captaincliff

In a previous blog I waxed and waned on Mothers Day about my Mom’s fabulous mondel bread. May her recipe box be a blessing for future generations. Did i ever mention her veal osso bocco? It was “oh so” osso flavorful …and savory. Anyway I also said in the blog how nice it was to get a “care package” of fresh Mandelbrot from my Mom while away at summer camp in Wisconsin. Little kids have no real perception of distance or time so being 5 or 6 hours away from home in Highland Park probably felt like being in Katmandu or Alaska. I not only loved receiving the home made mondel and consumed it with unabashed gusto but cleverly figured out how to use the crusty crumbly sugary pastry slices as a kind of culinary commodity or kosher contraband with which to bribe camp counselors for special favors.

. Eventually this “mondel and me” reflection led me to recall other childhood memories that went beyond the 1960’s era kitchen in which my mother created her magic mondel….such as growing up in a home filled with books, encyclopedias and “proper bedroom lighting”. Reading, pursuing a “higher” education and finding a suitable career or “calling” was covertly if not overtly encouraged in my family. My Mom in particular believed that everyone should have their own desk, assigned desk lamp, and adjustable wall lighting for reading in bed at night. Keep in mind this was pre cellphone and before there were iPads or basically anything with an internal light source. My parents were both the first ones in their second generation Ashkenazi Jewish families to actually graduate from college so like many other ambitious achievement-oriented suburban Chicago families in the 1960’s they took the “People of the Book” thing (AND playing tennis) pretty seriously.

In fact, once upon a time, even as a hopelessly disorganized easily distracted Highland Park kid with undiagnosed ADHD I remember wanting to grow up to be a “famous” author. In particular I contemplated being not just intelligent but “wise”, a man full of wisdom and quotable quotes like Henry David Thoreau (“Walden Pond”). Alternatively I considered a future career as a ruggedly handsome yet accomplished writer of James Bond-ish spy novels like Ian Fleming. Or, at the very least I pondered a professional life as a mysterious writer/novelist and all around bon vivant with a “nom de plume”. Mysterious to me back then meant a guy with an air of intrigue and machismo, a manly “Papa” Hemingway type figure who smoked a pipe for extra dramatic effect . To further such an enduring mystique I imagined an author who was extroverted and well-spoken but also purposely held back from sharing too much about himself. In my mind this left his audience and adoring fans hungry to know more about him. Of course I didn’t want to end up being perceived like JD Salinger (Catcher in the Rye) meaning some hugely talented writer who literally chased away curious trespassers and came off as nothing more than a “prickly recluse”.

Why oh why a writer one might wonder. Sure I liked books but I was early on never in the top SRA color coded reading group like my brother Neal or his somewhat nerdy but nice friends (Aqua or purple). Of course I considered some other similarly unrealistic professions but as a highly imaginative short in stature (undersized) elementary school kid with Leave it to Beaver crew cut (Ken’s Barber Shop) and missing two front teeth (George the school bus driver) my Hollywood inspired macho TV hero role models and their respective occupations required Olympic Gold medal levels of athleticism like Tarzan, horse and handgun prowess (Wild West gunslinger/cowboy), superhuman strength (Superman), military achievement (grimy WWII soldier (Combat) or ace fighter pilot/astronaut kept running into brick walls comprised of stark personal limitations and physical reality. This included a succession of disappointing early life experiences, many of which occurred either in elementary school or while at summer camp. Other common experiences like getting motion sick just riding in the backseat of a moving car or seated on a school bus, motorboat, roller coaster or airplane suggested I was physically unusually “sensitive”, a nice word for weak or wimpy or just plain constitutionally ill-equipped to do such things like pilot a supersonic airplane or leap even a not so very tall building in a single bound. For example, it first dawned on me in Gym class (PE) at Sherwood Forest Elementary School and then again at Camp Timberlane in Wisconsin that I wasn’t exactly great at climbing tall ropes or by logical extension swinging on tall “jungle” vines or for that matter itchy forest vines of any kind. Unusual sensitivity to insect bites and poison ivy and sumac did however confirm the correct medical diagnosis of dermatographia and the medical necessity of carrying calamine lotion 24/7. Similarly, almost drowning in the shallow end of the swimming pool at Birchwood Swim and Tennis Club and later attempting to dive for dimes and quarters on July 4th (thanks to a now famous Hollywood movie director) probably put the final kabash on the Buster Crabbe or Johnny Weismuller Tarzan fantasy. Other day to day summer camp activities like archery, riflery, and horseback riding demonstrated that while I performed above the so called “total spaz” level I most often fell midway between fair, frustrated with myself or deathly afraid…especially of diving boards (low or high), real guns, real bullets, real blood, real moving roller coasters and especially falling off of real galloping horses. There’s a special Camp story for that last part but let me not digress quite yet.

