captaincliff

https://www.yahoo.com/news/articles/hegseth-orders-hundreds-senior-military-171326326.html

https://www.yahoo.com/news/articles/hegseth-orders-hundreds-senior-military-171326326.html

Ok this should be interesting. Pete Hegseth the Secretary of War has called for a mandatory face to face meeting of up to 800 major generals and admirals in all branches of active military service. Also great to tell the whole world about this unprecedented Handmaid’s Tale type Commanders event in advance so that some foreign or domestic terrorist, lunatic 19 year old Incel who thinks he’s a “true” patriot or disgruntled Dr. Strangelove/Seven Days in May alcoholic general with bipolar mania, Antifa busboy with a dark web mass murder gaming fetish or even a random AI Chatbot addicted delusional military attache with “Rapture psychosis” could conceivably destroy the entire US military command with one well placed biological agent or Fuhrerbunker briefcase bomb. Let’s face it, keeping things under wraps is not exactly Pete Hegseth’s forte. He’s also a sucker for this kind of “Boys will be Boys” Operation Tailhook strip club debriefings and Top Gun/Top shelf liquor “security meetings” so we can only pray his sobriety remains intact. I’d personally feel better knowing Commander Pete has a surgically implanted breathalyzer which monitors his blood alcohol level 24/7 and livestreams the results to open public Facebook, Instagram, his wife and the Jumbotron kissing cam in Boston’s Fenway Park.

Honestly, nobody really knows what’s going on and it might just turn out to be a Squid Games meets American Ninja Warrior military mass firing, West Wing loyalty test or Orange Theory fitness event utilizing Hegseth and Robert Kennedy Jr’s personal Crossfit expertise to weed out the bloat in dollars and pounds (not to mention diversity,equity and inclusion programming) among the US top brass and flag officers.

Note: It’s now reported President Trump will also be attending the aforementioned Department of War pep rally so let’s hope all the flat or sloping rooftops, grassy knolls and nearby landscape hedges will be swept repeatedly by the Secret Service beforehand since they appear to attract more 21-40 year old Lee Harvey Oswald wannabes and non-binary hunters with sniper rifles than my ivy covered property in Atlanta attracts hordes of bloodthirsty virus infected killer mosquitoes. 

With life throwing us curve balls, catastrophes and a “do or die” dead heat presidential election in just a few days it’s probably best to deliberately distract ourselves by focusing on something completely unrelated, totally unimportant and hard to fathom like Stephen Seagal who apparently now lives in Russia. Russia? I thought he was a lousy Hollywood actor who often played a cop, a grossly out of shape martial artist who was reported to enjoy hurting people and more recently a reserve police officer in Louisiana somewhere “down on the bayou”. At least there was a clear and readily apparent theme, common denominator and requisite skill set in all of these post retirement volunteer and professional roles even if the common denominator happens to be a penchant for displaying excessive violence in the name of questionable justice.

However, while surfing the internet recently in an futile attempt to avoid scurrilous misinformation, blatant lies and disgraceful defamatory political ads I happened upon a few photos of Seagal with his best buddy Vladimir Putin. What the hell has Sensei Steven been eating? That’s not body armor or protective gear under his XXXL shirt. I thinking he may have accidentally consumed several Russian models along with the entire oligarch wedding/birthday cake they popped out of like in that 1992 movie Under Siege. I dont think he’s gonna be doing any Bruce Lee one finger push-ups on any social media platform any time soon…and if he does they damn better reinforce the platform first. That’s a lot of meat on the hoof Nico. Also, someone needs to tell him there is a lighter shade of “Just for Men” brown beard dye. I too have gone overboard in an attempt to look younger than my actual age (Putin and I have the same birthday) and quite a few times got caught up writing a never-ending CaptCliff blog and forgot I had dyed my goatee and eyebrows but never rinsed it out. I looked like a cross between Breaking Bad and Groucho Marx. 

Bottomline there is such a thing as subtlety. Laozi said we are beings of “profound cosmic subtlety” but I’m afraid Steven Seagal never got the memo. At least Putin just wants to BE Napoleon and not spend all his waking hours stuffing his face with those super fattening but no doubt super delicious Russian style Napoleon cakes. That’s subtlety. 

Have you seen the recent “We Robot” YouTube interview with the newly debuted Tesla androids? IF they are to be believed and are not just iRobot ripoffs with Little People inside they show unusual dexterity and have much nicer and less homicidal tendencies than Will Smith’s mechanoid counterparts. 

Elon Musk the weird (and probably on the spectrum) genius has somehow managed to create a remarkably likable even socially adept android using high speed AI algorithms that he claims “for under 20k” not only can serve us cocktails, babysit our children and cut the grass but also shmooze with humans in real time by determining and then utilizing Vonnegut’s “mutual but meaningless” social connections (grandfalloon) to increase their owners comfort and trust, ie. “You a Hoosier? That’s amazing i lived in Grand Rapids for 14 years!”

