Posts Tagged ‘off the grid’

Season’s Greetings, Fellow Wanderer.

Umi, waiting patiently as her battery charges

Umi, waiting patiently as her battery charges

I say this somewhat contemptuously, not contemptuous of your damp perfumes and arid pleasantries, but rather contemptuous for the gluttonous nature of the season upon us with its flickering holiday illumination buggering my night vision until it’s as useless as the misaligned belly-button on my Japanese sex-bot, Umi, who’s currently charging in the closet. Nevertheless, the holidays are here and like the innermost fowl of Turducken you likely never saw it coming. Thusly, I am here with my travel season advice.

Sure, you may think my talents at gliding through the shadows may not apply to your common lemming channels of passage, but you’d be wrong! I have perspective to offer because Paranoia; perspective your limited worldview is sorely lacking. So buckle-up, fellow wanderer, and perhaps you may just learn something. More than likely not, but that is neither here nor there. It is Neverwhere.

Happy is the traveler who has no heavy luggage with him but a pocket flask, a Times crossword and a firm-fitting mustache.

– Kyril Bonfiglioli’s Hon. Charlie Mortdecai

Duplicitous Slight-of-Handling of your In-Flight Beverages

Crossing a continent is no easy feat. This much is apparent by any Cold War kid who played Oregon Trail on a Cold War computing mainframe. Fortunately, 21st Century transit has the benefits of airport food courts and, well… flight. Making the journey from Independence, Mizzou to Oregon City in these post-apocalyptic times shouldn’t be taken for granted, to be sure, but just because there are no literal rattlesnakes nipping at your heels does not mean there are not figurative rattlesnakes nibbling your Achilles tendon. I speak, of course, of those darned flight stewards. Aye, weasely Bruce and permed Sharon with their bubbly gaiety as they simulate belt-buckling and aquatic catastrophe, they are my figurative serpents. Flight stewardry is no easy job, mind. I wouldn’t want to be labored with such hardship – pleasing the unpleasable masses with their electronic devices, flatulence, phobias, bombs, so on and so forth. Yet, there is sacred ground these air stewards frequently stomp upon: snipping booze. Hear me now, traveler! I advise you when ordering some midflight cocktail to insist upon the attendant you should mix your own drink with whichever Barbie-sized bottle they provide. Just watch their hands if you do otherwise and allow them to mix your drink – the attendant carefully unscrews a new mini-bottle, pours liquid into a heavily-iced plastic chamber pot, re-screws the cap onto the bottle and pockets the leftovers. If the bottle is empty, why would they re-screw the cap back on? Why, indeed! Because these stewards are hording our booze! Aye, sure, sure, sure, most travelers do not need any more alcohol, they are already saturated with Xanax-laced Chardonnay (self-prescribed by my aisle-mates) and they are intolerable light-weight drunks to begin with, surely permed Sharon need not pour a full scotchy-scotch for such passengry. But a full drink is what I paid for! These stewards, when left to their own devices, will dust just enough booze atop our tonic water to give the first sip some bite only to screw-in the rest of the alcohol to pocket for their selves and in doing so are infringing on our rights as consumers. When I want a gin & tonic, I want my Orwellian government-mandated allotment of gin, dammit! Here’s the real fecklessness of these steward antics – their motive. They can only accept credit card, which means no cash, which means they cannot resell stolen gin nips to other passengers for their own underhanded monetary profit. Why, then, do they nip the gin, if not monetary gain? Perhaps just to save the MotherShip money in booze? Ha! Laughable, these stewards are not dolts enough to remain loyal to the golden wings pinned into their smart vests. Nay. These attendants bring said snipping back to their hotel room and participate in heavens-knows-what Bacchanalia with other stewards and pilots before flying back to Toledo on the morn. I say we, passengry, take a stand against these heathen scoundrels who lighten our boozy payload (as any sot worth his salt can attest to)! We should all demand the bottle you rightfully paid for. Deny them their licentiousness, unless, of course, they invite you to participate along in the Bacchanalia. I mean, if nothing else, it would be worth the resulting t-shirt.

I have found out that there ain’t no surer way to find out whether you like people or hate them than to travel with them.

― Mark Twain’s Tom Sawyer

To Uber or Not To Uber?

Absofuckinglutely Not.

Of course, this advice comes from a shifty dude constantly dancing along the fringe of the Grid (viz. the common social network binding us through relatively familiar channels with government oversight); heed my sage advice with a sprinkled grain of salt.

What is Uber? Uber is a company championed by socially networked pioneers and Grid stalwarts like Ashton Kutcher as a means to democratize the driving profession. Uber is an alternative to the reliance on taxis and other metropolitan mass transit by providing a stark raving stranger to drive the carless to the next destination in a cheaper and more convenient manner than the conventional cabbie. Uber does this as an app on your phone that allows you to send out the bat signal to fidgety ferriers likewise connected to the Grid via smartphone. Uber is also counter-traditional, which makes it uber-sexy to Hipsters. Uber will be hugely popular this holiday season as the throngs of amateur revelers stumble out of their binge-sessions in need of an easy means of travelling to whichever warm bed beckons.

Bah humbug. Vic Neverman doesn’t Uber. Why?

Uber works using GPS positioning devices located within your phone and the cars jetting you between points A&B. It is the GPS positioning device that grants Uber more power than you should trust them with. Until recently, there has been a ‘God View’ that allowed Uber drivers to see a bird’s-eye scan of all the Uber patrons and their fellow Uber ferriers as they meandered through the city streets. ‘God View’ still exists, though it has been supposedly taken out of the hands of the Uber drivers. For those married to an indulgence of inclusion into the Grid, this matters not… if you feel so inclined to be another bit along the bacterial branch of humanity, jump right in, Dude. Otherwise, do like Vic and call a fucking cab from a burner phone and pay the Russian pimp in cash you laundered via your burrito food truck operation in order to keep the IRS off your trail.

Add to fuel the fire, pour a little petrol on the party, an executive of Uber was championing a counter-strike upon journalists as a means to keep their sniffling snouts at bay.

Dude... because reasons

Dude… because reasons

Would that be so bad? To paparazzi the paparazzi? Even Ashton Kutcher, 40% of 2 ½ Men and Uber investor argues, “What is so wrong about digging up dirt on a shady journalist?