So instead, as I look back on it, I very likely compensated for all my literal and perceived shortcomings by revisioning myself as a different kind of heroic figure… such as a highly educated unusually literate Lone Ranger or maybe an Ivy league trained Zorro-ish doctor or super handsome helping professional, meaning a cool calm and collected guy or doctor with multiple diplomas who saved lives and then briskly walked or drove away (rather than rode away on a swift or really slippery sweaty horse) leaving bystanders to remark aloud, “Hey who the heck was that guy?” If none of that came to pass I probably would have still settled for a life as a smart and popular, wisecracking, cigar/pipe smoking Hugh Hefner meets Paul Newman (Cool Hand Luke) politically liberal college professor in tweed jacket and jeans. Even so, I eventually also had to edit out the smoking anything except pot part from my childhood future fantasy and cinematic success story as I could never manage to inhale any form of tobacco without getting extremely nauseous and hacking my lungs out. Obviously that kind of involuntary coughing fit would have significantly taken away from the cool, calm and collected guy image I was going for. Silver lining later in life: it turns out that pot (marijuana) has anti-nausea and anti- vomiting (antiemetic) properties.

Dont get me wrong, I wasnt necessarily a terrible athlete…at least not at everything that required a reasonable attention span, frustration tolerance, hand-eye coordination and strength in the form of muscles of some kind. Well, ok at least I wasn’t the last dork-schmuck-nebbish picked in kickball, dodgeball or softball after school or during school recess. I was ok but never ever was I great let alone super great. For example I dont ever remember being carried off the field by my teammates after hitting the game winning home run. Honestly I was more of a “bunt it” or at least hit it in fair territory and then pray somebody else with butterfingers and ADD dropped the ball type player. I was, as described in another blog an extremely cagey dodgeball player utilizing psychological tactics and Jedi mind tricks (even before Star Wars) to make up for any physical shortcomings. Generally speaking it was just that my hyperactive mind and Walter Mitty imagination located in my head and slow to mature body far outstripped my athletic prowess. That plus my unusual propensity and overall hypersensitivity to becoming motion sick on land, sea, fishing pier or anywhere up in the air would tend to turn any normal kid away from their fantasized future as a rootin’ tootin’ cowboy, astronaut, fighter pilot, or flying super-hero like Superman into a more earth bound if not down-to-earth Clark Kent desk jockey type of professional such as a wildly successful writer, journalist, professor or cool dude author of some still to be conceived, begun or written book on the New York Times Best Seller list.

For some reason, if and when I did write my magnum opus novel or seminal treatise on life and the entire Cosmos, it also seemed important to have my literary masterpiece prominently displayed on the New York Times best seller list. Someone, now long forgotten must have told me that the very “best of the best” writers produce something “extraordinary” (key word) and so powerful, engaging, and special that it winds up on that particularly well respected book list published each week in the Sunday New York Times. Truly that seemed infinitely better and far more validating to my shaky sense of self-worth than my cheesy second place fake gold-plated trophy in the “12 and Under” Birchwood Club doubles tennis tournament.

