What’s changed? I’m now a member of the “run from the next job to the next to the next in order to make ends meet” club, which is so typical of life in Hawaii. Here are what my weeks look like now:

Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday afternoons I perform massage at a medical clinic. Thursdays I continue my long–time gig as a psychic at Sedona Hawaii. Friday mornings I’m back at the medical clinic, and then I’m off to my usual Friday evening psychic work again. Saturday and Sundays I work the sales floor, again at Sedona. And all that doesn’t include my freelance writing work. Yep, NOW they’re calling me!

I’m not complaining. True, all this adds up to about one-third of what I used to make working for advertising agencies, but for now that’s okay. According to Chinese Astrology the upcoming year of the Dragon is going to be a banner year for those of us born in the year of the Ox, and I’m counting on it! Not so, apparently, for Dragons. I find that confusing. You’d think Dragons would be kicking up their heals during their year. But apparently, rather than a banner year, it could be a bummer.

Still, there is hope for all ye born breathing fire. Roosters. Turns out the Rooster is the Dragon’s best friend next year. So keep one close to you. It doesn’t have to be a real rooster. But hey, if you’ve got one all the better. My wife’s a Dragon. Believe me, they actually do breathe fire when they’re pissed. So I’m thinking, ahh, is it really going to be a banner year for me if it’s a bummer year for her? I don’t think so.

However, it just so happens that a real live rooster has made its home on our townhouse grounds, no doubt on account of the feral chickens. Our friend Maya, also a Dragon, (you can read her blogs here) has been complaining about its constant crowing, just outside her window. Now, she of Chinese ancestry, is happy to have it around.

I just hope she’ll be willing to share.

PS. In my previous blog “Honking for APEC” I said I’d address a question one reader asked regarding how I feel about an organization which many believe exploits the poor and robs developing countries of their resources. I’ve no doubt there’s some truth to the argument. But I also know that APEC does good work too. For more information check out their website here. Then you can form your own opinion. Aloha and happy holidays!

Knowing of my apparent ability to predict the demise of those who are “on their way out” the very first thing my mother asked me when I walked through her door was…
“Well, am I dying yet?”
“No mom, you’re still going to be around for awhile.”
“Oy, I thought as much.”

Toronto is a large, cosmopolitan city. In weak moments, when the sun is out and it’s a comfortable 60 degrees I fantasize about returning. In addition to my family being there, the food, theater, sports and relatively healthy economy, do hold a strong allure for me. But the winters are interminable, and my blood has thinned since living in Hawaii these past 21 years, and even if I could persuade my wife to leave the only place she has lived, come that first blinding snowstorm, sub-zero temperature and 4pm sunset, I might want to slit my wrists.

Toronto’s also gotten a little harder with age, or maybe it’s always been that way and I hadn’t noticed. One evening my brother, sister-in-law and I were driving to the theater. A taxi driver was attempting to make a left turn from a right hand lane and was waiting for the light to change to do it. Behind him, a woman in an SUV placed her hand on the horn and kept it there the entire time – at least a minute, and I’m thinking “Lady – this guy’s a taxi driver. Your @#$%^&%#@% horn’s not going to intimidate him so shut the @#$%^&%#@% up! I’m there just a few days and I’m already cussing like a local! Mind you this is Canada, so I didn’t actually roll down my window and scream.

In contrast, the only time we honk in Hawaii is when sign waving politicians are standing by the side of the road prior to elections and we honk to offer our support, or if the driver ahead of us seems to have fallen asleep as the light turns green. But even then we’ll wait, hoping they’ll wake up. And if we do honk, it’s of the apologetic variety, a squeaky barely audible fart, as apposed to a real ripper. Love, peace, aloha and all that.

Speaking of aloha, today I begin my first shift as an APEC volunteer. APEC stands for Asia Pacific Economic Cooperation. Leaders from twenty-one economies are meeting in Honolulu this week for non-binding discussions. (Note the word “economies” and not “countries”. Two attendees, Hong Kong and Taiwan aren’t officially recognized as countries for reasons I’m sure you can discern.) I’ll be hanging out with the international press. My job is to give them directions to meetings, bathrooms etc., check that they have the proper credentials and generally show them heaps of aloha.

I do a little writing for Hawaii Public Radio’s show “The Conversation.” When they learned that I’d be volunteering they wanted to interview me on the show, which they did yesterday morning. A star definitely wasn’t born, but if you want to hear the interview you can at The Conversation.

