My question went as follows (from my notes)…

“Revolutions eat their children and I was born on the front line of the sexual revolution. My family pulled up to Olympia 1969. My father a founding faculty member at The Evergreen State College, my mother one of the first wave of Evergreen feminists who would be re-born two and a half decades later as the riot grrrls, who didn’t like me much. You can’t blame them but I did, and I made a lot of art about it, and a lot of noise about it, and then about two and a half years ago, in an alchemical ritual which I document in my book “Accidental Initiations: In The Kabbalistic Tree Of Olympia”, I married myself and all of a sudden all those qualities which I had previously thought of as my nasty masculine traits were shot through with what can only be described as a divine cuntish essence that made me realize that I was a male riot grrl. Now, if you are a riot grrl I’m not trying to co-opt your thing or join your club. I’m just coming out as what I am, which brings me to my question. It’s not whether a man can be a riot grrl. I know that one can, because I am. As that divine cuntish essence likes to say, “You don’t need a pussy to be a riot grrl anymore than you need a dick to do, well, anything.”  So my question isn’t, can a man be a riot grrl but can you, my fellow Olympians handle a man who’s a riot grrl?”

The answer was “Sugar Bank Hank” from Sandman: The Rappin’ Cowboy.

Sugar Bank Hank

Sugar Bank Hank she’s a real good gal
I’m her boo and she’s my pal
Leave a message on my phone
As you can tell I’m not at home

I’m with the Sugar Bank Hank
She’s my honey bee
We’re down at the swamp with the Spanish Moss
Wrapped around our knees

  Oh, let the barefoot trees come runnin’
Let the barefoot trees come runnin’
Let the barefoot trees come runnin’ back to me

Sugar Bank Hank she’s a real good friend
She’s gonna love me ’til the end
Have one baby, maybe ten

Go to heaven, start again
Oh, Sugar Bank Hank
She’s my honey bee

                We’re down at the swamp with the Spanish Moss
Wrapped around our knees
Oh, Sugar Bank Hank
Sweet as a honey bee

                We’re down at the swamp with the Spanish Moss
Wrapped around our knees
Let the barefoot trees come runnin’
Let the barefoot trees come runnin’
Let the barefoot trees come runnin’ back to me

I took this love song from Sandman to his wife to mean that; as long as the love my inner marriage generates in me is true, it doesn’t really matter what the neighbors think. It’s a bank of sweetness that I can draw on whenever I wish. I also liked the stuff about swamp and the Spanish moss. It made me think of the lotus flower; a symbol of enlightenment.

So, what does “cuntish” mean?

You know when a guy does something that betrays his sensitivity and a woman or another guy calls him a “pussy”? Well, it’s the opposite of that. Like if the guy who had been denigrated as a pussy rose up and cut the accuser to the quick with the withering authority of your grandmother taking you down a peg? That’s cuntish and strong, like that muscle membrane that catapults life into being. A pussy gets fucked. A cunt has been fucked and is ready for dinner. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with being a pussy. We all get fucked some time, but when you grow up and “own your lips, girl” it’s a cunt, full of power and blood. I suppose it’s similar to the difference between a dick and a cock, but the mystery is always so much more profound in the genital consciousness of others. Perhaps this is why focusing on the sacred other unlocks something in our own holy of holies. For me, at least today, it feels like I draw more vital energy from my inner (and possibly imagined) cunt than from my outer (and thoroughly real) cock. I wouldn’t trade either for a girlfriend or a million dollars.

So, when I speak of a divine cuntish essence I guess I’m talking about grandma energy, if grandma was an unbridled hellion wearing a man suit named Andras Jones.

(Check back for a full report on R8B at the Oly Music Awards soon. In short. It was awesome, magickal and Radio8Ball won an award.)

That’s my producer, Linda Balaban, asking me about the corps of energetic sensitives who I envision surrounding Radio8Ball like a cloak full of space. In a show chock full of easy-to- grasp and difficult-to-explain concepts, The Sacred Ushers are probably the most inscrutable element. On the surface they seem like Jedi-fashioned Vanna, and Manna, Whites (It’s a co-ed project) but what they actually do is hold the energetic space for Radio8Ball’s participants.

We do some pretty sloppy magick on Radio8Ball. It’s a rock and roll variety show after all. The bands are out of their element; interacting with naked synchronicity and all these people onstage with them. The celebrities are generally a bit confused; Skypeing onto our stage from their own celestial orbit. The audience are often dubious and/or stoned, and I’m usually so distracted (pulling it all together before and after) and focused (during the show) that I often come across like some kind of drowning monk, “impassioned and detached “(as Pete Townshend would say). Amidst all this jagged energy, we endeavor to engage The Pop Oracle. Though the venue be profane, our intent is sacred. This is where The Sacred Ushers come in.

I see these energy artists as mystic camp counselors who keep the vibe high while the rest of us crazies run around exploring sync. I mean, we do kind of psychically sucker-punch our audience and our guests. They come out for a show, often as fans of the musician or celebrity, or friends of mine, totally unprepared for the confronting rewards of engaging The Pop Oracle, and we just uncork that shit and see what happens. If someone has an intense reaction, it’s nice to have some healer-types around.

It’s not just a concept either. We’ve experimented with utilizing the esoteric talents of witches, reiki workers, mystics, magicians, somatic healers, self-proclaimed shaman and whores. The results have been mixed. When it works, the energy at the shows is off the charts. Yet, without the solid structure of financial stability or a long tradition to hold things together, organizing sensitive people who are attuned to higher vibrations can be as frustrating as herding the proverbial cats. And like cats, if you’re a cat person, the rewards of their presence justify the necessary concessions.

Name, location and number changes are de rigueur for Sacred Usher types, as are bouts of extended non-communication from artist types like myself. While we’ve been developing Radio8Ball for TV, the live and radio shows have been on hiatus, and I’ve been hermitting with my book, so I’ve lost touch with most of The Sacred Ushers from previous seasons. Now I’ve got, what feels like the most important Radio8Ball show in our 14 year history on Saturday, May 5^th at The Oly Music Awards at The Capitol Theater with Sandman: The Rappin’ Cowboy, and I’ve got no Sacred Ushers. In a town like Olympia, I know the talent is out there but I have yet to find anyone for the upcoming ritual…er…I mean show. I trust that, either the beings I desire will emerge or I won’t require them this time.