In retrospect, reading, creative writing, art, architecture and especially books as visible signs and symbols of intelligence, higher education, achievement and ultimate success in life makes a lot of sense when I think about it. Growing up in affluent leafy Highland Park, Illinois, my parents and Mom in particular took an active role in designing and decorating their Frank Lloyd Wright knock- off suburban residence, a well thought out carefully conceived custom home planned carefully and constructed with form, function, and beaucoup books in mind. We not only had a dedicated “mud room” downstairs with all extra storage space and linen closets that a Jewish mother with four school-age kids could want but a combination den/library/study upstairs. The den/study had a big glass topped desk where my chemical engineer/businessman father spent endless hours after dinner opening the mail and diligently paying each and every bill with hand-written envelopes, carefully numbered and meticulously recorded signed and dated checks and a seemingly endless gigantic roll of American flag postage stamps.

Books Books Yes we have Books (The Time Machine): In this very same study room was an attached but clearly delineated area with ceiling lit tall custom wood bookshelves crammed full of hard and soft back books (both read and unread) as well as art, architecture and design magazines sections below and encyclopedias galore. Late at night I would selectively swipe books from the study to read alone in bed, preferably the ones a 12 or 13 year-old boy wasn’t supposed to read yet like Candy by Terry Southern, Lolita by Nabokov, and Catcher in the Rye by Salinger, the quirky recluse. Other times I would thumb through the 1960 or 1965 World Book Encyclopedia, either to find something to plagiarize for my procrastinated homework due the following day or just to check out the creepy cool transparent pages of the human anatomy section in the back. Who knew that the male gonads (testicles) looked exactly like a ripe Georgia peach if you sliced them wide open? Female genitalia on the other hand were unrecognizable and appeared to be much like the girls in junior high school…difficult to decipher and complicated. My mom, much to my perpetual annoyance would come into my bedroom usually unannounced at just such a time to ask, “Can you read like that?” I only hope that was a parental reference to lighting and not to my squinting eyes and perplexed facial expression.

I would reflexively respond with a monotone “yes” but of course the real answer was “no” and now almost 60 years later I cant see worth shit probably from squinting in the dark as well as not staying sufficiently hydrated and then lying repeatedly about both things. As a result, I now rely on dozens of reading glasses including both the expensive prescription designer pairs and the cheap dollar store variety both of which I lose on a regular if not daily basis.

Print media in the Prehistoric Pre-digital Analog era: My parents were dutiful daily subscribers to the Chicago SunTimes, a big city newspaper owned by the Marshall Fields department store family patriarch. That was fine by me because it’s unusually compact book shaped design was easier to hold while turning pages for a ham handed kid with attention deficit and butterfingers, especially compared to other far more unwieldy city newspapers. Plus, you could flip the Chicago Sun Times over in one deft hand motion to check all the late breaking football, baseball and hockey game scores and standings which in Chicago is a really big deal. Da Bears!

