The Mad Train Passengers of India

This might be India. If it's Pakistan, that'd just go to show I know next to nothing about Pakistan. I'm going to be writing as if it's India, and if it's Pakistan ... it doesn't matter. The message is the same.

Sometimes I think I was born in the wrong place, since I think it'd be very cool to live like crazy people, like they do in India. Certainly crazy according to our constant rules of propriety in America, where we're so bogged down by rules and fears, nothing like this would happen. The cops see five guys on a train here, they'd stop the thing and take them in. I don't know if I ever mentioned in on the blog, but I was on a train once and the cops had the whole train stopped and took me to the station. (They let me go, no charges.)

Just let 'em try to stop the train to take these people in. They're on a train like that, do they look like they care? Certainly there can't be a law against it. And if there is, that's the way to circumvent a nasty law, en masse, a law unto yourself! I think it's pretty clear that the rules are different, that the laws, if any, don't matter, and that the people themselves are extremely careless as to the consequences of what could happen.

Imagine that in America! Everything halfway dangerous is a no no. And if you're on a train, even inside a passenger train, if the thing goes around a corner and you fall on your butt in a suite, you've got a good lawsuit against the line. The people in this photo don't look like they're riding with a lawsuit in mind. They probably don't care at all. Their whole psyche's different from ours. They're not living with long boring longevity necessarily in mind. "I need a ride today, up I go, hanging on to something that's already crowded and dangerous. Get me home!"

I'm so reserved, though, I'd see this mess of humanity on the train, and I'd be embarrassed to step up and say "Make room for me." I hate to put anyone out. But obviously you've got to get in there and make your own kind of magic, a place to hang on to, and do your best. If you care!

This picture is not a rarity either. I seem to remember in Slumdog Millionaire a bunch of this. And I've seen documentaries about India, where it's mostly constant like this. The really weird thing about the picture is the apparent orderliness to the chaos. Which naturally is because everyone's clinging to something, like organisms attach themselves to the bottom of a ship and make a life with that environment. It's fascinating.

One of the other things I've seen about India, and you can find it on YouTube, is train surfing. Guys do this other places too, but the Indians look a lot more daring. Moving out, then moving in just in the nick of time to avoid running into a bridge or something. They're quite complacent about danger. Not the way that comes natural to me, of course, but I've lived with American ways all my life. Look at all the money we'd save if we could just glom on to any passing vehicle. Riding on tops of the trains, trucks, whatever.

Newsletter -- The 900-Foot Lush

My staff greatly reduced after Dashing Danny's demise and Spud's degradation, I considered forgiving Tipsy and Cannibal. As idiots, surely they only followed the others when they had sex with The Lady. If I forgave them I'd still have a newsletter staff worthy of the name. But two minutes later I walked into the office and saw Tipsy lightly chucking The Lady under the chin and giggling like a drunken schoolboy. That's it!

I thought Stanley "Tipsy" White was a docile soul who couldn't be bothered with the concerns of our sober world. But he was truly focused on the best of both worlds, a little hooch here, a little hots there. And as for the newsletter, what could he contribute? The time of loveable lushes is past. No one's charmed now or open to the fun and frivolity of the lives of drunks. This is a newsletter for today, not 40 years ago. Tipsy doesn't fit in, he's got to go.

He came out of the garage to relieve himself in the yard, when I confronted him. "Taking a leak, Stan?" I said angrily, causing him to stop immediately. He was clearly concerned, because till then I'd been very gentle. "Go away!" he slurred, waving me off. I went berserk -- it was rage -- and belittled him for his excessive drinking, his red nose, his staggering gate, and all the rest. I spat out, "Your place isn't here but the gutter!" I saw him as the last dregs of a bygone era, unworthy of even the succor of rotgut. Amazingly, he was OK with the stream of insults, but mentioning rotgut made it personal.

We confronted each other without coming to blows, just circling and snarling, glaring at each other. "I'm very disappointed in you," I spat. "I thought you believed in the newsletter." He was honest but full of bluster, "I never cared for your ... newsletter." He said it like it was a dirty word. "But one look at The Lady and I had to have her!" I responded through clenched teeth, "Tipsy, I hope you're clearheaded enough to understand what I'm about to tell you..." With that I charged in and let my fists do the talking. If his head was clouded by drink, it was double-clouded with the chaser.