Here is what it would be so wrong: If corporations could get away with extorting journalists, who happen to lack the monetary and legal team assets, then the Fourth Estate is dead. Of course, this still happens to a degree. I was once impeached as President of the German Honor Society at my high school because of the muckraking financed by the fucking Qatari Royal Family. But this is neither here nor there and I am bored with this car-driving topic.

How to get to Geneva while the CIA thinks you are en route to Tokyo

If you are like me, traveler, you are constantly bemoaning the fact that you cannot visit your uncle Captain Dick in his Bogota compound without alerting the DEA or rendezvousing with the longtime flame Des Riley (the safe-word is ‘indubitably’) in her Southside high-rise without summoning the lunkheads of Chicago Blue. Well, there is hope. All it takes is some ingenuity and a lot of untraceable cash. Let us propose a hypothetical: you want to get to Geneva without Big Brother being the wiser…

Step One: Obtain a vast sum of untraceable money

Step Two: Collect two separate identities. For both J.Doe and A.Smith, you should have separate credit cards, passports, driver’s license and either Cost Co or Sam’s Club member cards to keep it authentic.

Step Three: Hire a dopplegangerish lookalike.

Step Four: Purchase a ticket for J.Doe to travel from San Jose to Geneva by way of Dallas. Purchase a separate ticket for A.Smith to travel to Tokyo from Nashville by way of Dallas. Ensure both layovers coincide. And I mean Dallas-Ft Worth, none of that Dallas-Love bullshit.

Step Five: Have doppleganger version of you enter San Jose airport with J.Doe credentials and ticket while wearing blue jeans and a sweater. You should then enter Nashville airport wearing a windbreaker and slacks. Both you and your doppleganger should have on interchangeable accessories, such as alternative watches, jewelry, sunglasses, hair extensions, etc., etc., et al. Each of you should have within the carry-on luggage a replica of the other’s dress and accessories.

Step Six: Have doppleganger version of you enter Dallas Fort Worth airport lavatory (preferably the same terminal as your flight) and use a stall. You should simultaneously do likewise, just a different stall, otherwise weird. Both you and your doppleganger should remove your clothes and accessories for the alternatives in your respective carry-on. You should replace your windbreaker and slacks with the jeans and t-shirt in your carry-on.

Step Seven: Have doppleganger exit bathroom stall and begin washing hands, crimping hair, etc. You should do likewise moments before or after. Do not make eye-contact with your doppleganger. Floss your teeth. Place your carry-on bag beside your doppleganger’s carry-on bag, each of you making sure your credentials (passport, DL, Diner’s Club card) and ticket are within your bag.

Step Eight: Grab your doppleganger’s bag. You are now J.Doe and they are A.Smith. Walk out of the lavatory and onto your flight to Geneva.

Step Nine: Rockstar.

Fucking rockstar. Unfortunately, by the time you’ve killed off your doppleganger, only you and I will ever know how much of a clandestine rockstar you are. Unless you start your own blog.

Why is all this necessary? In the old spy books it was common for Dudley Studley to buy two sets of tickets, one under his own name and another under an alias. He would then fly to the destination as the alias while the tickets under his own name went unused. The problem with this bullshit excuse for counter-espionage is that as soon as the ticket goes unused, the airline is aware which means any government worth-their-shit is aware. The best means to fulfill the divergent strategy is to employ a Red Herring to go where you want Big Brother to think you are going.

Don’t thank me, thank the Mossad who taught me. Or the CIA advisers who advised the Mossad. Or the long-dead Nazis who built the CIA. Circle of Life…

Somebody is watching you...

Somebody is watching you, it is the NSA

You are being watched. The WashPost has recently disclosed that the NSA is collecting billions of records each day as it traces you via your cell phone. You, dear reader, may go off the grid if you like… and when you do, please tell the 20th Century I said “howdy”. Otherwise, keep your cell phone as a member of contemporary society and just deal with the fact you are being watched, scrutinized and likely laughed at for your under-par grammar skills and the ill-timed selfies you keep sharing with the intern.

What’s that you say, friend? Why would the NSA track you when you haven’t done anything wrong? Why, when you are one of the good guys? Well, sure… but,

First of all – the NSA is the security apparatus of the Establishment. To be a good guy in their eyes, you have to suckle up to the twisted tit of the status quo. Bon appétit with that wicked teat, mon frere. The NSA is quite simply antidisestablishmentarian and yes the entire purpose of this paragraph was to write “antidisestablishmentarian” at least once. Scrabble that, Sis!

Thirdly (because I forgot my second point) – the NSA already knows who the bad guys are, it is looking for the friends of bad guys. The WashPost calls this “Co Traveler Analytics” (click on the washpost site, it is a worthwhile diagram). The cell phone in your pocket sends out signals to cell phone towers and those cell phone towers, in turn, send idiotic text responses right back. By feeding off of all this commotion, the NSA can see where nearly everyone is at any time. They aren’t just following targets; they are looking for co-travelers of those targets.

Of course, targets on the President’s Christmas Hit List are of a different category and really they are just living long enough for the next drone to finish charging up via whatever Yemeni electrical converters may be necessary. No, the “targets” we are talking about are a step beneath these dead men walking: your Green Peace pirate, your Tea Party sloganeer, your Conspiracy Theory bloggist. These are the targets the NSA already has a dossier on. Where YOU come in is the tangential relationship.

(No, not trans-genital you perverse guttersnipe!, tangential means “in tangent to”…)

For example, if you see me at a bus stop and we both take the bus to the mall and then naturally eat at the same food-court and then take the bus back from whence we came, the NSA will circle your name as a co-traveler of the target. Something that might seem coincidental might just earn you a red-flag in the NSA’s scrapbook. Oh settle down, fellow traveler! Don’t fret over riding the bus with me, you were red-flagged long ago when you first read my blog or set-up a dating profile on my now defunct Huey Lewis fan dating site, (please don’t tell me you just clicked on a site I already told you was defunct).

And you thought you were watching Lady Gaga

And you thought you were watching Lady Gaga

Fear not, fellow paranoid! I come bearing gifts. What follows is a list of measures you might take – not to elude the NSA (the National Security Agency, or as they were known last century, “No Such Agency”), as you cannot elude them long enough to read this blog while remaining on the grid. No, nay, never. Rather, the purpose of this list of measures is to confuse the NSA. It is better for THEM to think you are where you are not than to not see you and really start sniffing.