Of course, my twisted Captain Cliff mind immediately imagined a future Larry David episode in which all of Larry‘s LA friends have Tesla service robots that they absolutely adore while only Larry’s service robot hates his guts and, like Siri, consistently refuses to cooperate. Picture Larry being served Mocha Joe coffee by his pronoun identifying robot now wearing a keffiyah and whispering in his ear, “Free Free Free Palestine!” Add in the greek chorus with Leon Black chiming in, “What the fuck Larry! Did you go and get one of those open box refurbished robots at Best Buy?You know that shit dont ever work out!” 

Epilogue: Ok , makes more sense. It figures. He may be a genius but he’s also a charlatan. Birds of a feather :  https://futurism.com/the-byte/tesla-robots-remotely-controlled-analyst

With the world anxiously awaiting the Trump Harris televised debate tonight and girding their loins knowing there will be a heaping pile of unseemly trash talk, finger pointing and general negativity exchanged there is also this trashy news (see below) Somebody really needs to sweep, burn sage and disinfect that room (Presidential debate den of lies) afterwards.

What we say and what we do matters because it either contributes to a better world or it leaves more and more human “debris” and dangerous misinformation for others to have to clean up, clear up, or get off the bottom of their shoe. Do I, CaptCliff, the aging seasick prone pirate need to say what most people are thinking? Down with the scallawags and their filthy lies while your at it pick up your stinking cigarette butts and those little plastic thingamabobs the dentist gives you to floss your teeth and gums but end up in a Safeway parking lot or floating to Timbuktu on a high tide.

From now on, let’s not just think of trash, debris, human lies and baseless conspiracy theories from the perspective of the hard to grasp “butterfly effect” but instead the easy to imagine Cheeto effect. Apparently one little bag of Cheetos dropped on the ground can change an entire fragile ecosystem …and most likely not for the better. I love cheetos but c’mon we can do better about littering, recycling and taking out the trash. Maybe worry a little bit less about an unproven Covid lab leak in Wuhan and more about the exponentially growing floating continent of plastic crap (Great Pacific Garbage Patch) forming in the Pacific Ocean. We may be a highly intelligent species on paper but we’re also kinda gross as far as trash disposal, littering, chemical pollutants and “leave no trace” thinking. Civilized people dont actually poop on the poop deck. They know better. But some picaroons and bilge rat politicians lie like a rug…shamelessly and with no regard for human decency or the actual truth. Maybe thats why a certain circus performer and former president is known informally as the puffed up Orange Cheeto Man.

https://www.cnn.com/2024/09/10/us/video/new-mexico-cave-ecosystem-cheetos-bag-talat-digvid

https://www.cnn.com/2024/09/09/travel/national-park-rangers-call-out-world-changing-impact-of-dropped-cheetos-bag/index.html?iid=cnn_buildContentRecirc_end_recirc

Three random thoughts about my Privilege, the Cosmos and the basic nature of the ever changing Universe

1. Even tho I realize change is the essence of life and the essential process of all existence, I really love Open Pit barbecue sauce (only $1.99 at Publix) and hope the original version never ever goes away. 
2. In thinking recently about the concept of “checking my privilege” it is only now that I realize just how obnoxious it was years ago to make dinner reservations using the name “Dr. Mazer” in hopes of getting better seating and possibly more attentive table service. They must have really hated me for doing that and then if necessary correcting them if they said “Ok thank you Mr. Mazer, you as&wi@e, see you at 7:30 pm.          Ok… I still do that on very very rare occasions…..Mea Culpa
3. In watching one hour of the SciFi series 3Body Problem I got turned off not because I am or am not smart enough to understand the planetary science, theoretical physics, quantum mechanics/entanglement and nano-technology referenced in its creative premise but by my absolute disbelief in the casual bro dialogue between it’s central characters as they sit, drink and smoke cigarettes in a karaoke bar while offhandedly saying stuff like, “well it’s been a while since I’ve taken Particle Physics but is that configuration of the Universe on my cellphone app even possible?”  I’m thinking Game of Thrones, cutthroat family politics and flame-breathing dragons are far more realistic and believable. But what do I know. I’m still in therapy trying to get over the trauma of Greta Thunberg saying, “ok Boomer…”. That really rocked me because up until then i really thought we were special. Checking my privilege..again. 

I recently returned to Chicago on a secret mission…after many years away. While I grew up in the leafy Chicago suburb of Highland Park, I wanted to quietly revisit the big city I always associated with having a multitude of blessings: deep dish pizza, hot dogs, chic sophistication, amazing architecture, fine arts, and of course “elevated” food, ie. “The Bear” versus “Da Bears”. 

