The Muse's Advisory typed & spellchecked by Tom Riordan
Prep Talk - Muse's Advisory, July 24 – Shaman to Zeus
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- Lots of Catching Up To Do - Muses Advisory, July 25 – Miriam to Yeshua
- The Pups Plea - Muses Advisory, July 26 – Yeshua to Miriam
- The Parents Plea - Muses Advisory, July 27 – Miriam to Yeshua
- Vision Quest - Muses Advisory, July 28 – Zeus
- Vision Quest (Scholarly View) - Muses Advisory, July 29 – Former comparative theologian, corner Division Alger
- Unwelcome - Muses Advisory, July 30 - Dr. Sharif Sahibzada,www.islamiccentergr.org
- Hasta la Vista - Muses Advisory, July 31 – Yeshua
Prep Talk - Muse's Advisory, July 24 – Shaman to Zeus: The bird you murdered called you Pak. What does that say about you? Did you see Anger Management? You should. Take off your boots and lose that ridiculous gunslinger's poncho. Who sold you that? Nobody tougher than a hippie slut's affected one of those for several hundred years. As Castaneda's snakish Hexetaught me just a month before she disappeared herself, In a dark theater, hold a finger before your nose and look at the aisle lights. The finger isn't there. Now close one eye. The finger's there, but lights shine through its fuzzy edges. When your mind views simple phenomena in odd ways, you start to sense the walls of the cellar where we shelter from reality's cyclone. Now let's have a look at you. You still got muscle, definition. I think we'll sweat off 15 pounds— your peak is 215, 220 tops. Depends how much you wanna work those glutes. We'll get to spiritual renewal!First things first. We can't take half measures, human nature is dual. Once upon a time, internal beauty shone as beauty you could see but nowadays souls take their cues from muscle tone, hair styling and good grooming. As Don Tele says, Get the right level of clean for all your parts. The Axe Detailer works to keep every part of you ready for action: use the scrub side to dig into extra dirty parts and the mesh side to build lather on sensitive areas because every part matters. Thus, we have to pluck those brows! The Great Glower look went out with Kraven the Hunter and Wolverine. Then let's measure you for an Armani or a Calvin Klein. I look like a bum and I do fine? Pal, I'm a humble shaman, not the kingfish you were born to be. You could command this whole district but you won't get a wood-tick's respect if you look like some Bulgarian. Command it for what?That's going to be Act II. But first, let's see what's underneath those underpants. A lot of who you are and who you're going to be depends on your relationship with that extremity. Lie on the couch. Arrange your shaft so it rests comfortably atop your pouch. I know you've had some trouble with performance. Ouch. I know the feeling, too. I was trying to get laid once down in Tijuana, right? I get the girl down in a 4-point crouch, yeah, puma style— I'm about to touch my baldy to her nest, when he just plain gives out. She rises to a kneel and tries to help me with her mouth but it's no use. What is that running through the head? Is that self-consciousness? I'll tell you what it is. It's— —you sure you didn't come for that?Don't bullshit me. I hear that Robert Bly beat in your speech. Turkish Pears in August, Talking into the Ear of a Donkey, The Urge to Travel Long Distances, Iron John, The Man in the Black Coat Turns, and finally, Silence in the Snowy Fields. That's all in my own head?