This list was inspired by a rendezvous I had with a childhood friend, Lily Kudzu. I was man seeking affirmation I was the same Victor Neverman as the faded memory of my childhood when Lo! and Behold! I learn that Lily’s ex-husband was an agent of the Military Industrial Intelligence Complex. Of course, his business card read “purveyor of dental implants”, but that is obviously coded-doublespeak for “gaddam spook!”

The rendezvous of childhood friends, Vic & Lily, after innumerable years is a curious read. You may read it… here.

Without further ado…


Anti-Co Traveler Analytics

Local Cell Phone Co-Op:

Create a community of phone sharers outside your normal social/work network and then trade phones on a regular basis. If there are 7 members of the community, develop a schedule of who will have which phone when so that each member of the telephony commune will know which phone to forward calls/messages too. Sure, it makes it difficult to figure out who is sexting you and whom they think they are sexting, but so is life: difficult and kinda kinky. BENEFITS: the NSA thinks they are tracking you, when they are actually tracking any one of seven different people.

National Cell Phone Transit Centers:

Create a community of phone participants in different regions to not share phones, but rather keep them in transit. Each participant would have multiple cell phones always turned “on” which they would mail to various participants via ground shipping, while keeping one local. The NSA would have to track several different cell phones and think You were on several different simultaneous road-trips at all times. Yay! way to blow their fucking mind!

Max Headroom fanatics may be the only people you can truly trust

Max Headroom fanatics may be the only people you can truly trust

Omnium-Gatherum of other Confusion Measures

  • On various social networking websites, post contradicting pictures of yourself. You in a wig is not contradictory enough, be sure the alternate pictures have different cheekbones, with eye/nose/ear placement at different angles. BETTER YET, make the pictures someone else entirely. This will confuse the Facial Recognition software Facebook already has in place and the data they then sell to Intelligence services.
  • Turn your GPS on in your phone device while taking photos of yourself with alternate geographical backgrounds, which you then publish online with conflicting coordinates.
  • File tax returns in states you never lived in.
  • Fly to foreign destinations and never leave the airport, let alone go through customs. Just read foreign language magazines and pay for a third-world massage as you wait for your flight home five days hence.
  • Setup multiple social networking profiles with same name & different face, with same face and different name and then friend yourselves.
  • Setup multiple profiles on dating networks. Especially varying ethno-religious sites (Jewish, Catholic, African-American, Just-Farmers, Ashley Madison, etc., etcetera). Go with same name/different face & same face/different name strategy as varying sexes and varying sexual persuasions (e.g. I am Victor(ia) looking for married Mormon Farmer Lesbian Sister-Wives, etc. etcetera) and then date yourself.
  • Setup checking accounts at different banks. Withdraw $10,000 and fill out the Currency Transaction Report, then deposit $9,999.99 at another bank, asking for 1 cent returned from the cashier’s check produced by the originating financial institution. Deposit that 1 cent back at the originating bank.
  • Use voice-modifiers on Skype and use your voice when logged in as other people on Skype. Hire scripted actors to make personal calls with your voice on Skype. Create a Skye account with Max Headroom and prank call your local Citizens Watch.
  • Join a genealogy network and submit someone else’s cotton swabbed DNA sample. Then join as someone else and submit your own DNA. Send Xenophobic messages between your alter-identities until you are all banned from the site. Join a new site.
  • Renew driver’s license every year and change your political affiliation then vote against the assigned affiliation every year.
  • Get rewards club membership at competing grocery stores. Buy all meats at the organic produce friendly store and all produce at the butcher friendly store. Buy your alcohol and Nyquil in cash-only.
  • Sign-up for multi-player online gaming and pay a kid in Malaysia to play as you for 20 hours a day. Then adopt the child, import him to the United States and pay him to impersonate you at the office.
  • Open a twitter account and have every tweet be anti-you. For example, my alternate account would tweet:
    • “I h8 white people who drive Japanese cars #unpatriotic”
    • “Anyone born on xx/xx/19xx sucks #loser”
    • “I don’t trust bearded men under the age of 50 #creepy”
    • “What a beautiful day! #thanksNSA or #globalwarming”
    • “JFK is dead #getoverit”
    • Open a second twitter account to troll everything the original says
      • “Whatevs, Nazi #nazi”
      • “Dick. #look#in#the#mirror”
      • “LMFAO. Psyche! #NotLOL”

Greetings Friends.

Pack your lucky underwear and some extra dental floss – we’re going off the grid!

Should you be staying behind, you shan’t be hearing from the likes of me for a while. I am making my long-awaited return to South America in search of the fabled El Dorado. The Spanish had a saying about those who journeyed to the rivers of South America in pursuit of gold, “few survive to make the return trip home and those that do have been driven mad.” But enough of the small talk!

OrellanaWhile Sir Walter Raleigh went up the Orinoco and Colonel Percy Hewitt went by foot into the interior, I will be following the mad adventures of other Amazonian explorers: the conquistadores Gonzalo Pizzaro and Francisco Orellana. Only I shall be living aboard the comforts of a haunted steamship from the Rubber Baron era.

Farewell readers. I leave you now with a poem from Edgar Allen Poe…


Gaily bedight,
A gallant knight,
In sunshine and in shadow,
Had journeyed long,
Singing a song,
In search of Eldorado.

But he grew old-
This knight so bold-
And o’er his heart a shadow
Fell as he found
No spot of ground
That looked like Eldorado.

And, as his strength
Failed him at length,
He met a pilgrim shadow-
“Shadow,” said he,
“Where can it be-
This land of Eldorado?”

“Over the Mountains
Of the Moon,
Down the Valley of the Shadow,
Ride, boldly ride,”
The shade replied-
“If you seek for Eldorado!”

Don’t you know that a midnight hour comes when everyone has to take off his mask? Do you think life always lets itself be trifled with? Do you think you can sneak off a little before midnight to escape this?

