can we hope to discern?

The data, says he, is all I can use. What's funny is I don't know his real name or anything about him. All I conceal is his factual yet fake nom de romance, and some temporal events that could not be authenticated shy of a full on government inquiry. I couldn't be bothered, myself.

My world is unlocked. And who am I? You can call me Mr. Swann (say sfAHN, if you please). I dwell in a theater of reverie and all are welcome. We love the movies. The fantasy of movies. The moon is a Silver Screen. The moon is the lens of a projector. In a night forest, we gaze at the moon and stars, not to worship or to plan or to indict, but to wonder at the beauty of it all, and party like it's 1999.

Our story is not for the weary or the weak of heart. It is heavily cross-referenced, tangential and esoteric. You've got to know your movies, occult science and what not, or at least want to know about these things. Here is for the phony-curious and the crazy-brave, who like your Swann, are too stupid not to rush-on-in where angels will only gape in awe. Come with me, my pasty little friend! Come along on the endless journey of a tumbleweed.

There are a few points to be promoted. We must fill our rucksacks for an epic.

The focal point of our journey around the wide mouth of the maelstrom is the movies, and is instigated by a special interest in The Big Lebowski. This film shall be called TBL, and it is no mere abbreviation (q.v.). Other key films are Arlington Road (AR), Raising Arizona (RA), Burn After Reading (BAR), and Eyes Wide Shut (EWS). There are many more. A particular film will be named by its anagrammatic shorthand (notarikon) or its title. You'll get to know these films and codes as we proceed, but try not to worry too much. All the info and context is threaded right into the story, and you can verify it all on the weird and wiggly world wide web, should you care to do so. The trick to reading an esoteric text (taught to me personally by the Smelly Llama), is to just imaginate that you get it without really trying to get it at all. Then come the answers. Like lightning.

There's lots of numbers, dates, figures and tech. Don't get bogged down, just bask in the gentle rhythm of a mystery, mein jungen freunde. Again, if you trust the internal text, it's all in there. Ja-pan-easy.

Let's put the 'fun', back in 'funeral'!

Before we enjoy the exchange between Carrot Top and Swann, we need a quick light-and-sound check. On the stage, in movies and in our dreaming lives, the cameo of a character can be inferred by a wealth of visual and aural cue-ing. The way an old man walks, the glint of puck in the eye of a trickster, a warm and loving voice. You get me. The written word poses another challenge. I will strive to convey the precise emotional tone of Carrot Top's purloined letters, but I may fail in this regard. I am, after all, only a superhuman godbody gone cuckoo for Co-Co Puffs. A cinch to err in noways divine.

This is why The Read Headed Cinema Society must be regarded as fiction. Not even as a memoir. A bed-time rhyme of chills and thrills and clashing wills, and dat's dat.

To mark the character of Swann, I'll tell a story of my salad youth, a tale within a tale. As a squirt, I somehow decided (not sure just where or when) that life was a game, and even moreso some phantasmical Grand Guignol. A funny, terrible, horrible farce. It seemed that one might play a role, act a fool - in the spirit of the Great Game. Life is a smorgasbord of chances, and I wanted to try them all, with only my aesthetics as a menu. For my trouble, I developed the standing of a charming rapscallion who was overweening cocksure and a little shady, too. Instead of making friends I recruited a circle of rivals. All of my 'hey how are ya, Swann's' and 'come on's over for dinner', or 'let's catch a movie, Swannie, ol boyo's' were invitations to a fight club. Not my style. Swann just a-wanna have fun, and I usually do. If I come off as if I never lose, it's because I don't. Losin's just another word for freedom from nuthin'.

I gotta be me. Je suis I am a pot of jam - and in it for the love of the game.

As I matured into adulthood I began to withdraw evermore from the big social cluster-fuck, sought a quiet path, and found happiness and peace. After I time I put a toe into the Internet. I especially enjoyed the gunslinging mudslinging at the better and less restricted forums, though I failed to find my topical niche. Round about '98, I started a now defunct blog of poetry, alpine exploits, cinema nostalgia and deep field anthro-anatomical research. The site was called I am a Mast, and the Sea Wind fills my Soul.

One essay, The Difference in Length of the Large Intestines of the Asian, Caucasian, and Black African Races, was an instant classic, and rocked the world of Colo-Rectal hobbyism. An anonymous lurker commented on an oblique link between my analysis, an ancient Egyptian ritual, and the movie TBL. I was boggled and wanted to know more, but he didn't come back to fill me in.

Now it happens, as was often the case back in the daze, my personal email was attached to the blog. What kinda of tube steak am I... ?! I dunno. Well about a fortnight past and some ten years gone, I found an email from this same anon poster, who introduced himself at last as Carrot Top.

We came to agree, thought Swann, on the kind of a partnership kin to that of a mountain assault duo. Batman and Robin. A King and his Fool. Knowing my own role, I chose to play the friendly, edgy and ingenious fool to the hilt. This was a mistake. I thought we were Laurel and Hardy, who were off-screen the dearest and lifelong friends, and such was the mirror of my heart's desire. Instead, Carrot Top would cast himself as General Patton and me as the whimpering slack-hard goldbricker that needs a fresh slap to the face.

Or, is it another story, somehow magickally the flip side of the coin? Who is playing and who is being played? Exposed is the fragile architecture of promises. Not at all bomb-proof, although one might say that this ought to be discovered and assimilated in the playground and not the mountain side or noble chair.

And Swann? Who is he? A hypocrite and charlatan? A dancer in the dark? A con man? A Svengali? A phantom? All of the above? And what of Carrot Top? What's his stake in all of this madness?

Let's find out together.

And now, without any further adieu...

The Red Headed Cinema Society

...or...

Game of Death

July 29, 2009 10:29 PM -from Carrot Top

Hellooo? Swann? The lights are on. Is anybody home? I'm not a spammer, just putting out my feelers.



July 28 2:30 PM - from Swann

All right sir,

You have my attention. Who are you?



July 28 9:15 PM - from Carrot Top

Remember me? I was anonymous. The Lebowski guy, back on your old blog. I've got an idea, fruit of your essay on intestinal length variance, and I thought I'd spill my guts. Not to publish, at least not yet. It's a little far out, but I want your eyes.

Look here? What do you think?

Maybe I'm reading to much into this, but my theory is that this image represents the hypercube, found in the films of Kubrick, as discussed by a guy calling himself The Wrong Way Wizard. And I can link it all to 'Fat Man', the nuke dropped on Nagasaki.

July 29 2:22PM - from Swann

Hey Carrot Top (or should I call you Mr. Longstocking?)

I can hardly fuckin' believe it man?! I know that guy, The Wrong Way Wizard. We met while traveling Germany. Real asshole, but we still talk.

You got me, I am hooked.

Please share, I promise that anything discussed in these mails will remain confidential until you say otherwise. I don't think it's far out at all. Could we be talking about the use of secret technology?

Don't leave me hanging on. I am swinging in the wind, here.

July 29 4:43 PM -from Carrot Top

Please, I prefer Carrot Top.

Where to begin...

The Big Lebowski details the events of 9/11. I'll get into it later. 9/11. Hiroshima/Nagasaki. It's all in there. For the academic, it's the Egyptian Mystery School. The Isis and Osiris, Brother and Sister, Husband and Wife thing.

I can't really lay out the background in any brief way. TBL opens on Aug 6, '90. Hiroshima, was Aug 6, 45 years earlier. The WTC groundbreaking ceremony is a near collision on Aug 5, '66. We end with a funeral, on Aug. 11, '90. This date, Aug 11, was also the originally planned date of the 'Fat Man' bomb at Nagasaki, in '45. It was changed to Aug 9 for better weather.

The championship patch is a square in a square. ABC can also be 123, right? Well then the next symbol would be 4D - fourth dimension. A hypercube. The Dude wears this shirt but once, on Aug 11,'90. 45 years prior to the planned Nagasaki bombing, Swann.

Is your mind blown yet?

The Twin Towers had a 'tube in a tube' structural support. More like 'cube in a cube'. Ground is breaked on 8/5/66, next day, 8/6/66, they start to build. 666, Swann. And 8/6 too, as in to 'eighty-six' or 'deep-six'. The Towers were built to collapse like a game of Jenga. 'Pancaked' is the word. Right down into the underworld.

1963-1969 included Dr. Strangelove, 2001, Kennedy Assassination, The Apollo program and the Twin Towers. '66, right smack in the middle, is the year of birth. The Year One.

As TBL begins we see Papa Bush saying 'this will not stand'. This was recorded on Aug 5, '90. All the while the Dude kites another check, with Sept 11, '91 for a date. Aug. 5-6 are blended with 9/11.

July 30 2:23 PM - from Swann

Holey Fat Man, Batman! I can't believe it never occurred to me that the Towers may have been built to fail, but it makes a lot of sense.

As for your other observations: they are subtle and compelling. You have a hell of a mind, my friend.

Re: the bowling patch. When I first looked at it, your original words about Nagasaki were still fresh in my mind. The 'pin' that is 'hanging' from the letter 'A' could be 'a bomb' being dropped. A-Bomb, I think. I don't own a copy of TBL but I recall the Big Lebowski calling the Dude 'a bum' repeatedly and with special stress. Is 'A Bum' also A-Bomb? In such a case, is the Dude a meta 'Fat Man'?

Looking into the word 'dude' I am interested to discover that it was originally synonymous with the phrase 'fastidious man', which also gives us a hidden 'Fat Man'.

I also note the term 'pin' as in 'bowling pin'. The word 'pin' has a special meaning in Hebrew Mysticism. Vav, which means 'pin', is the sixth letter of the Hebrew Alphabets. Vav is called 'the mark of Cain'. Vav is used as analog to the English letters F, V and revealingly, U. In this way we can see the term 'Dude' also as 'David', written DVD in Hebrew. I'm not sure why, but think this may be a key.

I have found an online screenplay and plan to read it today.

To close for now, let me say this: I'm psyched that you are sharing this info with me. I would like to be your research assistant on this one. Whatever I discover, I promise you, will always be completely credited to you, when and if you choose to publish. I just want to help, because I think you are onto something.

Also, what about O.P.E.? OPE is the recall code from Dr. Strangelove. So there is your A-Bomb connection. What connection, you demand? Well, if you look at Raising Arizona you will find these same letters emblazoned in graffiti on a public bathroom doorway. So we get Bomb/Kubrick/Coens, and right to smack down the polished bowling lanes of TBL.

Aug 1 1:05 AM -from Carrot Top

A-bomb, of course! More grist for my proofs. The inverted A is the crown of Osiris. The Dude as David fits to a tee. A bomb that doesn't explode is a dud.

The Beatles Abbey Road Album cover, taken 8/8/69. I have the Dude rubbed out as Osiris on 8/6/90, and resurrected 8/8/90. This day is 21 years after Paul McCartney was also brought back from the dead.

Bridges' Dude is fat! Is he a Buddha? Or something else entirely?

Take the Red Pill.

The Mighty Osiris ('pill', from above). What do you make of the headgear.

And the O.P.E thing. What a find, Swann! I never made the connection, but you ferreted it out, alright. You my friend, are the bomb.

Aug 1 1:50PM - from Swann

You are taking me to task and I love it.

The crown of Osiris is a bowling pin. Hilarious. Reminds me of the Woody Harrelson flic, Kingpin.

It is more than interesting that you bring up 'The Beatles', as I am working up a riff on the John Lennon/Rosemary's Baby connection. I am now fascinated to find such a link in TBL.

I have bought TBL and have watched it once. I will watch it again today and email you later tonight with some thoughts. Because of what I have learned from you thus far, my first viewing was, let's say, 'pregnant' with meaning.

I am Blown Away!

I suspect that many or all of my observations may be familiar. I've already got a corker I'm hoping you might have missed, as I would be very pleased to return in kind to you the added appreciation of this incredible work of ART.

I am confused but intrigued, by the reference to the number '156' that is featured in TBL (by Walter, at the dance recital).

Also, would you please clarify your earlier statement that 1966 is 'the year of birth'? Just what do you mean by this?

Anyhow, I'm off to watch the flick.

Until tonight.

... later, at 6:07 PM

I have so many thoughts. I need a couple of days to sort it all out. Man, you have opened my eyes.

Here is the corker that I thought you might have missed. It relates to 9/11, so you may have caught it already. I wouldn't be surprised.

When the nihilists get pancakes, the first two order the Lingonberry Pancakes. The third nihilist orders 'pigs in a blanket'. The girl nihilist, after a pause for translation, orders the Lingonberry Pancakes. Let's say that 'pancake' refers to buildings 1, 2 and after a pause 7 of the WTC. The 'pigs in a blanket', which is in the interstice between 2 and 7, are the police and fire fighters covered in the dust from buildings 1 and 2.

To strengthen this metaphor, we have the fact that the girl nihilist is played by Aimee Mann. A while after TBL, Mann would perform music for the soundtrack to 'Magnolia', which features a pair of bros named Solomon. WTC Building 7, as you know, was the Salomon Bros. Building, where stood a Red Rose abstract sculpture, at the entrance. So, building 7 was feminine in nature. Girl Nihilist/Building 7.

A final thought for tonight. Mann fronted a band called 'Til Tuesday', a name that has spectral overtones in the light of the above connections. Terrible Two's-day, Sept 11, 2001...

Aug 1 11:22 PM - from Carrot Top

Rosemary's Baby, eh? What have you got, Swann?

Work of ART, right on. Art is also Artemis or Cynthia. Cynthia is the name of Walter's ex in TBL.

The 156? It's the 911 phone number code used in The Czech Rep., Turkey and Colombia. I'm sure there is more.

Bush's 'This will not stand' repeated twice, on 8/5/90, 24 years to the day after the WTC groundbreaking.

As for the pancake house scene, I've seen it all but the Salomon/Solomon link, and your nice timing of the nihilist's breakfast orders. The menus are shaped like a stack of pancakes. 'Pigs in a blanket' could be the dust from the falling towers, as you say, but I think it's about 'mummification'. The bandaged foot, the Dude in his beige terry towel robe, Maud in her voluptuous green cape. All of them mummies.