If you or someone you know feels the tug of inspiration when I say the words, “Holding space for The Pop Oracle”, then maybe you’re a Sacred Usher. And if you live in Olympia, I’m easy to find.

This collection of posts is intended to document my experience of Accidental Initiations. Mostly, it’s about The Kabbalistic Tree of Olympia but it’s also about what happens to me when I reveal it. I’ve called this the third act of the film; the part that brings everything together, and it can only do so after everything falls apart; the hero’s best friend is killed, the couple we’re rooting for breaks up, the rag-tag band of rebels appear to be overwhelmed by whatever evil force they are confronting. Faced with impossible odds, our protagonists must find an inner reserve of strength and inspiration to overcome whatever stands between them and their goal.

If this is the third act of Accidental Initiations, then the initiating incident was the release of the book, the unveiling of the magickal item which is The Kabbalistic Tree Of Olympia, and my “naming names” at KAOS, The Olympia Film Society, The Olympia Food Co-Op & Works In Progress.

So, what has happened? For once, let’s start with the positive, shall we?

As we often find in traditional third acts, unlikely allies arise. Characters who were barely visible on the periphery of the story suddenly join the fray and shift the fortunes of the seemingly doomed protagonist. In my case, one Jabi Shriki, chief organizer of the first annual Oly Music Awards. I became marginally aware of Jabi this winter when I was accompanying Scott Taylor and my old friend Shmushkin to open mikes around Olympia (It Can’t get No Worse). When Scott and Elizabeth broke up, he moved his heartbroken ass in with Jabi. While I appreciated this man for coming to my friend’s aid, I was too wrapped up in finishing my book to pay much attention to new acquaintances.

China Starr (who has already made several unnamed appearances in this sequel blog) initially told me about The Oly Music Awards when she was asked to host. She said I should submit my stuff but I was skeptical. This town is notoriously cliquey and bitchy when it comes to its music scenes, and I had no reason to trust that this event would be produced with significantly more integrity than any of the other manipulated popularity contests this town likes to pretend are participatory community projects. More often than not the people who succeed in our music scene are cultivated amateurs who dress like rock stars and turn their noses up at the nerds who actually care about their instruments. They remind me of high school jocks making fun of the kids who read for fun. This is what came up for me when China initially mentioned it but, as she explained the lengths to which the organizers were going to ensure that the Oly Music Awards would be inclusive and respectful, I began to get intrigued, first about the event, but also… who were these organizers?

The Oly Music Awards were scheduled for May 5^th, 2012 at The Capitol Theater. That’s 5-5-5 for all you numerologists out there. I’d been experiencing some interesting syncs with the number 5 (Eat My Shorts) and, inspired by this, I thought it might be cool to submit The Radio8Ball Show as an experimental singer-songwriter showcase. I saw the coincidence of my book’s release and the voting for inclusion in the event as an opportunity worth pursuing. I talked the voting link up on a couple of podcasts on which I was interviewed about AI (Thanks 42 Minutes & Type 1 Radio!) and posted about it here. This inspired people from all over the world; fans of my music, or my movies, or Radio8Ball, to take time and vote for us online. (Thanks fans!)

A few of my music fans encouraged me to submit myself as a solo performer as well and, as an afterthought I did. I liked the way Jabi was conducting the review process. Yes, there were fan votes (in other words, a popularity contest) but they were also doing blind reviews with judges from all over the region. Judges would receive a demo with no name attached to it and review from there. I also like that judges only voted on categories they felt fluent in. I was curious if my music would make the cut if no one knew who I was, so I submitted two songs, “Mystery Behind” and “Politics Will Get You Gigs”. Both from before my divorce in 2003, when making and performing music was the all and everything of my existence. Between 1989 and 2003, I put out five CD’s with my band, The Previous, four solo, and wrote hundreds of songs, the demos of which currently fill up a hard drive in my apartment. When my marriage ended, it felt like the part of me that cared about getting up on stage and singing my muse for those rare and enthusiastic followers who dared brave the shitty establishments I mostly played in, just gave out. I kept writing and playing in my room but I was happier not sharing this part of myself with the fans who I kind of doubted existed anyway.

When the voting results came out I turned out to be a big winner. Radio8Ball was a top vote-getter and we were scheduled to appear at the awards show at The Capitol Theater on May 5^th. I also ended up winning as a solo performer, and was invited to appear at the solo showcase at The Northern on May 4^th (the same night as my Q & A about AI at Kitzel’s Deli). When I spoke with Jabi I told him I didn’t want to overwhelm the event and didn’t need to perform at the solo showcase, but he was having none of it.

“Your song, Mystery Behind was one of the best submissions and the judges really liked it… I really want you to do this as a solo performer AND as the host of Radio8Ball.”

He explained that I wasn’t the only performer appearing on both nights, pointing to Kendl Winter, who will be performing solo, and as part of The Blackberry Bushes. Interestingly, I’ve been having some crazy syncs with Kendl the last few months; running into each other in the strangest places, and of course, my being asked to join The Blackberry Bushes onstage at The Olympia Ballroom to release my book. This, and Jabi’s enthusiasm for me as an artist convinced me to say, “fuck it, let’s put on a show” and not worry that some people are going to be mad at me for being there at all, let alone all over the fucking bill. Yee-haw!

I’ve been working out a set of mostly new material for May 4^th at The Northern, and gathering some great musicians, celebrities, visionaries and sacred ushers for The Radio8Ball Show at The Capitol Theater on May 5^th. I’m glad to have something creative to focus on that’s positive, because every day since the book came out I seem to be engaged in some controversial wrangling or another with people who don’t like Accidental Initiations because of things I say, and in some cases don’t say, about them in it. The most interesting (to me at least) controversies are recounted in my last couple of posts. And as much as I’m trying to have fun with it, these encounters are a drain on me and on those with whom I am deeply connected. The sacred whore and I had our first argument in a while, the day after I posted “A Narcissistic Misogynist With A Persecution Complex”, because she couldn’t support my “dharma” (her word). My conflicts, and the energies they evoke, have never set well with her. Much as I love this woman, she is with another man now, and I have my own poetic battles to meet with gusto and verve. I can’t curb my enthusiasm to meet her energetic needs, any more than she can always be there for me the way I’d like. If all I’ve learned from this whole process is that, it’s probably worth it.