To be clear I wasn’t searching for a sublime or extraordinary cultural experience by taking in all the priceless Renoir, Van Gogh, or Gauguin paintings at the Art Institute or feasting on the no doubt glorious tasting menus at Oriole, Alinea or Kasama. I will however tell you that Kasama was Filipino fantastic in its refined simplicity and the burger at The Loyalist was beyond amazing. Instead I was on a stealthy mission to remember my childhood. I was intent on recalling some of the peculiar and unforgettable people, places, and things that captured my imagination as a boy (picture skinny kid with crewcut and missing both front teeth) and may have inspired my extreme curiosity and quirky hyperactive mind (think Young Sheldon with a much lower IQ). Going to the Museum of Science and Industry and taking the tacky tourist tour through the captured German U-boat (U505) was one item on my backwards in time bucket list as was walking into the lobby of my parents former condo residence at the Park Hyatt Hotel on Michigan Avenue. Watching a wide-eyed little boy with his Dad pushing all the verboten “DO NOT TOUCH” buttons on the now stationary WWII German submarine and looking intently through the mock periscope made my day. The entire four day experience in Chicago was a bittersweet mixture of “Now THAT’s an amazing burger!”, “ahh, wait..now I remember!”, “boy that looks a lot smaller than I remember” and finally “i guess they’re right when they say you can never go back”. 

Honestly I never even made it back to Highland Park where I was told my family house on Brittany Road which my parents built in 1966 on an empty forested lot and lived in until they like many empty nesters moved back to Chicago was for sale after being updated and “customized” several times over the years. From the sales listing photo gallery online I barely recognized the house or the original floor plan. I no longer saw or felt the contemporary FLW style that my mother intended only to be replaced by multiple room additions and the personalized imprint of other homeowners I knew not.

I did however like the impressive collection of sports memorabilia in the now fully furnished and completely built out basement. Where I wondered did they put the all important basement “sump pump”? I remember blowing up and lighting on fire my brother Neal’s meticulously put together Revell ship models down there. Also whatever happened to the ginormous 1960’s era waterbed I dragged in pieces down to that mostly unfinished basement in high school just to be “cool” and to no longer have to share a bedroom with my goody two shoes brother? Finally I had mixed emotions about the miniature Lionel train running around a looping railroad track attached to the cove ceiling in my upstairs shared bedroom. In some ways it reminded me of the “interactive” model train exhibit and “hidden” miniature scenes installed on the main floor Transportation Gallery at the Museum of Science and Industry.

Consistent with my mixed/mixed-up feelings and bittersweet experience revisiting the Windy City I did notice that many of the “PUSH HERE” interactive buttons on the 3500 square foot Continental Railroad “Journey Across America” exhibit, ie. lift bridge, blow up tunnel boulders, make pine tree fall over while recorded voice yelled “Timber!!” no longer worked. Who knows…maybe subconsciously that’s why I installed a completely inoperable BIG RED BUTTON in my reproduction of the Titanic’s Communication Room in my pirate basement in Atlanta. Every time I go into that clever but creepy CaptCliff room I push that stupid red button that does absolutely nothing. I cant help myself (see video).

These are the kind of highly personal signs, quirky clues, queer symbols and hidden messages that our child self leaves us like some psychopoetic treasure map with “x marks the spot”. In time and with the sands of time slowly running out of the metaphoric hourglass we are beckoned to follow the clues and remember who we authentically are as well as reconnect with the joy, beauty, imagination and innocence of who we once were. By consciously choosing to do that not only do we create a sense of wholeness and self acceptance within ourselves but perhaps we are also more able to face and embrace the inevitability of change in the world.

Besides the sappy title this blog may seem like it’s going to be about Harmony my sweet, loving and infinitely loyal Black Lab rescue dog who is now somewhere around 13 yrs old. How Harmony came into my life (actually into my open garage prior to me getting working garage doors) is a whole different story. This true tale and longwinded CaptCliff blog is actually about the necessity of facing ones mortality and the importance of remembering who you once were and reconnecting with that childhood self. “Inner child” may be a close approximation but in this case it’s not about peace, love or flower power. Neither is it about some idealized angelic version of childhood.

By “childhood self” I’m mostly referring to the original, pure, innocent, unadulterated and unconditionally loving part of our being as well as the unbiased unadulterated early in life preferences, interests, desires, likes (yum!) and dislikes (yuck!) that once defined and described an individual’s true nature. There are no six-year-old accountants or eight-year-old attorneys. Only little kids in their most real, authentic and original state of being. Admittedly it’s not an easy concept to pin down precisely but if you asked a family friend or older relative who knew you at age 4-9 years old they would likely be able to describe certain key elements or personality traits that stood out as far back as they can remember. For many children who are now fully grown adults or even aging Baby Boomers like myself our original self was often characterized by a boundless amount of physical energy, vivid imagination, untamed emotions (and emotional vulnerability), an inherent sense of play and playfulness and non-stop curiosity about everything which is not very different from my dog Harmony’s basic personality…minus maybe the energy part nowadays.

Consider this: Once upon a time we were all children. Amazingly that even includes monsters like Hitler, Stalin and whoever created TikTok and the reality TV shows Jersey Shore and The Swan. Taking into account the wide range of basic human temperaments, all of us were more or less sweet, adorable, playful, emotionally open, unconditionally loving, and lacking in prejudice…also like Harmony. Then “shit happened” in our lives and in our varied and various life journeys, ie. deep pain, devastating loss, hurt, rejection, life threatening illness and psychological trauma like death, divorce, physical and sexual abuse, economic problems etc..

