captaincliff

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/

It’s not even noon here in Florida but I’m starting to get an alarming feeling in my gut about the midterm congressional elections. Not that Ive heard anything about the early vote count/exit polls but I’m starting to catch a rancid smell in the salty Sarasota air. Even my rescue black lab Harmony seems to sense something amiss when I took her out to pee for the tenth time. She kept lifting her grey streaked snout skyward in various directions but especially towards certain swing states and gerrymandered voting districts here in Florida. These are places for the most part where broad based knowledge, critical thinking and higher education means college football, Fox News and maybe a Tucker Carlson seminar on “Feminism and Falling Sperm Count”. Perhaps Harmony is just smelling a dead seagull washed up on Casey Key near Steve Bannon’s fake primary residence or maybe it’s the latest El Nino climate change related storm front (Nicole?) about to finish off whats left of South Florida’s already eroded coastline and crumbling infrastructure…but I dont think so. In fact I really wish that was all my old incontinent hound dog and I were spidey-sensing.

Honestly I fear I’m vibing some kind of Tolkien-esque smoke signals on the far horizon of Middle-earth. Call it intuition or delusional paranoia but I believe I may be picking up on an almost imperceptible quantum shudder in the astral plane, a seemingly subtle yet real Jeff Goldblum Jurassic Park seismic shift in the fabric of space-time. This time not just one lousy genetically cloned Tyrannosaurus Rex or a couple extra clever Velociraptors but a dark omen and blinking neon sign portending the return of the True Evil One, Lord Trumpasaurus to Mordor along with his mentor Roy Cohn’s Orc army of grotesque looking MAGA zombies, flag-waving felons, and bought off ministers, minstrels and disbarred magistrates including Rudy Giuliani of “melting mascara fame” not to mention Marjorie Taylor Greene who actually resembles an Orc Crossfit queen in drag. That said I’m genuinely most afraid of the bloated Orange Comb-over Man..the demon called Donald. He cant be killed and like a honey badger he never gives up.

Even without the explicit Hobbit imagery such as Sauron’s disembodied flaming eye as am archetypical symbol of impending doom there is a dark brooding sense growing within me about the midterm elections going on right now as well as the Final Fantasy meets Final Destination winner-take-all Presidential election in 2024.

Maybe it’s just my never-ending frustration with the never working properly electronic perimeter security gates and key fob door locks to my way overpriced Sarasota condo complex but this election cycle seems like a planned takeover by the Trump wing of the Republican Party, one that could have/should have been avoided if Sleepy Joe would have just woken up. It’s as if Old King Biden in his castle keep (White House) along with many other Democratic leaders hobbled by age-related arthritis, Alzheimers and a plethora of family issues left the normally impenetrable front doors to the congressional elections unlocked, completely unguarded and essentially wide open. Like the DC police on Jan 6 who were the government’s “premier” security force they too were wholly unprepared, undersupplied, understaffed, fully compromised and personally conflicted about their solemn duty to use deadly force to secure the nation’s Capitol Building. As a result they looked in some cases like Paul Blart shopping mall cops on Segways unable to turn away what was not only a deadly serious national security threat but a wild mob of unruly Q-anon weirdos, village idiots and brainless Trump lovers wearing football jerseys, buffalo horn helmets and screaming for public executions and blood sacrifices.

So too these elections are occurring smack dab in the middle of an unprecedented time of political, psychological and behavioral craziness. A Covid crises, social media misinformation, and rapid technological and political change has resulted in extreme fear, distrust, polarized thinking, social isolation, increasing violence, economic insecurity and bad music. In other words, nothing is really feeling “secure” at the moment including my Florida apartment complex and it’s glitch prone 24/7 security system. Instead the Kingdom of USA itself is divided almost to the point it was when President Abraham Lincoln warned “A house divided cannot stand”. Weakened, polarized and in continual crisis…distracted by economic and financial woes and a wily Coyote recurring plague like virus that has already dispatched a million vulnerable Americans and compromised the physical and mental health of millions more. So yeah, the gates of individual and collective sanity, mental health, compassion, morality, understanding and common civility were left wide open and a mutant horde of brain-dead zombies, election deniers and QAnon rabble rousers are now likely to breach the ramparts and possibly gain control of the House of Representatives and many important state and general elections.