...later, on Aug 2 1:02 AM

There are a variety of facets to the Dude's 69 cent check for his milk, at Ralph's. The transit number is 2587. These numbers just happen to total 22. This number 2857, flies above the 91 from the date and the 69 from the value of the check. 91 and 69. 9169 totals 25 and 25 totals 7. 22/7 is the Pi. You don't mess with the pie. The Dude gestures toward the 42 and 69. 42, is the notorious solution to 'the meaning of life, the universe, and everything', given by the Ultra Mason Richard Adams in The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. 69 is a favorite of Aleister Crowley both as the ritual and normal act of oral sex.

A moratorium on blue whale hunting was instituted in 1966, that ubiquitous year again. I was born in '66, so that's what I mean about the birth thing. A whale on the check, a whale in his tub. Is the Dude in some way also a whale? Put your mind to it, Swann.

Bowling with Walter and Donny, in the first act of TBL, the Dude vogues as Christ crucified, with a hole, or wound in his t-shirt, on the side. The side where Christ was also speared. Walter seems like Satan to me, with his lizard yellow eyes for shades. So this scene is Jesus, meeting the Deceiver, in the desert, and leads Christ to a strained reconciliation with his demiurge father, the Big Lebowski.

You know Swann, I would never have tuned in to all of this shit except for your wise tutelage. You are the master, and I the pupil. I just wanted to tell you, in case you don't already know it.

Aug 3 1:53 AM - from Swann

Talk about Pandora's Box. This movie is so deep (or mountain high) I am going into hypoxia. Although I feel I have a firm relative grasp, when I begin to try and organize I am awestruck at the enormity of it. In my youth, I was a mountaineer and rock climber. No mountain I climbed or dreamed of climbing poses an equal challenge to the monolith that is TBL.

For today's attack I wish to outline some themes and ask a question.

Themes:

- What is a He-ro, really?
- O.P.E.
- Receiving 'The Mark' (Hitting the Head Pin)
- The 'Plus One' problem
- Jesus and the Dude
- Eyes Wide Shut (All in the Family)
- Fixing the Cable
- Freeload vs. Freefall

The Stranger's question from his opening ramble, '...cuz what's a hero?...' seems directed at the audience. The term 'He-Ro' can be translated into Hay-Rho, which means 'Seed-Head'. Hay is the Hebrew word meaning window or seed. The Greek letter Rho is akin to the Hebrew Rosh/Resh, which means head. He-ro is 'seed head'. I think 'pot-head'. Moreover a transliteration of the English word 'hero' has a gematria value of 211. The same value is calculated for the Biblical Hebrew term for 'hero'. Stupendous. The letters in question are Hay-Resh-Vav. 5-200-6 = 211. As discussed Vav means 'pin'. So the transliteration of 'hero' encodes both 'pot(seed)head' and 'pinhead'. His head is a bowling pin. Now get ready for the turkey. 211 is also the value for the following Hebrew expressions, all from the Old Testament. 211 = pregnant. 211 = to be stoned. 211 = to inhale drugs. 211 = Shine like the Sun. 211 = A Briefcase(!). 211 = A Cliff or Promontory. 211 = to fly. The list goes on.

O.P.E., our Kubrick Konnection from Strangelove, has a killer kaballah. It becomes Vav-Peh-Hay and equals 91, which adds even more pitch to the meaning of the date on the Ralph's check. It is interesting to note that Check is Czeck, which hints at the 156 connection to 911 that you have instructed. I will clarify this when I discuss 'The Plus One Problem'.

There is a sign at the lanes that reads 'Hit the Head Pin'. This seems the key to the Dude's head crunching adventure. Recall that 'vav' meaning 'pin' is called, in esoterica, The Mark of Cain, which is in turn the generational essence of the Messiah (to come?). This 'pin' serves as the 'V' in the Hebrew 'David'. I intend to do a complete survey of the Dude's concussions, but as a teaser... the Dude is Harry Potter. When his 'head' is shoved into the 'head' he is a Hairy-Potty-Pin-Head? The puns seem to generate themselves without limit. I actually think, at this point, that there is a deliberate reference in TBL to the Kennedy Assassination.

'The Plus One Problem' is theoretical gematria, but hang on, cuz itz da bomba. We need to look at two numbers: 156 and 217. To begin, I correct a serious error in my Lingonberry Pancake analysis. The actual order of the collapse of the Towers was 2, then 1, and then 7. Our next step is to consider the Dude's head injuries, both literal and metaphoric, of which I count six. The toilet baptism (counted as 'one'), Big says, 'Tattoo it on your forehead!', knocked out on the rug, christened by Maud's paint, the Mickey Finn at Treehorn's (Fin the Fifth), and the coffee cup nut cracker. Donnie's ashes may also serve the same model, but I tend to think of this final blow as a coup de grace. It is worth noting that 6 (Vav, The Mark) x 7 = 42. 42, from the check at Ralph's. 42 is a secret code for the Messiah, as explained by The Wrong Way Wizard's last blog, and also in his EWS expose. So we have Six main blows to the Dude's head = 6 blows of Vav. I think this is a 666 related clue. We both know well that 23 is a glyph of 666. 23 is also 2/3 which is decimal .666666... The Dude tends to favor lane 22 (666-1), 23 (666) or 24 (666+1). Stay with me here Rusty, cuz we're rolling rocks. Now it happens that 6x6x6=216. 'The Plus One Problem' makes this into 217, which takes the sentimental mind to the pancake house scene and the collapse of WTC 2, 1 and 7, on Sept 11, 2001. To really get the theory you must reload the speech of The Architect to Neo from The Matrix. Neo, we learn, is the sixth appearance of an anomaly that typifies the inability to balance a simple mathematical equation. Neo is the One, the 'plus one' of this problem. Deeper still we find that a new TV series called 'Fast Forward', to air this fall, tells the story of the sudden unconsciousness of a mass of people, for 2 minutes and 17 seconds. What I am suggesting is that this unconsciousness (black out) is the side effect of a blow to the head. It's Jack and Jill, for Christ's Sake! Now, onto 156, which you think encodes 911. I can affirm this. Let's look again at the letters O.P.E. The gematria of 91 discussed above is based on a 'phonetical' transliteration. But what about a letter comparison. Well it turns out OPE adds up to 155, where the O is taken based upon a direct symbolic similarity to the ancient Hebrew letter Ayin. The ancient Hebrew Ayin, which means 'eye', looks liked an English capital letter 'O'. We are told in TBL that 'Branded', Walter's beloved TV western serial, is connected to the number 156. The Plus One Problem of The One now metastasizes into the Numerical 'Brand' 156. O.P.E. with either Vav or Ayin, is a glyph for The Mark of Cain. The Third Eye. The Eye is Ope'd. Dope.

TBL's Jesus Quintana (John Turturro) has a lot in common with the Dude. As discussed, 'dude' means 'fastidious man'. It is Jesus and not the Dude who is so neat in his dress. Jesus' partner Liam looks and acts a little like Walter. Is Liam/Walter also Peter, the Rock? C'est possible. Jesus says he doesn't 'care what day it is'. The Dude doesn't 'know' what day it is. I think this a direct reference to the promise of the end of ritual observance that is meant to follow the ultimate sacrifice of the Messiah. Resurrected in Christ, you can roll any day you want to, including Shabbos. And Jesus the pederast, what of him? This must be seen as a direct jab at the ribs of the Unholy Roman Church, which 'exposes' Jesus to all the little children. When Jesus rolls his strike, the image is reversed in camera. The lane numbers appear backwards. Quintana is a profound mirror image of the Dude. Jesus exposes. The Dude 'is exposed'. He has some johnson.

The Eyes Wide Shut parallels are striking. When the Dude is summoned to meet with Big, it is to strains of Mozart's Requiem. The same music plays in Sharkey's just before Bill meets Zeigler in EWS. This pairing also includes the inspection of a 'paper' that describes the predicament of a mysterious woman. Newspaper/Cutout Ransom Note. Treehorn is, I think, Red Cloak from the ritual at Somerton. The proceedings at Treehorn's are remarkably like those at Somerton Estate. One of these things just doesn't belong - Dr. Bill/The Dude/The Outcast. TBL's Maud puts on a robe in front of a window, EWS's Alice disrobes in the same tableau. There is another hidden link to both Magnolia and Boogie Nights. BN's porn-monger/father figure is named Jack Horner and Dirk Diggler is DD is David is Dude. When you really look at the themes, casting and character names in EWS, BN, Magnolia and TBL, a shape emerges. Inbreeding. You are right if you call 'fertility ritual', as you did in your first note, back on my old blog. I however, would say 'fucked-up genetic experiment'. Much more to the heart of it.

Logjammin', the mini porno, is a compact mirror of TBL and reveals the Big Egyptian Sand Job. Nihilist Uli's alter Hungus is the diameter of his counterpart. When he says he'll 'fix the cable' he is talking about re-attaching the severed penis of Osiris, which is just the opposite of what he promises to do to the Dude.

Next is a theory that I feel quite strongly about, that links the events of 9/11 and the subsequent and programmed financial collapse of the US Dollar. We start by taking the Dude as a simulacrum of the eternal Christ, or Green Man Osiris. When he proclaims, 'The Dude Abides', he is describing his eternal nature, although in his self designed world of amnesia, he's never quite sure about it. Have you seen Walk Hard: The Dewey Cox Story? The title alone gives it all away, but I am concerned with Dewey's last words on stage, and in life, as he sings his last song. The lyric is about 'accepting your mortality', and 'paying your dues'. Dewey Cox is the Dude (Dew'd) dancing to a different tune. Cox has acquiesced, or been re-educated to give natural up his immortality. The Dude is a harder case. The counterpoint is between the notion of 'paying' your way through life and then paying the final 'price', which is death - the bill at the end of the show - or the alternative, found in the ways of the Dude, who is neglectful and consistently reminded that he is not meeting his financial and social obligations, and who harbors the secret faith in his own immortality. In this way he is a 'freeloader' and also 'free'. Now here's a bit of philosophy - kind of a 'butterfly flaps it's wings' sorta thing. Suppose that TBL is actually an intricate threat to real 'Dudes' out there - a cryptic attempt to reprogram freeloaders into achievers. The real world events of 9/11 serve to illustrate the failure of this threat to connect with it's intended readership. The literal truth of the state of our advertised reality is that it all falls apart if 'just one' lunkhead defaults on his rent and refuses to pony up and die already. When the Towers fell it was because someone somewhere, probably a male of 'high' intelligence, completely subverted the agenda hidden in the programming of TBL. The Rosemary's Baby Experiment to bring Horus into the World as God has hit a speed bump, because 'just one' hu-man won't 'buy it' and accept that humanity needs to 'evolve'. It is this force, the Dude, which abides, and foils the trans-human plan. The events of 9/11 are not the success of the New Order but the harbinger of their complete defeat. Movies and a myriad of programming in the tradition of 2001:ASO, The Shining, EWS, TBL, the Paul Thomas Anderson ouvre and countless other mystery school mind-fucks could not cement their argument to this special class of slackers. The Towers fell because at least one 'jerk-off' just wouldn't pay up the pyramid. The structure of reality, of finance, and of the Towers that stood for the power of Money, just couldn't handle 'the load'.

Obviously, I am only just beginning to explore this masterwork of Masonic chicanery, and I have alot more I'd like to discuss.

You know, I'm a 66'er. 10 lbs and 7 oz. A bouncing blue-eyed boy from Brazil, who has no taste for the dingy job description.

I know that I have opened quite a few issues in this mail. I am quite ardent for your opinions, however critical, and for your further insights into TBL.

Aug 4 1:26 AM - from Carrot Top

I don't follow gematria or kaballah, so you'll have to cover that corner. The Coen's are probably into it, so maybe it's of value, but I'm not sure. I'm talking about saving lives here Swann. I'm not playing around.

The Head pin signs 'H' is often obscured by Walter's giant cabasa, leaving E-A-D. I think I know a Mason ( he won't admit it, or deny it), who is a TBL nut-job. He thinks that E-A-D may be musical. E-A-D in the scale of E is 1-4-7. Well guess what, 147 on a keypad, is the leftmost file, like a Masonic pillar. So what about the other pillar, 369. TBL's red carpet premiere: Mar 6, 1998 is 369. (1+9+9+8 is 27. 2 and 7 makes 9)

2001:ASO was produced in '66. What about Rosemary's Baby? Also '66?

The Dude Ralph's card number hides a Sept 16. What about it?

And 217? What can I say? You have nailed it one more time. Off with my head!... er, I mean hat.

Sacramento is the cap of California. I read Sacrament and Toe. The severed toe is returned to the Dude, so it's his missing penis...?

Liam as Peter, rock of ages. Sure Swann, makes sense. And the purple poof-ta Jesus Quintana. His strap on bowling glove, designed for the bowlers with missing finger(?) is the penis of Osiris. Quintana reads as a 5. The Wrong Way Wizard talks about the fifth age in his take on EWS, The Emperor's New Clothes. 5A is Bill and Alice's apartment number. Is Quintana some new age anti Christ?

The EWS/Boogie Nights find is pretty sweet. Treehorn and his Red Shirt. EWS's Red Cloak. What a fuckin travesty. And yet Swann, there is a deeper aspect to TBL I don't think you get yet.

9/11 truth on the net. Treehorn cold also be Free Porn, the most common search on the Google. The rug represents the internet. Water says 'This was a valued rug'. He's saying Value Drug.

Your Uli Kunkel/Karl Hungus match up, by way of the TBL mini-porno Logjammin', is pretty good though. I see one thing, you another, and it seems to be working - for now. Kunkel is low German for distaff. Woman's Work. Could we assume that Uli works for Bunny, or Maud, or even both of them. This kind of venal gigolo can be found throughout Raymond Chandler's hard boiled detective stories. TBL was, according to the Coens, inspired by Chandler.

I've got more, but I have had it for tonight. I am glad to have a partner on this case. Two heads are better than one. Kubrick is great, I admit, but the Coens...?! The Coens are a Hydra, Swann. A fucking Hydra.

Aug 4 4:30 PM - from Swann

I can't restrain myself.

I've got to comment on just one of your latter discoveries and then to tell you a true story that should leave you awestruck. Unless you know it yourself. Do you, my Red Headed comrade?