A couple of days ago a friend of mine asked me if I support APEC. He doesn’t. It’s a valid question considering my left of center political leanings and one that I’ll try to address in my next blog.

In the meantime, if you see us wearing our loud APEC volunteer aloha shirts (blue with square patches of flowers) and a large badge around our necks, feel free to honk. Very gently, of course.

For example, today I learned that when announcing Ron Paul’s victory in the Texas straw pole, Fox News replaced raucous background cheering at the announcement event with boos, in a not so subtle attempt to brand the winner a loser. I found that hilarious. Of course, that could be because I don’t give a hoot who wins the Republican Primary. I’ll be voting for the socialist with the big ears and permanent tan.

A couple of days ago an advertising agency friend of mine sent me examples of old newspaper ads, many from the first half of the 20th Century. These are real ads, not fakes. My three favorites were “Let’s face it…you could get hit by a bus tomorrow. Go on…have a fag.” (referring to cigarettes and not a homosexual experience!)

A photo of a guy blowing cigar smoke on a woman’s face. “Blow in her face and she’ll follow you anywhere.”

And my favorite – a picture of a baby and mother with the following copy:

For a better life start Cola earlier.

Laboratory tests over the last few years have proven that babies who start drinking soda during that early formative period have a much higher chance of gaining acceptance and “fitting in.” So, do your child a favor. Start them on a strict regimen of sodas and other sugary carbonated beverages right now, for a lifetime of guaranteed happiness.

Naturally, that got me thinking. What if Republicans had their way with the American people – pun intended – and did away with all government regulations, thus giving corporations unfettered freedom. What kind of ads would we see today?

HELP END WORLD HUNGER. BUY A HUMMER.

In a stunning reversal, leading scientists revealed that global warming will actually benefit humanity by transforming frozen tundra into a paradise for farming, thus ending world hunger once and for all. So do what Saint Ronald (Reagan) would have done. Buy a Hummer. Not only will you feel more powerful than the other poor bastards on the road, you’ll be doing your part to help save the human race!

MICKEY DEE PORK RINDS. THE NATURAL WAY TO BETTER SEX AND HEALTHIER KIDS.

We all know that Mickey Dee pork rinds are delicious. But did you know they can help your sex life? Recent studies at a leading university showed that eating one ounce of our enhanced pork rinds one hour before sexual activity can stimulate your libido, giving him an erection that’ll make her swoon. Your marriage will be happier. And it’s a fact: Happier marriages make healthier kids!

And finally…

NEW BIBLE TRANSLATION REVEALS: UNIVERSAL HEALTH CARE IS A MORTAL SIN.

We at Standard Insurance always knew that universal health care was wrong. But a sin? Even we were surprised to learn that a newly discovered passage in the Book of Revelations actually predicts the maniacal movement towards universal health care in America, calling it a mortal sin.

“In the 21st hundredth year after the resurrection of our Savior, a leader, black of skin and dark of heart, shall arise to proclaim an abundance of good health for all the meek on Earth. And the Lord shall declare it a mortal sin. For the Lord proclaimith thus: Blessed are the meek. For they shall inherit the Dearth.

But years later I almost died inside a rusty Volkswagen Beetle on a pitch black Mexican country road, surviving only because “something” grabbed the wheel after I blacked out, saving my girlfriend and me from crashing into a very large cow and an oncoming car. Grace.

There used to be TV show called Saving Grace about a diminutive, down on her luck cop (played marvelously by Holly Hunter) who drank too much, swore like a sailor and slept around. She had her own personal angel, Earl. Despite his wings, Earl couldn’t save Grace from falling from grace at a per episodic pace. In the end she cornered the Devil incarnate in a barn, lit a match and set the whole place up in flames, thereby saving the lives many other people. You just knew that Earl was there to carry her up to meet his boss. Grace.

When my wife Mary and I met, I was recovering from a devastating relationship and I sure wasn’t ready to begin a new one. Then Mary asked me to go ice-skating with her. Though I’m not a very good skater, the Canadian in me couldn’t resist and off we drove to the Ice Palace. I’d just stepped on the ice and was trying to negotiate a turn when a young guy skated into me at full speed. My right leg went right while the rest of me went left. I felt the break just below my hip as I went down.