The Sunday New York Times, on the other hand (pun intended) was a whole different media Moby Dick. It arrived on our freshly paved suburban Chicago driveway on weekends rain or shine, hail, snow or slippery sheet of solid ice by some unknown mode of transportation or possibly teleportation, a massive and wholly intimidating conglomeration of erudite articles, pithy editorials, learned opinions and classy looking print magazine supplements. Once lugged into the house like a tightly bound plastic wrapped fire log in the dead of winter or a slumbering paper tiger in less frigid weather conditions in the Midwest and then released from its multiple layers of saran wrap, rain protection and rubber bands the entire bundle would immediately topple over or, to my admittedly paranoid eye, move about on the kitchen counter seemingly of its own volition as if in an attempt to test its physical limits and/or stretch its no longer confined body of knowledge. If I was a highly respected newspaper from the Big Apple (Gotham City?) I too, much like a Thanksgiving turkey might want to escape from reverent yet ravenous readers. So grown-up, articulate, and possibly even self-ambulatory a newspaper was the Sunday New York Times to my still unfinished preadolescent body and brain and Disney movie animation infested mind, I subconsciously considered this particular collection of news and information to be not only much smarter than myself but likely over time to evolve like a primordial lungfish growing legs to walk on to become a walking talking sentient protobeing like an intelligent printed paper version of Pinocchio. However without the Blue fairy or a Jiminy Cricket to give it a moral compass and basic sense of right and wrong however acapable of developing AI like autonomous thought or even diabolical guile by purposely hiding particular pages, news sections or climactic closing paragraphs somewhere in our large home including its vast expanse of Mexican tile flooring, the same dizzying southwest style meets MC Escher geometric pattern that my mother handpicked with the Frank Lloyd Wright inspired architect. It drove me to near madness when this would occur and rarely did I remind myself that I lost or misplaced practically everything in my life every day and not just what I was reading when I stood up to get more fresh squeezed orange juice. Thankfully, the errant editorial or mysteriously missing section of the Sunday paper was usually to be found tucked between two sofa cushions or right under the already overburdened midcentury modern living room coffee table crammed full of disposable cutlery, bagels, cream cheese, paper towels and half empty almost ready for me to accidentally spill glasses and coffee mugs.

Thus on Sunday we feasted. Later in the day towards dinnertime it would be Chinese food from Chin’s take-out in Glencoe or barbecue ribs from Carsons or the Frontier Inn but on Sunday morning my mother would make matzah brei with eggs and onions or would order in special deli “lox boxes” with fresh delicatessen bagels, smoked salmon and cream cheese spread. Through out the day of so called Sabbath rest (not counting Sunday School at Bnai Torah synagogue) my parents would casually continue to plough through their preferred portions of the New York Times while some us attempted to watch a baseball or football game on television…. until my Dad a lifelong Greenbay Packers and Milwaukee Braves fan and all round professional sports fanatic would start screaming and cursing at the TV screen. “You rotten bums!!!”

Even today, all these many years later I still consider the Sunday NYTimes to be a pleasant reminder of my innocent and privileged 60’s era childhood and a leisure luxury best enjoyed in a king size bed with hot coffee, orange juice and a fresh pastry. Like the secret sect of “book people” in Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451, reading the Sunday NYT newspaper is almost like a print journalism spiritual pilgrimage or quasi-religious reading ritual practiced today by fewer and fewer old school bibliophiles. Like print media dinosaurs from some long ago pre-digital era in human history they carry on their ancient papyrus related paper ways from a time well before TikTok and texting took over as the apex predators of our brain’s dopamine-seeking pathways.

My personal NYTimes reading ritual involves first carefully sorting through the entire Sunday paper pile and immediately throwing out all the annoying ads and so called “fluff” and then lying back down in my comfy king size bed to read it all…not counting the infamous NYT crossword puzzle that I’ve never ever gotten even close to finishing. In fact, to me the NYT crossword puzzle, something I’ve observed many other otherwise normal looking people do in restaurants, cafes, on airplanes, commuter trains and city buses is a mind-bending nerve-wracking head-spinning exercise in total frustration equally impossible to finish as running an ultra marathon or climbing Mt. Everest without oxygen. If you EVER want to feel instantly dumb consider this published fact about the NYT’s crossword…and I quote Google my scholarly source, “the best puzzle people can finish the NYT crossword in 8-12 minutes”. Whaaat? That’s utterly insane. I also just now found out that there is a specific word in the english language for people who are good at solving crossword puzzles and that specific word is cruciverbalist. Save that one for a college entrance autobiographical essay or some Hail Mary moment in a future game of Scrabble.