Would you believe that I was thinking of the number 147 as you composed your mail. Well, I was tinkering with 217 for a deeper understanding. 21 x 7 = 147. It's the exact same code as I explicated in 'The Plus One Problem'. 21 encodes a Star of David. 6 points. 1 through 6 adds to 21. There's more, but I'll save it for later. Let me tell you a tale.

This has all happened before, between you and me. Do we know each other. Just who the fuck are you anyway, Carrot Top? Can I even fathom the answer?

Please read the following carefully, as we are sharing a story that we have shared before. I think we may be traveling through time.

In the summer of 1998, I was rock climbing on the quartz bluffs of Lake Louise, in the Rockies. I was at the top of a 35 meter climb, on lead. From the ground below I heard a man cry 'Who will climb the Grand Sentinel with me?' There were probably about thirty climbers, belaying or on lead, that were in good earshot. I did not hesitate, from my perch I called out 'I'll go with you'. I had always wanted to climb this classic. I had missed a chance to do it with my usual partner, my half-brother Elmo, with whom I shared many wonderful adventures.

Back on terra firma, I met my new friend. A Mr. Phil Boilermaker of Buenos Aires, who sported a proud and lavish head of brushy red hair (making him a Carrot Top). He had traveled to Canada for the whole experience, to be completed with a climb of this famous feature. Twice, with other climbers, he had failed to get beyond the first pitch of the climb. Rained out once. Next his partner couldn't hack it. He had only one day, the next day, to do the climb before his visa ran out. I was his last chance, this time around.

As he made his introduction I was already worried. Why had his partner failed to make the climb? The climb itself is only difficult in the sense of commitment, as it is mostly unprotected. Any solid climber should be able to manage it, with a skilled partner to lead. I had lead at this level myself, and knew almost any halfways fit person could be coaxed to the summit. But Boilermaker had a real kick to his plan. The climb he wished to make was not the classic Sentinel route, but a much harder Sport Route called The Cardiac Arete (Donny's heart attack in TBL?). This climb was at the outer limits of my ability. The easier pitches would be a challenge and I might not make the harder ones. I immediately told him that I may be out of my league, but for some reason he believed I could make the climb. I don't know how long he was watching, that day.

Well, fuck it, I thought. I was in.

That night, he and his dame crashed at my place, which I shared with my girlfriend . We started out from home at about 3 am the next morning. I had to work that night and Boilermaker had a plane to catch. We were gonna have to do this with military precision. There is a bracing hike of some oddK topped by a mile of relentless boulders. Then, the climb. And all of it again in reverse.

We got to the trail head at about 4am and waited. There was a Grizzly Bear warning and travel was limited to groups of 6 and no smaller. If we got nabbed by rangers, we'd miss our window. While we waited we got to know each other a little better. I told Boilermaker I had grown up in Edmonton, where my family emigrated in the '70's, for a few frosty winters. At this point, he became stupid. 'I know someone from Edmonton', said he. I could hardly take it. Edmonton is a big city, but I played along. 'Oh yeah, who?' 'I guy named Morris', he says. 'I know someone from Edmonton named Morris', says me. (The only Morris I ever knew was a friend of my brother Elmo's, from High School Daze, 15 years earlier. I remembered him because his sister killed herself in a spectacular way, in a swan dive from a high bridge). We'll, it turned out that Boilermaker knew this exact Morris, who was not a climber, by the way. The two had met while they each traveled in inner Mongolia, and had become fast friends.

I was bedazzled, and my mind was swimming as we finally decided to give up our wait and take our chances with the rangers. We had the trail to ourselves. It was a beautiful day. I was tickled that I was about to tackle The Grand Sentinel, as I had enjoyed a lifetime obsession with 2001:ASO. (The film is based on a story by Clarke called The Sentinel. Sentinel/Monolith). The Morris co-incidence added just the right mood for a memorable day in the mountains. We burned the hike, ignoring many vistas, and headed straight for the rock.

At the base of the climb, reached by scrambling up to a scary ledge, we suited up. Boilermaker had already led the first pitch in his previous attempt, so we agreed I would lead the first attack. About 2/3's of the way up, I reached an overhang. My new bud called out that the move was 'to the right'. I reached out of my vision for a hold and cranked over the hang. Over the top, I quickly realized that he had mislead me. The correct route was over the hang 'to the left'. I had gone waaay off route and was run out more the thirty feet. This would mean a fall of sixty feet. My offline location was steep and slabby. Down climbing was out of the question. I was quivering, but played it cool and made a dynamic lunge for what looked like the nearest viable hold. I peeled of the rock and fell sixty feet plus, smashing into the sheer rock wall just a few feet above Boilermaker and his rope burned hands. I looked down at him and he was crestfallen. His dream of climbing this stunning and challenging route was slipping away. Not many take such a monster fall and just keep on when escape is easily available. But again I did not hesitate, even for a moment. I started again by the correct line and flashed the pitch with panache. When he caught up, Boilermaker was grateful and amazed. We finished the climb, trading leads, and were the first to summit out on the Sentinel on that glorious blue day. We had lunch and enjoyed a kind of feeling that is very hard to describe. Bliss is the word.

The Cardiac Arete

The Grand Sentinel, from about a mile off, as the eye sees.

The Grand Sentinel is in the shadow of a Great Mountain, which I have also climbed, called Temple.

And you and I, my fluffy carrot muffin, are the same two guys from my story, aren't we? We became acquainted in a likewise fashion. You anonymous, watching my progress. Now, supposing that this is all happening again. You are the Red Headed Stranger and I am the Bum who never had a chance. We stand in the shadow of a colossus.

So much more...

Sentinel is Monolith but also Pyramid. A Temple. And we know that TBL is an Egyptian Gyp-Rock. I don't even feel I need to explain this to you. It is understood.

The Grand Sentinel is a 600ft bowling pin.

And what shall we call our enterprise, 'To Reach the Top'? 'Tenzig and Hillary'? 'Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure'? What about 'King of the Hill'? Have you ever stood on a real mountain top, stranger? I think you have. Others may have climbed the same and still more will, but you are there alone when you squirm to the peak, and it's an unutterable triumph. You know this. You must.

King of the Hill is my supreme favorite of all the animated tellies. I like Gribble most, because of his zest for a shared obsession. Dale reminds me of William Burroughs, who is an inspiration to me. A bit of Hunter Thompson too.

Blood Simple could easily take place in a town like Arlen.

An Etan Coen is a producer of KOTH.

What the fuck is going on, Carrot Top? Jesus, it's awesome.

Aug 4 7:06 PM - from Carrot Top

You know how sometime something, a name, date, or number just pops into your noodle? I got onto an Aug 4 vibe, for some reason. I put on my thinking cap and conjured up that Aug 4 is the 216th day of the year. Zowie! 217 on a leap year. Check out this bottomless pit.

Sports is not my thing, Swann, I'm just not into it, but I did toil and pant upward onto a few easy peaks when some friends pestered me into it. But check it out, I hunkered down in Lake Louise for a couple of seasons to sow my oats before I went to get my doctorate. Do you know the Post Hotel? I was a night porter there, and had a master key of my own. I'll tell you, I wasn't much of a porter, but my buddies got to sample some pretty fine wines by the lobby fire, late into the night. Dom Perignon, baby. And we never got caught.
Bosses need their sleep.

I see myself more as a king than as a fool, though. I'd prefer if you play The Mystery Man and I'll play El Duderino.

I'm finding it hard to picture you on top of that behemoth. If I remember your pic on your old blog, you were a fat guy, and it was 1998. You are pulling my leg, I shouldn't wonder.

Aug 4 7:35 PM - from Swann

We might have lived in Lake Louise at the same time, Good Sir. Give me some dates if you've got 'em. And how did I earn my trade at the Lake? Playing piano at the fuckin' Post Hotel. I shit you not. I was fired after two weeks when I crashed skiing Purple Bowl and got banged up real bad. For three nights, I kept on playing, without going to the doc. It was one of my first good gigs and I didn't want to lose it. The owner dude finally caught on when he noticed the beads of sweat on that rippled over my fevered brow. He was some pissed. I hate the Swiss.

Aug 5 12:35 PM - from Carrot Top

Well that is interesting, though I don't dig the whole 'personal synchronicity' thing, and for my part, I think we could drop it and get back to It, The Big Lebowski. I want to stay on point here. You lived in Lake Louise, I lived in Lake Louise. Alright, but what about It?

There are critical issues, Swann. Not only are you the only one who seems to get this, you also show some talent. But we have strayed from the righteous way and into the iniquity of ego. Let's move on, and without the dogmatic impulse, OK? The devil is in the details, but we aren't after the devil.

You need to grab hold of and watch some movies. Burn After Reading. Arlington Road. No Country for Old Men. And that's just the appetizer. Get on the stick and fly right.

Bridges' Dude, according to wiki, is a blend of some real people. So what if there is another mask to be removed. The Real Lebowski's? Each of them a mouthful of parakeet feathers.

Big. Maud. The Dude (check out his D.O.B.).

The clock is ticking.

Aug 5 1:32 PM - from Swann

Obviously, we desire a total grok, but a full survey demands multiple ascents by various routes. What I suggest is a particular line or lead, if you will, to follow to a conclusion. A temporary focus around which to organize our first real attack. I think, as the Hero Carrot Top, you ought to delineate this first line of ascent (descent?!).

What are we trying to discover, even if only provisionally?

You have warned that time is of the essence, and something about saving lives? Sorry I waited to address these concerns. What do you mean? I am a-scairt, but not deterred. Time is the essence. We have Time in spades, you dig?

I also offer a second line of communication. My phone# is (deleted for the purpose national security). You can call 24hrs a day, although no one will answer between 1am and 11am. All messages will be answered promptly.

I can give this my full time attention and enthusiasm. As am a loner, in a wilderness of sorts, retired on a small pension, my time is at a plenty. Once we begin you can expect total commitment.

I will TiVo Arlington Road tonight. I have one idea about Burn After Reading, which you may have caught. (Some days you eat the BAR...) I think I may be able to snag a broadcast of NCFOM in the next day or so.

I await your command.

Aug 5 2:25 - from Carrot Top

Time is our enemy, Swann. Not a friend, as you state. If TBL tips off 9/11 then BAR might do the same. Real lives. Peoples lives. Innocent people. I'm deadly serious.
.


Aug 5 3:05 PM - from Swann

Regarding dogma and our emerging logger-heads, I have supreme faith that this will not come to pass. I have no use for dogma. I thirst for 100 proof distilled truth. I know that you will consider my thoughts with a sense of camaraderie and an open mind. Please realize that you can count on the same from me.

I am willing to completely disregard all of my prior efforts, even that they be brought most low, in the our tussle for the Perfect 300, the summit of K2. Fuck the false ego... just get me there.

I'll start with the first video chapter for anything I can dream up. I'm gonna just go ahead and watch Arlington Road live. At this point, I don't know what I am looking for, but I know it's up there somewhere, above the clouds.

I'll get back to you soon. Expect the kitchen sink.

...later at 7:12 PM

Talk about yer horrorshow, I just endured the repugnant Arlington Road.

My first dig unearths Copper. Michael Farady is the pioneer of the electric battery, made with a copper coil, no? AR's Michael Faraday (Jeff Bridges) proclaims 'I need to charge my battery'. The diagrams in Oliver's study, of the St. Louis Arch (arc, arc light, Tesla ladder) and also of another sumpin' Stonhenge lookin' shizzle, are shockingly electrical in design. Tim Robbins Oliver has a fake name too. William Fenimore. A real world wiki William Fenimore was the father, a Judge and a Quaker (electro-shock), of novelist James Fenimore Cooper. Cooper is Copper. A cooper makes barrels. Barrels/batteries. In AR, Faraday's wife Leah meets her Waterloo at Copper Creek, by the hands of the Parsons family. I think that these 'parsons' of 'copper creek' recall Jack Parsons, super fueled rocket scientist, occultist and apprentice of Crowley, and self anointed Antichrist, who died in an experimental explosion.

Parsons/Copper/Rocket/Missile/Explosion.

There is another doorway, in the musty binding of the devilish Charles Dickens. We have enfolded the Dude into David. So we can now, by way of a Farady, infer a David Copperfield. Is AR's Oliver Lang also O-liver, the Angel? Maybe Oliver Twist? Oliver Twisted. Dickens' Twist is the tale of the fallen Lucifer, God of the Masons, right? Well maybe there is a specific meaning to 'twist' that is related to the fabrication of some kind of battery. I think this is in the same circuit as Solomon's Temple and therefore the Mysteries of the Pyramid and 9/11. The method of the Temple is sacrifice. The conclusion is that sacrifice feeds the appetite and power that literally extends the finite nature of Time. Temple/Tempo/Time.

Have you read The God that Ate Manhattan, at The Wrong Way Wizard. 9/11 has an Orange Blossom (OJ is the power juice) and a battery power source (Battery Park, NYC). Read it, and come back. Now look at AR, about halfway in, maybe a bit before. There is a Nerf Toy on a counter top. The toy is a rocket, or missile, and it is pointed straight at a glass of OJ. I am impressed.

Can you believe that the kid who loses him thumb at the beginning of AR is called 'Mason Gamble'? I mean, give me a break, a-ight! What about the lost thumb vs. the lost toe from TBL? Both lead our hero Bridges into the river.

There is a Gnostic motif that is skillfully concealed. One Gnostic interpretation suggests that Christ was not crucified but tricked another man into taking his place on Golgotha, with the thieves, so that he could continue his work. This Christ is the fallen Lucifer. Oliver Lang, who is not really Oliver Lang fits right into the sack cloth. He is the angel of Death. Death which is the very counterpoint of time. He forestalls the coming of Christ, and therefore the end of time, through the gleeful tradition of ritual murder. Check out Fallen with Denzel Washington, for a breath of the same poison smoke. In Fallen, the Hero's sidekick is played by John Goodman. Denzel appears as a 'good cop' who doesn't 'play the game'. The Dude and Walter. Good cop, bad cop.

Another wicked Double Cross. In AR, Faraday rents 'A Car'. In the very next cut we see him laying awake in bed wide-eyed with existential torment. TBL gives us Auto(bahn) - And Bed of Nails (Nagelbett) in the same side-splitting image, the cover of Uli's techno album. Is the 'bahn' of Autobahn to infer 'ban'? To 'ban' is also to 'bar'.