I underwent surgery and spent a week in the hospital. Then, for the next few weeks I couldn’t do anything but sit in my chair at home, zoned out on pain pills and watching TV. In the meantime, the apartment Mary was renting was being sold and she had to leave, so she moved in with me. I didn’t want her to, but if she hadn’t I’d have been shipped off to a convalescent center, so despite my resistance I gave in. Eighteen years later we’re still together, sharing a deeply spiritual life. Would we be together had I not broken my hip? Hard to say. But I do know this:

Two nights before the ice-skating accident I’d had an unusually vivid dream. In it, I was confined to a wheelchair, then was on crutches. I’d completely forgotten that dream until I was lying on the ice, flat on my back. Had I remembered it, there is no way I would have gone skating with Mary and we might have gone our separate ways. Grace.

I’m sitting in the psychic’s room at Sedona, waiting for my next client to arrive. And lo and behold, I’m not in a funk right now. I’m in a peaceful state, a place of acceptance. A place where my nervous need to be productive isn’t there. This calm acceptance of the moment is rare for me. Usually my mind breaks the silence with something I should be worrying about, which is often around work or more accurately, the lack of it. I’m also aware that just by writing about it creates an opening for my mind to re-enter, and with it that nervous edge again, which I’m feeling right now in my gut. Ay ya!

I can understand why mystically oriented people might choose to join a monastery where they can meditate much of the day without having to worry about paying for rent and food. It’s all taken care of. Do your meditation, perform your daily chores and focus on God.

I used to think that was a cop out, that the true test of an awakened soul is his or her ability to remain awake in the midst of chaos. And I suppose that if our awareness was to be tested, placing us in the middle of a chaotic situation, a battlefield for instance, or trying to quiet a screaming toddler in the middle of Walmart, could certainly do the trick. But who decided there should be a test in the first place?

Ever since we were booted out of the metaphoric Garden of Eden, our world has been chaotic. Do you really see that changing? So why not escape to a monastery if that’s what floats your boat.

My teacher once said that many years ago he asked the Dalai Lama how long he meditates each day. Five hours, he said. Five hours! Why so long? Because he’d witnessed so much death and hardship, it took him that long to reconnect to his inner peace, and thereby give hope to the many who seek him out for solace.

Well heck, if the Dalai Lama needs that much time to prepare for his day, imagine what we mere mortals need. No wonder anti-depressant drug sales have gone through the roof.

Drug profits aside, America doesn’t take kindly to folks in a funk. Depressed people are a downer. And besides, they interfere with corporate productivity and bottom lines. So pop that pill, straighten your shoulders and get back to work. Assuming you have work.

What’s the answer? If I knew that I’d be rich and famous. But I do know what it isn’t. It doesn’t lie with better drugs, or in expecting someone else to “fix” us. I’m pretty sure the answer doesn’t lie outside of ourselves at all. It lies within, as the mystics say. And begins and ends with Love.

I find that when I’m able to love myself, even and especially when I’m feeling depressed, the depression eventually transforms into peace. Just like the peace I described earlier. This peace, while delicious, is subtle and easy to miss unless we’re paying attention. That’s because in America, we’re used to being ramped up and ready to go. Being in a quiet place, one without an edge to it, can feel like a waste of time.

I’ll tell you something. When I’m in that place, I don’t need or want for anything. I’m perfect as I am. Unfortunately it doesn’t last. But that’s okay. When I’m ready, I’ll return to it again. Even if it takes me five hours, or five days or five weeks to find it again and lasts for only a moment.

But ooh la, la, what a moment!

Apparently the term goes deeper than that. Perry, it seems, is a right wing conservative, and proud of it. Each morning he shares his views with little or no comment from Price who, according to Perry, is “all over the place” politically. Fair enough. We all have a right to our views and far be it from me to criticize Mr. Perry for sharing his.

The content of his sharing is another matter, and while reading Civil Beat reporter Chad Blair’s account of Perry’s opinions, I actually started to feel nauseous.

The article is lengthy, so I’ll just take issue with one point. To the read the article click here.

Perry believes that increasing taxes on the rich is class warfare. Really? If we want to discuss class warfare let’s look at the fact that real wages – adjusted for inflation – have remained stagnant for the last 50 years! While at the same time the wealth disparity in America has been dramatically widening. Since 1979, the top 1% have seen their share of America’s income more than double, while the bottom 90% of us are falling far behind.*

In fact, as of 2005, our income gap was the widest among the 33 member countries in the Organization for Economic Cooperation and Development (OECD).* The gap between the top 1% of Americans and the rest of us hasn’t been this bad since the roaring twenties.* And we all know what happened after that.