Lastly I will now mention a dirty secret I have been keeping to myself. Even tho I talk about the New York Times like I’m some smart smarmy semi-retired Baby Boomer professor type who reads voraciously and understands everything about the books reviewed so eloquently in the NYT magazine to the plethora of brilliant news articles and editorials about just about everything, ie. politics, fashion, economics, technology, planetary science, quantum physics not to mention psychology/therapy and neuroscience…honestly I hardly ever have the time, inclination or concentration required to finish but a modest few of any of them…if I’m lucky. Normally, the bulk of the NYT Sunday paper minus its annoying ads sits idle on my bedside or dining room table looking slightly disheveled and forlorn while I drive to Lowes to get more brown mulch or back to Publix to get more chicken thighs and the pharmacy prescription I forgot like a dummy earlier. If I am lying in bed I’m more likely doing what most lazy people do in 2023. I’m watching TikTok, checking out who went to Greece on Facebook or Instagram (and pretending to not be jealous) or God forbid I’m watching another totally stupid but addicting Naked and Afraid episode on TV. Dr. Pimple Popper is pretty good too. If anything I’m more like the complacent but happy Eloi tribe of the distant future in my all time favorite 1960 sci-fi movie The Time Machine. “Books? Yes we have books…”. Meanwhile their books and bookshelves are crumbling to dust and they get all their news from the “spinning rings”. Cellphone and Apple watch news updates much? There I said it. OK, I gotta go now. It’s Mothers Day and I have to go get the NYTimes from the driveway while looking for my back up Dollar Store glasses which I think may have fallen off while I was busy spreading mulch. Happy Mothers Day Mom!

After flying back to Atlanta for doctor appointments including two back to back squamous cell skin cancer surgeries on both hands I spent the last day trying to pack up and bring a bunch of items back to the place in Florida…all with one semi working hand. The so called MOHS surgical procedure and the two highly acclaimed surgeons who own the practice in Sandy Springs who somehow havent visibly aged in the last ten to fifteen years take carefully measured “deli slices” of the “yeah thats gotta go” previously biopsied skin and then deftly stitch or superglue you back together …BAM! unless of course they need to take another deli slice or two or or twelve. The standing room only crowd of freshly bandaged patients in the waiting room all look like they were either in a fight, a Sex Pistols Final Reunion mosh pit or a commercial for Band Aid brands. Talk about taking a pound of flesh. I know it sounds a bit gruesome but overall it’s fairly painless … until it isn’t which is usually the next day when the lidocaine and methamphetamines (or whatever else they numb you with ) wears off. I dont know how anyone including my son Eli after his two serious motorcycle accidents manages this kind of discomfort without going insane as well as other ongoing insanities that go with life itself like the following (just one example).

Its almost funny. Skin Doctor said “Ok so do not get your hands wet or wash them with soap for a week and dont lift too much either because both could weaken or tear open the incision”. Other (different specialty) doctor said “Um yeah we need a fecal sample. You can do it at home and bring it in to the lab. If lab is closed then keep the stool samples in the refrigerator over night”.  Wait dont wash my hands?? And wait, keep my poop in the refrigerator??  Argentine is gonna love that. So I’m leaving that last literal part out of this particular story but if anybody needs a weird plastic bedpan thing with measurement lines on it like a bedpan for baking a shit cake or a set of extra large wooden “dipsticks” you might find them listed tomorrow on Facebook Marketplace. Also who besides an elephant is able to reach the highest marked line?

Back to the cardboard box story. Ok I say to myself, “I will be smart, not overdo it with these sore hands and just send a simple cardboard box full of stuff by mail rather than take multiple suitcases to the airport or God forbid carry them on the flight back to Florida. Next day (today) my hand is really throbbing. I need an empty cardboard box and cant find even ONE box in my entire 5000 sq ft suburban house because, well we “recycle” and someone near and dear to me is into elite “decluttering” but Im not gonna stress. So I go to the grocery store (Publix) and get a free box. I’m feelin’ kinda clever and good about the free box versus getting ripped off paying for a brand new box at the stupid post office. The box they gave me at the grocery store was originally for bananas so it has holes. No problem.  After first checking obsessively for deadly banana loving Brazilian Wandering Spiders who can kill you instantly i remember I have 30 rolls of old masking tape. Right?  I then proceed to pack everything like carved wood turtles and bird sculptures originally ensconced in my parents Longboat Key condo and other random Cliff and Argentine stuff that i dont want to shlep with my semi functional but very sore wings. Then i try to wrap the living shit out of the big banana box…. Just in Case. Stay with me on this life lesson. (More coming)