― Søren Kierkegaard

Edward Snowden, or the fella alleged to be Edward Snowden, continues to lurk within the shadows of Hong Kong. His public announcements about the benefits of Hong Kong hiding counter the sentiment of the masses. Snowden claims, from whichever safe house he barters his power-point spreads in return for a taste of fame (or her cross-eyed, slutty sister, infamy), that Hong Kong is a well thought-out location for him to fight his legal battles against the pending charges of treason (courtesy of the Espionage Act of 1917, kept snug in Obama’s hip pocket). From what I can gather, however, Snowden’s point is true only if protected (held captive) by China. Hong Kong may be semi-autonomous, but ultimately Beijing has veto power and may easily take advantage of the snowflake that fell, perhaps unwittingly, into their totalitarian lap. Out of the frying pan and into the wok for you, Mr. Snowden.

out of the fryer and into the wok

out of the fryer and into the wok

Why would a whistle-blower, assumingly protecting the American people from the legitimate Police State threat that is the NSA, turn to an authoritative regime in China whose humanitarian and censorship practices are the most egregious in the world? Damn good question. I have already voiced my doubt in the very existence of this Edward Snowden. Whether this character is directly pulled from the gut-spilling secrets of the “Snowden” bombardier in Catch 22 or is inspired by the Canadian rapper Snow, who admitted in his one-hit wonder, “a licky boom boom down, it doesn’t really matter. Something is gravely amiss about this NSA whistle-blower.

Informer... (random mutterings) yeah, a licky boom boom down

Informer… (random mutterings) yeah, a licky boom boom down

A deep-throated confidant, who calls himself Reverend Chette, echoes my concerns and suggests the existence of Snowden, in itself, is a plot of the Obama administration to draw attention away from the IRS and Benghazi scandals. From Prague, I have received word from the exiled Apocalypto Survivalist, Cyrus Lee Hancock, who insists that all this focus on Snowden (his life, his girlfriend, his proclivities) is itself a smoke and mirrors act designed to take our eyes away from the NSA’s Prism Project. While I, Vic Neverman, am an advocate in favor of transparency in government, I cannot hide my absolute suspicion of this strange cat, Edward Snowden.

But nevermind the small talk! Let us get to the point at hand: What would an American exile do if trapped in Hong Kong?

East Asia

The easiest avenue would be to get into bed with the capitalist commies of Beijing. Snowden could live as a king for as long as he seemed worth China’s while. Imagine if he decides to work for China’s Blue Army – the elite hackers of the People’s Liberation Movement who are clogging your inbox with spam like an elephant in musth hovering over your keyboard. Snowden could live like a king indefinitely.

Should he turn his nose up to Beijing and their oppressive rule, he will need to stray further than Cambodia, Vietnam, Laos and North Korea. While these locales are local enough, their regimes are just as totalitarian and/or are fed on China Red.

Central America

Should Snowden change his appearance and join the merchant marines, he might manage to sail his way to Panama en route to deliver several iProducts to New York for redistribution. Along the canal, Snowden may jump ship and find a jungle bungalow to lay low in. He should mind the history of John McAfee, the internet tech guru who created his own little kingdom in Belize complete with pharmaceutical labs and 17 year-old girlfriends before his paranoia (and the sudden deaths of his neighbors) sent him into hiding. Belize hunted him until he escaped into Guatemala. Guatemala promptly caught him and sent him to Miami. Central America is not the best place to hide anymore.


Sure, follow the path of Bobby Fisher, who grew old reciting the Protocols of Zion. No thanks. Reykjavik might be the home of the most beautiful women in the world, which might draw Snowden’s eyes, but it is bloody cold. And to quote Edward Snowden’s “TheRealHoohah” cyber alter-ego according to Slate:

I also don’t see the allure of “Scandinavian” countries, but that’s simply because I don’t want to live in a country where warmth and comfort are only spoken of in bedtime stories.


While Moscow would consider offering Snowden asylum (according to Russian media), the strikes against Iceland (cold) and China (totalitarian regime) would certainly be present here. For Snowden to hand himself over to Mother Russia would make him the most renown and likely hated American turncoat defector of the Cold War (and yes, the Cold War is still going on).

Ecuador, Venezuela or Cuba

Neverman takes watch over Quito, Ecuador

Neverman takes watch over Quito, Ecuador

These are frequent escape destinations for American ex-pat exiles. I, myself, have visited Ecuador and Cuba looking for possible bungalow retreats (amongst other things). With the instability of Venezuela and Cuba in the sudden void of recent leaders (Hugo and Fidel), there is no telling the future of these regimes. Ecuador does seem settled into populist politics and have shown their dedication by putting up with the indefinite residence of Julian Assange in their London Embassy. The problem becomes, then, how to get himself to Quito?

The Ultimate Escape

The British government has already informed their Hong Kong based airlines they are not to allow Edward Snowden to board their aircraft. Should Snowden find transport, he needs to be careful of any layovers. There are no direct flights to Reykjavik, for example. A layover in an American-friendly stop would have Snowden in chains very quickly.

There is, ultimately, only one way out: Pseudocide. Edward Snowden must fake his own death. Of course, for a person of such infamy with limited wealth, faking your own death to throw off the hounds of the free world is easier said than done. Unless… those hounds were in on it to begin with.I would not be surprised if Snowden is a CIA plant and that Langley is already planning an end to this alter-ego, one way or another.

Edward Snowden, spilling his guts about the NSA

Edward Snowden, spilling his guts about the NSA

Snow: "Informer, a licky boom boom down"

Snow: “Informer, a licky boom boom down”

You better make your face up in
Your favorite disguise.
With your button down lips and your
Roller blind eyes.
With your empty smile
And your hungry heart.
Feel the bile rising from your guilty past.
With your nerves in tatters
When the conch shell shatters
And the hammers batter
Down your door.
You’d better run.

–          Pink Floyd, Run Like Hell

A resident of Bayou Saint Basil

A resident of Bayou Saint Basil

If the interstate connecting Daytona with Tampa was raised to an elevation of 1,000 feet, the typical motorist (“typical” being sedated on anti-depressants, caffeinated on UlcerSlam! energy elixir and driving with a road rage-readied trigger-foot and a rear bumper struck with generic sticker declarations of individuality) would likely be too busy texting to notice the land far beneath was less terra firma than a pattern of small land-bridges dividing a realm of infinite lakes. Science FACT: the topsoil of Central Florida is little more than crumbling limestone held delicately above the Florida Aquifer. Any minute, a new man-eating sinkhole could devour the earth between your soles and the dank underworld waiting hungrily beneath.