The Dude and Stranger meet at The Bar.

The evolution of Bar. Circumcision - Crucifixion. Boy to Man. Man to God. The Cross is a double bar. Christ, at the last supper: Eat of my Body. Somedays you eat the bar... Ritual cannibalism. The coded confirmation or malicious perpetration of the revolting question: just what happens to the foreskins of the circumcised? Are they baked into a host and gobbled up, with relish?

One more jolt from the battery. There is a copper-top in The Matrix. In Bill and Ted's, Keanu Reeves intones 'dude' over and over again. Reeves is also George Reeves and Christopher Reeve. All three actors have played men that are called, in text, 'Superman' (Neo is nicknamed in The Matrix: Reloaded). It has been speculated that the Great Pyramid, before its desecration, was 'topped' (capped, completed) with copper. There is a Superman Curse. George Reeves shot himself in the head (hit the head pin). Christoper Reeve, broke his neck (hanged/drowned?) Tarot Trump The Hanged Man is also called The Drowned Man. Is the curse of the Pyramids the Superman curse too.

You are fretting over the huddling mass of untold sheeple, eh Carrot Top? Well maybe it is Keanu that needs to be warned. Or us. Or me.

This is serious bid-ness, a descent into the maelstrom. Watch for what will rise, like the bird said.

Aug 5 7:40 PM - from Carrot Top

Stop the presses, Swann. March 6/98-Sept. 11/01, 42 months, 5 days

42. What does it mean? I want to know that you know.


Aug 5 8:07 PM - from Swann

You are on those dates like a wrinkly skin. I get the 42 months part, or I think I do, but what about the 5 days? You might have to help me cross the street on this one.

When I see 42 my mind is gone Jupiter. Jupiter/Zeus is Jay-Zeus. Jupiter is Jew-Peter. Right back to the BAR, the circumcision, the castration.

42 Biblical mos. of 30 days each is the famed time of the 'sack cloth prophets' of Revelation. 1260 daze. I dunno? What aren't you telling me?

...later at 9:49 PM

The first DVD chapter of TBL

Tumbling Tumbleweeds

The nature of 'the fall'. The Stranger calls the Dude a 'fella' with emphasis. 'Way out west there's a fella...' Is this 'fella' the setting sun? Fell-a a past tense to Fall-a, Faller, Failer, Failure. This scene invokes the traditionally accepted Tarot attribution of The Fool = 0. The weed, as it tumbles, is a rolling 'O' or zero. The Fool is also called The Tumbler. Tumble, Tombe (francaise: fall), Tomb.

Is that a yipping pomeranian? Note the wreath (crown, mark) that adorns his Head (wound). It is the same wreath that encircles the Tarot Universe, or World. The World, the Earth, like gravity, pulls the Fool/Hey-Rho/Seedhead into her dark womb of death like seamen by sirens into the cruel sea. The zero is a hero's halo. Is reality nowt but his dream, as he tumbles forever into hell? Again, it's Jack and Jill. The Tumbleweed is frail and dessicated. All dried up. 'You don't draw any water here, Lebowski!' snarls the sherriff, and breaks the Dude's crown. See him tumbling down.

The Stranger drawls '...Dude, that's a name no one would self apply where I come from...' No One is given as a positive value. He is saying 'The Dude is No One'. The Zero, the Fool.

We are shown Benito's Taco Stand. It's a Pyramid. The Golds Gym billboard is its capstone. A Masonic Pyramid topped with a gleaming 3d capital 'G'. 5 rolled tacos are inside. And there are five people at the stand, including the serfs. Pigs in a blanket? The Mummified remains of the Royal family? You saw it first.

What about the Car Wash as the Tumbleweed trucks on by. The motif of 'washing' in TBL is practically tidal. The Dude's car takes 5 attacks, one by the Dude himself. I think the juxtapose of the number 5 and the Car Wash we see has a clue. The '...Queen's undies...' are invoked over top of the Car Wash image. The same 'wash' theme is also found in Walter's load of dirty ginch. His 'ringer' of ring around the collar 'whites'. A wringer was a standard feature on early washing machines. Much more on this later, when we look at that particular scene.

The Simonizer awning is another 'laundry' detail. Simon is pronounced in many parts of the world just like the English word 'semen'. The 'wash' is a genetic improvement program. I think that TBL is trans-human sorcery, but much more. The Stranger will 'unfold' his story, like the laundry of the departed.

The Dude's Venice address is tied into the Venitian Oligarchic riff that is embedded also into EWS, which should be familiar to a reader of The Wrong Way Wizard. I detect the following metaphor: something is falling that needs to be elevated. Venice is sinking, like our tumbleweed, into the cool blue oyster cult. TBL is in this way a 'Sun Resurrection' ritual.

The 609 of the Dudes apartment is a three symbol rebus for the Tumbleweed. The tails of the 6 and 9 are the cartoon motion of the zero as it rolls merrily along. This also provides us a 666, which is a solar number in Kaballah.

That's all for now. I'm pretty burned out, trout.

Next I'll audit the check and see what I can add to your analysis.

..and later still at 10:32 PM

Just one more thought before I sign off for some spatchka.

Re: trans-humanism and eugenics. There is an cloying Clint Eastwood vehicle called Bloodwork. In it, Jeff Daniels plays a serial killer who is altogether the Dude. He is an unemployed surfer who lives on a boat, and mooches off of his rich parents. His name is Jasper Noone: secret name, No-one. Noone meets his fate with his wounded head submerged in a pool of water. Just like TBL's first tumbleweed. The Dude is No One.

I have sensed a eugenic agenda in Eastwood for a good while. In The Gauntlet he plays a burned out cop (copper) named Ben Shockley. The lounge lizard Dr. William Shockley was a front man for eugenics in the 70's. I saw him on TV as a kid. Shock-ley. Electricity.

Aug 6 at 12:45 AM - from Carrot Top

Now were getting what I'm after. Well, sort of. But it's all good stuff.

I'm going to sit back and let you drive for a while. Here and there I'll fill in some important details that you miss. Normal stuff, for the little people.

You can do the magic show and I'll serve dinner.

I may observe radio silence for a while, to assess my plan. I have an important decision to make. I need more time.

Aug 6 3:09 PM - from Swann

My paranoia is as sharp as a K-Bar, thanks to your dark imagery. Radio Silence? Are you a some kind of spook? A killer double agent, or worse? Am I your next sanction, your troubling choice? Don't even think about it, Copper-top, I am way too good looking to die. Too much style. You may be Goldfinger, but I am Bond, bro. Nobody fucks with da Bond. I'm too smooth, too quick, too well trained. A muzzle flash and it's all she wrote. Jus' sayin' is awl, for your own good.

I have an inspiration you might groove to. What if our final draft was to simply follow our exchange as written, toned up and clarified with a good edit. We could even include this very paragraph, to add a self-referential loop. When complete, it oughtta read like a lively discussion between friendly rivals. And I've got a title. Game of Death. Neat-o, eh.

Some fresh meat for the stew.

London Bridges Falling Down

In AR, Faraday (Bridges) rushes to the scene of his girlfriend's murder/accident. She is played by Hope Davis. Her car is off the road from an exit ramp and into a steep ravine (Jack and Jill again). We see Farady standing in front of a cone of cement, which is a part of the bridge structure behind him. It is in the shape of a Pyramid. He is entombed. He has lost Hope (Davis). There is a man, and I'm talkin' about the Dude here, whom we have eye-deed as a Dead Head. This is some deep shit. The Dude is christened and crowned in his own rather gnarly toilet. His head is the Tumbleweed that rolls like a lump into the Great Pacific Tidy-Bowl.

Here's where we go under the water table. Bridges is Obi Stain of Iron Man. This Stain is the Mark of Cain, as expressed. Robert Downey as Tony Stark, in a flash, is encoded as 'The Zodiac Killer'. As he builds the Iron Man suit in his seaside lair, you can see the Zodiac Killer symbol above the left eye of one of his proto-type masks, which is much like the mask that the Zodiac sometimes wore on his rampage. The Dude/Serial Killer connect is reinforced in Eastwood's Bloodwork, the title itself is a clue to trans-human eugenics. There a several items to juggle, but the effect is astonishing (agonizing).

- Serial Murder
- The Zodiac Killer (who kills at water symbols)
- The film Zodiac, starring Downey, by David Fincher
- The film Seven (Fincher)
- The Head in the Water (Noone in Bloodwork and the Dude in TBL)
- Electricity (Pulsing through Arlington Road. AR's Dean Scobee is an electrician)
- Seven: two severed heads ( killer Kevin Spacey's gets shot off) under humming High Tension Power Towers
- The Smiley Face Killers
- The Smiley Face symbol is a Kaput Mortem, meaning Dead Head, an alchemical symbol from the process called 'The Drowning of the King'
- Smiley Face victims are all young men, often drunk, by drowning

The trans-human agenda is an ugly cataract. I like to call this, a la Robert Ludlum, 'The Herod Initiative'. Herod, who decapitated John the Baptist at the behest of an Enchantress, is The Big Lebowski to the max. It is a predictive program. Herod couldn't really expect to kill all the potential Messiah's, so he cast a spell on the mind of humanity, to viciously root out the bad-seed. The madness of sexual repression, serial rape and murder, countless suicides and wars. All the direct result of the acrimony of Bog, who accidentally made something better than himself, that he must kill agin' and agin'. A weed growing upward through a wall of cement.

The Eastwood ouvre and electric eugenics: Dirty Harry was thickly inspired by the Zodiac killings. The first murder, seen through the killer's rifle scope, is in a swimming pool. The cross-hairs are the symbol of the Zodiac. Callahan dispatches the Scorpio (Scoper, copper) with a head shot. He tumbles off of a pier and into the ocean. Into the same sea, Callahan throws his Police Shield (brass, copper, tin star, Star of David Copper-field).

Eastwood appears in Cimino's totally fucking superb Thunderbolt and Lightfoot. I learned how to fix a dislocated shoulder from that film, and it came in handy when I separated my right one, alone in the wilderness. It hurt. I nearly passed out.

Jeff Bridges plays Lightfoot, who is an amputee. There's that severed member again, keeps on floating to the top, or sticking to the side of the bowl. In T&L, Lightfoot dies from a stroke, the side affect of a brutal punch to his rib cage (side wound). Now this may be a stretch, but I don't think so... If you look at the acting, and particularly the delivery of Jeff Bridges, he often seems to struggle to speak in the same way as the victim of a stroke. Notice how one side of his mouth tends to sag as he mumbles and slurs. AR is a killer instance of this model.

Stroke/Strike/Lightning/Thunderbolt and Lightfoot/Jeff Bridges/The Dude/and... Bowling.

When I was a sprout, my Mother, who is a saint, would tell my siblings and me that Thunder and Lightning was just 'God, bowling'. The thunder was the crackling of the pins as they fell.

And who are we, my friend, as we traverse this dusty, vertiginous trail of tears. Are we Bill and Ted? Totally. Doc Holiday and Wyatt Earp? I call shotgun. J the B and Je-bus? We're knee deep. But, in the spirit of the current conversation, I think we are Somerset and Mills, of Fincher's Seven.

Of course, this is the comedic version, my goodly fere. A Divine Comedy. We'll see the sights. Swagger around. Maybe we'll even catch some bad guys. But it's all for a laugh and no one gets hurt. We may be headed for the OK Corral, but it's all just a sketch on The Carol Burnett Show.

The world is beautiful and worth saving. I agree with both parts.

Let's Burn-It Down.

...later, at 7:32 PM

TBL DVD chapter two.

Mistaken Identity

We first meet the Dude in Ralph's. Ralph's is a purgatorium, a vomitorium. To ralph is to Vomit. Purgatory/Ralph's. The Divine Comedy. Dante and Virgil. Dude and Stranger? The act of vomiting is paired, in this first scene of TBL, with that of ejaculation or orgasm. Both vomiting and orgasm precipitate the much lauded 'nuptive' or 'magick' moment of serenely empty mind.

All of the Dude's fresh cream will end up on the bathroom floor, like the chunks of a drunk who misses his target and moreover as the spent semen of a 'jerk-off'. In the Dude's loo, we are back in the bunker at Burpelson Base, from Kubrick's Dr. Strangelove. General Ripper (Sterling Hayden) withholds his essence from the loins of womanity, drops a bomb, and blows his head off in the john. O.P.E., the recall code bobs up like an apple.

We get more Dante for our dollar when we look at the doodles on the Dude's check-book. Are those spiral vortices a flushing toilet? Gander at the images sketched by the troubled Max Klein of the Bridges showcase, Fearless, from director Peter Weir. Infernal vortices abound from his drawings. Fearless is about a plane crash. Why does this Starman keep on falling to earth? And how does he get back up again? As I write this I learn that Steve Tyler (aero-smith) has spilled from the stage performing Love in an Elevator. Livin' it up as I'm going down...

The 'chinaman' motif is chilling - like a hot wok. There is a chinese delivery that covers a host of films made about L.A. and Cali-fornia. Chinatown (patriarchal incest). L.A. Confidential (body transformation). True Confessions and The Black Dahlia, both which tell a tale of the Dahlia. Big Trouble in Little China. There are others, all dark and all with a chinese food/murder/sacrifice theme. There is a theory of the Dahlia mystery that is germane. I saw it on 20/20 some years ago. The thrust was that the Dahlia was killed by a very famous and powerful L.A. mogul and doctor to the stars. He was bo-some buddies with many biggies, including John Huston, who starred in 'Chinatown'. In one interview, the Doc's daughter charged that he was a vile and twisted pedophile, and that he raped her repeatedly. Her younger bro substantiated this. The little menace also inherited Daddy Dearest's papers and diary, which contained a picture of Elizabeth Short and a scrap of paper scrawled 'chinese chicken'. Because of the cinematic motif of chinese food/murder/sacrifice, I have deduced that 'chinese chicken' is some kind of sly password for a sacrificial murder victim. The twisted real life doc, Doc Savage, we'll call him, a man of bronze, he owned a spectacular Hollywood house, which was fashioned after a Mayan or Incan Temple, with many hidden rooms. The house, still standing, has been used as a set in dozens of movies and notably those that have overt occult references. The Coens advertise that Treehorn's estate was based upon a Incan design. The chinaman Wu, we are told, is Treehorn's man.