Then, at once, inexplicably, as if by some kind of ancient warrior instinct, he ran to the far east end of my half acre and I ran to the west. We removed the shoes from our feet, knelt solemnly, and prayed to our ancestors. Then standing again, he pulled out the celestial conch Foster Brooks and blew it, its deafening call resounding as far as the east is from the west. I was shaken, but I also had a celestial conch, Lady Love, and sent its deafening call as far as the north is from the south. The din was so great, Tipsy dropped his conch and about a dozen small liquor bottles rattled in his vest, vibrating, and clattered to the ground. Then he sounded his conch even louder and I sounded mine louder yet, with both combatants in this battle so shaken -- it's embarrassing to say -- that we ejected urine and excreta*. Of course Tipsy ejected mostly urine, with me providing the other and even making up what he'd lacked.

We then charged one other and struck with pummeling blows. "You're a guy who wants his kicks!" I cried, and spun in mid-air, kicking my way to glory. His head now matched his red nose. I saw my advantage and took it, pouring it on, violence begetting violence. Tipsy was on his hands and knees and appeared to be spent and was finally helpless. When, and this was a major moment, like the mighty sailor man reaching for spinach, he pulled out instead an extra-small bottle of hooch from an inner pocket -- this wasn't one of the standard brands, but something concocted by a distiller mage.

This is completely unbelievable, I know, but I swear (or affirm) every word is true. Tipsy swigged that small bottle down, which seriously might've been only 10 or 12 drops, and he was transformed. Everything about him was enlarged. He was vast in size! I looked up and beheld a 900-foot Tipsy White! The local airport threw up their hands. The National Guard was powerless. Even the local cop shop, always so ready to rumble, shrunk back. IT was loose! I had to do the responsible thing. I ran into the garage and secured The Lady, then returned to tangle with ... IT ... a big tipsy IT!

The colossus was making his way downtown, about to destroy the city. I climbed his foot and clutched a pant leg for dear life. Then I remembered the oldest saying known of drunkenness, "Hair of the dog." When he was busy enlarging he had dropped the tiny bottle of power and I had picked it up. But there was only one drop left, one and a half drops at the most. I shimmied down his ankles and to the foot, working my way nearer, ever nearer his big toe. As he stomped along I sweated it out, working my pocket knife, hacking a tiny puncture in his gigantic toe. Looking up, the water tower came into view. If he stomped the water tower both I and the city itself would be goners. I wasn't yet ready but I had to take my only chance, dripping that tiny drop and a half of power into the miniscule hole.

If this didn't work, frankly, there would be no tomorrow. It'd be all over. The Lady would be gone, my vengeance against Cannibal, and perhaps the world itself. But after a few tense seconds I heard and felt an enormous rumbling and roar. The air was sucked dry and there was nothing, then air from 100 miles away came rushing in. Later, I heard that hundreds of pimples in middle schools had popped themselves from the pressure drop and powerful reversal, so this was huge.

I craned my head and looked up toward Tipsy's face, past the clouds. The best I could make it out, I saw the look of fear, then simultaneous transformation. He shrunk so quickly, everything snapping around me, I certainly would have been crushed had I taken even one second longer to leap. As it was I ended up under his normal-size foot, just where I didn't want to be. The optics were embarrassing. Because who should come to my aid but The Lady Herself, bringing down an empty wine bottle on Tipsy's head, and I was freed.

The black prison bus came and took Stan "Tipsy" White away, my gain, the work release farm's loss.

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*Mahabharata, Book 6.

Over And Back -- My Favorite Basketball Infraction

Like everyone else, I'm completely absorbed in the big basketball tournaments. I really appreciate sports on TV. It saves you all the headache of buying expensive tickets, fighting traffic, and wasting your time actually being there. I look at the people in the stands and wonder why they haven't discovered this.

Being here in the quiet of my home, I have a lot of time to reflect on the games. I put on my comfortable slippers, brew a hot cup of tea, and sit there relaxing. Then when my own teams come on, I scream, tear out my hair, and bite my nails to the quick. Truly the best of both worlds.