Then i find out that all thirty rolls of tape are literally impossible to see (or find) the end from the previous user (me) having ADD and when you do possibly locate the end (or beginning) of the masking tape roll it breaks off immediately and then u need an electron microscope to find the new end again. Im hurling useless Dollar Store reject tape rolls everywhere but manage eventually after 2 hours to not only hurt my one day post-surgical hand but also wrap the banana box until it looks like a rectangular shaped mummy..or possibly the mummy’s severed head.   I take the mummy head/box to the infamous Sandy Springs Post Office only because i thought UPS would be ridiculously overpriced. I wait in line. Miraculously there are only 3 people in line but I have literally despised the same single post office veteran employee there for 20 plus years who constantly bullshits, wastes time, shamelessly flirts, illegally asks for tips and purposely enjoys making people wait. I want him dead. Many people do. People with packages walk in, see him and give out an audible groan or even exclaim out loud “oh hell no …not him!” Also there is also the same predictable one guy customer at the very front of the line who for some reason actually enjoys bullshitting for hours rather than take care of business and move the damn line exactly like the predictable Millenials or GenZ customers at Starbucks and other unnamed coffee shops who are like, “um what’s a Frappacinno again?” “Hey arent you the guy with the #^<¥ electric bike? So how are you liking it because I…” What the fuck!? I want them all dead. 25 min later an older lady behind me at the Post Office says, “You know he wont let that box go through. They changed some rule or he did about what tape or kind of box they allow”.  I said …“Really ? Because I’ve mailed dead bodies wrapped in cardboard and cheap-ass duct tape from the Dollar store here for many years.” She didnt even flinch at the dead bodies reference and instead said, “I KNOW! Me too but this guy thinks he’s God and this is his federal employee magic kingdom and we’re all his loyal subjects”.  Im like DONE at that point because the box is heavy, the hand is hurting and the handwritten address i had carefully scratched into the tiny NOT TAPED two-inch square part of the cardboard box from Publix using the only marginally working pen in the post office had now bled out into a completely unreadable blob of like invisible ink mixed with a cloudy black or brown permanent magic marker stain now beginning to run towards the counter. The side of the banana box looked like Rudy Guiliani’s bad hair dye dripping down his old perv lying cheating politician head during his “Trump is permanently innocent of everything” speech. Finally i snapped and said for anyone willing to listen “Im outta here” and carried the damn taped to shit box with one decent hand to the UPS store right next door where they helped me send it to Florida in around seven minutes tops and for a reasonable price too…which at that point I would have paid to have any passing Lyft or Uber driver take to florida all by itself or just heaved the frickin’ mummy head thing off the side of the road or out an open window on I -285 (like everyone else) into a ditch or maybe just offered it to a random homeless guy, “Hey do you need a new iron? Its a Black and Decker.” “No? Well what about these carved Southwest style wooden turtles and a hand painted heron my mother had in her condo in Longboat Key?  Kind of ironic Im shlepping it all back down there again for the THIRD time dont you think?? Um sure, I’ll give you $10 for coffee if you just take it off my hands which coincidentally is throbbing like a motherfucker as we speak . So hey yeah have a blessed day!!” Anyway that’s it. Let’s see what tomorrow brings… 

Dont get me wrong. I still like the high-tech Japanese Toto toilets with their thermostat controlled warm-up seats, remote sensors, multiple language commands and variable speed tushy wash/car wash-like features, but I’m beginning to feel pressured by their artificial intelligence enhanced demands. Maybe it’s me but I fear the advent of AI as it intersects directly with my private parts and bodily functions. Every time I walk in the bathroom or come out of the shower the Toto toilet immediately senses me and opens up its lid automatically as if to say, “how about urinating now?”, “Now?” “wanna pee RIGHT NOW?” What could be next in the technological toilet wars, ie. “Cliff, we sense you have an enlarged prostate. Our data analytics suggest that you Pee now to avoid public embarrassment”!?