This blurs into the Somerton Estate of EWS and the ritual death of the Mysterious Woman, who may or may not be Amanda Curran (AC/Alternating Curran). I think EWS's Amanda 'Current' is also the tragic Black Dahlia, Elizabeth Short (Electrical Short, Short-Out, Black-Out). A sacrifice on the altar of time.

To complete the skulduggery, we are given a hint that ought to be a howl for the 'reptilians rule the Earth' crowd. As the Incan gunsel Wu pees on the Dude's rug he sneers 'Ever thus to Deadbeats'. This 'ever thus' is a venomous pun. It is a paraphrase of the Latin Institution: Sic Sempre Tyrannis. This Tyrannis is Quetzocoatl, the feathered serpent of Lore, whose favorite amuse bouche is a fresh and beating heart. We search for a fossil of this Serpent King and what do we find? Back at Ralph's, the Dude uses a pen branded with the makers name. ROTEX. The O is our Tumbleweed. This leaves T-Rex.

Fuckin' Lizards - but then what might one expect on a journey through Hell.

I hope my heart is tasty. It is certainly well smoked and marbled.

...and some days later, Aug 9 8:32 PM

Dead Man's Dream: A few more thoughts on Mistaken ID (TBL DVD chapter two).

A soft touch by the Coens: the walkway to the Dude's apartment is like the tracks of the Brunswick ball stanchion.

The panel on the Dude's door, his bathroom window over the toilet and the inset bathtub shelf (at the head) all mimic the shape of a Headstone. This shape, this term, is punitive. The Dude is 'stoned'. Pot smokers differentiate between a 'headstone' and a 'body buzz'. Canadian punk-rockers The Headstones exploit such terminology in their Brand Name.

Does the Dude's bathroom wall paper infer the 'blue' and 'red' degrees of Masonry? Spheres, balls, globes and bubbles must be measured by degree. There are red and blue pills, red and blue balls (Minority Report). Red and blue bubbles on the wall.

The Dude on his Throne (Enthroned/Entombed) cries '...at least I'm house broken'. I think that this means 'broken by the house'. Tarot theorist Carlos Suares, against tradition, attributes The Tarot Trump World to Saturn and Hebrew letter Bayt. The ring around the World is the rings around Saturn, who is the demiurge of our creation and the inventor of linear time. Bayt is Hebrew for House. The Dude, a deadbeat and king, is Broken by God, in the house of God.

Opening Credits (TBL DVD chapter three)

The Big Lebowski is three words of fourteen letters. 3.14. A pi in the face.

The vocalise over the credits, Dylan's The Man in Me, is a scorcher. Listen here and what do you notice? The repetition of a singular silly-bell. La-la-la-la-la-la. In Rodger's and Hammerstein's The Sound of Music we are taught the western diatonic scale. The musical scale. Do-Re-Mi-Fa-So-La-Ti-Do. Look at the whole scale for a to-a-tee primer on the BS Disney Hakuna Matata Circle of Lies, if you have the guts. Ti (the Hebrew Tau, which means 'cross'). Ti, a drink with jam and bread, is the last supper. Wine and Loaf. Blood and Flesh. Transubstantial cannabilism. Yummy!

For now we'll stick to So and La. Let's look at So first wise. So is the 5th letter of the scale. The number 5 is like a handprint on the first part of TBL. We are told by R&H that So is '...a needle pulling thread...'. One in the same 'sewing thread' can be found on a hand-painted sign in the Village streets of EWS. EWS is also SEW. SO... I don't really think that I should have to make a case for the harmony between EWS and Rosemary's Baby. It's all about Satanic Ritual. All About Evil. Now, thanks to 'The Man in Me' we subconciously conflate TBL with Rosemary's Baby. Because...

La is the sixth note of the scale. Both of our overtures, as sung, are translated as 6-6-6-6-6-6...etc. In The Sound of Music' our instruction for La is '...a note to follow So...'. Now, you are writer and so am I. You know good'n well that any bard worth his salt could dream up an actual meaning for La. Like as a homonym for 'Law', as one example. Why does La have no specific mnemonic label? All the other notes have, so why not La? Because it is No One. It isn't there (The Man Who Wasn't There). It is the unborn King of Once and Future, who will bear the Mark of Cain.

The description of La 'following' So is a clue to a 'blending' of the number 5 with the number 6. More on this 5 = 6 binary battery coming up.

EWS, Rosemary's Baby, The Black Dahlia, The Shining, TBL, and even, I think, The Maltese Falcon, The Blue Gardenia and other key noir, are all different perspectives of the same event. Szandor Szavost, of EWS, wears a dark blue buttoneer, the same blue flower found in Batman Begins. John Lennon, Kennedy (which means wounded head), Helter Skelter, the Reagan Shoot-out, Smiley and the Zodiac, and more. All hiding in this unHoly Mountain we scale. We'll go deeper when we try to identify Maud Lebowski, later on.

There are seven stars on the title card. When one is coshed on the rosh, one 'sees stars'. The Dude suffers 7 blows to the head, if the ashen baptism is counted in. It must be counted because it is teased in the credits when we are shown the scorecard transparency, which is 'divinely empty'. The ad on the banner of the card is for 'Ashcraft', and promises the 'new silicon implants'. Reinforced by the cigarette 'ashtap' a few moments later. We are marked, on the forehead, with ash. The Donny's funeral/ash fiasco, in the final moments of the movie, are an Alpha Omega loop. The implants are the dreaded RFID chip, the Mark of the Beast, which is located on the forehead and righthand. Confirmation is found in the lyrics of the title song...

'...the man in me hides from being seen...he doesn't want to be some kind of machine...'

...which play as a flunky mcjobber performs the robotic task of sanitizing a long row of bowling shoes.

More about the 'Ashcraft Medical Arts' transparent score card. When a strike is scored an 'X' is penned in. Sometimes the scoring box is 'blacked out'. The 'X' is the crucifix, the Hebrew Tau. So we have a bowling strike encoded as both a cross and a black-out. At the crucifixion, lightning stikes Golgotha. Lightning, that pesky and stunning moment of splendor, is a well known culprit of the commonplace power grid 'Short-out', which initiates the Dahlia/Short connection. The crucifixion is on a mountain table top, much like the Mayan Table Top Pyramid/Altars. The notarikon for The Big Lebowski is the same as the gematria for 'Table'. TBL. TBL is a sacrificial altar. Fuck.

My line: that the murder of Elizabeth (Electrical) Short is a Mayan type ceremony, carried out on a metaphorical pyramid, is a direct anolog to the crucifixion of Christ, and causes a grid wide power outage.

The Jeff Bridges' billing covers the #'s one through five on the Brunswick diagram of the bowling pin-setup order. There is something about 'five' that is a clue to the Dude's identity and the perils of his car, but I can't quite get it all yet. Could this 5 be Levi's 'Leviathan'? Pictured as the pentagram with the face of Baphomet. Leviathan is also a great beast of the sea, which meshes with the Whale on the Dude's check and the whale music from his Osirian bath. Is the Dude Satan himself, in the garments of a king? A kind of impostor?

I find resonance: Whale in reverse is Elah-W. The 'W' is a rebus for V-V or 5-5. Elah means God, out of the Egyptian. The 'W' is also 23, which serves up not only a 5 but the dreaded 666, too. W is synonymous with Water. 666 is the motion of waves. And then the mobius loop. Vav, which is the mystic Mark of Cain, pin head and sixth letter of the Hebrew Alphabet, is spelled as I have spelled here, as 'V-a-V'. In Hebrew there would be no 'A' (no king, no 1, no one), just V-V. Here is the secret of true Satanic Math, which is beyond beauty. Real Numbers do not stand alone, but bleed into each other like the colors of a rainbow. 5 is in 6 and 6 in 5. Pi is the lonely whole number. Only the lonely, eh, my old Carrot? The King for a Day is the King of all ages. His mark/ark(ham)/tomb/throne appears as the Roman numeral V for the uninitiated and as V-V to the third eye. Vav gives us V-V which is in turn Vav-Vav. The further breakdown, like a Mandlebrot spiral, is without ending or beginning. The very letter Vav unravels an endless chain of 6's.

Crowley gives the degrees of the A:.A as sums of 11. Magically, our Aleister calls these pairings 'batteries'. 11 = 0 or 4 = 7, and suchlike. Are we going from the 5th to 6th stage of self-ignition, you and me?

I am struggling with the burden of our venture already. My mind can not keep up as the the answers come. It's like a flood. That's OK, I'm a Sufi. I like waves. Keep 'em comin'.

I need your thoughts to pry some of it loose. Where are you? To add insult to injury, I am suffering a kind of keyboard dyslexia. I can't seem to type today. Many bottomless syncs in my personal life. For everything I send to you I forget a handful of sand. It just keeps rolling in.

I climb onward (downward).

Goodman's billing appears as a bowling ball goes to the left of the ball retriever track. I wonder if Goodman is a lefty? Can we to infer that Goodman represents 'the left handed path'? The road to Heaven by way the Pit of Hell? One by way of eleven. I dunno.

I don't usually bother with direct criticism, with the exception of a single word here or there, but I want to take a moment, as a critic, to assess the acting of John Goodman. I think Goodman's Walter, bar none, is one of the most remarkable performances in the history of English Language Cinema. Layer upon layer of craft. Simply fucking awesome. 'Nuff said.

The Rug

Yet another 5 is hidden in the lane our trio first bowls. #22. 22 is the number of letters, by name, in the Hebrew Alphabet. However there are 5 'finals'. These are Kaph, Mem, Nun, Peh and Tzadi. The gematria total of these 'finals' is 3500. This not only gives a mulitple of 5 and 7 (5 Car attacks, 7 Crownings), but also, in proto-text as Three Fives. Or Three Five-Hundreds. Final Nun has the value of 700, and is paired with the Tarot Trump Death. So the number 22 hides a Kaballistic code for Death. Triple Death. Death times Five.

Whaddya think, old sock? Are you still out there, on belay?

Our hotkey for this scene is the word 'pee'. Did you know that the sound of 'pee' is how the Greek's say PI? That's right, 'pee' is 3.14. 22/7. You have proffered that 'the rug' is a kinda genital merkin, and I concur. Nevertheless, I think when Wu 'pee's on the Dude's rug, he is peeing on our Hero's grave. The rug is the upturned earth beneath a tombstone. Pledging our love to the ground, the union of sex (secs, seconds, time,) and death is a sentimental journey.

Walter: ...Asian American, please.

(A:.A, = 11 = I I) The Roman numerals I I are the profile of a section of Railroad track, and the same I I is the Numerical title of the Tarot Trump: Isis, The Preistess, who is the gateway into the abyss. Is-is.

...countin' every mile of railroad track, that takes me back...

The Dude is being railroaded. Framed. Made. Thank's to Old Bush the Daddy Prez, it is a kinder, gentler frame-up job. Not that boring old 'nail him to the cross' or 'burn him alive'. More of a slow, pan roasting.

As you remarked before, the Dude stands upon the cross, in front of the empty lane #22. It is his perfectly empty zero of a mind. This fits in with the Gnostic myth we discussed earlier. The Real Christ, the Man on the Cross, is not Christ at all, but some nobody. A sucker, a stooge, a mark.

A few nights back, I watched a doc on the love affair between Margaret and Peter Townsend, a royal equiry. A powerful royal attache bespoke of the Royal House, which is says he, '...like a rosebush. For it's health, from time to time, one of the heads must be cut-off'.

A circuitous daisy chain.

- Head, Pothead, Dead Head
- Grateful Dead: American Beauty
- American Beauty's Lester Burnham (suburban Dude wanna-be), from beyond death, explains how 'grateful' he is for his life (final monologue)
- The Hebrew letter Resh is the eytmology of the English 'Rose' and means 'head'
- Burnham's head is 'Blown Away'
- The Buddhist term 'Nirvana' means 'to blow away'. I wonder if Cobain knew this fact?
- To be hanged is unto being decapitated
- The Tarot Trump The Hanged Man is also called The Drowning Man
- The Dude's header into the 'bowl' is...
- A Rose Bowl

Which opens into The Other Lebowski (TBL DVD chapter four). Pasadena is the home of the annual Rosebowl Parade.

TBL is a very threatening precipice because in one respect it asserts that 2 (Bayt, House, Saturn, Satan, God) is greater in magnitude than 1 (Aleph/Ox/Oz). Two is trying to crucify, hang, decapitate, and drown, in essence to seperate THE ONE into a constituancy. The Hidden Lesson: That One is in fact Zero. This is true, from inside the box (casket, barrell, battery, grave). But outside one learns the truth. All is One. Yes, and more. One is an ecclesia of Ones, each of them a glittering diamond, and absolutely unique.

That's all for now, my good man.

Drop me a peep, pimp, to let me know you're still in it to win it.

I AM Swann

Aug 10 1:23 PM - from Carrot Top

I think our email is being hacked, Swann. I'm getting paranoid. When I get your posts, there is no text, just a blank page. I have to highlight and copy it, before I can read.

Lately I can't sleep. I dug up my Soprano's collection to get me through the night. Soprano could mean castrati, and imply castration. The whole series seems to brim with 9/11 recall. Melfi's office number is 110. A febrile Jackie Aprile says, 'I'm in the world trade center', totally out of his skull.

You need to take a look at this thread. I can't tell you why, but it is tied in to our research

The forum is a CIA bottle neck. They read it all. Do not post there, just check it out and get back to me when you work it out.

...later, at 3:36 PM

On today's Oprah, a guy says '...all I remember is 3 years and 14 months...'. PI. He was talking about the age of his two kids, who were murdered by his wife. And then it's Dr Oz who says '...over 90 percent of American's are gonna...' and it cuts to him holding up a string of human intestines.

Aug 10 11:11 PM - from Swann

Is everything we see or seem, but a dream within a dream? - E.A. Poe (O.P.E. in a sepulchre by the sea)

Okay Carrot Top, let's get today's adventure underway. Mind you stay strapped in.

