A story of one soul during two lives

Crazy Bear was loaded to the gills, in more ways than one, so it was wise as well as lucrative to humor the dope-crazed madman. It was also fun, if you had a sense of humor; I-Victor, that is-knew him from the crackpot circuit. We made a casual friendship over the years out of an intense acquaintance, getting along, I suspect, primarily because we were both out of our minds. He had guided me along my first, fitful explorations of that which cannot be explained, but can be perceived by the sensitive, and instructed me in the fundamentals of the Art.

The oddest thing about him was not his egregious slovenliness, in spite of immense means, or the radical revolutionary rant he spouted despite his hypersuperdeterminism. The man is a study in paradox. He prides himself on his admittedly amazing talent for simultaneously holding two or more contradictory opinions. He partcipates in annual competitions; the last year I followed his progress, he had narrowly lost the title to a Baptist preacher.

No, the most unnerving peculiarity of Crazy Bear was the way he’d keep a straight, solemn face while propounding the most bizarre theories as if they were gospel from L. Ron Hubbard himself. His eyes would fill with the fires of fanatacisim; his voice would carry the conviction of a mad prophet crawling back from the desert. Then he’d take another bong hit.

No skit comedian could match his efforts at inscrutability; he actually pretended to be offended when you laugh.

For example:

“The human species was evolved, in perfect accordance with the Design of Nature, primarily to mine oil and build nuclear weapons. Fossil fuels are a sort of toxic pus on the Earth’s face. How do you feel, after all, about deposits of oil near your surface? We’re here to pop the zits. Also, the carbon dioxide thereby released is a boon for the trees, who are the real masters of the planet.”

Or…

“Einstein was a prophet sent to share the secret of suns. This Solar system-mostly Jupiter, it’s all about Jupiter, where the crystal entities, you dig, silicon-based life, that’s where it’s at…anyway, we’re in it, too, planet-hopping, first it was Mars, then Venus, building bombs. That’s the Forwhy of people, dig, that’s the Howcome. Nuclear technology…those stupid greedy motherfuckers would stop right this very second if they could comprehend…the magnitude. The service they are doing for the cause of Life in the name of death. This planet, and everything in it, can you see it?

The solar system represents the embryonic stage in the life cycle of a star. Why do you think binary pairs of stars have one big one and one small one? Think reproduction. Stars, man, that’s where it’s at. This skin trip is all bullshit. Our real participation in the intellectual life of the universe will begin at the Starbirth….”

After a night of this, Dianetics makes relative sense.

Not that any respectable church like the Scientologists would be caught dead renting so much as a post-office box on the Row. Not with neighbors like the Pointy Hat Childbaking Coven. The Radical Gay Tantric Mosque. The Moron Tab Ôn Apple Choir. The Creed of the Crazy. The Unitarian Church. Heading east, I pass the Church of the SubGenius, with the Discordians quartered on the second floor.

A scraggly kid, evidently hopeful of spare change, mutters, “Hail Eris!” but I’m not in the mood to honor the Goddess of Chaos. Nothing personal; I’m quite fond of the ancient apple-thrower. I’ve simply had my fill of that energy for awhile. I ignore him and he does not seem surprised. Had he made his pitch in the name of Bob, patron of Slack, I still would have stiffed him, being penniless myself, but I’d have been friendlier.

Right now, I can use about all the slack I can get.

The next block is sort of a political district, featuring the massive, well-funded headquarters of the Social Libertarian Party, Crazy Bear’s write-in affiliation, a strange hybrid of classical socialism with modern libertarianism, advocating, for instance, nationalizing the public utilities, holding the infrastructure in trust, then administering them with democratically elected private companies, who will place bids on the ballot for the people to evaluate.

This political platypus hasn’t caught on nationally in spite of their slogans- “WE CAN’T TELL OUR RIGHT FROM OUR LEFT” and “WORKERS OF THE WORLD UNITE AGAINST TAXES”-but the local alderman from the ward that includes Religion Row is, and will be for some time, a social libber, running on the deep pockets of the Ridley estate, the heartfelt loyalty of the tenants to their landlord, and the general kookiness of the constituency.

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