It reminds me of being in South Beach/Miami and walking along the sidewalks on Ocean Drive in front of all the outdoor cafés and restaurants with their young Euro-hostesses emphatically asking  “Care to dine with us? “Wanna dine!??” “Care to see our extensive menu items?”  Yeah I know the Toto toilet also has extensive menu items and user options. Way too many for my digitally disabled ADHD brain, in fact. Honestly I had enough trouble recently trying to figure out the sleek new shower head with handheld diverter and temperature valve options at my friends Patti and Joel’s beautifully remodeled guest bathroom and then step out of the custom glass enclosure to have the Toto toilet accost me like a perky french hostess with “Care to dine, er I mean make wee wee monsieur ??”

As Sarasota Architectural Salvage closes for good I reflect on the seemingly random and obscure items I’ve picked through as well as the ironic art and cosmic detritus which had my name on it so to speak.

To wit: A plastic Pepsi carton containing multiple discarded Buddha statues that have broken and worn down over time, surrendering to their fate or expiration date and in so doing have paradoxically achieved Oneness. Enlightenment has occurred through the dissolution of their apparent earthly form and a succession of karmic cycles. The human delusion and illusionnof greed, ego and self-justified anger has been extinguished. By following core Buddhist principles these liberated beings of light have successfully detached themselves from their bodily desires and relentless ego-driven head trash. Very inspiring.

Note:  Buddhist enlightenment, or Bodhi is the ultimate spiritual goal: an “awakening” to the true nature of reality, leading to liberation from suffering (samsara) and the repeated cycle of rebirth, achieved by extinguishing greed, anger, and delusion, and realizing an interconnected, selfless existence through wisdom, compassion, and mindfulness. It’s not a divine gift per se but a potential within every conscious being attained by following the Buddha’s central teachings like the Noble Eightfold Path to finally see things as they really are.

Core Concepts

• Awakening (Bodhi): Literally means “to awaken,” seeing the world without delusion, understanding impermanence and recognizing interdependence.
• Nirvana: The state of liberation, the “blowing out” of destructive emotions and cravings, a natural state of inner peace that transcends the common notion and perception of annihilation.

I asked Chat GPT to tell me what “net effect” Artificial Intelligence (AI) would likely have (positive or negative) on Oswald Spengler’s theory in his nearly impenetrable book The Decline of the West” (1918-22). Here is what Chat spit out in about 5 seconds. Only minor CaptCliff edits are included.

AI and Oswald Spengler
AI (Artificial Intelligence) most likely will act as a powerful accelerator of Oswald Spengler’s post-war industrial theory of world history extensively detailed in his book “The Decline of the West” and particularly his description of the Faustian “last stage” of dying empires, civilizations and cultures. This predictable winter stage includes an intensification of the pursuit of technics (what Man does with new developing tools and technologies) and the exploitation of nature itself which ultimately hastens the civilization’s decline into its final entropy. AI within the current context of our time, place and culture likely reinforces the Western reductionistic view of the world as merely a commercial “resource” and AI itself as a powerful new form of technology that risks homogenizing cultural diversity, original thought and human creativity. 
•
• Acceleration of “Faustian” Technics: AI represents the ultimate form of the Faustian drive to “master” the world through “better” technology. Spengler predicted a relentless pursuit of technical mastery without regard for longterm consequences, a trend which AI accelerates to its zenith.
• Final Stage of Civilization: Spengler in the 1920s argued that civilization reaches a point where it becomes sterile, intellectual (purely analytical) and rigid. AI, by automating thought and reducing original high culture human creativity could be seen as the ultimate form of this sterile intellectual and civilized stasis.
• Homogenization and Loss of Culture: The use of AI is leading to a homogenization of ideas and culture itself by reducing the vibrant, unique and creative expressions of a fertile higher culture based in deeply rooted organic growth and human spirit into a more standardized “cheap intelligence”.
• Data-Driven Exploitation: AI is intensifying the transformation of the world into mere data and resources, confirming Spengler’s fatalistic prediction of a world where everything is ultimately calculated and exploitable.
• Potential for Decline: The dependence on AI for decision-making in addition to the creation of biased “cheap intelligence,” could lead to the kind of severe decay in critical thinking, imaginative spirit and cultural depth that Spengler associated with the final ultimate decline of the West. 
Ultimately, AI does not contradict Spengler’s theory but rather seems to act as the penultimate tool or symptom of the late-stage “Faustian” culture, confirming his prophecy of a civilization in decline dominated and trapped by its own technical achievements.