THEN, even worse, they (the newly elected politicians) might then just do the absolutely unthinkable and “release the Kracken”, the MAGA monster and return the Mad King to his gold toilet presidential throne along with his assorted racist violent vengeance-seeking gun-toting fringe followers. I’m REALLY hoping my physical nausea and this rambling reflection is nothing more than exaggerated anxiety, political paranoia or the leftover cognitive fog resulting from a flu bug or emerging strain of Covid yet to be identified. However, sometimes its the little things like past behavior that turns out to be the best predictor of future outcomes… including the predictable behavior of the lunatic MAGA sycophants who will probably end up running Congress when the Democratic party gives up the ghost. To wit: the complete absence of any publicly stated compassion, empathy, concern or common respect shown by so many Republican party leaders and Congressmen in regards to Nancy Pelosi’s elderly husband getting his skull caved in by a demented deranged politically motivated intruder gives me a slight shiver and the same kind of dark foreshadowing feeling reminiscent of Jeff Goldblum’s classic quote in Jurassic Park, “God I hate being right all the time”.

It now appears that the deranged antisemitic nudist in SF who broke in and attacked Paul Pelosi in his private residence was so craycray that he may have confused Nancy Pelosi the sitting United States Speaker of the House for Nancy Kerrigan the former Olympic silver medal figure skater. Just kidding. However today it was revealed that David Depape, age 42 did in fact plan to break Speaker Pelosi’s knee caps with a hammer just like Tonya Harding’s idiot ex husband and foolish friends tried to do . Let that craziness sink in right down to the bone… so to speak.

As a thankfully retired psychologist I might suggest that we pause for a second and absorb the sheer insanity of this most recent racist conspiracy theory fueled criminal act…not to mention Donald Trump Jr. making beyond absurd insensitive jokes about it on social media. This blatant incident of far right wing “run amok-ism” might turn out to be the best individual case study yet depicting not just the “no fucking way this has got to be a bad dream” crazy world that we live in but also, in addition, a real-time primer for understanding the danger, ie. irrational rage, anger, aggression, violence, etc. inherent in a society that mixes divisive politics, rampant misinformation and mental illness …and then what happens when nothing is done about it (see Proverb below).

Given the still emerging facts about the case, how can we begin to comprehend, evaluate, punish or even rehabilitate a politically deranged mentally ill nudist in S.F. ? San Francisco, my former hometown… the City by the Bay, now according to many a shadow of its former self but still retaining its unforgettable live and let live one-of-a-kind character. In contrast, the demented SF nudist seems to share certain extreme political beliefs and personality traits with the Jan 6 Capitol Building insurrectionists, both tending to be far right wing nuts who became progressively more irrational and “out for blood” after falling sway to conspiracy theories and their big bandwidth promoters on radio and cable news. Unable to heed or respect established laws and regulations pertaining to private property, trespassing, breaking and entering or the common sense and critical thinking to know not to assault innocent and/or elderly people with hammers, Dupape broke into the Pelosi’s private residence at 2am. He then physically attacked and seriously injured Speaker Pelosi’s 82 year old husband with a hammer while yelling “where’s Nancy?? Where’s Nancy?” (instead of “Where’s Mike Pence” or even “where’s Waldo??”).

Going one step further, how do we stop the toxic human sources of vile and dangerous misinformation and the divisive political rhetoric that appears to have a “Manchurian Candidate” hypnotic effect on certain people by activating them (like in the movie “Manchurian Candidate”) to commit senseless criminal acts of violence? Open to suggestions, even weird ones : 1) Make crazy nudist in SF wear clothing 24/7 for the remainder of his life and adopt personally relevant life mottos stitched into his clothing like “Just DONT Do It Dummy!!”

2) Increase the size, number and visibility of Do Not Trespass/Restricted Area signs everywhere

3) Forget #1 and #2 and sacrifice Tucker Carlson as a Hail Mary act of human contrition and all-purpose atonement ritual to God ….kind of like one of those Get Out of Jail free cards and“preemptive presidential pardons” certain people sought from Donald Trump before his Walk of Shame. Then mount his TC’s head (preferably with Roger Stone’s genitals in his mouth) on a sharp pike right in front of the White House… rather than waste taxpayer money on new signs. Somewhat ironically, Steve Bannon actually first thought of this idea.