As a result we developed coping mechanisms in an attempt to deal with everything we couldn’t adequately deal with or process at the time, Not our fault. Our brains, bodies and minds were not developed enough to do so. For many of us these predictable but also often maladaptive coping methods included deep denial, dissociation, drinking, drugs, depression/anxiety/PTSD etc. and selective forgetting/repression. In other words a lot of our early life experiences, memories and primal feelings were shut off and stored away someplace in our mind/body and metaphorically speaking got “lost” in a purposely disorganized pile of old papers with a small child’s hand-scrawled sticky note instruction to “remember this and figure this out later”.

The inconvenient truth is as follows: 

To be genuinely ok with ourselves (self love/self care) and fully loving towards others (truly open to giving and receiving love) we have to re-connect with our lost or repressed childhood memories including painful feelings and eventually find a healthier, better and more conscious way to process, honor and appreciate BOTH the wonderful positive and the terribly traumatic experiences we’ve been through. Another way to describe that kind of fully processed physical, mental and emotional state of being would be “living in harmony”….which again is much like good old Harmony Mazer the black lab rescue dog who by the way also had a very traumatic early childhood but now seems to appreciate most things in life just as they are and even counts her daily blessings…especially her favorite soft dog chew treats and car rides. She does however much prefer bites of my double bacon croissant breakfast sandwich over the lower calorie turkey bacon muffin at Starbucks.

Here’s why this topic is currently on my mind. Last week Harmony who follows me around 24/7 no matter where I go whether it’s to the bathroom or to take a five minute car ride to Starbucks or Publix for the first time chose not to get up from her comfy couch bed upstairs to accompany me and Mochi ( her younger Toy Havapoo sister) to take Argentine to her 10:30 am Pilates class. Harmony loves two things: food and car rides. She basically views riding in the car as both an enjoyable hobby as well as an important and serious job. After struggling a bit to jump up and get into the back seat of the car (more so lately) she goes into “working dog” mode by looking out the windows intently at everything she sees (or can still hear) and then assumes this hyper-focused body posture with a certain look on her face that says “Hey this is serious business everybody and my job is to witness it all no matter how unimportant or inconsequential.” Of course seeing squirrels cross the road and other medium to large dogs on the way to our chosen destination is an added bonus and special perk of her “ride or die” sidekick position in my life. I guess in the end everyone, including dogs want their lives to have some defining purpose and special meaning. In fact, when you think about it we are probably here to “witness” everything we can as well and so in a way that’s our cosmic job as sentient human beings.

Without a doubt another big part of Harmony’s life purpose is to love me unconditionally which is not always an easy task. She can recognize if Im in a good or bad mood or if I dont feel well and she responds accordingly. While choosing to not get up to stretch and painfully paddle (due to age related arthritis) down three flights of stairs might seem unimportant I instinctively took note of it as a kind of subtle but significant milestone in her and my already long life and in our special relationship together.

 There is probably a good reason why people are inextricably drawn to a poignant love story (think for example “The Notebook”) whether by reading a book or watching an unusually powerful or unforgettable movie. A really good book or film whether it has a “good” or “bad” Hollywood ending makes a person reflect about their own life in ways that are deeply moving, thought provoking as well as emotionally bittersweet…. because every life is like that. When you get to be 70 years old, even though everyone says you should be “mindful” and “live in the present”, you cant help but start to look back at your memorable but probably also checkered past as well as begin to ponder your inevitable future. The inevitable future, as hard as it is to accept and truly comprehend is about no longer being around. People also talk a lot about “telling one’s truth” but there are many different truths. Sort of like a certain little kid holding an official library card I now remember (maybe around 10 or 11 years old) who was dropped off by his proud Jewish parents at the Highland Park public library well before the internet existed, everyone has to choose the right book, story or magnum opus for their life and find among the tall seemingly endless stacks of classic literature, historical autobiographies, scientific journals, encyclopedias, novels, novellas and personal narratives the most genuine, most honest “quintessential” theme and thesis for their brief but purposeful human existence. It’s important to do so because time is both relative (Einstein) and relatively short. Whether they all go to heaven or not, dogs always die and so do people including Albert Einstein. In other words, a person like myself cant help but notice that not only is my beloved dog Harmony getting old but certain inanimate objects like the modern sculpture outside of the Highland Park public library and the bronze lions outside of the Art Institute of Chicago haven’t changed a bit over the years while everything else including that little boy now a 70 year old guy in the bathroom mirror is nearly unrecognizable.

So in the end it probably makes the most sense to face facts and reconnect with that ever curious kid seen in photo albums and in the Fells Shoes shoebox full of old black and white Polaroid photographs and come to terms with him/her/it (to be somewhat politically correct today). Come to terms essentially means to reconcile, accept and love as is, as was and as always will be which might sound a bit cosmic because well…it is.