That was three long weeks ago. (I have no sense of time anymore.) The sacred whore came up again this week, though not in the flesh or on the phone, just in written memory; as part of the background of my recent conflict with the editors at Reality Sandwich who agreed, and then declined, to run an excerpt from Accidental Initiations on their site. Posting my piece about this conflict (Own Your Lips Girl) felt like the energetic nadir of this whole affair. I stick by what I wrote but it didn’t feel good to put it out there, knowing that if it had any effect it would be negative at first, before turning potentially positive in the future. As I told my editor, Alan Abbadessa-Green, “I think this medicine is good but it tastes like medicine.”

Last night I got a call from Jabi. It seems that, as I intuited, some people don’t like my inclusion in the Oly Music Awards as a performer, or as the host of Radio8Ball, and he’s been having to deal with flack about me. I was afraid he was going to say, as have the representatives of plenty of other Olympian organizations, that they can’t work with me because of the difficulties I create for those vocal individuals who simply don’t like me. Luckily, Jabi isn’t a coward or a wanna-be insider, and I think he just genuinely digs my music. I can relate to this. Many’s the time I brought musicians to town who raised the ire of Olympia’s prudish snobs. The intense reactions these artists evoked only made me support them that much more enthusiastically. I used to be surprised when other promoters didn’t feel the same sense of duty to the artists they presented, but I learned to accept that those who care as I do about the music and the musicians are not the norm but the outliers. Thus, I was pleasantly surprised to find myself the beneficiary of Jabi’s artistic fortitude and integrity in supporting me. I’m sure he’s getting it from all sides in this town, populated as it is by a loudly whispering minority of boring haters. And not just on my account, but because he is trying to do something awesome. Intolerable!

As I look around I’m noticing more friends and allies coming into focus. Among the nasty shouting and name-calling a few honorable men and women who are inspired by the potential of our shared awesomeness despite, but not apart from, the boring haters, have emerged into view. Will Morgan, who created “Dream Sequence” at the top of this post? I didn’t know him in 2011 and he’s probably put in at least fifty, maybe a hundred hours watching and then editing the films and TV shows I’ve been in, to create what he claims is only the first of series of sync films exploring my work. Alan Abbadessa-Green seems like a friend from high school and I’ve only known him since August. And what about those almost too sexy for bluegrass Blackberry Bushes, who seem to have synchronistically swept me up into their good energy whenever I’ve been relaxed enough to let them? Oh, and I’m not just talking about Jes and Kendl. That whole band looks like they were cast for TV. Pretty, pretty people, who can also play the shit out of their own, and each other’s, instruments. As I begin these appreciations, the list just grows and grows. That fierce mama cat Erin Riordan from Sweet Lily Salon in Seattle, who tends my mane and keeps believing in me to the tune of free $50 haircuts every six weeks for years now.  I’m not even talking about my Hollywood allies who are trying to help me make good on the possibility of Radio8Ball for the whole wide world; Balaban. Wisely. Blau. And the fans. Shit, I actually have fans. I am a fan, so I can relate to that. I want to be awesome for all ya’ll.

On the phone last night Jabi seemed to be keeping his spirits high and his intentions true. He inspires me to rise to the occasion. I intend to honor this man as he has honored me. Get ready for some BIG magick the first weekend in May! I’d say, “don’t miss it” but if the magick is as big as I intend, missing it won’t be an option.

Before I was born my grandparents, who were young then (younger than me now) were called names like “Jew” and “Communist”.  It was true. They were, but what people meant when they spat these monikers in my youthful elders’ direction, was not accurate. My grandparents were “Jews”, in that they were Jewish, but they didn’t control Hollywood or the banking business or kill babies or Jesus, or even keep kosher, which is what the people who railed against them railed against. As “Communists” they were basically good American liberals. They believed that everyone should have health care and a minimum wage and access to education and legal representation. They had no interest in enslaving humanity or incinerating American families in nuclear clouds, as their McCarthy-ite accusers imagined. They were, as far as I was concerned, grandparents. Grandpa rode his bicycle and worked with lasers and computers at MIT. Grandma tended her garden and kept an endless stream of food on the table. They shared a fondness for nerds from India, who were always hanging around talking physics and politics, but mostly food. Pretty sweet, right? But by some people’s standards; the people who painted a swastika on their door in the 80’s, for example, my grands were some brand of devils.

I guess I’m a devil too. Nobody that I know calls me a “Jew” or “Communist”. They call me “a sexist”, “a misogynist”, “a domestic abuser”.  My beloved Mirah once compared my version of Liz Phair’s “HWC” to “rape” onstage during a Radio8Ball show. Even my best friend, Shmushkin, has been labeled a “pedophile” by my accusers. Some of this is “true”. I am a sexist, born and raised in a sexist society, by and around women who had no patience for it. I’m trying to make the most of this poison in me to dismantle sexism in my world and in my time; not for women, or even for my fellow men, just for myself, and for future generations who I deign to think will be more like me than those who today accuse me of sexism.

The boring haters who are currently accusing me of “domestic abuse” have never been in a domestic situation with me so they are basically full of shit, but they are synchronistically onto something. My experience with domestic violence is that the women in my life wish I was more “abusive”, in bed, and less abusive in my being.  My own abuse of self sometimes spills over to my lovers and leads to something that looks a lot like domestic abuse; intense lovers’ quarrels where the energy borders on, and sometimes spills over to, physicality from both parties. When this happens only one party is always wrong; the man. I agree with this. Karma’s a bitch. We may not deserve it but sensitive men of this time must accept that there are certain lines we will never be able to cross, which is what the “Cunt Punch” chapter in my book is about. If there is one reason I choose to live alone and uninvolved with a physical sexual partner at this time, it’s that I have yet to find a passionate loving relationship that doesn’t bring with it a dangerous and potentially violent shadow side. And anything without that hungry tug isn’t really worth engaging, is it? Whether it’s me bringing this darkness into my bedroom, or the hyper-literate sexual revolutionaries I am attracted to; I feel it’s my responsibility to unravel it for myself before engaging another human women; for her sake, for my own, and for my neighbors. So, my accusers are correct, but they have it all wrong.