You don't care? Ah. Things don't go smooth, that's just the way it is? A woman's got to take the fizzle with the fizz? Shit, man, you're more evolved than me. So all I have to offer is peyote. Most first-timers puke. That's why I have these flight discomfort bags my aunt the stewardess sneaks home from work. No, neither Dramamine nor gum is going to help. You howl like a demented whelp, shape-shift into that wild beast that Robert Bly goes on and on about at all his seminars, then fly or trot or swim off on your quest, and if you're lucky, fly or trot or swim back with a gift. Sober and hysically fit enough to abandon the socio-perceptual compact, Ulloa, Osorio and Matus exist as energetic ovals who observe other passages of energy and taste the sensation water enjoys as it follows nobody's advice in a cold clear brook. So, here's some 01 Gatorade. You'll need it. In case you get the munchies, take this jumbo size Doritos. When it's over, and your kid and woman come to collect you, there's a Longhorn Steakhouse 20 miles north in Springfield. Here's a 10%-off coupon. Lots of Catching Up To Do - Muse's Advisory, July 25 – Miriam to Yeshua: I'm so excited! Sit. We've got two days until we pick up Zeus— and lots of catching up to do. A lot of muddy water under bridges, no? You mentioned work. What kind of job is it? Where do you live? Do you have friends? Somebody special, hmm? How did you wind up here? When did you quit the apparitions gig? Have you gone fundamentalist? I'm liking you like this,
You've grown too old and worldly, Shoo, to magnify your mother with a kiss? Is that my thanks for all of this? And Zeus—? You know he cares, if from afar. The proof is that he custom-made you with that fain predisposition to forgive. Your attempt to help him—sweet. After his vision quest, who knows, maybe his bitterness will wane, you two will hit it off. I doubt it, though. I've been with him through hell, high water, thick and thin, and fresh-killed inspiration feeds his taste for the perverse and makes things worse. If he has one quintessence, guiding force, élan vital, I'd have to say it's his resistance to amendment—that divine inertia worshipers prefer to call “perfection.” I'll have some Ranch House Chili, half a rack of Baby Backs— or should I get Flo's Bacon Wrapped Filet? You're getting fish, Yeshua? No, you're Texan, eat some beef. Don't bring him salmon, Miss. That's too ridiculous—grown boy! Make it an Outlaw Ribeye rare. No Mango Peach Sangria neither— lime-rimmed Equis, dos, and hold the glass. Who's that there, settin' up to sing? You're shittin' me, there's such a thing as country-western Rebel soul? Sounds like a mixed-up motherfucker. Say who?—his name is actually Rucker? Yeah, yeah, you're old enough to order what you want, it's true, but when in Rome, you do as Romans do. You think that pierced-neck hottie there is gonna shtup a guy who orders fish and uses Pantene Shine Enhancer in his hair? Why, thank you, Miss. Stop whining! Drink your beer
I think that singer guy is eying me. Who knows, it may be mama's lucky night. The Pup's Plea - Muse's Advisory, July 26 – Yeshua to Miriam: Ma, Zeus can rot in hell. I didn't work that trick in Nazareth, nor hire that sham, to melt the blowhard's selfish shell. I did it for these couple days without him, me and you, just us. I want to drive you to St. Joe. I saw Dad there—my real dad, if you want to know— not the unmannered schmo who thinks his sperm alone a gift from god. You'll be surprised, impressed. He has a steady job, is off the sauce and has a place that's big enough for the whole family. Can't we just go and see? I know you saw him fairly recently and it was bad, but time is looser here out West, and Zeus—let's face it— a degenerating mess, a far cry from his best, which isn't saying much. I want the childhood you took from me! Who wants to be a prodigy debating hermeneutics with high priests? I want to chase a little tail and smoke a little weed, hop in my truck and roar around at unsafe speeds! I'm not a rebel, Ma— though à propos the Civil War, we don't believe the North was free to force the South to be their economic whore—me, all I want is franchise to walk tall into a rockabilly honkytonk and tell a girl something as normal as “My parents live up in Missouri.” Would it kill you to maintain some semblance of a marriage so your cub can hold his head up when he's drinking with his friends down at The Concord Carriage? Yes, I work in a garage. I'm just a glorified apprentice. And I have my eye on someone special— Christian, and conventional. Adultery with gigolos