4) Same as #3 but use Tucker Carlson’s head as a bowling ball, football, basketball and soccer ball in a clever sports product placement TV commercial during the Superbowl featuring well known player icons like Michael Jordan

5. Dont cause any bodily harm to Tucker Carlson but make sure he does NOT wear ANY clothes except his stupid bow tie during his inaccurate and inflammatory cable news commentaries. Sort of a “The Emperor (and his Patsies) Wear No Clothes” allegory…

6. Castrate Roger Stone just for the hell of it …and secondarily to make sure that his “seed is permanently wiped from the face of the earth” ala the Native American warrior Magua’s “Last of the Mohicans” seminal speech

7. ??

Proverbs 27:12. The wise man discerns danger ahead and prepares himself, but the naive simpleton never looks ahead and suffers the consequences

Translation: Whether its a mass casualty shooter in Highland Park, a deranged antisemitic nudist with a hammer or crazed election hoax rioters at the Capitol building We the People are the naive simpletons

I’m from Highland Park. I grew up in the nearly idyllic family oriented suburb where an angry depressed and certainly deranged 21 year old decided to act out some unhinged final fantasy special edition version of Grand Theft Auto meets Lee Harvey Oswald in real time. Using a legally purchased automatic rifle Robert Crimo III rained bullets down on innocent families simply there to watch a July 4th parade. Seven people were killed, dozens injured and a whole town forever traumatized.

I’m also a retired psychologist who cant help but wonder what went wrong in that young man’s broken head as well as in his frozen if not completely broken heart. How could he do that? What was he thinking? How do you shoot innocent children and grandparents in wheelchairs? It makes me so angry. Well, it’s been exactly one week and a day since the incomprehensible tragedy and here’s what I now think. It’s just my opinion of course.

While it is certainly understandable to feel shocked, pissed off and totally outraged about Highland Park’s holiday celebration turned unspeakable tragedy I believe it would be a mistake to place all of ones anger and righteous indignation solely upon any one individual, any one family, or any single admittedly significant social problem like gun control or mental illness. Most to all of these disturbed and deranged violent individuals certainly have something wrong with their thinking and may very well have a diagnosable mental illness like severe depression, drug addiction, or bipolar disorder. However, what more likely relates to and may potentially end up predicting a hyperviolent episode like a school shooting or July 4th mass casualty event is a longstanding deep-seated despair in certain vulnerable individuals and a progressive loss of hope of ever achieving basic human needs like love, intimacy, happiness and personal success. In a nutshell many of these disturbed and disaffected young men seem to have something in common… they’ve given up on the idea that their life will ever substantially get better, particularly in regard to their present circumstance and dismal existence usually characterized by extreme anger, depression, suicidal ideation, social isolation, rejection and lack of loving relationships or care to and from significant others.

As a result, many of these young alienated individuals withdraw into alternative online worlds and anonymous social platforms including dark web underground communities where they are free to craft different lives and personas and engage with other outliers in extremist social, political, and ideological discussion groups and forums. “Losing oneself” online is not necessarily an exaggeration as real in-person affection, touch, love, understanding, bonding, belonging and physical/emotional validation are key ingredients in promoting psychological health, resilience and optimism. Without it, depression, anxiety, hopelessness, and suicidal or violent homicidal thinking is much more likely to attach itself like a self-replicating negative mental virus or maladaptive mindset.

Here comes the extra dangerous part. The negative/destructive or extreme nihilistic mindset is sometimes accompanied by a loss of empathic understanding or emotional connection with others that is normally present to ground ones moral reasoning and sense of right or wrong. Besides the debatable nihilistic philosophical belief that there is no real right or wrong the thought “i should not do that because it will hurt others” is no longer a indissoluble moral principle or interpersonal tenet that once learned cannot be unlearned or forgotten. Other preexisting conditions like a predisposition towards obsessive compulsive disorder ( negative intrusive thoughts/compulsive behaviors subtype) or a history of childhood trauma/violence and/or substance abuse especially alcohol, stimulants and gaba neurotransmitter altering substances like anabolic steroids, cocaine, amphetamines, sedatives, opiates, and hallucinogens can potentially add to and worsen the likelihood of a deranged act of violence, even if the shooter himself believes his horrific act to be sensible, necessary, or even inevitable.