This is the psychic brew I was steeping in when I found myself embroiled in yet another controversy or, as I am calling them “accidental initiations” connected with my book. A selection from Accidental Initiations: In The Kabbalistic Tree Of Olympia was going to run in Reality Sandwich; an online magazine overseen by Daniel Pinchbeck, and devoted to the transformation of consciousness “bite by bite”. I’ve written for them before and given them lots of free advertising on Radio8Ball. Daniel is one of the many guru lovers of the sacred whore from my book. According to my philosophy of Honor Among Men this makes us tribe. Sadly, instead of engaging this bond we’ve been acting like the worst kind of masculine cunts. Having shared the same snatch for a spell, we clearly have each other’s stink in our snouts, and we are bound to fight or fuck or flee or…be friends?

Jen Palmer, my fellow Sync Book author, recently found herself at the center of this archetypal conundrum which, I am almost sure, is someplace she has no desire to be.  And yet, here she is; another woman suffering the egos of two limp gorillas. Not that she isn’t an active participant in the drama. During the Sync in The City event in NYC in February Jen delivered a long talk on the syncs she was experiencing around The Rolling Stones “lips logo” and images of Kali; the Hindu goddess of birth and destruction.  A video of this talk exists somewhere on the east coast of the U.S. and will eventually find its way to the internet. My memory of the presentation is vague and potent. I’m looking forward to re-watching it on video now that so many syncs around it have been revealed. (Hey Alan Green & Kevin Halcott! Get on that shit will ya?)

When I returned home from the NYC event I found myself increasingly obsessed with The Stones music. In general I’m more or a Who, Beatles guy, but the last few months it’s been all Stones. I listened to the book on tape of Keith Richards’ autobiography. (I didn’t know he dated Ronnie Spector.) I watched all the film footage of The Stones I could get my hands on. Mostly I danced and sang in front of my altar to songs like “Bitch”, “Street Fighting Man”, “Gimme Shelter”, “Happy” and that most “evil” of all songs “Brown Sugar”. Kali-esque! I unleashed my inner cunt in this music the way girls have for decades. I didn’t connect the resurgence of my interest in The Stones with Jen Palmer’s talk until the events of the past week. Now, as with all after-the-fact syncs, the connection seems so obvious and I seem stoopidly slow in recognizing it, even though I also appear to be the first to point it out (much to the chagrin of those who would prefer I didn’t.)

RS= Rolling Stone; beginning with the Muddy Waters song from the 50’s,

then the band that Brian Jones founded in England in the early 60′s,

then the Bob Zimmerman song from ’66,

then Jan Wenner’s magazine featuring Hunter S. Thompson ,

and then Reality Sandwich founded by Daniel Pinchbeck.

Although my work has appeared in Reality Sandwich before, and Daniel had already gracefully acquiesced to running an excerpt from Accidental Initiations in RS, I was letting Jen shepherd my piece through the editorial process. I liked the idea of supporting the connection between Sync Book Press and Reality Sandwich, and I saw Jen’s relationship to both as being perfect for everyone. Also, I am cagey about dealing too much with Daniel. Other than a couple of conversations we had when he was courting my sacred whore girlfriend, he has a way of being that makes everything he says seem like a putdown. At least that’s the way I experience it. I think this actually works for him as a writer and invests his voice with an audacity and impatience I appreciate, but with our history, sometimes it seems easier not to engage him directly. Now I wish I had.

Sadly, Jen wasn’t really on her game as an editor that week and she waited to read the excerpt they were going to run until the night before it was due to hit the site. This, despite giving me her personal assurances that there would be no problem running it. When she finally read it she had problems with the excerpt from the “Cunt Punch” chapter, in which I get hit in the face by a woman who I made the blessed mistake of calling a “cunt”. Despite my frustration with her lack of professionalism and the way it messed with our promotional schedule, I was immediately intrigued with the sync between Jen’s reaction to my book and her talk at the Sync In The City event. So I wrote her an e-mail, one sync-head to another, pointing out the humor and, perhaps, the hypocrisy of invoking the cuntiest goddess of all time (Kali) and the biggest musical misogynists of their era (The Stones), and then clamping her mind like a chastity belt around the language in my book. In this late night e-mail (which probably should never have been sent) I urged her to “Own your lips girl!”

The next morning she wrote back; accusing that phrase of constituting “harassment”. Within a couple of hours my e-mail made the rounds at Reality Sandwich, with Jen repeating her “harassment” accusation against me. By 10am, a tersely worded e-mail from Daniel Pinchbeck himself informed us that Reality Sandwich would have nothing further to do with someone as “aggressive” and “insulting” as me.

Of all the things I’ve been called of late, these two are the most accurate. I am aggressive. These are desperate times, if not for the world; then for me personally. I’m at that age where you’ve got to wonder how much more juice you’ve got in you artistically, especially when you’re someone who works mostly in obscurity, on the far periphery of pop culture where poverty is a way of life. I’ve unleashed an aggressive part of myself with Accidental Initiations, and she is on a creative roll. Insulting? Toward a synchromystic poseur like Jen Palmer? Absolutely! A big sisterly, “own your lips girl” to her and anyone else who insults those who have genuinely been harassed; invoking that word just to get the upper hand on a colleague. My inner cunt loves to insult censorious prudes like Pinchbeck and his worshipful counter-culture cronies, always wondering why they won’t simply dance with us.

I have to work very hard to mitigate this bitch inside of me. Dancing to the Stones seems to help. Got to remember I have a man’s face and a man’s desires, and these are even scarier to my sisters than they are to me. I’m still a monkey man who, on some level, desires nothing more than power. I could have it if I let my inner She run the show, but at what cost? Kali knows. I’m not sure I want to. Now I guess I have to.

So, here I am again, accused of being some kind of dangerous man, specifically to women, when no women have been hurt by my actions. There is simply an editor in NYC who made a professional mistake, and got a sync-y late night e-mail with some intense Stonesian language in it. Rather than cop to her mistake like a professional and move on, she decided to get right by making me wrong, and bad. A bad, bad man. In the mean time, her boss; a man who enjoyed the affections of my sacred whore girlfriend, and has himself been erroneously accused of sexism in the past, is sending me pissy e-mails from the Global Love School in the hinterlands of Portugal as if I actually am the villain Jen claims. If I weren’t used to this kind of thing, it could really freak me out. How’d you like to be called a “harasser” and blacklisted by a well-known writer who fucked your girlfriend, while your first book is fending for its life in the counter-cultural marketplace? Luckily, I’ve been through this kind of thing before. Olympia has trained me well.

It is tempting to see these two manifestations of my shadow (Jen & Daniel) as villains. They are definitely being dickish or cuntish, depending on what second chakra word you choose to use to demean people who lack integrity and blame others for their inadequacies. You know? What I’m doing here (until I figure out how to do something else).