In my reflection, I pay attention to the rules. I don't know the rules 100%, even though I was briefly out for basketball in school. I was never a player on the team, but practiced with everyone else. But it's been a long time, and rules may have changed a bit.

One of the infractions I know is traveling. But I wonder why it's not OK to take a puny mini-step here and there but it is OK to run the distance from the key to the basket while driving. I keep trying to reconcile that one. I tell myself it must be legal, the refs know what they're doing.

Basketball is a rough sport, and you wouldn't think it would be. There's elbows flying, tripping over each other, and being whacked in the face. They've upped the penalties now with things like Flagrant 1 and Flagrant 2 fouls. The higher the number the worse the infraction. Depending on how much worse the injuries might go, they have plenty of numbers beyond 2 to use. Flagrant 10, intentional emasculation with malice.

My own personal favorite infraction is over and back. Not double-dribble or palming the ball. (Speaking of palming the ball, do they still have that? I don't see it.) I've just always liked the over and back. Once you've left the unfriendly confines of the opposing team's court, you can't go back. Does that make sense? Why would you want to be there in the first place? Where they could steal the ball and more easily score on you.

I like over and back so much, anytime a guy gets close to the line, I'm begging him to cross it. All it takes is a toe. And I get my way more times than you'd expect. But even so, in my opinion, there aren't enough over and backs.

I think the over and back rule is probably archaic, vestigial in basketball. Before they had a shot clock, let's say there wasn't an over and back rule, a team would have the entire court to hold the ball and stall. It was boring. Heck, it was bad enough as late as the '80s, before the shot clock, when they held the ball for 10 or 12 minutes in one court without taking a shot. It was a strategy, a very boring one.

Now, though, with the shot clock, there's no obvious reason why you'd want to linger in the back court. You have to make forward progress or you're finished.

Speaking of forward progress, this is where I get a little philosophical. I like the over and back infraction for that reason, too, because we're a forward-looking people. We don't believe in going over and back, and when you see someone get caught doing it, it cautions the rest of us, in life over and back isn't good.

Really, think about it. When immigrants came to the United States, they had to pull up roots. They spent their money and took the first ship for the New World. They couldn't go over and back. The ship went one direction. That's what the expression "You can't go home again" means; it's too damned far to swim!

And that's not all. We've  always had that western thrust. "Westward ho!" went the cry, as the caravans and wagons headed west. It literally wasn't till the early 1900s that anyone went east, partly because of avalanches in the passes and ambushers in the hills, but mostly because booze was cheap in the western saloons. But they also lived by principles. The old drunk parson gave them the Bible verse, "He who looks back, hic, is not worthy of me, hic."

Then there's the whole linear scheme of things, and that's tied in with our predominating fear of death. We advance, we don't recede. We know death is coming, then the judgment. So, no, over and back isn't for us.

It's different in other parts of the world. Have you ever watched a basketball game in India? They don't care about death, so it's totally different. About the only thing they do is over and back! They're centered in the court, then it's back and forth. No forward progress. Cyclical. They frequently have 0-0 overtimes, the tie only broken by a few token players brought in from the west, who in the end can't help themselves.

Revisiting The Wood Manhood Relics

FOUR DIFFERENT HIPSTAMATIC PICTURES FOR GREATER VALIDITY OF THE EVIDENCE

Summary of The Wood Manhood Affair: In India, one of Master's chelas (students) was disobedient to the work of seeking oneness with the Divine. Instead, he, Brother Unsettled, abused his member on chain-link fences, wood surfaces, and trees. The result was his turning to wood. His now-wooden manhood was preserved, to serve as a spiritual lesson and warning to others. I have custody of the relics. The yoni-shaped wood appears to have been Unsettled's only true comfort.

Being the custodian of sacred relics is a big responsibility. First, there is the physical tending to them. Second, there are inquiries I get from time to time as to their whereabouts and condition, as well as requests to see them and/or touch them. Most of these requests are denied; frankly, I think that's a sick request. But it's understandable that chelas would want to know how they are. In short, they're just fine.

It's been some time now since my post in July 2011, which made me think the whole thing needed to be revisited. At least insofar as how the relics are doing. And lest anyone thinks they can simply come on my property and take the relics, no, it won't be that simple. They are kept in a safe deposit box at the bank.