When in the richest country in the world, where the pursuit of life, liberty and happiness is written in its Declaration of Independence, income disparity is the widest of any industrialized nation and getting wider, clearly something isn’t working. When a country isn’t working, the people tend to get antsy and rebel. Look at the Middle East.

The answer doesn’t lie with some tea party, or with balanced budgets, or smaller government or an unregulated private sector. It requires a re-evaluation of our priorities. Do we really want to live in a country where the wealthy live behind high, brick walls, guarded by security guards and broken glass, while the rest of us scrounge and fight over leftovers.

Think it can’t happen here? History teaches us otherwise. Do they still teach history in schools? Besides, it’s already happening here. Forty-six million Americans need food stamps and 15 million children live in poverty. This, in what is still, although perhaps not for much longer, the wealthiest nation in the world.

Yes, I agree with you Mr. Perry. There is a class war raging in America. And the wealthy are winning it. Big time!

* Source: Business Insider

He was speaking of the concept of Oneness, the notion that there is no individual outside of ourselves; that we are all part of the One. This isn’t a concept that our minds can understand – at least mine can’t – so I don’t even ask it to try.

Nevertheless I am familiar with this idea and at times have even dropped into a moment of no mind where I am able to steal a glimpse of the truth behind the illusion of separateness. But in a gym, where we are focused on our heart rates, biceps, pecs and abs, or my case, gut, the very notion that the grunting thick-necked lifter or tattooed teenager with the ring in his lip, could in some way be “me” seems ludicrous. Yet like the mathematical theory that attempts to explain the mystery behind everything, if it doesn’t hold true all of the time, then it must not hold true at all.

I looked up at the scene in front of me. Muscular young men and firm, scantily clad women (oh joy!); skinny men trying to build muscle and flabby folks trying to loose weight; Hawaiians, Samoans, Filipinos, Japanese, Caucasians and “mixed-plates.”

While my legs continued pumping on the bike, I softened my gaze. And for a brief moment my reality shifted and I understood this: how I usually interpret what I am seeing – completely separate individuals linked together only by their membership to the gym – was just that, an interpretation. I felt like I was looking at a movie that was being projected in front of me by an unseen source. God? The One? The Big Kahuna?

Right now I’m sitting at my local Starbucks, sharing the large table at the back with a couple other people. Just now I softened my gaze again and looked around. And again this oh so subtle shift in reality happened and my body shivered. Could it be that easy? Under the right circumstances, could simply softening our gaze open us up to some parallel reality? Are we really that close to crossing the boundary between this dimension and some other, each one emanating from one single source? I suspect the answer is both yes and no, depending on factors both in and out of our control.

Oh well, I must go food shopping. I wonder. If I shift my gaze at the checkout counter could I enter a reality where a couple of bags of groceries cost under five bucks?

I could deal with that.

It’s during times like these that I find myself turning to someone much wiser than I am. I call him Mr. Voice.

“Mr. Voice. Can you please shed some light on what’s happening in the world? Both I and my readers would really appreciate your wise consul right now, because frankly, the world seems pretty much f…cked.”

“Well put my friend. The world really is pretty much f…cked. But I wouldn’t worry about it. The world has always been a circus and the fact that you humans are still walking the Earth, creating messes wherever you go is testament to just how patient the Creator is with you.

Why just the other day I was bringing Him His morning coffee – black with one sugar – and there He was sitting on His throne with His head in His hands and moaning.

“Are you okay God?” I asked, worried that He might start crying. The last time He cried it lasted 40 days and 40 nights.

“Have you seen the morning headlines?” He asked, shaking His head.

“Ah, no sir,” I said. “To be honest” – you don’t want to be dishonest with God – “I canceled my subscription to the Heavenly Standard. You know, the internet and all.”

“There’s no end to the messes my children can create. I can send in Moliere. I can send in George Carlin and Tina Fey. I can send in Woody Allen. I can send in Jon Stewart, Richard Pryor and Cheech and Chong. And still they don’t learn. “I know, I know” I said trying be sympathetic.

Then He looked at me with eyes so sad it made me want to weep. “Give me your hands and join me in prayer.”

Oh boy, oh boy! I love joining my hands with Him because it always sends orgasmic shivers throughout my entire body. “Oh Heavenly Father,” He began, “please forgive them for they know not what they do.”