When people who I respect and feel connected to get this kind of weird with me, it has a strange effect. I get inspired, and the flip side of inspiration is obsession. So, here I find myself obsessed and inspired by this interaction. I may not be a harasser but I am definitely stalking the sync beyond what is generally considered polite. I am determined to unlock the energy in it.

Byte by byte?

At first, I was thinking Sync Book Press should organize some kind of debate. It would be hilarious! If Daniel or Jen debated me on the use of the word “cunt” in Accidental Initiations? Two men debating the word “cunt”?!? Or even worse/better, me debating a woman on the use of the word?  It’s Andy Kauffman-esque. From his wrestling women days.

I think my mind went in that direction because I desired some kind of human interaction with my accusers. Everything that has gone down between me and my old allies at Reality Sandwich happened by e-mail. It’s easy to write someone off this way, like dropping a bomb from above the clouds. Not so easy, for either of us, when we have to look at our target and feel their humanity in the same room with us.

At the urging of my friend and editor, Alan Green (in the form of an anecdote about The Who at The Rolling Stones’ Rock and Roll Circus in ’68 – you know the one?) I turned my inspiration away from direct engagement with the fragile folks at RS and toward my art. Within a day, I had a new song. It’s a Stonesian droning blues, with a snakey riff I’ve been noodling with for months. Once I knew what it was about, the lyrics came fast and deep. Jagger-style falsetto oo’s and big-mouth’d English twang make it a blast to sing, and the title is something I think Keith Richards, maybe even Brian Jones, would be proud of; “Reality Muffin (Own Your Lips Girl)”.

For the first time in years I wish I had a band.

The song is already embedded in Will Morgan’s first synchromystic exploration of my acting oeuvre.

I sent a copy of the acoustic demo to Daniel and Jen in an effort to raise our quarrel to a more creative level. Daniel called it more “harassment”. Jen didn’t respond. I’m not giving up on these folks, but I am also a little less obsessed with them and this issue, and more intrigued with the syncs, and the resulting art and alchemy they generated. I love playing this fresh new song, its arrival coinciding with my inclusion as a musician AND as the host of Radio8Ball in the upcoming Oly Music Awards at The Capitol Theater in Olympia, Washington on May 5th, 2012.

This is going to be a weekend of firsts and returns.

Friday, May 4th at 7pm I’ll be at Kitzel’s Crazy Delicious Delicatessen to discuss Accidental Initiations: In The Kabbalistic Tree of Olympia and take questions from my supporters and detractors. This will be the first opportunity for an in-person discussion of my book, and even the boring haters are invited.

Friday, May 4th at midnight I’ll be appearing at The Northern in Olympia as part of the Oly Music Awards. This will be my first live appearance performing my own music in Olympia since my divorce in 2003.

Saturday, May 5th at Noon I will lead the first group walk of The Kabbalistic Tree of Olympia. Anyone who has a copy of my book is welcome to join me. (Please get in touch at the e-mail at the bottom of this post to confirm your participation.)

Saturday, May 5th at The Oly Music Awards at the Capitol Theater at 9pm Radio8Ball returns to Olympia for the first time since my troubles at KAOS where I was actually harassed. This will be only my second appearance on the hallowed boards of The Capitol Theater since my rude dismissal from OFS back in ’04. (The first, being; accompanying Sandman: The Rappin’ Cowboy, when he performed at the Obama inaugural event in 2008.) I’m talking with some super cool guests for this show and am determined to make it as positive and transformational as the situation allows. Check back next week for more details on this event.

Things are shifting and I know it’s making some people, including myself, a little uncomfortable, but mostly I like it. Yeah, it’s only rock and roll but I like it. Yes I do.

Reality Muffin (Own Your Lips Girl)

You called on Kali and Kali called you back
but you wouldn’t pick up the phone
You called on Kali and Kali called you back
but you pretended that you weren’t home

Ooooo – You got to own your lips girl
Ooooo – What you say

Now you’re the victim and I’m the bad man
and you got control
but I ain’t no victim and you’re no bad man
Just fillin’ yo hole

Ooooo – You got town your lips girl
Ooooo – What you say (Reality)
Ooooo – You got town your lips girl
Ooooo – What you say (Reality)

You called on Kali and Kali called you back
but you pretended that you weren’t home
Reality
You called on Kali and Kali called you back
but you wouldn’t pick up the phone

Ooooo – You got town your lips girl
Ooooo – What you say (Reality)
Ooooo – You got town your lips girl
Ooooo – What you say (Reality)
Try some reality.
That’s my reality…muffin.

Like every song I’ve ever written, it’s going to end up being all about me. It’s the devil’s bargain of rock and roll. Whatever insult Pinchbeck and Palmer suffer at the hand of my muse will be nothing compared to what it costs me. Even as I write this, my phone is ringing, The Stones are doing “Fingerprint File” from 1974’s “It’s Only Rock and Roll” album, and my heart is filled with fear, as I just let it ring.

If you desire an mp3 demo of “Reality Muffin (Own Your Lips Girl) just send me an e-mail to a-n-d-r-a-s-j-o-n-e-s-@-r-a-d-i-o-8-b-a-l-l-.-c-o-m (minus the dashes) with the song title in the subject and I’ll send you the latest version for free.

The books arrived this morning. Fifty of them. Ready to be delivered into the hungry little hands and curious minds of my fellow Olympians. They smell delicious. This weekend (March 30th) I’ll be making “Accidental Initiations: In The Kabbalistic Tree Of Olympia” available for the first time locally when I host The Blackberry Bushes and Dead Winter Carpenters at The Olympia Ballroom; a haunted venue featured in the book. We’re expecting some paranormal researchers from Bremerton to document the event, and I’ll even be slinging a couple of Radio8Ball divinations. I can’t imagine a better coming out party for my magickally-intended little tome.

This week has seen several visitors to Olympia. They came to ooh and ah over my galley copy of the book and walk The Tree. Dan Bern came through on his way to play a gig in Seattle. Brinke Stevens; my old cast-mate from Sorority Babes In The Slimeball Bowl-A-Rama, and our mutual friend/fan; Rhonda Baughman, came for a visit, stayed at Fertile Ground and enjoyed their sojourn in The Tree. They all seemed moved by the experience and full of optimism that many more intrepid seekers will be drawn to this artifact in the coming months and years. Dan envisioned Olympia turning into a northwestern Sedona, complete with a floating vortex casino, Kabballah ballrooms, and lots of nick-nack shops selling maps of The Tree and, of course, copies of my book. It sounds a bit nightmare-ish to me, but also kind of awesome. That’s the way Dan’s poetic mind has always worked.