I know you'll find this interesting. First, about the photos, that's four Hipstamatic photos of the wooden manhood of Brother Unsettled, plus the yoni, plus an extraneous piece of wood, the little chip. If you examine the evidence carefully, you will see one photo is slightly different from the rest. Very interesting!

Anyway, to examine the relics, I went ... I got myself together and went ... to the bank and to the safe deposit box. If you've ever done this, you know you have to be prepared for the real life equivalent of a video game, with many challenging passages along the way.

Of course I had my ID and the passwords memorized. Then arriving at the bank, I had to machete my way through a gauntlet of part-time bank employees, arranged to test my resolve for the task. Next, there were 10 secretaries, each with one letter or alphanumeric character of the first password. Finally, I got to Sue, the little lady next to the vault. I offered Sue my identification once again and a special password that only Sue and I know.

At the threshold of the vault, I took a deep breath and sought heaven for strength to withstand the ordeal. Of course I removed the sacred golden sword from the wall before passing through gate after gate. I was surprised (but not shocked) when two guardian lions sprang out. I slew them, then in quick progression a dozen leopards, a half dozen king cobras, and a school of Great White sharks. It was like I was back in the Amazon when vampire bats swooped down and immediately attacked my pith helmet.

Going further, I cut myself through the thickest vines I've ever seen, huge thick SOBs. I didn't even know vines came that thick. They were either vines or a giant's legs, now I'm not sure which. Do vines bleed and bellow out "Oww"? Then it was a giant, or maybe a whole family. All the vines out of the way, I swam up the falls, 100 feet if it was an inch. Being a good vertical swimmer, this wasn't as hard as it sounds.

Making it to land, I rounded a corner and found another guard. But this guy was a dried up skeleton, there at the base of the wall. Obviously paid by the hour, he had fallen asleep and died. I saw the final key in amongst his dust and bones! I entered the box room and unlocked the box. This set off the final safeguard, three or four mousetraps, which hurt like hell!

All done, I pulled out the metal container. When I opened it, there they were, the relics laid out on the softest red velvet. It was at this point that I took the pictures seen above. It about took my breath away, to see Brother Unsettled's wooden remains, the most vital parts of himself that had given him such fits. It was cautionary to me: Do not rebel, do not let it go to waste. I sat right there, right that very minute, and entered into the greatest devotional ecstasy.

All in all, I was amazed at how well preserved the relics were, even in this normal stuffy bank.

Masturbananda Transforms "The Little Drip"

Among the many inspiring stories from Sri Masturbananda's ashram, perhaps none tells of a greater transformation than the story of Gregor, the guy they called "The Little Drip." I think of his story often, anytime I need a boost in my devotions.

I only knew him afterward, but those who knew him before say he was pathetic. He'd be at his devotions, trying to follow the Master's teachings, but very little came of it. It was a real problem, and only became worse the more the other chelas (students) knew about it, and the more he thought of it. He had a lot of shame.

Remember, Sri Masturbananda's teaching is that we (men) can glimpse the Divine for two or three seconds at a time, at the climax of our devotions. We seek to eventually know divinity in a life of oneness. For now, we work ourselves up, then -- ahh, there's the Light! Then we clean up and get back to our work around the ashram.

Anyway, they started calling this poor guy, "The Little Drip." He was like a leaky faucet, but anytime he worked the handle, so to speak, nothing happened. I'd guess it was a playful nickname, but of course it hurt him. They say he had a weak, crooked smile, like he was very conflicted. But afterward -- Oh boy! -- he had a big fat grin, a smile as big as all outdoors! That is, after the Master stepped in to counsel him.

The Master's counsel was bold, personal guidance, including Gregor being able to accompany him as he went about his own devotions. Now, I've said it before, no one can look upon the Master in his ecstasy. But Master had Gregor behind a thick curtain, yet he was still able to behold much of Masturbananda's radiance. Then the words of power that came from the Master's lips, particularly as he reached his glory, just before the roof of the place blew off, had to be something from Heaven. Lastly, Gregor witnessed the tearing of the curtain between them, from bottom to top, exposing sights that I can only imagine. I'd call it a full frontal Transfiguration.