from Crete is not her family's cup of tea. I'm sorry. Yes, I know Zeus has been good for you, but Ma, it's time to get back with the man you're married to, give him that second chance. It's really my fault that he left, so reunite for me, to help me expiate my guilt. This is my final shot at real stability— at fitting in—a good ol' boy, not some Begotten Son. So can we? Yeah, right here, it's in my GPS. Two miles, turn left on 160 east, then catty-corner straight across this tennis court of winter wheat that calls itself the state of Kansas. The Parent's Plea - Muse's Advisory, July 27 – Miriam to Yeshua: I don't find fault with Yusuf or with Zeus. I blame myself for hanging on your words and weeping at your feet, for raising you to think that other people's life-and-death was vastly less transformative than yours. If Evangeli-Gal's not sharp enough to flay the beastly mom and wear the pelt—the child a parent yields— I wonder if she's not a dicey choice? Pathology can run in families rich or poor but why start new ones if contagion is so all-fire sure? If she would like to meet me, good. If she just wants the pocket dossier— a step-dad, yes, who walked when you reached your rebellious years, and sailed to distant edges of the world on merchantmen; your birth-dad, yes, a classic absentee, who did man up, eventually, a little bit, but far too late; and mom, who tended almonds, olives, quince, and boasts some bitchin' SuperClash experience. All three of us are blunt, confront life head-on, fight. Be sure to tell her that we cuss, piss, love and hate as loudly as we please. There's history of creativity, virginity, divinity, insanity— the gamut, cornucopian with possibilities! And we'll embrace whatever she can bring unless it's a requirement that one of us renounce our personality. Our skeletons roam free, no closets, that's your legacy: too late to put cats back in bags or tie ships, storm-blown, back up to their berths. You're one of us. Stand tall, and let the fruits fall where they may. It won't be too far from the tree, I bet, if you and she have kids yourselves one day. Vision Quest - Muse's Advisory, July 28 – Zeus: 1. The shaman slid the curtains shut and said four buttons or two gelcaps ought to be enough. “Your lady and your son believe you're in a rut, you've lost the animal, the god in here,” he said and tapped his ear, “and here," tapping his gut. “This is a way to stir things up.” “No offense, señor sabelotodo, but you're not exactly an hombre who inspires fear,” I said. “That postal truck right there," he said, "if it could talk, could tell you tales! This talking bag of skin, it isn't me.” “How come we've never heard of you in Greece?” “Oh, but you have.” He made a girlish semi-pirouette and disappeared. 2.
My talons scratched the soft pine floor. Low Mach waves blew the window out. I gathered myself up and flew straight from the sun, that dying ball—raced toward dark, my hungers far too powerful to wheel and scan the runways underneath me for a pond, or warm four-legged prey. The eagle in me hurled its crown at air first grayed then shed by its trajectory. Fly faster, truer than you've ever flown until the air above your beak is lightened by the ardent emanation of your eyes! My flight outpaced an 18-wheeler past Dodge City, then Yeshua's tiny red truck crossing the Missouri; traversed St. Joe, and crossed the iron Mississippi. At last--the shadow having waned, light equalized above a coaled Lake Michigan--I dove into the eye of office-park Grand Rapids and struck a rabbit grazing in a pocket plaza in eerily illuminated dark. The souls of Amway, Lazarus, Ojibwe and Ottawa, perched on the window ledges, all hailed my kill; deep in my bowels, protozoans sighed Home. New consciousness was sudden, sharp and wide. That featureless city was the last place anyone would relocate to, yet I resolved—decreed— to go and gather up the spent shells of my godhead, make amends to Miriam and to our son, return before the new moon, and begin again. Vision Quest (Scholarly View) - Muse's Advisory, July 29 – Former comparative theologian, corner Division & Alger: Tonight's topic: If one wasn't high on mescaline, why would one choose to re-locate to Michigan? The Jewish Mishna doesn't volunteer a rule, nor do hadith, Icelandic sagas, countless volumes of Confucian wisdom, vedas and upanishads, Herodotus, the Platonists, St. Paul. One school of thought contends the place you live determines who you are, another that it doesn't matter who you are. Who ever heard a truly educated person say, “I wish I was Mongolian or German Swiss” or “Dover sole are blesseder than Arctic char”? Yet, popular metaphysics emphasizes place— home-field advantage, de-urbanization job relocation, highway beautification. It is right and meet, therefore, to ask Zeus, “Manfred—dude!