The boring haters showed up in between the pilgrims and the books. A couple of days ago, one of the characters from AI; Merwyn Haskett, walked out of its pages and took center stage on the Amazon review boards.  He was the first to leave a testimonial. You can read it, and the corresponding kerfuffle, on my Amazon book page (while purchasing a copy or two in solidarity?). I just want to talk about the title of his review here. I have co-opted it as the title of this post.

“A Narcissistic Misogynist with a Persecution Complex”

While this kind of dramatic labeling of those we disagree with is nothing new in Olympia, in fact, it’s one of the negative patterns I take aim at in my book; I think we can have some fun dissecting the particular branding being directed at me and my book by Mr. Haskett.

It is true. Accidental Initiations is a deeply narcissistic book. It’s basically just me writing about myself and the things that have happened to me in and around The Kabbalistic Tree of Olympia. When I’m not talking about myself I’m sharing my thoughts about the world. There is almost no listening in my book whatsoever. Just pages and pages of me writing.  Perhaps if I had left some pages blank it would have created more room for others to express themselves. Now my oppressed readers have to write in the margins, or post on Amazon, if they want to get a word in edgewise. How do other writers solve this conundrum?

As for being a misogynist; it’s hard to prove a negative. I know I don’t consciously hate women. I suppose that, just like I could be a deeply closeted gay man, even though I’ve never had sex with a man and don’t plan to; I could be a very repressed misogynist who only thinks he loves and admires women as mentors, allies, friends, collaborators, sisters, and potential lovers. Misogyny is a pretty intense label. The hatred of women? I mean, sometimes I hate everyone. We all have our bad days.  Sometimes I get annoyed at certain women, and even at some general patterns of behavior that some women fall into, such as, I don’t know, expecting men to pay for stuff, or having to pee all the time, but it certainly doesn’t rise to the level of hatred. There is an interesting question here. Will misogynists find comfort in my book? I would be surprised if they did. If I am a misogynist it’s a particularly femme-y goddess-loving brand of misogyny. Not exactly something Rush Limbaugh’s going to go for.

Now, when Merwyn says I have a persecution complex he is right. I got it from being persecuted. I was raised by people who were persecuted in Europe and America; as Jews and as Communists. This kind of thing shapes the way a person views the world, leading to a potentially more complex understanding of persecution than those who have been raised without the fear of genocides and blacklists informing the parenting they receive. Some of the things that have happened to me personally, first as a child in the Olympia school system, and then as an adult living in Olympia – things I write about in AI, have felt oppressive. Radio8Ball being taken off the air and lied about by KAOS administrators is a ready example, or the way Merwyn and his wife, Tammy, led a campaign of harassment against me that she confesses to in my book. There is even something persecutorial about Merwyn’s name-calling review, clearly posted with the intent of scaring people, particularly women, away from my book.

When Tammy T initially got in touch with me to try and make things right, eventually leading to the confession that lives at the center of AI, she told me she was doing so behind Merwyn’s back; I assume because he is the one who has a hard-on for me. And not in the good way. He has a long history of lashing out and posting negative things about me online; just like he’s doing with his review. I seriously doubt Tammy would have gotten into any of the mischief she confesses to in my book if he hadn’t goaded her into it, which is why she couldn’t tell him she was racked with guilt and needed, for her own sake, to make peace with me. For this reason, I’m kind of glad he outed himself this week. I really downplayed his role in AI because I didn’t want to invest any more energy in his direction than I had to. The truth is; he is a huge part of my accidental initiation, in that during the entirety of my practice with The Tree he has worked in the office directly across the street from The Capitol Lake dam, right before the Chokmah Mound. His offices used to be an old-school Kentucky Fried Chicken I loved to go to with my father when I was chicken-eating child. Now it’s some kind of administrative building and Merwyn is the receptionist, with a clear view of the lake from his desk. Every time I descend the stairs, after “emptying my cup” into the vortex/abyss, he is waiting there for me. I am very aware of him. I assume he sees me, has seen me over the years. Perhaps he has even wondered what I am up to (What’s he building in there?). Part of my meditation is to forgive him. It has to be. Otherwise I’d be consumed with hatred, and all my good work would be for naught. I’ve come to appreciate the influence his presence has had in deepening my practice with The Tree, and in developing my own reserves of wisdom and mercy. Don’t get me wrong. I would still like to punch him in the face. I just don’t allow myself to gnaw on that particular brain bone for very long before breathing it out.

I’ve been telling people that, if “Accidental Initiations” were a movie, the end of the book would only be the end of the second act. The third act begins now, and with it, a star is born! Originally cast in a minor role, Merwyn Haskett, has distinguished himself as a major player; the epitome of the boring hater. Who do you think should play him in the movie?

Merwyn Haskett

Note: I know it’s a tad hypocritical for me to take Merwyn to task for labeling me, and then cast him as a “boring hater”. I hope this is mitigated by the fact that, rather than inaccurately branding him as an anti-semite or an abusive boyfriend, labels which carry the sting of history. The label of “boring hater” is fresh and made up especially by me for him and his ilk. Also, it’s accurate. He is clearly a hater and I am unaware of him ever creating anything beautiful, just shitting on those who do. He’s already less boring to me now than he was before I wrote this.

Yay ART!

Last June 16^th I started writing. Now, at the spring equinox, it is a book; Accidental Initiations: In The Kabbalistic Tree Of Olympia, published by Sync Book Press.

It drops at 10:14pm (PST) TONIGHT!

I never intended to write this or any other book but the words started to flow and then a publisher found me, and they LOVE IT. It’s probably too intimate and (I am told) quite funny. What I know is that it is very present. So much so, you might even be in it, and if you aren’t you still might feel like you are.

Writing this thing has broken me in several ways, mostly good, but my bank account is basically empty and I could sure use your support. If you ever loved me or my music or my movies or Radio8Ball, please give this book a shot and tell your friends to do likewise. I need to sell about a thousand of ‘em to get out from under my current situation.

