@ The Parched Cetacean

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It was a common night like all the others in ‘The Parched Cetacean’, a local bar & hangout – bowls of salty peanuts on the bar,  foamy beer & familiar faces. The jukebox was playing Freddy Fender’s woebegone classic, ‘Wasted Days and Wasted Nights’ when I walked through the door & found a bar stool next to Sammy the Avenger. He was in full regalia, taking a break from his night patrol, a pint of beer & a shot of Jager in front of him, deep in conversation with T-bone Clark, our self-proclaimed crystal-vibration love-guru. I ordered a beer & a butterscotch Schnapps and listened to them, trying not to be noticed & dragged into whatever asinine gibberish they were exchanging.

“I’ve been a disciple and studied under many of the great teachers…” T-bone said, a blissed-out, beatific smile matching the Avenger’s stubbly-faced scowl, “…at the least I’ve read some of the things some of them have written about some of the things they’ve taught, and my inner-soul intuition tells me you’re going about this superhero business all wrong. Look here.” He pointed in the vicinity of his chest cavity & actually winked.

Sammy was having none of it – his night so far had been the all-too-familiar grind of misunderstandings, abusive remarks & derisive laughter. Sammy Sprague, the Avenger, thought that the core of Life’s problems & griefs was people’s mysterious (to him) inability to “GET IT“…..he couldn’t make them understand that what he did as a superhero was noble & worthy of itself, a thing to be honored & admired simply for the attention it drew to himself! …Sure, he thought, I’m a fat guy in a cheap-ass costume, and I never really ‘avenge‘ anything, but if people could just fully buy into the concept of ”me plus superhero = I GET IT!”, they’d have a much easier time “getting” things like famine, genocide & global devastation.

T-bone, ever-slick with the nebulous language of universal love, changed tack: “Pasha Baba Sri Sanka, the “Benevolent Enlightened One”, has explained, in this book you must read about the melodies & messages to be found in the Ethereal Odic Zone, that the ‘Self’ or ‘Ego’ is illusion. “Maya”, it’s called…I think that’s an Egyptian word or maybe Chinese or Hebrew or Hindu….I’ll look it up for you. You should come over for tea & I could give you some pamphlets & show you pictures of Pasha Baba.”

Meanwhile, in the Parched Cetacean’s tiny kitchen, Maria Rosario makes pizzas & minds her business….few know she is Tzadkim Nistarim,one of the 36 righteous ones—–>

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tzadikim_Nistarim

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About j. j. marino

As a creaky & cranky a-social agoraphobic anchorite, living in seclusion in the Great North Woods & keeping centered by the Power of the Written Word, a blog would seem to be a fat pitch in my strike zone.

Posted on April 4, 2012, in Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink. 5 Comments.

  1. f’ing priceless brutha! thanks so much!

  2. barbarasimila

    Reminds me of the summer a new resident arrived on the woowoo scene. Drummersageman paddled out in a canoe onto Lake Superior, such calm water after all, and drummed along until the offshore wind blew him halfway to Canada. Too bad he couldn’t drum the canoe in the proper direction. Manitou grabbed his ass….

  3. did you comment on the right post, Barbara?

  4. barbarasimila

    No, Joel….sorry….

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