so many freshly-digitized memories, so little space in my head…

oh, i’m sure there’s plenty of space here above my neck.
my hard-drive (and yours) are unparalleled processors that all the computers in the world are hoping to be as good as.
it’s probably because of references i’ve made about my own hard-drive that, eventually, i’d have to look at some of those google links about brains and computers, which i did and was immediately bored to distraction.
i think what happened for me was that i came to believe what philip k. dick (among others) wrote about future humanity and that computer superiority emergence is not a matter of “if” but “when.”
i can’t read about the technical aspects of this. my own hard drive selects i-tunes or cartoon files or personal anxiety folders that make me to move on from the moment, asap.
you don’t have to tell me about how the sun works to know how hot it is.
ya dig? (that was my ed “Kookie” byrnes imitation)

kookie is in the middle, the guy on the left is roger smith. he’s been married to ann-margret for half-a-century. she’s the girl who was the 1960’s all-american hot momma. a long while ago, i mused if she and elvis “did it.”

if they did, it would have been around the time that this picture was taken.
at that time, i didn’t have any practical knowledge of what “it” was.
oh well.
the guy on the right is ephrem zimbalist.
he had a daughter who became a TV star by the name of stephanie zimbalist.
ed byrnes wrote a song entitled “kookie, kookie lend me your comb”
you can look it up. it was a big hit.

i may have strayed from the point i was trying to make. imagine that.

for “the moment”, i like to believe that humanity will soldier on, no matter how many white guys remain in their bunkers, ever-expanding their arms collections, their own hard drives whirring and sputtering, their circuit boards running hot and dangerous because of fears, perceived or otherwise. i state “the moment” only in an attempt to remain “in it.”
there are billions of people who know how to do that. as a man in his fifties, i can remind you (and myself) that i’m a slow learner.
“staying in the moment is about acting, not being.” i tell myself.
this is one of those opinions that could change at any moment.
this is one of those moments where i think i might sound just a little smarter than i should be. this is because i’m not very smart. this is because i am an expert at not being an expert.
i am working on specializing at being an expert at not being an expert.
i can tell you that the conversation i had with the grifting lizards the last time i was out there in gateway national park was an example of my endless pursuit for knowledge, which reminds me;

from the glossary –
21. – Neuron – A cell in the brain or another part of the nervous system that transmits information to other cells.
if we were computers, our eyes would be the fingers and our neurons the keyboard that would transmit information all around our hard drive and our peripherals that make us be who we are.
there, i used it in a sentence
this is as opposed to a “moron,” someone or something who transmits hacked information, causing neurons to transmit same information throughout the next system, turning said organism to behave like the moron who originally sent it.
it’s like a stupidity-driven ponzi scheme; in this instance greed being replaced with hate. this is illustrated by morons who tell things to nervous white guys terrified of a black white house.
it works like a charm.
it is the likes of these, along with martian con-artist-led buffoons, who sweeten the dark hearts of the next, who are the unsuspecting dinner specials on the weekly menu for the grifting lizards.
fish gotta swim, birds gotta fly, grifting lizards gotta con….and so on…,
oh, and lest i forget….those other aliens “gotta scoop up loads of people to use as batteries.”
what a way to go.
everybody’s gotta do something.
but i digress.
this was the point of my conversation with the person who looked like a park ranger but was, in fact, a lizard wearing the skin of an investment banker named trudy who made scads of cash at lehman brothers, whose eyes glittered continually at the notion of riding the bundled-mortgage toboggan right through big-shot moneyland on to “no one can touch me now” prairie country. her moment came in a broom closet at the sherry-netherland in manhattan after a crystal-infused awards luncheon where she and fourteen of her peers were set upon in a private catering room by lizards who literally came through the rich, paneled walls and made quite a mess of the place.
the hotel couldn’t find an illegal immigrant desperate enough to take the job of cleaning it up. they had to go to shadow-government “cleaners” who were offered millions and millions of dollars and were immediately rendered dinner and a suit after their work was completed.
the contractor was a lizard guy who looked like omar sharif and sounded like that actor, eduardo cianelli, but no one knew that till it was way too late.
the reason i knew this was because, in my conversation with this park ranger, i suggested that she wasn’t really who and what she was. she was friendly and cordial and corrected me, saying that she might be a lizard in a suit, but she most certainly WAS a member of the federal government’s park police and though she had absolutely no desire so set me up to be dinner and a suit for one of her lizardly compatriots, she certainly wasn’t above issuing me a whole bunch of federal citations if i brought maxx onto the beach before september 15th rolled around.
“no,” she said.
“huh?”
“we’re not in league with the united states government. you were just thinking that and it’s not true. we just have our people everywhere. there’s lots of deliciousness even in the public sector, though they are a little gamey as opposed to bankers, brokers and other bigger-money executive-types.”
“funny, i…”
“you were thinking that i was an attractive woman and for a second the thought crossed your mind of asking me to coffee. that’s silly. but you already know that.”
“yes, of course. you didn’t have to tell me that, you know.” i said.
“sorry,” she said, “gotta go.” and off she went in the green, government-issued dodge pickup.
i thought to shutterbug the truck as it drove away but my hand chose to stay by my side.
my neurons weren’t transmitting for a few seconds.

About stephen trimboli

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