It only took one such experience and Gregor was a new man. No more was he "The Little Drip." A more apt name would be "The Gusher" or "Super Soaker" or "Old Faithful." Because from that day on, there was no more faithful chela at his devotions, and certainly none who could reach the divine in a more intense way. The guy was a mess ... and that was good!

Of course, the other chelas were very curious. They wanted to know what Sri Masturbananda had said in his climactic moments. But Gregor would never tell. To him it was a sublime, powerful mystery that had to be guarded at all cost. All he gave was this cryptic reply,  "Were I to speak one word of it, fire would come from the stones and consume you..." They glanced down at his stones and saw, clearly this was a man in heat.

We all know the end of the story, how Gregor became one of Master's closest disciples, and an inspiration not just to the ashram but to chelas around the world. Most of us are already more than a "Little Drip," but in him we're inspired to be so much more.

And so the story ends, with this saint of God an inspiration to all. It was not long after this that Sri Masturbananda gave Gregor the greater monastic name of Sri Niagarananda, his symbol forever the wash-bucket and mop.

Masturbananda -- The Need For Seed

You've got seed and you've got need.

The need is a personal, discernible need, often with personal motives. But the need is also part and parcel of nature's drive, there of course being no clear division between the two needs except what we see as true because of our sense of a personal consciousness.

Where the seed comes from and the compulsion behind it, these things obviously arise from beyond our individual personal consciousness and choice. They are a given in nature to the nature we are. The nature has one path leading toward regular replication. It also takes an evolutionary path, going toward higher expressions of nature. Then, ultimately, there is union with the Divine at the heart of it all. You can probably tell I'm thinking of concepts that come from a mix of Sri Aurobindo and Ken Wilber's teachings, as well as the teachings of Sri Masturbananda.

Of the masters who deal with seed and the various needs of seed, Masturbananda is no doubt the preeminent authority. This is right at the heart of his teachings, and in light of that, we find him to be very practical. Because this is at the center of every man's life. (We're excluding eunuchs and possibly the Pope. Note to women: You're going to have to look elsewhere. We know there is some psycho-physical corollary in your experience, but what it is and how it works is a complete mystery to us. We basically know where the off/on switch is, but how the apparatus behind it should most accurately be described is so far unknown.)

Sri Masturbananda's teaching is in agreement with the mainstream of science as to the properties and "needs" of seed, while going beyond them in terms of the hidden potentialities of the same for man's union with the Divine. He bases his teaching not on speculation or doctrine handed down but on personal experimentation and discovery. And so he passes it on, that his chelas (students) may discover it for themselves. He's not asking them to take anything simply by belief or trust, but calls on them to test the teachings and see.

As I've written before, Masturbananda teaches that real glimpses of the Divine are given to us through our best devotions. And he shows the way. How many times I can remember the Master retiring to one of the ashram's outhouses! Everything is as normal. Then there's an obvious fervency at work and we can tell there is something of greatness in our midst. An intensity that you can just feel is building in the atmosphere.

Suddenly all of your senses hone in on the outhouse! The sounds are greater and greater, even becoming ethereal and less distinguishable as mere sounds and become a feeling, like a shroud of intuition covering you! The eyes behold a glow covering the facility! Everything is working itself up in a wild crescendo. And then, we duck for the cover, the roof is blown clean off, and a jet stream of the purest light arises from the earth and meets another beam coming from somewhere beyond!

That's leadership. That's showing the way. I say it like that because the Master is always in unity with the Divine; he doesn't need to do this, but he takes part in the grosser forms of devotion to be our example. And you got to love him for it! It certainly inspires us, and how much greater then is our own fervency upon retiring to our chambers in the light of the Master's blessed condescension. The big difference, of course, is that none of us has yet caused real roof damage; perhaps some ceiling spotting, some of the bigger guys, but that's about it.

The more I concentrate on his blessed teaching, the more inspired I am, and that's the way it is for all of us. Because this isn't just something that arises from us, but is part of the Divine plan. Once you see it, you can't see it any other way. These potentialities are with us, but clearly they are from beyond us, speaking from an egoic perspective. That the Divine wills for union with us, and finds equal or exceeding joy in that, is all the added inspiration we need to be faithful to our devotions!