Cliff Note: Spengler’s prediction of late “winter”stage authoritarian leaders and “might makes right” Caesarian public figures fighting for power and control of data driven technology and scientific achievements designed not to improve or better mankind but to maintain social order and gain economic and military advantage further reinforces the grim deterministic view that Spengler foresaw and wrote about in his two volume masterpiece.

Oswald Spengler viewed leaders in the final stage of civilization, or what he called “Caesarism,” as powerful, autocratic figures who casually replace democratic figures, academic scholars and intellectual elites using their personal charisma and brute strength to command rather than to rule through tradition or law. These figures, like Julius Caesar (or Donald Trump) as their principal avatars bring about a “pre-death emergency” period that characterizes and foreshadows a dying severely declining empire.

Key characteristics of Spengler’s view on leaders in the final stage include:
• The Rise of Caesarism: As culture declines into increasingly sterile civilization, democracy fails, leading to the rise of individuals who hold extra-constitutional, absolute power (Caesarism) and pecuniary influence.
• From Statesman to Technician/Caesar:The creative, organic leader (true statesman) is replaced by the technocrat, the administrator, and eventually, the true Caesar, who commands in a world of declining spiritual vitality.
• Charismatic Authority: Caesarism represents the triumph of personal power over dying traditions and are characterized by a “gladiatorial” form of political performance rather than critical thinking, reason, parliamentary input and debate.(Captcliff Note: Bannon/Hegseth/Noemi/Miller/Vance/Musk much?)
• Finality of Power: These leaders arise in the context of a “petrified” state, marking the final stage where true creative impulses and original thought are gone, and the focus is on a “culture of money” over a “culture of value and meaning” and the maintaining of social order and control is prioritized within a world-city-culture dominated by uber wealthy private interest elites (ie. bankers, industrialists, speculators) who sequester vast amounts of money and hold unprecedented pecuniary/monetary power.

Spengler saw this as a natural, inevitable, and predictable cyclical lifecycle and societal process, comparable (as just one example) to the shift from the Roman Republic to the Roman Empire. 

Key Aspects of Spengler’s “Culture of Money”
•

Decadent Stage: Spengler believed that in a culture’s “springtime,” money is simply for exchange, but in the later “civilization” (decadent) phase, society becomes obsessed with money, which then governs all aspects of life.

Pecuniary power refers to the influence, authority, and control derived from possessing significant financial resources, such as capital, assets, and income. It represents the ability to shape market conditions, influence policy, and direct economic outcomes through monetary means. This power is often used to define and control and in legal contexts it relates to monetary penalties or gains used to leverage control and authority.
Key aspects of pecuniary power include:
• Economic Influence: It enables corporations or individuals to drive investment, regulations, and shape environmental trajectories.
• Legal/Financial Definition: In law, it pertains to money-related matters, such as “pecuniary gain” (profit motive in crime) or “pecuniary legacies” (monetary gifts in wills).
• Conflict of Interest: “Pecuniary interest” denotes a direct financial stake in a case or decision, which can lead to legal bias.
• Mediation/Negotiation: Power imbalances in negotiations often stem from disparities in financial resources. 
The term is derived from the Latin pecunia(money), often highlighting the material basis of influence in society. 

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Oswald_Spengler

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.