Somewhere in the middle of this uncertain ground churns a series of connected sinkholes which have become known as the waterway, Bayou Saint Basil. Along its morning shores you can hear the Jurassic call of the sandhill crane as it shits out another of your prized $13 golf balls. At the witching hour, the thunder roll of the night train in the unseen near distance is pierced by the hysterical chatter of maniacal raccoons fighting over your neighbor’s doomed shih tzu. Sorry Barnie. Trapped between the railroad, the interstate, and sixteen strip-malls is this piece of corrupted Eden. More parasitic than paradisiac, this is Bayou St Bas.

In one corner of Bayou Saint Basil rests a trailer park beneath ample oaken shade. Where the bayou ends and the trailer park begins is as clear as the black muck slowly creeping further up the soggy hill to where the crescent circle caravan of trailer homes is entrenched. These semi-occupied homes are listed as “mobile” on their 2nd and 3rd mortgages, though they are anything but. An attempt to move any of the duct tape bound shacks would disintegrate the home into a pile of un-biodegradable wall paneling and release a black gold torrent of cockroach infestation upon the world. An insect menace, sure, but it is the exoskeletons of these bugs, drunk on your well-intentioned poison snacks, acting as an interior brace holding the unsteady structures together. The cockroaches are the very glue that binds these plastic shacks, which is why any of these homes have lasted through the hurricanes that traveled along I-4 or the Ronald Reagan Turnpike to Central Florida.

Full Moon over the Bayou, the ruins of Roanoke Apartments in the background

Full Moon over the Bayou, the ruins of Roanoke Apartments in the background

The inhabitants of St Bas Trailer Park are a microcosm of the desperate: the undereducated and underemployed, the immigrant and the refugee, the taxidermist, the professor and a stray paranoid blogger or two. Holding court from her back porch is the de facto monarch of SBTP, Queen Georgia. A leather-skinned and fiery hair-dyed grandmother, Queen Georgia’s cackle and conversational tone are amplified from hearing loss and a smoker’s throat. Her voiced opinions drown out the song birds of the bayou like the afterburners of an F-16 jet with a chest cold. She peacocks across the cigarette butted paths of the park with a sense of entitlement as if it were her Confederate fugitive ancestor who built the mobile home she resides in. When she calls out to a neighbor from her back porch, “Now where I come from, we call shit like that ‘white trash’”, you damn well believe her.

Queen Georgia also fancies herself quite the cougar. She preys on younger men in their early forties: unskilled laborers looking for a dishwashing gigs where they can roll up their tattoo sleeves and earn a buck or two to be spent on cheap wine. She romances them through the night on her porch, their drunken hyenas laughter carrying across the bayou to the abandoned ruins of the Roanoke Apartments across the way, their individual cigarette coupling with the other’s smoke in an entwined dance of vaporous death, their bodies in any various state of undress which sickens the mosquito whose ill fate brought it to this sun-ravaged flesh.

Sparky never had a chance against the coon onslaught.

Sparky and Barnie never had a chance against the onslaught of the ‘Coons.

You may ask how I, your humble narrator, know of this Queen Georgia. Oh, I know… just fortunately, within limits. Upon meeting the Queen, she offered me a bottle of domestic swill and insisted on giving me a ride upon her inflatable boat out on the bayou. I promptly declined both offerings, ending what was our first and would be our last efforts at neighborly courtesy. Soon thereafter, I was woken from a midday slumber to the cursing rants of Queen Georgia on her back porch, speaking on her cell phone for the entire trailer park to hear, “Fuck him, fuck him if he thinks just because he is my motherfucking boss he can tell me how many fucking times I can go the bathroom and for how long!” Note: I may exaggerate on some aspects of storytelling, but I put quotes around the true dialogue. To this one-sided cell phone conversation that permeated my walls, I drew offense. First, I do not like being woken from within the privacy of my own home by someone who does not speak quietly of their own personal lives outside the walls of my own home. Second, the trailer park is not a family-friendly environment, but Georgia’s latest dishwasher had his bastard spawn loitering around and there were always some feral children eating corncobs beneath her back porch and all those kids with their little gnarly ears are very impressionable to such language. Third, again the language! I believe a sacred word like “f**k” can only be used a finite amount of times, which is why I do not spell it out here. Queen Georgia has spent her quota and is now making f**k far less fun for the rest of us to use. She debases the word and makes f**k so much more… inane and pedestrian. Outraged, as you may have picked up on, I exited my home and used certain non-verbal clues to illustrate my displeasure. Queen Georgia gave me an unconvincing apology and continued the rest of her urinary diatribe indoors from where I thankfully could not hear it.

Dawn over St Bas

Dawn over St Bas

When paths are crossed within St Bas Trailer Park, Queen Georgia no longer looks me in the eye. Her thin-lipped drunken smirk tightens into a flat line as she meanders past. While most park occupants tolerate the rule of the queen, there is another beyond me openly opposes her reign. They call him the Professor.

I have had cigars and accompanying whiskies with said Professor and greatly prefer his company over that of the de facto monarch. The locals may call him “professor”, but he does not have a doctorate; the moniker was earned for his sheer knowledge on all things unfamiliar to the contemporary American. He is a teacher on indefinite sabbatical from Otter Dam Military Academy, somewhere in the foothills of the Smokey Mountains. When I told him I wouldn’t use his actual name in my blog as a means to protect both his identity and my own, he choose to call himself, Erasmus. Erasmus of Otter Dam.

As I mentioned, Erasmus speaks of things beyond the scope of common worldly knowledge. He describes his teaching hiatus in terms of the Polish Diaspora. When we discussed local Floridian culture and the perspective of always being on the outside looking in, he brought up the Defenestration of Prague, a Reformation-era event when Catholics tossed non-believers out the window of Prague Castle to their deaths below. Quickly, I became his apt pupil.