Finally, it would also be smart to choose a life story that has the most personal meaning, makes the most moral sense (based on a ones fundamental values and cherished beliefs) but also feels “genuine” or what certain people today like to call “authentic”. Authentic means real and not just a figment of somebody’s self-serving or exaggerated imagination… or God forbid some orange guy’s ginormous ego and reality TV show fantasy of ones life.

In case you wondered …the young boy who was dropped off at the public library carrying his own library card with his very own name on it who disappeared into the tall stacks of books in some quantum universe way “never to be seen again” picked out two seemingly quite different if not dialectical books to sit on the floor and read over and over again. One was The Odyssey by Homer (with illustrated map). The other was Harry the Dirty Dog by Gene Zion. Not so surprisingly, both main characters got lost for a very very long time before eventually finding their way home. Just like Harmony. 

Fast forward to today (Stardate 2024) some 26 or 27 years later which feels more like 260 years and many Star Wars/Star Trek galaxies away.

I admit to rarely having called upon Dancing Bear my Native American spirit guide or my black bear animal totem for personal inspiration or guidance. Like many others who may have had an unusual lucid dream, weird drug trip or extraordinary spiritual experience earlier in life it mostly just sat dormant in my consciousness and was likely just too overwhelming and bizarre at the time to fully comprehend, process or appreciate.

Even after my Dancing Bear and Daddy Lorry lucid dream in Boulder (see Part One) I stubbornly clung to my personal preference towards having a buffed up buffalo (compared to a pudgy black bear) as my Native American spirit animal …even if God, Mother Earth and the Cosmic Universe thought otherwise. Another CaptCliff blog in the future will no doubt psychoanalyze my bison versus black bear ADHD infused animal ambivalence and spiritual indecision.

Regardless, life went on and like many other aging Baby Boomers who once were long-haired hippies, anti-establishment war protesters and peace and love social activists, I now kvetch and complain about social media toxicity, Tinder, taxes, Big Pharma, Mega mansions, misinformation, my enlarged prostate (and GERD) and having to live in a dumbed-down “fast versus slow” cell phone addicted hypocritical and hypermaterialistic world.

Of course I can’t escape the blatant irony (and hypocrisy) of me blogging, texting and pontificating about all of aforementioned like some weird ass combination of Larry David and the Wizard of Oz from my perpetually renovated Southwest style home in Atlanta while drinking a large Mocha Latte from Starbucks, popping handfuls of Tropical Tums, and incessantly complaining about my internet speed and wifi connection. Narcissism much?

After bemoaning social media, vapid Instagram influencers and “superficial TikTok culture” during the day I often watch TikTok and YouTube videos late at night while making sure to “like” people who like my Facebook rants and Instagram photos. Hypocrite much?

Nevertheless….after my long ago Boulder Groff Process spiritual experience and for many years thereafter I continued to have strange and unsettling dreams about my life and about my past. In general I wondered if I like the ill-fated American buffalo was living my life in a kind of over domesticated state and following the rest of the human “herd” in an insidious kind of conformity driven downward spiral. I’m not referring to my own fate/destiny or our collective existence as a species but in terms of societal changes in which we may progressively forget about and eventually lose our core humanity, profound spiritual beliefs and higher consciousness. That would include our quintessential human traits and special “animal attributes” that distinguish us not just as a highly successful and dominant apex predator but as a highly intelligent and sentient species capable of critical thinking and emotional empathy.

Sadly, as our current culture appears to reward narcissism rather than moral, ethical or altruistic behavior and follows computer algorithms tailored to filter online content and boost users screen time and so called “engagement” (nice word for digital addiction) it is increasingly difficult to determine the kind of accurate or useful information (versus misinformation) that one is absorbing into their brain like a case of data driven lead poisoning. One keen social critic calls it the “slow death of serendipity, magic and intuition” because under machine learning models and algorithms random chance, odd occurrences and strange outlier events that can promote personal growth and spiritual wisdom are minimized and factored out if not completely controlled.

Fortunately, one or two significant recent events have occurred in my life and provided me with fresh insights and perhaps even a few answers pertaining to my lingering questions about my long ago spirit guide/animal totem lucid dream.

Exactly on my 70th birthday I did “get in touch with” and get to see with my own now nearsighted and farsighted two eyes a live in-the-flesh chubby black bear. It occurred serendipitously during a week long 70th birthday trip to Southern California in which I was not hiking the backwoods, camping or glamping. Neither was I drinking alcohol, taking magic mushrooms, snorting cocaine, microdosing ketamine or hallucinating due to some preexisting psychiatric disorder. Of course I cant speak for the bear’s mental status or drug history. However, having seen the movie Cocaine Bear three times I’m pretty confident that particular animal affliction can be ruled out as well. Also, this time I wasn’t dreaming, wasn’t engaged in holotropic Grof breathing exercises, wasn’t hypnotized and wasn’t just imagining it because there were three other similarly awestruck and amazed eyewitnesses with me in the car. In fact, for at least 10 to 15 seconds I drag-raced right alongside that fast and furious fat-assed bear while sitting in the passenger seat of my brother Neal’s new car (a Lucid Air no less) as we drove up his long winding driveway in the hills of Montecito. That’s not exactly big bear country either unless this bear was an escapee from Michael Jackson’s Neverland Ranch or Prince Harry’s private petting zoo.