Summary: As a society, rather than shoot all of our social problem-solving missiles towards one obviously important need like better gun control (no doubt very important) or even better mental heath screening and treatment (certainly important) perhaps we need to also recognize an inconvenient truth lying right before us in plain sight. Extremely unhappy/dissatisfied young people with no hope and no “skin in the game” in the celebrity social media driven real world (capitalistic/materialistic culture of today) and who are socially isolated and unmonitored (meaning nobody knows or cares enough to actively question, challenge or intervene in such an individuals evolution towards extreme hatred and violence) and who were previously exposed to violence, mind-altering drugs and/or polarizing political beliefs and propaganda that foster aggression and include violent dehumanizing rhetoric are not just human ticking time bombs in a mental health sense but essentially weaponized suicide bombers in a domestic terrorism sense.

If we as citizens and shaken survivors can recognize a related but perhaps less complete version of such transgressive social and psychological programming on January 6th, 2021 at the Capital building in Washington DC in the faces and actions of common American citizens turned Stop the Steal violent protestors then we should also be able to recognize what antisocial human recipe results when the unfinished brain of a deeply depressed and disconnected suicidal young person with a history of drugs/psychedelic abuse lacking love, nurture or genuine family closeness gains parental approval for a collection of knives, ninja swords and guns including permission to purchase automatic weapons but little to no positive reinforcement for believing they have a worthwhile place in society not to mention a future with any realistic hope for love, happiness, or success. Awake the Rapper no doubt at some level woke up to THAT reality, nurtured its nihilistic ramifications and chose the predictable alternative of antisocial infamy. No surprise since The Joker did the same thing. Maybe we as a society need to wake up to and confront that kind of unfortunate and inconvenient human truth that is just as real and unavoidable as climate change.

Notes: Radicalized individuals as I’ve described above who’s destructive brand of nihilism despises existing societal norms also detest joyous community celebrations of freedom (like Passover among Jewish people and the Fourth of July by American citizens). As a result they may choose to turn their formerly benign or constructive energies into purely destructive pursuits. Antisocial forms of self-expression and behavior go beyond the bizarre or merely outrageous because they actually aim to destroy the core ideas, symbolic images (like a 4th of July parade) and people living in what we typically perceive to be a happy healthy democratic society. Put another way, that which we celebrate is directly associated in their disturbed upside-down minds with having caused their intolerable misery.

More than money, fame, career success, social class, intelligence or genes the single most important factor in a long and happy life is love. Intimate bonds protect us from life’s hardships, delay mental and physical decline and predict long-term happiness.Sep 29, 2018

“For certain vulnerable people in these corners of the dark web, reality is meaningless, and if they can destroy reality, then that’s the only thing worth doing anymore,” said Newhouse. “The dehumanization of both the self and other people is the core aspect of why this shows up in these types of cases.

https://www.newyorker.com/culture/infinite-scroll/the-online-spaces-that-enable-mass-shooters/amp

https://news.yahoo.com/how-to-combat-the-forces-that-turn-young-men-into-mass-shooters-200251351.html. Duh



Title Contest: Help us name the first of hopefully many more homeless themed

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public art installations in downtown Sarasota. The attached photo depicts the still unfinished interactive display that includes a circular paver and cement “sundial” shaped base with a seemingly lifeless possibly even comatose homeless person sprawled on top of the horological (time telling) sun dial. Here are some preliminary titles suggested by Sarasota residents and local art enthusiasts:

1. Does Anyone Really Know What Time It Is? Umm 1PM??

2. 1 o’Clock, 2 o’Clock, 3 o’Clock Rock

3. Sarasota Squid Games: Dispossessed Squatter Edition

4. The Time Machine: He’s Got All the Time in the World…Um Not Really

◦ Introduction: Public art is expensive. The administrative hurdles and cost to cities and urban municipalities involved in bringing to fruition dynamic new art into green spaces, parks, and common areas downtown is challenging to say the least. “In place” public art requires not only engaging regional artists and jury selecting large sculptures and wind/weather-resistant creative installations but also coordinating a rigorous multidisciplinary approval process/design team that includes multiple P&R full-time employees as well as outside consultants, architects, project managers, and civil engineers experienced in public works that involves permanent “in place” art. Navigating through the complicated administrative procedures and city/county/state government building codes and regulations in a still recovering Covid pandemic economy, ie. supply chain delayed materials, increased labor costs, required liability and disability insurance as well as future projected maintenance and cleaning expenses has made local government sponsored art projects and public works prohibitively expensive and quite often beyond the budget allowances of even affluent cities like Sarasota.