Erasmus is a man still in his prime, yet with valuable experience from an enriched past. He claims to have saved civilization from the Y2K bug. I asked him how he might have resolved the Y2K problem in the twilight of the year 1999, to which he responded, “It is all binary, I could only explain in a sequence of ones and zeroes. The layman would never understand.” Later in life, Erasmus was employed by a friend who was a producer of certain films in South Florida. He was to rewrite a script after viewing the actors at play. The scene, as Erasmus described to me, involved two scantily clad women peeking into a third’s window to find a fourth actor hard at work (pun intended). The dialogue was one peeper saying to the other, “OMG, they are fucking fucking in there.” I am not sure if Erasmus was more perturbed by the spelling out of an acronym “O-M-G” or the redundant, though a cutely appropriate redundancy, use of the sacred word “f**k”.

“It was then that I realized I should have let Y2K doom civilization.” Erasmus expressed his regret.

And then, of course, there is the navigator of this rambling journey of a blog post: Vic Neverman. I am but another loner of the lunatic fringe here at Bayou Saint Basil. Few of the local folk know me by name; I am the guy the park residents would tell television journalists, “he was always quiet and kept mostly to himself” which is probably the most suspicious and alienating thing anyone could say about a neighbor in our modern society.

They, my fellow bog-people, think I am completely nutter. From within the shadows of the cypress swamp, I listen to their jokes as they describe how the interior of my outer walls must be lined with tinfoil wallpaper, how my inner walls likely have various colored threads connecting Jack Ruby’s girlfriend’s pimp to Paul McCartney’s death in 1966, how I must meet women by going to the Huey Lewis & the News’ online dating site, how I horde ancient maps and have one of those Japanese sex-robots charging in my closet. But the TRUTH is This: I do not own a sex-bot. Good thing, too, or else I would never leave home except to buy more rum, peanut butter and sex-bot batteries.

Mists of a Summer Morning

Mists of a Summer Morning

Once again…welcome to my house. Come freely. Go safely; and leave something of the happiness you bring.

― Bram StokerDracula

Living in the post-9/11 world is a drag if you are prone to dissidence. The United States has a hyper-active immune system, employing a host of white blood cell agencies to destroy anything remarkably unfamiliar by sending the invasive element to confinement in some secret prison or another. And eternal confinement is the best case scenario (though death-by-drone might be preferable to constant water-boarding in a Croatian cement hole). What began with the aloof Commander-in-Chief GWB after September 11th, 2001, was an acceleration of National Security into a Police State Complex. In 2008, a new Chief took over. The candidate for “change” kept Guantanamo open despite campaign promises. In fact, President Obama has done everything to expand his power and limit that of the citizen. American citizens overseas have been targeted and annihilated by Obama’s pet drones. And Obama has the right to choose to take any uncooperative American citizen and essentially bury them in a foreign cell without benefit of a trial before peers. What’s more – the federal agencies responsible for protecting the citizenry have reverted back to old policies of the agent provocateur:  just look at the case of the Cleveland Five, where a few lost-soul stoners were recruited and entrapped into becoming terrorists. The Police State is grooming their own villains and if you are not careful, some agent provocateur may very well poison your well.

Or you could heed my advice.

(at the end of this blog, I have links to anti-National Defense Act and a great article on the “Cleveland 5” by Rolling Stone)

Rule 1 (because rules always come in multitudes and you need to begin somewhere): choose your friends, do not allow them to choose you. Be wary of anyone’s approach. Small talk is for assholes – do not engage in it. Do not trust anyone who backs their car into a parking space. People that back into parking spaces are assholes too – their disposition for reversing into spaces has to do with paranoia at their own duplicity, which is what drives them to such lengths to allow a quick-ish getaway. But enough of the small talk, avoid the senseless conversations with strangers. If they insist on small talk, engage in some alternative lunatic fringe speak to frighten them away. And if they do not fright – they are most exceptionally dangerous.

FOR EXAMPLE: whenever a stranger engages me on the weather or says good morning or something painfully ordinary like that, I revert to a discussion on PanspermiaPanspermia, at its heart, is a relatively sound scientific concept. In fact, unless you believe some unmoved mover created all that is heaven & earth, Panspermia is likely the key to the origins of life on Earth. Panspermia is a concept about how life began on this planet and the assumption that it derived from an extra-terrestrial (be it bacterial shite or fungus spore from some meteorite) element. Still, if you mention Panspermia enough times in a given paragraph, especially during a conversation with a nosey neighbor, chances are the irritant will likely excuse themselves and turn-tail. So Panspermia it is. “Looks like we may get some rain…” a wayward pedestrian mentions to me. I respond with, “Perhaps more Panspermia?” Note emphasis on the “sperm” root of the word. End of conversation, close the curtains because the scene is over.

Rule 2: do not trust those that are too closely like you. If you are on the grid, there is a file on you. The file has all of your credit card purchases, all of your library check-outs, all of your medical files and somewhere in Utah at Crypto-City the NSA has stored every single text, email and phone conversation you have had since 2004. It would be ridiculously easy for the powers-that-be to create a doppelgänger of you. Imagine – your own reflection walking into your life and wanting to be friends. “You like Battlestar Gallactica? So do I! Let’s be friends (forms the shape of a heart with hands).” This guy is an asshole and you do not need any more friends. Just move along…

Vic’s 6’3″ Doppleganger, or Father and/or DB Cooper

There is nothing more frightening to me than the thought of a doppelgänger. I am uncertain if I could co-exist with a fellow-me. A generational gap would be acceptable. Old Man Neverman and myself were essentially the same entity, just years apart. Part of me is suspicious that the old man wasn’t ME – Vic myself – sent back into time to swim out into the Gulf of Mexico and rescue younger me from certain peril, only to stick around as a father figure. I remember it well – my being a child and stupid and lost at sea and he, this elder me, mustachioed and swimming out to the rescue. But now that I realize it is unlikely I will never grow another 3 inches in height and that wearing a mustache is not coming into vogue anytime soon, I have come to accept that the doppelgänger posing as my father may very well have been a different person from me entirely. Perhaps even my biological father, if not DB Cooper. Or so I suspect…

Karlo Dubacki, a carpet salesman once accused of being Vic Neverman based on the resemblance of the mustache.