The bear seemed initially oblivious to our human presence less than two to three feet from him. My animal spirit in the flesh just kept going merrily on his way right beside us. Instead of freaking out, going rogue or running away he/she/it/Yogi Bear appeared totally calm, cool and collected and if anything just radically accepted everything going on around him/her/it in that particular moment… which just happened to include me. Eventually, like all other unusual and serendipitous life experiences Running/Dancing/Jogging Black Bear casually looked up and turned his head around to face me while still running and nodded in my direction as if to say, “Yeah Cliff this is a weird and unusual experience but also pretty cool. Now do you remember? See you again sometime ” and then peeled off into the pine trees, boulders and scattered brush, most likely never to be seen again …but who really knows? Something or someone in my head then said, “and by ‘this’ I mean living life fully and without too much regret. Be in the moment and try to appreciate everything.”

So on this my 70th bday week in Santa Barbara California with delicious food, wonderful places to stay and beautiful scenic vistas in every direction I was reminded how important it is for me to dedicate a little time each day to take a deep breath (holotropic or regular), get grounded and simply feel grateful for everything going on around me including every single experience I have had in my life both good and bad and especially, at age 70 for being healthy, happy and still alive.

I finally saw my pudgy black bear spirit animal after all these years and he saw me. That’s good enough and just like my trippy as fuck Boulder lucid dream I wont ever forget it partially because I’m writing it all down and posting it on social media which some people say is pretty much the same as forever.

Oh yeah, also I’m pretty sure I will see my Daddy Lorry again. I imagine he is waiting for me and has my cowboy hat, gun belt, Lone Ranger mask and toy guns with him too. If anybody out there reads this and wants a “Cliff Notes from ADHD CaptCliff” type summary here it is: with the help of a black bear, a dream and a few other cherished people in my life (including Argentine and Glenda the Good Witch) I finally learned a few simple things of vast importance other than how to write more succinctly. There’s room for improvement in that particular realm. I figured out what my fat animal spirit bear represents and now that I think of it it’s much the same meaning behind the nursery rhyme “Row Row Row Your Boat” which is that we should all consciously remember to take a deep breaths and go gently and merrily with the ebb and flow of our life while also keeping in mind it (like everything else) is but a dream.

Row, row, row your boat

Gently down the stream

Merrily merrily, merrily, merrily

Life is but a dream

“Who Was That Masked Man” by Van Morrison (1974)

Oh ain’t it lonely
When you’re livin’ with a gun
Well you can’t slow down and you can’t turn ’round
And you can’t trust anyone

You just sit there like a butterfly
And you’re all encased in glass
You’re so fragile you just may break
And you don’t know who to ask

Oh ain’t it lonely
When you’re livin’ with a gun
Well you can’t slow down and you can’t turn ’round
And you can’t trust anyone

You just sit there like a butterfly
You’re well protected by the glass
You’re such a rare collector’s item
When they throw away what’s the trash
You can hang suspended from a star
Or wish on a toilet roll
You can just soak up the atmosphere
Like a fish inside a bowl

When the ghost comes round at midnight
Well you both can have some fun
He can drive you mad, he can make you sad
He can keep you from the sun
When they take him down, he’ll be both safe and sound
And the hand does fit the glove
And no matter what they tell you,
There’s good and evil in everyone

Introduction: Have you ever had an experience that was so strange, so unusual and so downright mind-blowing that you never told anyone about it?

I’m not talking about some run of the mill alien abduction (with or without anal probe) or a drunken hillbilly’s unreported one night stand with Sasquatch. What follows is my hard to believe but impossible to forget trippy as fuck (TAF) experience. It’s about time… to tell it.

Many moons ago right before my painful separation and difficult divorce I signed up for what I thought to be an interesting but unconventional weekend workshop in Boulder Colorado called, “Holotropic Breathwork: Finding Your Spirit Animal”.

I think it was around 1997 give or take a miserable horrendous year or two.

At the time I felt extremely anxious and depressed about my crumbling marriage partially because I still loved my wife Rona and partly because I realized that getting divorced would be an enormous life changing event and psychological trauma for all involved including our three young sons, ages 7,9 and 11 years old. Either way I figured it couldn’t hurt to try something different by parlaying with the ethereal spirit realm and my dead, dormant or possibly just hibernating higher consciousness.

Feeling so midlife miserable at that exact point in time my so-called spirituality and higher power had pretty much gone MIA only to be replaced by a tidal wave of fear, anxiety and impending doom…along with deep-seated feelings of guilt, shame, embarrassment and failure. Being a licensed marriage and family therapist on the cusp of getting divorced myself was an unusually difficult and bitter pill to swallow. I knew I needed something stronger than Prozac and well beyond the scope of any existing “talk therapy” circa 1997.