You can purchase the book from Createspace.com after 10:14pm (pst) tonight, when winter turns to spring by clicking on the book cover or this link.

In the mean time, if you’re feeling particularly flush and patronly, I invite you to send any amount over $20 to my paypal account (andras-jones@radio-8-ball.com – remove the dashes I put in the address to fool the spybots) and I’ll personally send the book to you (autographed) with some extras from The Previous vaults.

Thank you for your continued attention.

Andras Jones
@radio8ball (on Twitter)
www.accidentalinitiations.com
www.radio8ball.com

PS – This book contains adult language and content.

This is what I was thinking, standing atop the Chokmah mound watching the night; full of auroras and borealises; dwindling to dawn while, unbeknownst to me, massive solar storms bombarded the earth. This was my last full moon walk of The Tree before the release of Accidental Initiations and, even after so many perambulations inside this archetypal structure, there was still plenty new to discover.

The galleys for the book arrived later that day. I’ve spent almost every waking hour since then giving them a rigorous last going over with my editor; Alan Abbadessa-Green from Sync Book Press. No way could I have done it without him. He’s been the great music producer/record exec I always wanted to find when I was making records. His energy and attention are limitless and his insights are genuine. Plus, he has George (his “wife”) in the background keeping him (and by extension, me) honest; talking trash and giving (mostly) good note.

Last night, as a test of the readability of the book, I brought the latest draft with me to Quality Burrito; to see if I could read it with distractions. I used to do something similar with my recordings; playing them in a crowd so I could hear the generalities of the music and not the glaring specifics that can obsess you in the final stages of mixing.

It was strange; being there with my book. Several people who are in it were gathered around the bar; drinking in the lounge as I ordered my usual; 2 fish tacos, and an Andras – a drink I designed and they named after me. (The recipe: 2 oz tequila, ¾ oz lime, ¾ oz simple syrup, ½ oz Green Chartreuse. Shake with ice and serve in a pint glass topped with Magic Kombucha.) Jeff Bartone was there, and Peter David Connelly, and Theo Kwo (who makes the Magic Kombucha). I showed Kwo the part in the book where I mention Magic. I told Peter about his being mentioned in the list of artists who have appeared on Radio8Ball. Bartone sauntered over and asked to look at it. As he flipped through the pages he saw his name.

“Did you write about me?”

“Yes I did.”

“Why didn’t you ask me about that? You should have asked me.”

I’m going to have to address this concern a lot in the coming months. I didn’t check with anyone I wrote about to see if they were OK with my including them, and I know, this isn’t altogether honorable of me. But it’s my story and the people in it are real. The things that happened in it are real and I knew if I started asking people, especially in Olympia, what they thought about me telling my story; I would be encouraged not to. This shushing impulse is exactly why I had to write the book in the first place. Olympia is sick with silence.

Now it can be told!

“Just don’t hurt me,” Jeff said. “I’ve been hurt a lot.”

You and me both, brother.  As readers of AI will soon know, Jeff and I each got labeled as “sexists” and were fired from our long-held positions at The Olympia Film Society by low integrity people possessed of greedy ambition who manipulated administrative processes to serve their own aims and NOT the community they purport to represent. If Jeff’s reaction last night was anything to go by, he’s still aching from the experience at least as much as I am, and that’s a lot.

It seems the boring haters at OFS are at it again.

I woke up early this blustery morning, to send off the last edit of AI to the printers, and was synchronistically jazzed to receive this latest petition from members of The Olympia Film Society.
It looks like some of the old familiar characters at OFS are up to the same kind of sneaky power grab I describe in my book. With the above petition, the membership is trying to do something about it. I wish them luck, and I wish Accidental Initiations was here today to aid them in their cause. It should be available online by March 19th (the spring equinox) and I will have copies for sale when I host The Blackberry Bushes Stringband and The Dead Winter Carpenters show at The Olympia Ballroom inside The Olympian Hotel on March 30th.

In the mean time, if you’d like to show your support for Radio8Ball and Accidental Initiations here’s something easy you can do. Go to this link (below) and vote for “Andras Jones” and “Radio8Ball” as your favorite Olympia solo artist and band.

If we get the most votes, they will have to include Radio8Ball as part of the award show at The Capitol Theater on May 5th. If you are from Olympia and want to vote for some other artists, I understand.

I voted for The Noses

and for Scott Taylor

but if you don’t have a more favorite Olympia band, please give me your vote and I promise to make some serious magick when I return to The Capitol Theater stage for the first time in many years.

Someone wrote this on the western railing of The Tiphareth Gazebo this week:
That’s five “Eat My Shorts”.
All capitalized.
Eleven letters per phrase.
Fifty-five characters in all.
Doing the numerology we get ONE:
E5+A1+T20+M13+Y25+S19+H8+O15+R18+T20+S19=163=10=1
Now multiply that times 5, and we’re back to FIVE.
Five fingers make One hand, or a fist.
“One Love“
“One is the loneliest number…“
“Five to One, One in Five…”
Bogie won his Oscar in ‘51
so did “An American In Paris”
(think dead Jim Morrison)
and one of their Oscars lives here in Olympia;
the legacy of Arthur Freed.
Five plus One equals Six;
the number of sides to The Tiphareth Gazebo,
which was freed from its confinement,
like the sword of Arthurian legend,
by the magick in Accidental Initiations
which is short
and will be here shortly
(March 19th;
the spring equinox.)
You will R(EAT)D it.
This is your EMS prescription…

Evergreen alum Matt Groening created the puckish Bart Simpson, and here we find Bart’s catch phrase scrawled detention-style along the green (heart) path of Strength/Voice binding the poles of Severity (The Geburah Corner) and Mercy (Emma Page’s Fountain.)

It’s not easy to imagine Bart Simpson writing a book but a year ago it would have been hard to imagine me writing a book. Now that I think of it, my writing style is kind of Bart-ish – if Bart read a lot of Robert Anton Wilson, and grew up in Olympia, and was Jewish.  So I guess it’s not the voice, it’s more the untamed boyish glee at dropping something from a great height and watching it explode.

Look out below!!!! You are about to get accidentally initiated!!!!!!

On the same night I noticed a pentagram drawn into The Binah Swirl. The Kabbalistic Tree of Olympia is waking up and people are using it for magick. Bless them!