First re: The Phi Thread by Raphael

I think Raph is right on, ...not! Really, what I discern in his bitchin' analysis is the externalization of the principles of Kaballah, which I think are Satanic, or if you prefer the less than dramatic, plain old evil. I don't want to be an apologist here. My viewpoint of 'evil' is as a co-effecient of an algebraic formula. It's my Plus One Problem, edified so cool-ly in The Matrix: Reloaded.

At the beginning of our expedition, I mentioned I was sewing up a Rosemary's Baby blanket. The entire thrust of my argument was based upon the differing perceptions of PHI and PI. PHI is evil, cubical, and linear. It is founded upon the wildfire teaching that All is One. Such is revealed in the first paragraph of Raph's inquiry, where he shows the diff between the two values of PHI 1.618 and it's fractional reciprocal, .618, which he explains are magically divided by the altogether anomolous 'One', which is the ego. The sharpy Raph thinks that this the signature of supreme deity. He is close, but no cigar. This 'fractional reserve' is nothing more than a fuggin' hourglass!

Picture it, our merry little PHI as it tips and spills it marvelous One down into its lower realm, turning the World upside down, once and again. A goddam bobbleheaded novelty bird that keeps on dipping but never sipping.

The famous PHI curve, the over-sold 'Golden Spiral', isn't really a spiral at all. The PHI curve is plotted on a graph, by the use of fibonacci set combinations. Even in 3d, this curve must be diagrammed inside a lattice framework. Admittedly, this frame work is made from polygons that are potentially infinitely small. Here is why one must tackle the Aleph Manifolds of Cantor. Cantor, who sang a dulcet melody. The PHI infinity is a faded Xerox of the authentic infinity, which is PI, an innumerable choir of soloists. PHI, which is a lattice,, which is rectilinear, is Saturnine and Satanic. Everybody is buying into this PHI shizzle and I think they are being snowed.

Next Up: The shiznit hits the fiznit, and we're gonna need some Huggies.

I basked in the glow of Raising Arizona today, and let me tell you,I found a doozy. In good time, as I'll approach it in the linear style. The A-Bomb comes about halfway through the film.

My plan was to just watch the movie, let it blast me like a desert storm. Many faces lurked in the sandy front.

H.I. is born the day after (the extra day: 216/217) the Kennedy assassination. Is H.I. the return of 'the king'? Cage is a devotee of Elvis Presley. The Day After is an 80's TV production about Nuclear Holocaust. It captured worldwide attention. I think Nathan Jr. might be 'Little Boy' of Nagasaki. Outright fantastic, Carrot Top. I find so much to confirm your Bomb theory of TBL.

H.I. MacDunnough is notarikon for H.I.M. HIM. Gematria sums out to that old family friend - '55'. As we have seen, The Dude's car suffers 5 assaults. H.I.'s car gets the same treatment from Glen and Dot's infernal brood.

Because of the Car/5 and HIM/55 tie in, I had the quick idea that 55 could indicate 'a limitation'. Like 55mph is the speed limit in most US states. These, thought I, are the limits of our five fold material realm. I taxed my brain stem for the correct term, the stage beyond this 5 ways furnace. I rejected 'spiritual'. Spirituality is a snob's by-word for his special brand of materialism. And then it hit me. Ethereal. I jotted it into my notes and I'll be if H.I. don't use just the same none too ordinary word - Ether - in his closing dream soliloquy, at the end of Raising Arozina.

In stir, H.I. gets therapy. For the session, the doctor has sketched a diagram of 'Society at Large' and 'Me, the Missing Piece', in pie (PI) chart format. It's 'The Plus One Problem'.

The prison escape is a la mode of The Shawshank Redemption. Through a sewer, into an electrical storm. Tim Robbins as Andy (Mr. Anderson) Dufresne. What's neat is that his sidekick is called Red Redding. Portrayed by Morgan Freeman. The character in King's Novel, however is a red-mopped Irishman. Red is the narrator of Shawshank, and as such is the direct voice of Stephen King. So we produce the term Red King. The Red King is a image from Splendor Solis, and the ultimate alchemical operation. The King drowns in the Red Sea.


We might suppose this Drowning King to be the same as the real world Smiley Face/Zodiac unfortunates.

H.I. has a proclivity to rob convenience stores, with a special fondness for a chain called 'Short Stop'. The 'Electric' motif again, but also a PHI-by. Short. Short-out. Short-stoppage. Nicholas (Nickle Cadmium) in a Farrady Cage. The short-stop tyke on the 'Short Stop' signage is a little red headed brat. A Battery. The baseball position of short stop is between 2nd and 3rd base (power-base). Between 2 and 3 yeilds the ever loviing 23/.6666666... phenomena. This bracelet of sixes is the PHI curve in rebus. One can approximate a PHI curve (vortex) by drawing one 6 inside of another, ever smaller, never changing.

A morsel: there is a second 'Short-Stop' signage. In this sign we see, in the Hebraic 'right to left', a Soda Cup and Straw, a Hot Dog, a container of Milk, and a Loaf of Bread. Each object is solid black, like monoliths. The drink cup is a 'fuck you finger'. The hot-dog a phallus. The milk a flagon of semen. The bread a vagina (yeast). Ku-bby implies a likewise trick in the Breakfast Cafe wall menu of EWS.

RA's reptilian swinger Glen tells the famous 'How many Polacks...Lightbulb' joke. Twice. Another in a growing list of electro-shocks. H.I. will be strapped into a chair with electrical cable. It never ends...?

Glen's wife Dot (Frances McDormand) makes large about the diphtheria-tetanus shot. 'Dip-Tet'. Would you be floored to discover that the gematria of DiP-Tet is 93? Maybe not, but what if we can tie 93 to the simile 'Raising Arizona'. 'Raising the Arid-Zone'. 'Raising Hell'. In Dr. Strangelove the good doc calculates the half life of cobalt-thorium-G, with his slide wheel, as 93 years. Oppenheimer ought to have said, 'I am become Hell (Helios), the shining chasm'. We now have a kind of proof, albeit difficult proof, that the US desert nuclear weapons testing, in the deepest possible sense, was an occult ritual. Cobalt is blue. Later on in RA, when Gale (John Goodman) and his bro rob the bank, they are laden with a Die Canister that explodes into a sticky blue flower. The canister looks like a missle. An ICBM. The boyz are 'blue in the face', which is the normal result of 'smoking weed'. The legal weed, I mean. Tobacco. Hang on bud, cuz...

...up to this point, I have not stopped the movie, but that is about to change, and how. H.I.'s mid-way 'Short Stop' robbery, to steal Huggies and cash, stops me in my tracks. Go and look at this now!

As H.I. approaches the pimply cashier, the painted banner behind the kid reads 'cigarettes'. Pretty natural, as convenience stores sell their butts at the counter. We cut outside, where Ed is telling Nathan Jr. a fairy tale. '...and they'll huff and puff and blow your house down...' She gazes into the store window to see H.I. back at his theiving ways. But what...?!? The banner behind the register now reads 'CANDY'. 'Cigarettes' has up and vanished itself. 'Candy' takes its place. I'm not fuckin' aboot, man! Cutting back into the 'Short-Stop', we can read 'cigarettes' behind the kid, as reflected in the front window, right where it was before.

I would really like to know what you are thinking now. Really.

Gale sings to Nathan Jr,'...and we'll all have chicken and dumplings when she comes...'. The 'coming she' is the barren, untouched woman, who is Immaculate Mary. 'Chicken and Dumplings' is the transubstantial Christ. Dinner Bell!

The RA bank job has a familiar partner. The set, staging and blocking are a mimeograph of the Wild at Heart robbery, from Lynch's violent epic. We're in the company of Elvis. 'Wild's' archetype Sailor (Jesus was a sailor - Leonard Cohen), is an Elvis fanatic. Sailor is played by Nick Cage, who also loves Elvis, and the King's daughter, in a slightly different way. Early in the Wild at Heart film, Lulu and Sailor attend the concert of a band called, get ready, Powermad.

This seems a good spot to string this post into gossamer and roll it all into a ball. Looking at the Aug 4 wikipage, I thought to check in on our special anno domine, 1966. This day is the birthday of one Kensuke Sasaki, champ-een Japanese Pro Wrestler. There is a fine tint on this. My mountain climbing bro, Elmo, lives in Japan now, and both me and my mom are fans of Sumo. In Sumo, as in Japanese Pro, the wrestler's name is more like a superhero moniker. Kensuke Sasaki means 'POWER WARRIOR'. He enjoyed a comrade in Road Warrior Hawk (RA's Leonard Smalls). Together, as a tag team, they were called The Hell Raisers.

I have a notion than what we have is a Rosemary's Baby thing. A whole lot a babies but only one King. Such balderdash. The mountain does not fade because it has been climbed. It remains unconquered. Aug 4th leaves 149 days to years end, a near miss on 147. 149 is the rational proportion of Q's Monolith. 1 by 4 by 9. What else! Well, Feb. 17 is also a 217. And if the one in 147 is counted as Jan 1st the 47th day is Feb 16th. Feb 16th is 1/47. The plus/minus one riff. I know someone, my dearest friend, who was born on Feb. 17th, 1966.

You recall the suggestion that we (I, Me, You - I and Thou), that we might be modulating between the 5th and 6th degree of some kind of initiation, and that this is represented, by Crowley (about whom I have much to tell, my friend), as a Battery of 11. Two heads, my friend, and more...

I can scarce believe what follows re: my ascent of The Grand Sentinel. The technical grade of the route, The Cardiac Arete, is called 5.11. Now this grade is sometimes corrected to match advances in climbing, but on the day I climbed this route it was called a 5.11.

Well, when I was in my crankin' daze, 5.11 was where the men got separated from the boyz. A bit of beta on climing grades: 5 is the grade that covers free climing where a death fall is possible. It is graded from the steep scrambler 5.0 to the absurdly elite 5.15. Above the grade of 5 is 6, which is known as 'Aid'. 'Aid' occurs when the terrain is in essence, unclimable, or beyond the abilities of a particular climber. It is accomplished by using gear, placed in the rock by the climber, to pull oneself over the aid section. On the day I climbed the Sentinel I did not aid in the technical sense, but I did 'hang-dog', which is to rest on available protection. I did this on two of the four pitches of the climb. One of which I did on lead. Boilermaker rested on one of his leads, too. Ever thus we two transmuted a grade 5 climb into a grade 6 climb.

Quite frankly, I think that the precipice that we explore is far more parious than anything in my previous experience. It is also more beautiful. I am a fool for beauty. I think we can do this. I believe in us. Maybe I have to.

From 5 = 6 to 6 = 5. And onward to the unfathomable conundrum of 11.

The color between blue and indigo, the fifth and sixth in the rainbow, is cobalt.

We are in bardo.

Hear Beef (Ox, Oz, Gerrit Graham, GG, 77) get electrified in 2 min and 17 secs of kick ass rock and roll.

Aug 11 2:16 AM -from Carrot Top

Have you heard of the double blind method of scientific testing? We are influencing each other too much Swann, and need to get our ducks in a row.

TBL is about 9/11, isn't it? Well I want to decode other films, like BAR, for the good of mankind, man. To save lives. I don't get your enthusiasm for all of this. I don't get it at all.

Aug 11 6:40 PM - from Swann

I need you to answer a few questions, Carrot Top. Can you tell me about your serious choice? Just what do you want me to look for? And oh yeah, who the hell are you?! I don't mind waiting for the answers. I have been a patient for most of my loafing life. I just want to leave a reminder of some as yet loose ends.

I will watch BAR tonight when my little bro Scranton, another halfer from different kaffir, gets home from his night demolition job. He should come through the door any moment.

While I wait, let me tell you a little more about myself, my favorite topic over tea. I'll stop short of a full on Rousseau.

I am an outlaw. A thief. A cheater at games and cards. I have lied, swindled and pilfered the coffers of just about everything that walks on two feet in this madhouse we call life. All of my friends, and as many enemies, I have seen to stand and deliver. I am not ashamed of this fact, as I have no use for the Laws of Man, nor for the piddling excuse he accepts as Rights. As an a occultist, I'm a Jack-of-All-Trumps, with a good tool box. If I make an occult claim you can count on it to be accurate to within an inch of my life. If I don't know something, I'll tell you post haste. I do not mind being wrong. I'm the world's foremost expert on being wrong. I am a quiet man. You won't find me in any gathering of more than a few select people for any reason. An arch loner in a forest of reverie, I dream in the arms of a dragon. Now, I have changed my evil ways some, but remain marginal, a kind of legal outlaw. Generally legal.

The thing is, I don't lie anymore. My life is an exhausting search for the truth. As a younger and much more stupid man (child), I failed to realize that one could not find truth outside of oneself. I am not a casually honest person. I can tell someone what they want to hear, to butter them up and be nice, but I will always be precisely honest if the subject is of the most trifling value to any one.

I am telling you this because I want you to know, as much as you might, that you can trust me. I think this will become increasingly meaningful as we proceed.

I am scared and I don't mind saying it. Fear is my Quickening. I think like a pair of climbers, we scale the same terrain. Mt. Parnassus, Mt. Analog, Mt. Olympus. Each bringing our special talents and desires and one of a kind vision. We have only just started an epic journey. I hope we become friends along the way. What ever happens, it's gonna be a Whale of a Tale.

I am going to watch BAR. Right Now. But first, I'll have to clean up a sticky mess. It's 3am and my clumsy ass donkey of a little bro just spilled OJ all over my beloved 'Relaxinator 5000'. The R5k - my conning chair. Fuckin' troglodyte. Oh brother, what I put up with! It's all for love.

...later, at 4:44 AM

A summation of RA

The denoument of RA is a simile to The Temple of Solomon. At the head of the dinner table are the buttoned down son/daughter/husband/wife/brother/sister combo of H.I.'s dream crew. Along the sides are a throng of offspring. H.I. and Ed are the empty chairs at the bottom of this pillar.

Here is a top down view of the 'table'.

For our purpose, it's the center of the Temple. There are a seires of 'cells' that encapsulate the Holy (Heckal) and Holiest of Holy, which is the proper home of The Ark of the Covenant. Zoom in on the 'table' link for a close up. These cells (analog to the peopled sides of H.I. 'dream table') are the living quarters of the priesthood of Time, who work around the clock, 24-7, preparing the sacrifice for offering to the Holy of Holies. Where stand the pillars of Boaz and Jachin, you find the numbers 5 and 6.