The three day experiential seminar was held in a comfortable studio space in Boulder and predictably was furnished with wall to wall floor mats, hippie style throw blankets and cushy overstuffed pillows. I joined two dozen other brave souls, astral travelers and/or similarly messed up desperate individuals in learning how to use “holotropic breathing” along with guided imagery and evocative music to create a psychotherapeutic “altered state of consciousness”. This powerful blend of body/mind techniques was called the Grof process. Developed by Stanislav Grof, a world-renowned Czech transpersonal psychiatrist, the Grof process promised a short-lived but extraordinarily deep “lucid dream state” without having to ingest psychoactive substances or psychedelic drugs. Due to Grof’s abiding interest in indigenous cultures and non-traditional healing the seminar was also designed to help participants identify and then get in touch with their Native American spirit guide, animal totem and associated “animal attributes”. Finally, we were told that all of the aforementioned if used properly could increase ones “warrior spirit” as well as protect and inspire them as needed in the future. That sounded good to me. I did however question whether my highly skeptical mind and independent nature would prevent me from being open or receptive enough to suggestion and direction from others. I’m usually the guy in the group process or workshop who is thinking but not saying, “This is total bullshit” or politely raises his hand to ask, “Wait, what exactly do you mean by “warrior spirit?” while everyone else is nodding in agreement.

For some reason I presumed that my spirit animal would be the American bison, not just because it was my alma mater’s (University of Colorado) football team mascot but also because the buffalo seemed to possess the exact character traits and personal attributes I covet. A large muscular creature with tremendous strength and spiritual meaning to Native Americans, the bison was an impressive sad-eyed beast that once roamed the American Plains in large herds nobly sacrificing itself to near extinction so that other far more cunning and predatory species like wolves, Native American people and greedy white game hunters could pursue them, kill them, feast on their flesh or use their various body parts (mostly bones and fur) for commercial purposes. Actually the greedy white hunters sometimes just shot the wild native buffaloes for pure sport and left their noble bodies there to rot. Just thinking or reading about buffaloes back in the day made me tear up. In retrospect I guess I was far more into TV Western movie melodrama and Hollywood inspired depictions of heroism and heroic martyrdom than I ever realized. Not necessarily surprising considering that I practically worshipped the ground or mud that the Lone Ranger, Zorro and Davy Crockett stood on.

Also in retrospect and in all honesty it’s likely I naively and somewhat narcissistically identified with the American buffalo as a kind of “Dancing With Wolves” sacred sacrificial figure. Poor me much? Not all that many years after the Oscar winning movie hit theater screens in 1990 and in my soon-to-be-divorced mind I naturally preferred to see myself as the sensitive yet often misunderstood “good guy” both in my marriage and probably in every romantic relationships before and after that. In my self serving personal narrative and coincidentally self produced and self directed Cliff Mazer movie in my head I not only got off on and got away with seeing myself as an innocent victim in life but also was free to cast myself as the Kevin Costner handsome hero leading man role that practically everybody likes, idolizes and roots for… including extremely good-looking wounded women, captive Indian squaws, and assorted other dark-haired damsels in distress.

With the buffalo as my macho/muscular Jesus Christ-like spirit animal I somehow believed I might emerge from the bizarre Boulder breathwork workshop and the anticipated ashes of my looming divorce, arise from my Humpty Dumpty deflated and depressed mental mindset and be resurrected to a powerful new state of near perfection and wholeness somewhat like the immortal Phoenix in Greek mythology. Now of course I see how crazy and delusional that all sounds but as Charlie Sheen the spiraling down (rather than rising up like a Phoenix) drug-addict/alcoholic once said and lived to regret it later, “Winning!” #tigerbloodwinning!”.

Of course I was totally wrong about all of that and about a whole bunch of other things later on in life as well. I first started to realize when deep into my drug-free lucid dream and breathwork workshop my animal totem/spirit guide turned out to be a fat pudgy black bear along with a somewhat fat pudgy Native American guy named Dancing Bear. Even tho I can still recall the pungent smell of burning sage, cedar and sweetgrass that Dancing Bear used in his smudge and eagle feather tribal ritual and trance dance, other parts of my holotropic revery are fuzzy to recall now after all these many years. I believe Dancing Bear was a Pueblo or possibly Ute Indian and a “masked trickster” shaman who participated in various tribal ceremonies mostly by dancing in a very melodic and repetitive way to a mesmerizing drum beat somewhat akin to an indigenous rave.