Unfortunately private funding for such worthy public art downtown have also suffered over the last few years and are further impacted as a result of current events and market instability. Wealthy private donors, local patrons of the arts, visiting oil and gas billionaires and normally cash flush Russian oligarchs living in or around Sarasota are being forced to sell or hide their discretionary assets, ie. mega yachts, private jets, European soccer teams, illegally purchased or stolen antiquities and museum quality art collections due to US government pressure, congressional investigations, economic sanctions and frozen bank accounts related to the ongoing Russian invasion of Ukraine.

As a result, a more creative, pragmatic and cost-effective approach to public art is needed in Sarasota. Just like in the burgeoning field of fine dining/culinary art which trends towards using local ingredients and food sources as well as homegrown or creative presentations of regional cuisine, ie. farm to table gourmet restaurants, outdoor farmers markets, etc., public art projects in downtown areas like Sarasota need to also think about relying on local commodities that are fresh, plentiful, and more affordable.

Let’s be honest. Sarasota has a seemingly boundless supply of fresh, employable and/or completely unemployable homeless people willing and able to be used as stationary (or barely moving) art, sculptural art pieces, interactive architectural components and authentic public art figures in situ. Good art should be something people can relate to (or at least imagine if their health, life savings and/or stock portfolio goes to hell in a hand-basket). By extension why not consider good art, especially downtown public art to be displays which are “true to form” and literally comprised of living breathing human beings …even if the art objects breath is pretty damn bad, even if they are passed out or huddled together in various “off the tourist radar” places (like near Salvation Army and Planned Parenthood), even if they are found sleeping early morning in front of posh clothing boutiques and newly renovated store fronts on Main Street, engaged in loud nonsensical meth fueled conversations and altercations with themselves or others while trekking across already noisy Fruitville Road or even while eating, drinking, changing their socks and (on occasion) urinating in the increasingly sparse landscaping outside the downtown Public library right across from Starbucks.

The point is that homeless people are still real human beings. Furthermore, as “embodied” public art the homeless very likely could be procured to participate or literally become outdoor art. Consider the pros involved. They have no long annoying commute to contend with and no automobiles to drive and park (adding to traffic congestion and major headaches trying to figure out how to use the so called user friendly automated parking meters). In addition, homeless people as homeless art objects probably could be paid exclusively in Starbucks gift cards, cigarettes, beer and lottery tickets. Best of all homeless art and artists typically dont demand special celebrity “hey I’m a famous avant garde artiste” diva treatment like required on-site swedish masseuses, pilates instructors, charcuterie platters and 24/7 champagne flights. Most important …the homeless being homeless dont give a damn about state or county planning rules and regulations, public works building and construction restrictions, federal OSHA laws, planning department inspectors or inspections, liability and disability insurance or come to think of it…. basically really anything.

Like the Dude in The Big Lebowsky the homeless population of Sarasota mostly just wants to “abide” and get by. Maybe that’s what they can teach the rest of us take for granted spoiled homeowners and over-entitled cell phone and iPad addicted arty farty show-offs and art auction imposters. Hell, it’s just an idea even if a few existing laws, ordinances and labor practices might need to be cleverly altered first… probably by passing some teeny tiny font voter referendum held during an obscure midterm election, etc.

The important thing is that a vibrant growing creative community like Sarasota known across the US for its artistic vision and cultural arts as well as its social conscience regarding the “homeless problem” (not to mention it’s absolutely ridiculous real estate prices making it literally impossible to buy anything except a falling apart crack house or rat-infested hovel for under 2 million bucks) needs and deserves just such a uniquely “human” art initiative. At the very least let’s think about it….