Sunday, August 28, 2022


Somebody tried telling me today that if I sat under a pyramid meditating I would recharge my spiritual energies and all kinds of super good would come of it. She was serious. Apparently someone famous did that, and is a saint now. And I should stop being such a cold rational person, but let the goodness flow.

So I told her I have a mantra that I hold in reserve for just such occasions:

"Om. Spiritual shit. Om. Spiritual shit."

See, the first part of that is Sanskrit. It's meaningful!

I fear this person will now never talk to me again.

That's okay. We'll communicate psychically.

Astral planes or some such.

Sometimes pointless conversations get started because I'm smoking a pipe and looking professorial. Like a wise old scholar or something.
Just because I'm smoking a pipe and radiating what someone else interprets as Gandalfian wisdom does NOT mean that I wish to discuss spirituality OR Witgenstein.

It's probably because my work is in Marin County that people park their spiritual jalopy under my aura. But if they're expecting jumper cables to get their vehicle restarted, that is ab initio a no go. I'd rather shoot it out of the water than help them kickstart the beast.

Someone else described in detail three dishes he had cooked recently, involving chicken, garlic, hot bean paste, and in the case of one dish chopped meat and tofu chunks.
That was far more interesting.

People who eat meat in Marin may be a minority.
They probably have very few friends.
My mouth waters for them.

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