In New York City at The Sync Event on January 31st, a coin which had been sitting on the lip of the tip The Statue of Yesod (see The Value of Offerings section of “How To Walk The Tree In The Moonlight”) went to a virgin-resonating ballerina from Virginia. She asked a question about the meaning of her recurring teen dreams about losing her teeth. The Pop Oracle’s answer for her was my rendition of Shmushkin’s song, “Punkin Lovin’”.

The SYNC event included discussions of Blue Monkeys (resonating with the 13 Moon Natural Time Calendar)

and me getting called an asshole onstage…twice by Alan Abbadessa-Green, who earlier that day told an old lady on the subway to “Fuck-off… Now you fucking hear me!!” It was all refreshingly New York. Olympia’s nice but sometimes its niceness becomes oppressive and one yearns for some open hostility. And NYC provides it. A city where you need to hit some tobacco to get a breath of fresh air, but you won’t get cancer from keeping your emotions in your gut.

The whole Sync gang, as far as they were able to make it, were great at summoning up the sync. Rammer, Jen, Peg, Douglas, Kevin & Kyle, The Mask of God Dancers. Good stuff all around, and Alan held it together like a great director; wearing his stress well. Steve Willner (Labrynth of the Psychonaut) and Rogan Russell Marshall (The Attic Expeditions) each Skyped in to ask a question to The Pop Oracle and by the end of the night, as it always does after getting really uncomfortable, it all made perfect sense, and more so all the time. The event was filmed and at least some of it should find its way onto the web at some point.

Later that week in LA, GATE (Global Alliance for Transformational Entertainment) held their yearly live event featuring, among others, Eckhart Tolle, Jim Carrey, Marianne Williamson, Edward James Olmos, Barbara Marx Hubbard and Lili Haydn (who stole the show). There had been talk earlier in the year of incorporating Radio8Ball as a part of the event but it didn’t work out this time. Next time perhaps.

Fans of The 13 Moon Natural Time Calendar will note that we began what that calendar refers to as a galactic run on Friday, Feb 3 (the day before the opening of The GATE.) It ends today; Sunday, Feb 12. This phenomenon has been described to me by people fluent with the calendar as a time when the veil is thinner. For me the themes of this galactic run have been very challenging; disappointment, sorrow, futility, oppression, cruelty. It’s the Tower card from the Tarot, as February always is, only this year “the world is ending” or at least that’s what hovers at the edge of our consciousness. You can either let these portents of doom scare you off your path, or allow them to inspire and refine what the Nam-Myoho-Renge-Kyo Buddhists call your ichinen, or will.

The GATE, as well as being a great metaphor, is an ambitiously-intentioned organization. On the day of their event in LA I woke up in Boston and flew all east coast day to Seattle. I watched the event live online into the wee west coast hours from my bed in Olympia. It was mostly riveting viewing, aimed at inspiring Hollywood to recognize the market for consciousness raising content. The existence of this market is proven out by the huge sales for really bad films like The Secret and What The Bleep Do We Know? The value of the consciousness raising aspects of these two egregiously awful films in particular, made them worth watching despite their low production value; kind of like porn or instructional guitar playing videos, except that The Secret and What the Bleep did much bigger numbers, and across a wider spectrum of humanity, than anything Yngwie Malmsteen or Jenna Jameson ever churned out. Why? Because Americans are hungry for whatever enlightenment we can get. The argument to the capitalist powers in Hollywood, that they would do well to recognize this large and ravenous audience, clearly serves Radio8Ball’s case for inclusion in the mainstream media landscape, so I’m down.

For me the two events (SYNC in NYC & The GATE in LA) were woven together within whatever larger spell Accidental Initiations is a part of because Linda Balaban (Curb Your Enthusiasm) was there as a guest of Lili Haydn on behalf of Radio8Ball. My ghosts were giddy over this alignment, especially the spirit of my old Boon bandmate Josh Clayton-Felt. Josh and Lili and Linda and I ran in intimate youthful circles back when we were all bouncing around in LA and Boston; pre-death, pre-fame, pre-alcohol. And here we were, together again at The Gate.

Lili’s mom, Lotus Weinstock, who was my adopted mother when I moved out to LA as a teenager, and who died a couple of years before Josh, joined my gang of ghosts as I ran my Tree that day. While her daughter made like Jimi at Monterey and showed the old warriors and new initiates at The GATE what consciousness-raising art is all about, I could feel Lotus and Josh and my father all gathered around me to enjoy the show. Hovering on the edge my being as I sent my intentions out through The Tree for… RADIO8BALL… RADIO8BALL… RADIO8BALL… RADIO8BALL… RADIO8BALL…

It’s my consistent prayer and offering, “I serve it as it serves me. The land and the king are one. Radio8Ball on TV!”

Balaban met one person of note at The GATE as far as R8B is concerned; Tom Shadyac.
Tom is the director, most recently, of the documentary film “I Am”;

all about his spiritual quest for meaning after suffering a brain injury in a nasty bike accident. I can’t help but think of Warren Beatty’s “Heaven Can Wait”.

Before the accident Tom was the director of huge money making middle of the road comedies like “Ace Ventura”, “The (Eddie Murphy) Nutty Professor”, “Bruce (And Evan) Almighty” & “Patch Adams”. After the accident, Tom pulled a “Sullivan’s Travels” and re-made himself as a kind of Beach Blanket Bingo angel; giving away most of his possessions and moving into a trailer on the beach, devoting himself to learning and teaching.

Before all of this, in the late 20th century days when Josh and Lotus and my father still walked the earth, Tom was my acting teacher. His impact on the man I would become was great, as I documented in Accidental Initiations. That he would show up in response to my prayers and intentions on this auspicious evening, felt just right, if only so I could get his address so I can send him a copy of the book. In truth, I can’t help but hope my old teacher, big-hearted Tom Shadyac, recognizes that his “I Am” path and that of Radio8Ball are one and the same. I want to join forces, like old times. It’s a good wish that leaves me filled with all the hope and disappointment bred of years of reaching for community in the Hollywood fear factory.

And so I balance here. Hanging in the central pillar of my Tree with my heart out there for all to see. It’s February, in the shadow of the thaw, and the days are dark and pregnant. The omens are incessantly negative with overwhelming moments of inspiration sprinkled in like raisins in a boring cookie, or out-of-place organs deposited in the sephiroth of the Tree. I sit in my apartment like a drunken spider in its winter web, barely living but still vital, waiting for Accidental Initiations to drop and do whatever magick we have been called to.