—what were you thinking? Are you looking for a fake nose of conformity? Someplace no one will think to look for you?” Okay, dear men. Adele. That's plenty for tonight. It's time for me to crawl inside my Whirlpool box and get some badly needed shuteye. We can pick this up tomorrow, after lunch? Red letter day! The Imam Sahibzada says Salvation Army opens up its doors again. Unwelcome - Muse's Advisory, July 30 - Dr. Sharif Sahibzada,www.islamiccentergr.org: Welcome to the ISLAMIC
We just renovated our building. We remodeled the entranceway with new carpet and new paint, and the facade with Brick Face. Our new sign does not, however, read: Assalammualaikum, Zeus! Assalammualaikum, Maryam! Assalammualaikum, Yesua! Do you think we came here to enjoy the beautiful climate? While we wish you no harm, Allah stands not in need of any of His creatures. I assure you we are in enough hot water without you coming here to stir up more. I am a grave man, as can be seen in the four photographs provided: Dr Sahibzada, Director Islamic Center of West Michigan, in his office Dr Sahibzada, Director Islamic Center of West Michigan, studying in his office Dr Sahibzada, Director Islamic Center of West Michigan, receiving calls in his office Dr Sahibzada, Director Islamic Center of West Michigan, busy on computer in his office. Do not be fooled by my Santa-Claus like cap. Do not be fooled by my wooden obelisk that says PEACE on the east face and JUSTICE on the north. Do not be fooled because I use post-its. Do not be fooled because when I am busy on my computer in my office I am only staring at the screensaver. I am a grave man and who is to say whether or not I am a stone cold killer when need be? This is the way we Muslims really are! Who is to say what is written on the south face of my wooden obelisk? Observe: only the person sitting in my chair in my office is able to see this. Who is to say what is written on the west? Only the computer is able to see this. Do not come to Grand Rapids, Pak Zeus.I heard about your escapades in Palestine. Did you think I would not hear about them from my brothers in Nazareth? I have learned about them right here from my computer. Who is to say that the information is not right here on a post-it? Almost three years ago the Planning Commission voted 8-0 to prohibit brother Noah Seifullah from opening a prayer center just up on Madison Ave. They said there are not enough parking spaces. Did you think there are enough parking spaces if you come here with Yesua and the Holy Mother, your concubine Maryam? No, I do not believe so. Therefore you must find another city to move to. PRAISE L L A H Hasta la Vista - Muse's Advisory, July 31 – Yeshua: Michigan? I did my hitch up North, two months in Ossining. Just thinking of it makes me itch again. You go there, Zeus. You go ahead and do whatever voices tell you when you're juiced! Leave Ma and me alone. We like the rootin'-tootin' West. She's even started dressing for success— pink bra, the Sassy Rider vest. Are you jealous? That's what the vision quest has sunk to?—one night homeless all-expenses-paid in Podunk and a growl from an imam in a cinder-block barracks so shabby the Jehovah's Witnesses skedaddled? You're lucky that beer-soaked ersatz Injun didn't point you toward Kamchatka! That fakir took us both to town! While you were gallivanting in the sky I drove up to St. Joe to see my dad— I'm sorry if that's hard to hear. Ma wouldn't go. She's loyal to your ass. She stayed behind and went out for a beer. Some whiskeyed charro made a pass at her that made her wet. I thought you oughta know. What a trip the three of us are—rejecting the scripts each other write— rejecting the guideposts of tradition— grabbing the devil himself by the lapels and insisting on “original material”! But it will be the usual spaghetti-Western parting on high chaparral— Adiós, hasta luego, que los ángeles sonrisa, tú sigue tu camino, yo el mío— and off we ride into cañones ciegos without a handshake or farewell. Besides, I got a clinch with a cliché so hot tomorrow— No, why bother talking tough, I'm heartbroken. The two of you have broke my heart. Whose dream was it for me to be a son of God? Why didn't you just ride me to get A's in school and learn the violin? So now, who cares? Grand Rapids, off you trot.
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