Happy Holidays!

Birthday shout-outs to Paracelsus, Bernardo Tasso, Martin Ruland the Younger (who died on April 23), Dostoevsky, Gaetano Bresci, George S. Patton, Alger Hiss, Vonnegut, Jonathan Winters, Marc Summers, and so forth.

Deathday shout-outs to Nat Turner, Kierkegaard, the Haymarket martyrs/fall guys, Typhoid Mary, Allman Brother Berry Oakley and all the rest of yinz swingin’ stiffs.

Adios, chochachos!

11/11 is also, or should also be, a feast day for freaks of all stripes.

Since John Ramses posted this back in ’96, numerous fringe mystics, 2012 pundits, conspiracy researchers, 9/11 numerologists including Jake Kotze (who links it to K2/2K and thence to everything else) and/or self-styled light workers have been digging on its stargate synchronicity and tasty time loop/tesseract action.

SLIders recognize it, as do pop film and music.  Free Sol and Queen Spook Regina Spektor both have 11:11 albums.  Tracy Chapman and the Flaming Lips are hip to it, dropping Our Bright Future (which sucks) and Christmas on Mars (which rocks), respectively, hoy.  11:11 is also poised to go the way of the 23 enigma and instantiate its own, likely lame, feature.

Like every other freak and their apophenic twin brothers, I’ve noticed the double elevens for years at seemingly significant moments and taken it all in stride.  One instance I’ll admit rattled me, though, was getting a check from the IRS for $11.11 on my birthday, 05/06/08.  Take or leave my word for it, my tax math and the money masters’ are in alignment.  For a half-assed mystic and amateur looker-into of such weirdness, that either ain’t bad at all or it’s really bad.

Either way, I’m optimistic.

To qualify this post for the Rust Belt Bloggers Neighborhood Walk, allow me to add that I walked to Crazy Mocha in Bloomfield this morning, and I’m going outside right now to walk around Bloomfield some more and encounter Other Beings.  I’ll update tonight, if there be aught to add.

Enjoy the day, dudes, whatever you make of it.

Update 10:25 pm

I walked around Bloomfield some more this afternoon.  I saw some photographs of Bush chilling with Obama and the First Holy Families hanging together, 11:11 style, in a P-G my pal Victor gave me.

I played music at my pal Jason’s across from the Waldorf School and hung out with pals at Crazy Mocha and Howler’s, where I predicted the Pens would beat the Red Wings and (you read it here first) face them again to win the Stanley Cup (any takers?).  I learned about the nukes detonated at Thule Air Base in Greenland back in the day, and that AIG was given 29 (2+9) billion more imaginary dollars by the Wonderful Wizard of Oz.  Signing off at 11:11 pm to watch David Mamet’s Spartan.

Nighty night, Rust Belt!