It is a guldurn 9v Battery, niz. I would go to the wall on this one.

The ethereal realm of H.I.'s dream, he thinks, may be Utah. Utah, Oz, the land of ZION National Park(arIZONa), where stand a sacred order of Monolithic Red Sentinels, many and mostly greater than the Grand Sentinel of Lake Louise, Canada.

Zion is Israel.

In the Eastwood opus The Eiger Sanction, Clint climbs our infamous quarry, a towering desert pillar in or near Zion. Nevada, I think. His partner is Ben Bowman (Monolith, Bowman). Bowman tricks Eastwood into carrying a six pack of beer to be enjoyed at the summit. He has strawberry blond hair (red), and a decided limp when he gets too cold (Lightfoot). The actor in question is George Kennedy. He is the same man who delivered the fatal punch to Jeff Bridges' Lightfoot, in Cimino's upliftling masterpiece, Thunderbolt and Lightfoot.

Are you getting this!? Cuz there's more...

In my early career as an alpine wannabe hardman, I climbed the 300 meter sheer wall of Mt. Yamnuska. The route I chose was called Red Shirt. It is a trad classic with terrific exposure. Very airy. The thing about trad is that you must have two things, gear and the technique to use it well. Survival may depend upon it. I had acquired both, schooled by my bro Elmo. Most climbers are sport enthusiasts. Elmo and I are traditionalists, we climbed old school and waaaay off the deck, in search of horizons that can not be anticipated until they are reached. It was an awesome time. A matriculation. And electrifying.

Red Shirt is old school trad. At the time of my attempt, Elmo had gone turning Japanese. So, a climber, I have been on my own for some time. I became a soloist, without my bro. As my skill increased I was able to attract other climbers, punters all, who were looking for a shot at the big time. It's a perfect deal: climbing groupies, if they have just a little skill, are born 'belay slaves'. As the better climber, you choose the routes. The downside, which is not really a downside, is that you must take the lead at all times. Good gear skills do not come easy. Rookies can't lead, and they rarely want to. Fuckin' tourists.

My bud for Red Shirt was a man named Quinby. He was a good friend and we did some groovy climbs. I lead it all. Because of my role as leader, I had to carry all of the technical gear, which is quite unwieldy. So, I made Quinby haul the rest. Water, clothes, shoes and boots, and on the occasion of our Red Shirt ascent, a bottle of brandy to crown our success. At the top we were too knackered to care for a drink, and started off on the the long journey back home. It was a splendid climb ...like, far out. Later the bastard Quinby quaffed all the brandy, which was still in his rucksack when he got home.

So, here's the kicker. A few years later, I took on the same climb with a different gang. My sister and her new boy-toy Pierre Osse-Roche. Penny (sis) and her kids were avid gym climbers and quite able. Pierre had tagged along a few times and thanks to his natural athletic ability, he fit right in thar.

Sis had always wanted to do something trad, and over a stretch, we organized a plan to take on a Yam Route called 'Forbidden Corner', which was next on my tick list. We set out at about 3 am and got to the rock at about 5:30. All along the trail, Penny was uptight. I think she and Pierre had a fight, so she was angry, and as we scrambled to the wall, she began to to get cold feet. She thought the route was too hard. I had seen her flash climbs at this level, and in style, so I knew she could manage the physical challenge. Nevertheless, it is risky and dumb-ass to push people beyond their own comfort zone. I suggested Red Shirt instead. It was one grade easier. I already knew it, so let's go do it. Penny agreed.

Halfway up the first pitch, it was clear it wasn't gonna happen. Penny was too anxious, scared. A 15m climb was one thing. A thousand foot wall of sharp, slippery limestone was decidedly another. My philosophy, because I am a softy, is that if you go out as a group, you should try to come home together. I kiboshed the climb, and didn't mind to. Not one bit. I believe in tomorrow, after all. Like little orphan Annie.

Penny had other ideas. She was pissed and humiliated and wanted to save face, so she deftly demanded that we climb without her. She would wait in the car. For 8 hours! I'm pretty sure Pierre just wanted to strike the set too. He admitted his own terror at the prospect of the challenge, but my sister, who has the most ornery temper of anyone I have ever known, shamed him into making the climb without her. Jesus, you should'a seen his face. His eyes were lost in a thousand yard stare. He was fucking petrified, but had been given his marching papers.

We did that climb like silk on silk. Golden Gods. Pierre, who loves the mountains, was in seventh heaven. We finished by an alternate and more difficult pitch that is so out in space one could well be flying, and blundered down the mountain overjoyed. Back at the car, Penny was madder than a wet hen. She had grown ill and was bathed in sweat, curled up on the back seat of my '74 Comet.

A few moments from Red Shirt.

From the ground, a look up at the Monolith. 149. The gleaming summit out of sight. The summit is always out of reach until you get there.

Hanging on for dear life

The infamous traverse pitch.Maxin' and Relaxin'

A couple years on and Penny would wed Pierre. He is now one a a few good friends that I can count on one hand. His surname, Osse-Roche, is pronounced OZ-ROCK. Oz-Rock. Ragnarok. Ayers Rock. Monolith. I will later learn that Pierre, who is comic book collector, created a superhero alter ego when he was a wee spark. He was called REDMAN. The karma is so thick you could cut it with a knife.

Don't quit me Carrot Top, what follows is intimately relevant.

Some years later I would climb once more with my pal Quinby. Our objective was an old school alpine hobnail called Cory Crack. I had tried this route twice before, and was turned back. First, I tried a free solo and got lost on the notoriously difficult approach. I was trying to get bearing when a heard a sound, and I am not fibbing here, I thought it was a bomb falling from the sky. A whistling screech, louder and louder. I looked up and saw a glorious Raven, gliding steeply along the precipce. Right at me. X marks the spot. I was sufficiently spooked. I don't think I am a superstitious man, but I took that bird as an Omen and went home. Next try was with a dipshit called Jerzy Roman Kreepovski, a Polish guy and god's gift to women. Fuckin' moronic toe-jam. Anyhoo, we too got lost on the approach, which is through a complex series of steep gullies, thick with forest. We got lost, all right, but we didn't know it soon enough. At the the wall we stopped beneath a fairly obvious crack, about a foot or so wide. After a couple of pitches, the crack dried up and opened onto a steep, slabby, naked wall. Overhead was a dihedral and what looked like another big crack. This is a fairly normal event in trad climbing. Features look different than they do from the ground. Cracks disappear and re-appear. I started up the slab, which had no protection at all. The dihedral, which is a feature like the place where two walls meet in a room, was forty feet out from the belay and the climbing was tricky and sustained. I was looking at a death fall if I made just one wrong move. I got to it and looked for a pro placement. Thing is, I had come to climb Corey Crack, and had packed gear suitable to that climb, which is a 1000ft long crack, called a 'chimney' in climbing parlance. I was out on a blank face of incipient cracks with little gear for this terrain - just back-up, should we 'get lost'. By now I knew we were lost. Wherever we were, it sure as hell wasn't Corey Crack! Another ten feet up the dihedral and I was out more than fifty feet, I found a solid placement, a number nine walnut. I was good at gear. I loved gear, the clicking sounds it made, attached to my harness and bandoliered across my shoulders, the feel of the steel and aluminum on my skin. Gear was my specialty. This number nine, set like a jewel into a thumb wide crack and gently tugged to tighten it, would hold a Mack truck. I lead on and it got scary fast. No more pro. I inched upward. Still no pro. Falling, if the number nine failed, I would tumble eighty or so feet, continue past Jerzy at the belay ledge, and probably rip him out of the wall and down with me. I was shitting Tiffany cuff links. I started to get what climbers call 'Elvis Leg', or 'Sewing Machine Leg'. Wicked trembling in the feet and legs. I cooled the fear and took stock. The dihedral was getting steep and I had no idea what I might face up there. To the left was an open face. I chose to step out onto the face, just to eye the terrain more closely and found trouble. The sheer face was a rippling wave of uncracked limestone. If I miffed it, it was over. I stepped back into the dihedral, deciding to make like a book and get out of there. There was a small hole in the right toe of my rock boot. I loved those shoes, Arcos Wings, and kept them in service for too long. As I stepped back into the corner sharp limestone poked through and stabbed my toe, and oh how the mighty did fall. I came off that rock like a lean desert cat, like Nijinsky, and time literally stopped. I looked down at the walnut, it looked back at me. It was as if we had a chat, me and the walnut. I was 'the kid', the nut played John Wayne. Please hold, I whimpered. The nut glittered back with grit in its eye. And then I was was a goner. I'm talkin' lightspeed.

The durned thang held. I let out a holler of ecstatic joy and almost started to cry. But not from fear or gratitude. I was fuckin jazzed and ready to eat more guts. I burned that dihedral, no pro, up and over. Yamo be there, nizz. We went on to finish this mystery climb, although Jerzy, so gung-ho at the go, declined to lead further pitches.

The next day I wanted to find out just what I had climbed. There was a rusty piton or two on the route, so it had mos def been done before. It wasn't desribed in any of the current guides. I asked a feller at the nearby climbing shop, Mountain Magic, and he gave me an out of print guide from behind the counter. It was filthy. I Xeroxed it and took it home.

The climb was called A Clockwork Orange. Neat-o, thought I, I love Kubrick! What a nitwit. How little did I know...

The green ants are dreaming. I mean, are you getting this!

The alchemists say 'as above so below'. They say a climbing man is also a falling man. I think that this is Saturnine tomfoolery. A trump l'ouiel. A trick of the PHI. The hand is quicker than the PHI.

But just cuz were tough on Ol' Nick don't mean that we oughtn'ta give him his due.

The Monolith, Mountain, Pillar of Wisdom may have a Newtonian counter-function. The Garden of Eden is the tale of a serpent, a tree and an apple. A Newt(on) snoozing under a tree. A falling apple. An idea. Death. Knowledge of the Tree of Life and Death is Gravity. Gravity is the Grave. The Sin of Eden is mortality. The mother of all add campaigns. Life's a bitch, and then...? Fuck it, let's go bowling.

The inverted pillar is not really a pillar, it is the elevator to Hell, which is the heart warming fire of the refiner. An elevator. Heat rises. That's it.

It's printed in ink, on the showdown of H.I. and Smalls, at the climax of RA. Both men bear a 'road runner' tattoo. The Italian term for 'runner' is 'corso'. Johnny Depp's Dean Corso is the burned out Aquarian anti-hero of Polanski's, The Ninth Gate. Corso gives the English for 'current', so we get a buzz out of it all. As a piece of the puzzle, The Ninth Gate sticks out like a sore thumb. It's villain, Boris Balkan, is tasked by the eternal Frank Langella. Langella just did a turn as Nixon, who is pictured bowling on the Dude's wall hanging, at his apartmant in TBL. Watergate/The Ninth Gate. A perfect scare in the shape of a square. Nixon is 'nix one'. The Plus One Problem, Carrot Top.

I know The Ninth Gate well, as I have seen it seven or eight times, maybe more. I play a game when I watch, always alone and in the dark night. I drink when Corso drinks, although I prefer the icy tang of Bombay Gin to Corso's Johnny Walker. I'm African man, you know. As the movie unravels, I quickly out pace the bookworm, and come the luminous finale, I am ready and hot for anything. Anything. And I sleep like a baby. They call it 'dutch courage'. Who knew? Holland is sinking too. The sHELL Corporation.

Our enterprise is has eclipsed all of my other work as if it were a mean ol' playground bully with the sun behind him. Would you like to post on a forum, or a new blog? Wordpress maybe? I dunno. I can chill it on this, and then chill somemore. I'll can take it slow, but I would like to know your thoughts.

Now I'm off to Eat Before I Burn After Reading. I expect a tsunami on this second pass. I'll have more later tonight.

Breathless.

And Carrot Top, about that paranoia trouble. Lay off the reefer, man.

Aug 11 8:45 PM - from Carrot Top

I have killed my whole evening at this game. I just tried to save my recent file and somehow deleted all my work instead.

I'm getting tired of this shit.

What are we doing, anyway?

Aug 12 - 5:38 AM - from Swann

Jeez man, you sound a little pissed off (I'm calmer than you, Dude). I don't know what we're up to. I'm just trying to have a good time, doing what I love to do. Watchin' flics and wavin' my dick. I'm sorry your docu-save didn't go clear, but I feel a bit cheated. I damn well tremble with electricity and fear every time I open my email, and I want the stuff, man! You let me down. I'm giving my blood, sweat and tears to our deed of derring-do, and I'm not looking for a glad hand and a gaze of admiration, or a fuckin' Oscar either. We gotta be Astaire and Rogers here (you can be Fred, I'll dance backwards), and that means being prepared (what a laugh), and backed up! But no probs. It's a memory game, bud. May all the good ones come back! It's only time.

BTW, what do think of my title? Game of Death. Too contentious? Too soon for a handle, as yet? Lemme know.

Up next, I wrestle the BAR. I may have some of the good stuff, I certainly think I do. One thing is for shizz becoming oh so transparent. I don't know what cinema is, Bog knows I've tried to suss it, but I do know that the Coens are looming in my eye as unrivaled masters of telekinetic sadism, and for now, I am loving it.

Aug 12 1:18 PM - from Carrot Top

Jesus you are a whiner. You want more. Here is more.

The title: Game of Death. Do you think this is only a game? My eyes have seen great woe. This isn't fun for me.

You come off all wise and witty, but have you chosen a noble path? Using your dubious mountain adventures as a yardstick, my guess is you are lost, Swann. Truly and totally lost. Blind. You are incomplete.

I've have heard enough of your glory days. I thought I knew you better, but now I must test you. If you pass, I'll will get you through school if I have to drag you by the scruff of your neck. Re-read the Raphael thread. If you don't get the message, you are without hope.

Aug 12 8:23 PM - from Swann

Have you considered switching to Sanka?

We have come to our first big crux. It's really thrilling, man. This is a turning point, in I my opinion. Let's turn on.

It can be tough to communicate through writing. The exact emphasis is exceeding subtle. I am a stumble-bum, an absent minded dumbledore casting cartoon spells. Have I failed to express my admiration or sumpin'? What are we doing here, man. Are we Happy Wanderers or Lost in the Dark Night of the Soul? Do you think there is a difference?