However, even more memorable than that was the following: towards the very end of my lucid dream and Boulder weekend workshop Dancing Bear abruptly stopped dancing, turned towards me and peeled off his primitive fur-lined face covering and animal headdress and revealed himself to be someone I rarely ever thought about before that moment….my real biological father Lawrence (Lorry) Hiken. Lawrence or “Daddy Lorry” Hiken in our subsequent blended Mazer family folklore was a less talked about ancestor figure who married my mother in 1951 and in apparent mutual happiness and marital bliss produced two sons, Neal (1952) and Cowboy loving Cliff (1953). Lorry was a young, somewhat nerdy but likable, intelligent and ambitious physician/radiologist who had recently joined a fast growing group medical practice in Los Angeles by way of Santa Fe, New Mexico. According to my mother Claire, Daddy Lorry one night without any warning suffered a massive and catastrophic cerebral hemorrhage in February 1956 and died unexpectedly at 31 years of age when I was only two and a half. Beyond a pile of faded black and white Polaroid pictures, Kodak baby photos and peeling plastic spiral photograph albums handed down to me by relatives over the years I had no conscious memories of the man. Zero. Not even one.

Still in the throes of my lucid dream and shortly after my initial shock and surprise wore off my father Lorry approached me directly and told me that he loved me. He also said he was very sorry he had to leave me so abruptly but that he would “see me again someday”. Somewhat predictably I then proceeded to cry… ok I sobbed like a hysterical 44 year-old two and a half year old and then “woke up” suddenly from my Grof Process dream state. Everybody else in the room was already wide awake and giving each other late 1990’s group hugs. I distinctly remember a staff member giving me a cold glass of water and saying, “Drink this. You really went deep”. As mentioned, until now I’ve never told another human being or living soul about this particularly mind-blowing mystical experience except for my ex-wife Rona who unfortunately also passed away in 1999 at 45 years of age from Stage 4 metastatic lung cancer, one short year after her initial diagnosis and two short years after finalizing our very difficult and regrettably contentious divorce.

Such a powerful, cathartic and unusual experience, spiritual or otherwise is not easily forgotten but can still leave a person with as many questions as it might appear to answer. Given my biological father Lorry’s sudden death and abrupt departure from this earthly plane and my subsequent lifelong fascination for all things “Cowboy and Indians” … including walking around naked as a little kid wearing only my cowboy hat, gun belt and toy guns while watching black and white TV Westerns and syndicated television shows like the “Lone Ranger” and then later on in life compulsively remodeling my various residences in contemporary “Southwest Style” with rounded corners, faux adobe walls and Native American furnishings perhaps the biggest and most poignant question I was left to ponder was, “Not counting the Lone Ranger, Tonto and that pudgy Indian dude with the eagle feather and animal headdress who was that masked man in my lucid dream and will I really see him (Daddy Lorry) again”? Next to that $64,000 question I also still wonder, “What’s the deal with rolly-polly bears as my animal spirit and why not a big and buff beatific buffalo”?

End of Part One

When I woke up today May 14, 2023 and realized it was Mothers Day I first thought about my Mom, Claire Mazer and then for some unknown reason recalled the distinct aroma of her twice-baked made from scratch mandel bread (mandelbrot in Yiddish).

As a kid, the trials and tribulations of quasi-confinement at Camp Timberlane for Boys, a predominantly Jewish summer camp in Woodruff Wisconsin were mitigated by much anticipated parcel post deliveries of my Mom’s “care packages”, tightly wrapped aluminum foil-lined designer shoe boxes hermetically sealed and stuffed to the brim with a kosher salami, a handwritten letter and multiple plastic sandwich bags chock full of crumbly sugary-sweet almond and vanilla mandel bread. Not a bread, not a butterscotch blondie and certainly not a standard issue bakery good or Italian biscotti, I binged upon and then carefully hoarded my precious mondel throughout my stints at summer camp like a gluttonous t-shirted Greek God feasting on ambrosia among mere mortal campers. Then I shrewdly traded the leftover mandel slices to camp counselors and swim staff members to gain special favors like getting out of the “swim a whole lap” and “dive off the high diving board” mandatory test and the early morning bugle reveille call.

Honestly that almond and vanilla extract infused mondel bread with or without raisins was so good and lasted so long it was like having a sweet savory homemade dessert that doubled as legal tender like some edible transferable German bearer bond. Well, at least or until it went stale and lost its soft but crusty texture and flavor as well as 100% of its commercial trading value.

Sadly I returned the olfactory favor and my mother’s love by completely forgetting about a sickly tree frog I stuck in my yellow waterproof nylon raincoat’s side pocket for “safe keeping” on the last day of camp …which ended up stinking up our entire garage for a solid month after my return home. ADHD much? Thinking of a future career as a doctor I believe I intended to save the frog’s pitiful life and like my Mom provide him with unusual love, support and sustenance. Trust me, not so sweet or savory. My mother who eventually found the fossilized remains loved to tell my friends and current relationship partners the mostly putrid chapter of my summer camp story almost right up until she herself passed away in 2016 at 89 years young. I very much miss my Mom and her mandel bread and I still feel really bad about that terrible ending. I only wish the slippery slimy little guy could have gone to his Maker munching on a still soft heavenly morsel of my mother’s delicious mondelbrot.

https://www.tastingtable.com/1308428/popular-items-commonly-find-jewish-bakery/