Either way, doppelgängers are dangerous. Of course, I once gravely feared doppelgängers because I was convinced that for a lad such as me, there could only be one possible lady candidate for mating (or at least willing to practicing the act of mating). If there were two of me and only one woman who would even conceive of a potential companionship with one of us, my likelihood of winning her over would be cut in half by the doubling of mes, you see. Since those dark years, however, I have learned that despite my paranoid schizophrenic behavior and my sharp canine teeth and my propensity for impersonating yeti, there are actually dozens upon dozens of women agreeable to shack up with the likes of me. Of course, many of them may very well be agent provocateurs.

Charlie NeverDog

This is what we writers call “a segue”.

Rule 3: be on the lookout for agent provocateurs. They may come from anywhere at any time. This is why I say to not allow others to choose you as a friend. I tend to distrust anyone new that arrives into my general sphere of proximity. Such distrust is helpful. Yet, there is a tragic flea in my mustard, dancing in an increasingly slow somber salsa as its wings cease to flutter against the yellowed anatagony – my flaw: I tend to go stupid in the company of beautiful women. I say this with hesitation because obviously I am showing my hand to all those card holders who oppose me. They now know all they need to defeat the mighty paranoia of Vic Neverman is to produce a lovely lady to twirl my sound sense into knots of nonsense. So be it. If I took half of the notches out of my headboard, I would likely be a much more prosperous individual. Would it be worth it? The core of this Vic responds with a resounding NO.

Rule 4: just get the hell off the grid. Jesse Ventura ran off to Mexico. You can too. In fact, I have decided to dedicate a new topic of conversation on my blog: “Escape the Grid” where I will outline some of my favorite places to escape to.

Stay tuned friend…

For an article on “the Cleveland Five”, a band of loser Occupy Wall Street protestors who were molded into terrorists, see below:

To know more about PANDA – People Against the National Defense Act, see below:

This is a mournful discovery.
1)Those who agree with you are insane
2)Those who do not agree with you are in power.

― Philip K. Dick, VALIS

Have I gone too far?

Vic Neverman

Having spent a day being chased by paintballs in an effort to win the confidence of a doomsday survivalist, I am left with many a welt. There are wounds in addition to the welts: tens of dozens of miniature gashes brought on by the insectual hordes feasting upon me in the Florida scrub over the last month. I am beaten, dehydrated, cramped and I itch like a sailor leaving port.

You might think paranoids have it easy. After all, when you’re prone to expect exaggerated worst case scenarios, you are also frequently relieved with the more likely and less severe outcome of events. Optimism is for fools, pessimism is the true key to happiness. To expect catastrophe and receive the mediocrity of the status quo – it is rather the delightful surprise. It is all in the math. Yet, life as a paranoid is not all that it is cut out to be. It certainly is not for everyone. The weak of bowels, for example, should not follow this path.

Oft times, the paranoid, especially those who have their toes testing the temperature of open dissent against established authority, need to bug-out and get off the Grid. The Grid is the common machinations of society – mass transit, automated teller machines, liquor stores, internet pornography, air conditioning, fast food, social networking sites and/or the constant surveillance of the Police State – all the trappings of first world comfort. In Florida, the Grid is everywhere. Nearly. To be off the Grid down here, you must succumb to the wilderness.

When I relocated back to Florida, I was leaving Oregon where the autumn, winter and spring seasons were varying shades of temperate gray with the heat of summer coming and going like a five-day hybrid-car sales-event at the local farmer’s market. There was no long cruel summer. Oregon just happens to be a paranoid utopia. You could be in Portland city limits and still exist completely off the Grid. There is a barter economy and no one thinks twice if you arrive in a bar wearing a Sasquatch mask. Privacy is guaranteed.

In the Portlandian Utopia: dress like an ape-man and everyone loves you

And in Portland, there are no bugs. Not like here in the Florida scrub, where I nurse all sort of bite. I’ve had tick, chigger, brown recluse… I once killed eleven mosquitos with a single slap of the palm against my blood-let shoulder. There is DEET as a repellent option, which is a sort of preventative chemotherapy for mosquito affliction: No fucking thank you. My wind-weathered, sun-leathered, salt-lathered skin is beginning to callus thick enough to keep the mozzies from penetrating my hide with their prickish proboscis. Even vampires aren’t asshole enough to regurgitate toxins back into your body when they are through with supper. Mosquitos are.

Welcome to Florida

brought to you by the Chamber of Commerce.

I lead with such notes about my continued hunkered-down existence in my palmetto bunker in order to fully disclose that my words arrive on this page already dripped in antagonism fueled by the Brazilian fire ant bites between my toes. When the insects speak Portugese, you know you are in trouble and right now my toes can’t help but forbidden dance against each other in a strange ecstatic agony both emotionally satisfying and physiologically detrimental.

I wonder, do the wounds of insect parasitism fuel the paranoia or does the paranoia feed the itch? What isn’t psychotic about clawing yourself into non-existence, one finger nail of flesh at a time?

Spring to Summer, What Happened to Winter?

Tropically Depressed at the crawfish festival

It was a brutal start to the summer. The last weeks of spring brought a tropical depression to Florida, drenching the dehydrated phallus of a state with violent storms twice, sometimes thrice, daily. I returned back to the Grid to find that the world had revolved beyond where I had last left it. My NeverKin had left for the higher ground of Colorado. My old ally Raz Kelly had gone on walkabout, uncertain if she was ever to return back this way again. Raz’ brother, Doc Kelly, gave me the once over and prescribed fish oil to cure my mental ills (I now take two spoonfuls before bed and burp up cod in my sleep). I found a girl I once knew, but she didn’t know me anymore. I saw her again at a crawfish festival, a bad idea, a terrible event, on a day the heavens opened-up and drenched the crustacean enthusiasts with the tropical depression. The girl I once knew smiled teasingly, “you’re soaked.” I replied, eagerly, that she was not much better (but she was; the rain suited her well). She explained how she would be interested in my invitation, accompanying me to the beer tent, however, “I didn’t hear from you, and…” Yes, yes, I had left the Grid and she, she did not hear from me and promptly found a replacement. A replacement for me. How does one, being a full-fledged paranoid, explain to the uninitiated “the Grid” and the necessity of occasionally leaving it behind? I, Vic Neverman, need not bother you, dear reader, with the further details. Alright, maybe a little bother… My replacement was a full head over my six foot stature and was run-of-the-mill Florida Jetski-Douche with an armband tattoo of rollicking waves symbolizing his spiritual passion for hot-tub fellatio. Judging by his clownish shoe size, he was replacing more than I could have filled. Beyond him, this replacement of mine, at this crawfish festival, were thousands more typical run-of-the-mill Jetski-Douche, falling off the conveyor belt faster than Lucille Ball could stuff them down her blouse. If it was not to be him, it could have been any of them. Jetski Douche is Legion and I… I had missed the boat.