I'm a little hurt that you didn't like my climbing stories. Not so much because of the personal sleight, but rather that you fail to apprehend the profound merit they express to our concert. Oh well, no one is perfect (and so is everyone else).

I'm not descending now, but just what is the problem, and what's the combination? You say you've seen too much. I understand that the right balance of perfectly legal medication will work wonders. You just have to find a good recipe. I myself use Olanzapine for my anxiety. Zoloft for depression. I self medicate with Classic Coca Cola, chocolate, and plenty of locally grown agriculture. Two or three times a year, sometimes more, I purify with a good lost weekend. Well, with me they are more like a lost long weekend and call in sick for two days, strong as a bull of course, to keep ma-drink-awn until critical spiritual liquidity is acheived. My psychiatrist does not approve of my use of holistic, mostly legal self remedy. He is a fool too.

And you aren't having fun? C'mon, it's just a fuckin' dream. A Cosmic Sitcom. That is all it has ever been and all it ever could be. It's absolute perfection. How ever bad it gets, and I know it can get bad, as I have been broken on the wheel and may be again (hope not). Come what may, one can only awake into another dream. We are all immortal. Sure, there is a terrible side to it all, and I have told you I am in awe of it, but ya gotta stay salty or ya'll get sucked in. (Poe: Descent into the Maelstrom).

In the spirit of my beloved Supertramp: Path, What Path? Wisdom, What Wisdom? There may be many wrong ways but there sure as hell ain't no right one, and that's just my opinion. Kierkergaards and Luthers and Joans o' the Arc and sad little Kafkas lurk about the via dolorosa, trying in vain to solve the riddle of the Crucifix. I've been there. Nowadays it's Cabo San Lucas, on the beach in shade of a palm, sharing two pina coladas (one for each hand), with Mark Twain and Baudelaire. We talk about the mysteries of the Wobbly Wacky Wu-niverse, and what it 'might' mean. I am humorist, Carrot Top. I've walked my trail of tears, and feel no hurry to 'complete' anything, or to be completed.

One mentor and righteous dude, Zen Master Alan Watts, asks: Just what is happening and can we really take it seriously? Your test, should you choose to accept it, is to answer this question for yourself. The answer is immediatley available, like everything that's true. Wisdom is like chess. It's only a game, and without objective value.

I don't take tests. Tests are just one man's way of sizing up the acceptibilty of others over whom he wishes power . If I read more of Raphael, I'll do so because I choose to do so. Choice is the thing of value of which I am aware, and I have sought for such proof with alacrity for all of my life. What we do, we choose to do. If you know a greater truth than this, then you oughtta share with the rest of the class. You could only make the world a better place.

When I at last got to the computer today, I was fresh for the Sacred Gin Mill. Lot's of good shizz of da BAR to report. The tone of your emails has deflated me. I detect in you some kind of personal threshold.

The mind has a lot of tricks in his pocket, I admit, but as I remember things, you sought me out. You called me 'a master' and coaxed our collabaration. My arm was rubber anyway, because I was enchanted by your revelations. Where is your sincerity? What are your motives?

Are you all right? I'm not being glib. If there is something on your mind, can you tell me about it?

Get back to me at your leisure.

Aug 13 9:53 PM - from Carrot Top

We are losing sight. This story isn't about us. We'll be lucky to survive it.

You have sent me a load of drivel, about all You. We should be talking about It! Where is 'your' sincerity?

Read the fucking Raphael thread, Swann.

Aug 13 11:07 PM - from Swann

At your urging (insistence? I dunno) I went back and looked at the Raph thread. Are you this man, this Raphael? There is a semblance, wouldn't you say? But this man is very open about personal conincidences, so I don't think it's you. I wouldn't be surprised, though.

I pretty much tune out the 'hear my word' types although some are quite good, so I stuck on it for two or three pages and a few of his other threads too. I wouldn't say Raphael is wrong, but very dry and effete. There is a lot of good shazbot out there, so when it comes to input, I am fussy. I don't fret about it, what I might miss. I have an eternity to see it all, and it keeps on getting bigger and better. No endings cuz it hasn't even started yet. Have you ever seen the von Trier film The Idiots? You might like it. For me, it touched my heart. The message is that what is truly meaningful is available to everyone, even the severly mentally and physically disabled. von Trier is a true goodfella, in my book. It's the negation of a pose like Raphael's. Nobody 'needs' to know anything. Manner trumps Matter every time my would-be friend. Raphael is a stuffed shirt, lobbing his earth shattering data at some decrepit super-luminary, pressing for recapitulation like an automatic tennis ball server. Oh the ennui! Tell me a good story, or leave me to talk to myself. I'll probably just go for a nap.

Did you even bother to read my onerous climbing stories? Fuck, man, this is Ripley's Believe It Or Not, a punk Magnolia, and you treat it like it's the shit on your shoe.

What's your problem anyway? Are you gonna answer? And don't try any tactics on me. I know you are thinking about this and you could have answered me by now. I have made a valorous contribution and commitment. Don't I deserve an answer, or is it too much for me to comprehend?

Aug 14 3:15 AM - from Carrot Top

Wow, I'm dumb struck. You say 'lead' but refuse to follow.

Raphael has some important data. You don't like his style. So what? I'm not too fond of yours, either.

We are in trouble, and as such, I expect you to honor your oath not to publish. The details are not important. Do not print any of my story, or the mails they come from.

If you aren't up for this, that's fine. Just give me some slack. I have been to hell and back.

Aug 14 7:12 AM - from Swann

I guess we aren't cut from the same jib, nor do do our patterns blend. Can this be remedied? Maybe.

I have given you plenty of slack. You drew first blood, before the slightest hint I was doing wrong. In the time since our exchange began, I have provided exponentially greater work product than you. Defining as problematic my personal reflections, the vile Me of your stated distaste, is beyond irrelevant. I have been absolutely sincere and prolific, far beyond my own tales, which by the way are practically melted right into the so called It you think is so fucking important.

I am the hero of my own life. I consider it stupid not to be. I am sorry you are not the hero of your own.

Regarding your editorial requests: take a bath. Are you not aware that when you send someone a correspondence it becomes property. I have kept every mail in version original and saved them to a back up, and you have no authority to deny that I use them. You sent them to Me. They are Mine. I would never misrepresent or distort your comments, beyond this, I am free to do as I will and will probably do so.

Finally, re: The Importance of Being Earn-ed.

I have no time to earn anything, and not because time is short. I just couldn't be bothered. My reality is anything but mundane, it fucking rocks. There is no war, just war-mindedness. I laugh in the face of death, and pee my pants at the same time.

I am not ready to give up on our partnership just yet. I never wanted you to lead, I offered you the lead. It's called gallantry and you should try it on for size. Have you read Larouche's On the Subject of Metaphor. I'll save you the trouble. When you have something to teach someone, you tell them a story. Like Archimedes for example... 'Well, I was in this bath, and you'd never believe it...etc...'.

What you don't do is finagle somebody to jump through a battery of behavioral experiments. If you can understand what I'm saying, please get back to me asap. If not, I will take it you have put me out of your misery.

Aug 14 9:00 AM - from Carrot Top

You made a promise. Keep it, mother-fucker. If you mess with me I will fucking crucify you. I am not playing here.

Goodbye, dipshit.

Epilogue

The next mail penned by yours truly, the delightful Mr. Swann, was a tasteless raving. I lashed out at Carrot Top. For the fun of it. For my blood, which I like to keep hot. I was pretty sure that it would be snake-eyes for Carrot Top and me, and I was touched with a bittersweet sorrow.

But...

On the verge of this publication, Swann heard again from Carrot Top. I can not reveal or transliterate the contents of his mail, except to say that Carrot Top says he is scared and unsure of his future, and of the chance for a happy life. He is not a spiritual man, nor interested in wearing a poet's cloak. The power of our shared visions, said he, must be treated with fear and trembling but not with a happy tune.

And so...

Aug 16 2:10 PM - from Swann to Carrot Top

Big Mea Culpa.

Can you forgive a fool? Thing is, I like the zing of the game, and getting into a role. I am a classical and not a method actor. I seek only the text for the material to nuance my character. Nevertheless, I know well and good that this is not a widely shared inclination. Method is the preferred style, and by a mile.

My promise to you, which I will keep to the letter, was one offered in friendship. You did not return that promise, but instead chose to impugn my worthiness like a spiritual drill instructor. I not only understand, but have faced the fear of your wildest nightmares. It nearly destroyed me. This is no boast. You would've have learned about this event had you not undermined my friendly zeal. The details are of more than the trifling, middling value given by your comments. We are not connected to the events we explore by some thinning tether, bro, we are chained, arc welded, branded. We are in it! This is the story of our lives, for rizzle. I think if you had read my tales like a Dude, and not a worried and hurried accountant, you would discovered something profound and wonderful. Maybe it is too late for us, although I remain hopeful.

The past, our past, is all that is real, and at least for now, is all that can be real. The present moment is a bursting bubble, and the future, so full of promise and terror, is always beyond an impossible horizon. You may be through with the past, but the past is not through with you. The past is overflowing with truth. It's a tidal wave. We surf until we drown.

Our Quarry, the Kubrick elusive and Coens cryptic, if fully aware and in control of their opus, must know all too well that their code would be broken. Moreover, they would want it to be broken! You've got a noggin', and a pretty good one from what I assess. Have you not considered that the discoveries we survey, and perhaps by merely the sub-concious mind alone, are in fact precipitating these harpies of prophecy come down to roost?

We gotta give it back, Carrot, old chuck. Better Magick. It is the only way out of this abyss. Sure, we prob'ly aren't gonna make it, but if we do, it will be our joi de vie that saves us. Our total individuality. We must save only ourselves, carry what we love in our heart, and continue in style.

I have been a prick, man and I am really sorry. I designed our relationship in my mind but the center could not hold. I honestly thought as a reader of my old blog, who sought my partnership, that you got me? It's a mistake I've made before, which is why I stay in the shadows these days.

What I say now is not as some wise acre teacher and know it all, but as a brother. Not even from the level, Dude, but a-waaay downtown. I have pissed on the proverbial carpet. Stinking drunk and buck naked, with a buttery courgette rammed halfway up my ass, howling at the moon like Ed Gein or sumpin'. And the eyes of Texas were upon me. I'm a fuckin' fool man, a loser and owner of a wasted life, I ain't nobody's prom king. I hope, in this respect, that we are square, and that you will consider my next thoughts as a friend.

You say you are not spiritual. This is a good start. You have no idea, I guess, how far ahead in the game this puts you. Spirituality is the most evil BS of all. It is no more than intellectual materialism. Fuckin' crap, and you imply you've given it the royal flush. The hardest part is over. If it comes back, use a plunger.

We are, humanity I mean, all scared out of our wits. This world is no more than a goddam madhouse. It doesn't even merit a capitalization. But it is beautiful, man, and one can be overwhelmed. You know this. You are trying to get above the mud, to climb out of the foxhole, which is the yearning of every living soul, and as an elite platoon is kitting up for at this very moment. All of us volunteers. We need the raw data, as much fact as the truth can stand, to guide us across a bloody gaping orgy of razor wire and shrapnel.

A long time ago, safe as houses philosophers dug in and tried to formulate an equation to deal with this very conundrum. How do we prepare for the unknown frontier of our hearts desire? I know the answer, and it is the fact that will save your life. I was given a unique opportunity, as a child, to receive this education, which is vicious and awful. I payed very close attention, which is the one talent I brought into this fucking shit-storm. I was scarred and transformed, and it fucking hurt. It still hurts.

So here it is. Viddie well and do with it as you will. Jesus Christ (for the untimely lack of a better name) was Crucified for your misbehavior. You have failed in every way to measure up to the draconian standard of our mean old Bog in his heaven and he's is gonna get you for sure! Like hell he is. Fuckin' chud-munch couldn't tie his own shoe, and he invented shoes, for chrissake.

The fact is, Christ died for your sins man, for mine, and for all the lost children. There is no charge for admission.

This is not the Biblical Christ, who's nuthin' but a fake, although a near perfect fake. F is for Fake. We can discuss that later. The real Christ who has no proper name, is the True and Balanced King of the Many-verse. You can not topple a Sphere. The ugly attempt to conflate Christ with the dog Osiris is a cheesy Egyptian parlor trick.

This King, who we have branded Christ, this simple son of man (in noways 'Son of Bog') lived, spoke a simple truth, was brutally murdered, and fucking rose from the dead to save us all. In fact it doesn't even matter, as is preached so proudly, if you ever figure this for yourself. You are saved man. Those you love are saved. This ain't no corny invitation to some moldy church full of blue meanies, or hoppy hippy hall-a-looey's, nee-ther. I am talking about Gnosis and damn well know what I mean. Gnosis is real. It is reality. You want to see it, to know it? Open your eyes, your heart, your mind, and you'll find it written on every wall.

You can not lose if you care not to win.

As for me, surely you can interpret my dilemma. I know nothing about you. My mind is like a free range chicken, and it wanders wide (for a chicken). As far as I know, you could be some kinda split personality of old Swann, some kinda Sybil. Am I sending these posts to myself? How do I know? I have opened up to you like a cranky old dime novel while you remain a specter. Who has got their game on, man? There is always something cleverer than oneself, and I harbor no illusions of mastery. I leave dat shiz to da Gee-suss, at least for now.

And so, I must proceed. I am honestly too afraid not to, though I have to admit, me like-ee long time. My last word is just in case you are who I might think you are...

Here goes. Whew, I'm nervous. OK.

I love you Satan, if that's you out there. I really mean it. You are the tops in my book, and I tell it to the world. Sure, my heart belongs to Jesus, but my soul belongs to you. It always has. And should you be just a regular man, like me, and fucking gobsmaked by the dreadful glory of it all? Well then I love you, too.

Sin-cerely,

Swann

Our story is far from over.

Next: Burn After Reading and deeper into TBL. Will Carrot Top learn to stop whirring and love the bomb, or will Swann have to brave it on alone? One thing is certain...

...we'll meet again, don't know where, don't know when...

Part Two coming soon to a theater near you.