“Ah, sir, aren’t you the Heavenly Father?” I asked, once I came down from the ‘rush.’

With eyes still closed and head still down, He started shaking. Oh dear. The last time He shook that hard Krakatoa blew itself up to smithereens. But then He looked up with a huge smile on His face. He was laughing!

“Got ya, didn’t I!” He said. “ Don’t you worry. I won’t let my children destroy themselves. They’re just doing what children do. Making messes and getting in trouble.”

“But what do I tell them when they ask me for help?”

“Just tell them that life is like the ultimate reality show. It looks and feels real. But in fact it’s all just one big, spectacular illusion. So for heaven’s sake don’t take it so seriously! Or I may have to resort to the ultimate prank.”

“You don’t mean…”

“Yep. I’ll have to make Sarah Palin President.”

But then I thought about the price of razor blades and how often I’d have to buy them to keep my bald head bald. I wore a beard for many years and didn’t have to consider the price of razor blades. I could just take the scissors to my face and give myself a trim. But then my beard turned white.

At the gym I belong to there are mirrors everywhere so you can admire your rippling muscles while you’re lifting weights. Since I don’t have rippling muscles, all I saw was my balding head and white beard. It got so I would avert my eyes from the mirror to avoid having to look at myself. Then my eyes would fall on a woman in her skimpy workout clothes and for a brief moment I’d forget about my old man’s profile and remember what it was like to be young. I’d stand up straighter and pump weights a little harder. Then I’d catch myself in the mirror again and the fantasy would pop like a balloon. I wasn’t going to get a hair transplant or wear a rug. But I did shave off my beard.

Standing there in the shower I thought about a good friend of mine. He recently contacted a dangerous bacteria that if not caught in time could be fatal. Thank goodness he did catch it in time! I stopped thinking about shaving off my hair and instead thought about my friends and about how fragile our bodies are. One moment we’re pumping iron, the next moment we’re a fading memory with folks we left behind.

I don’t mean to be morbid. I accept death. What choice do we have? It helps that I believe we don’t really die; that there is an afterlife and reincarnation. I’ve always believed that, ever since I was young. But just in case I’m wrong I’ve instructed my wife that I want to be cremated. Hell – no pun intended – I get claustrophobic in elevators! No way I’m spending my eternity in a coffin.

God, I need a job!

Am I heartless? Do I have no feelings for the victims of 9/11?

No, that’s not it. I, like every adult American, know exactly where I was when the planes hit. I was shocked, saddened and scared. And I’m certainly not sorry that Osama is finally out of commission. But so much has happened since then; so many government lies, so many thousands more killed in two highly questionable wars, not to mention the collapsed economy, that I find the jingoism that arose after the news, peculiar.

I was watching MSNBC when the announcement came that the President was going to speak to the country about something obviously important. Like those of us watching, the media was in the dark about the subject of his address until just a few minutes before his talk. The mind does strange things in moments like these. Mine came up with a host of scenarios, from UFO’s have landed on the White House lawn to the President is going to step down due to illness or other personal reasons.

That one actually had me concerned, whereas UFOs on the lawn would have been exciting. Having seen UFOs – okay I’ve said it – I believe the government has had an intimate knowledge of Mr. and Mrs. E.T. for quite some time.

Earth calling! Oh right. Sorry.

I know I’m not the only one who responded to the news with little more than a yawn. Still, I do wonder about myself. Have I grown that out of touch? Have my years of meditation left me so at home in some other world that I am no longer at home in this one? Have I lost my way?

Nah, not a chance. You should see how in touch I am watching the basketball and hockey playoffs! No, I think something else has happened to me: Media Overload. I mean come on. There’s only so much fussing and fretting a person can do. Me thinks that the “Information Age” has shorted out the region of my brain that funnels news into the nerve centers responsible for emotional responses.

I’m reminded of that 1984 Apple Computer commercial, featuring human zombies. See it here. Maybe that’s what the military-industrial complex wants. To make us brain dead. Brain dead people don’t argue or resist. Instead we watch Celebrity Apprentice and the Biggest Loser, ask our doctors for the latest drug being advertised ad nauseam on TV and work at jobs that eat away at our insides and self-esteem. If we’re lucky to have a job at all.

Okay, now I’m fired up! I guess there’s blood pumping inside of me after all. Whew! For a moment there I was worried.

Mind you, I am writing this on an Apple.