The tropical depression passed. A couple days later, the sun came out and burnt everything back to a crisp.

The Quickening

Glynis McCants, the Numerologist, said 2012 was to be a fast year and I’ll be damned if it isn’t almost half over. This was to be the year leading up to the great END OF WORLD: Mexico Edition event, yet the months have passed so quickly the Mayan Calendar will be flipped to the next era before we ever realize it.

Should the END be more noticeable, I will likely be more prepared. I am, as it happens, affiliated with a local small-town political movement of doomsday prepper survivalists. I am sure I will have more on this story as the group practices and prepares for the hurricane season. The group is OASIS (Oviedo Army of Security, Intelligence and Survival) and while it might have its origins in Florida militia secessionism (I found them while posing as my alter-ego, Tea Partier Bucky Swoon), it is really a community organization that meets to play paintball and drink Dark ‘n’ Stormys (actually, I introduced OASIS to the Gosling’s sponsored rum drink, which was, in turn, introduced to me by my government contracted spook of a brother-in-law – a conspiracy unto itself) while discussing various SHTF (shit hit the fan) scenarios. As the resident conspiracy theorist, I was named the official archivist of the organization, mostly because my apocalyptic library is the entirety of the group’s archives.

Have I gone too far? Now is the winter of our discontent, made glorious by the sun of York goes the Shakespearean line from Henry III. I consider this season as the summer of my discontent, soon to be behind me as we are hurtled ever faster into tomorrow. Forget the impending Maya Apocalypse (just another excuse for rum drinks); my spirit is plagued by the current ineffectiveness of democracy in this country. My last blog was a rant on the subject. This current blog details what wear and tear a paranoid suffers as he hides in the shadows of his own fear.

Good Luck and Godspeed America.

Vic Neverman and Cyrus Lee as the alpha-dog Apex Apocalyptics of OASIS (Oviedo Army of Security, Intelligence and Survival)


“They are smarter than you. You think you have something They haven’t seen before? You are wrong. They know each move you make before you make it because They know how your mind works. That is why you must not just run, but run like a mad man. Run like plastic bag caught by the wind. Leave your spine behind and dance like a jellyfish. If you do not know what your next move is, then They will not know what your next move is.” – Old Man Neverman (suspected as being D.B. Cooper)

For those unfamiliar with the saga of Victor Ulysses Neverman, allow me to begin this tale of voyage with some quicks facts from my past.

FACT: I lived in Chicago before being squeezed out by the oppressive Machine regime. Yeah, Chicago is the “city that works” alright. And if you try to stand in the way of one of the Machine’s cogs, you will be crushed.

FACT: I left Chicago to hide out in a safe house in Southern Milwaukee where I drank strong kraut beers at airport lounges and chased dimwitted midwestern women at the various gin joints. But Milwaukee just wasn’t far enough from my windy city troubles.

Basil, half-dog, half-Olympian. Waiting patiently the Boss to grab a pint at his favorite Portland watering hole

FACT: I relocated to the hills of Oregon where me and my paranoia could live in peace. I established an idyllic lifestyle amongst a community of hipsters, artists, trustifarians and their pets. I even had a dog, Basil (Baz-Il, not Bay-Zul like the herb). Basil is the demigod-dog resulting from the mating of Zeus and some Aussie Shepherd bitch.

FACT: The Neverman family became imperiled when my sister began to be courted by a government contracted spook. From the start, I informed my sister of the security industrial complex, how the NSA is watching all of us and how her new romeo is likely a spy himself, monitoring our notorious clan of ne’er-do-wells.

FACT: My sister married the spook anyway.

Vic confronts the government contracted spook of a brother-in-law

FACT: Upon returning from a freelance journalist assignment to the Golden Triangle of SE Asia where I was confronted by my Never-nemesis, Phineas Crux, I learned the NeverSister was NeverKnocked-up by my government contracted spook of a brother-in-law.

FACT: Just as Bodhisattva denied himself enlightenment in order to help guide the rest of the droles out of the cave of Plato’s parable (everything you think you believe is just the shadows dancing on the cave wall from the light of the fire behind you, aka ‘the matrix’), I too denied myself metamorphosis into divine light in order to become an uncle to this new NeverSpawn to ensure the NeverNiece doesn’t succumb to the house of lies built by her government contracted spook of a father. So I relocated to Florida.

FACT: As soon as I relocate to Florida (or at least within the first two years of my relocation), my government contracted spook of a brother in law decides to move my family (sans Vic) to the Rocky Mountains where he is overseeing the Cheyenne Mountain military base where the Illuminati will hide away during the upcoming Mayan predicted apocalypse (NOTE: this is my conjecture on his true job, though I know for certain the Mayan calendar does not predict end times).

Escaping into the western wilderness: Nicco, the NeverMonkey; 'Rain Dance', the NeverNiece; and Vic Neverman

FACT: I used my security permissions at the NeverNiece’s day care to pick her up (after passing the biometric tests proving my identity as the NeverUncle). I had one of the day care workers demonstrate the diapering procedure. I then put the NeverNiece in a car seat and drove away… I was going to take her back to Oregon and raise her amongst the hill people. I was going to change her name to ‘Rain Dance’ or ‘Omaha’ so she would fit in with the other children of the commune. I was going to raise her in peace, yet with an understanding of the evils of the world outside. I was going to teach her how to hunt elk, kind of like that girl from the movie ‘Hanna’ where I would be play the Eric Bana quasi-paternal role and Rain Dance would totally be able to kick people’s ass.

FACT: My NeverNapping abduction didn’t get as far as the first diaper change. I figured Rain Dance might actually be happier living in the matrix with the NeverSister and the spook.

The movie, Hanna: What I envisioned for 'Rain Dance's' new life

FACT: Then they all moved out to Denver.

I think that catches us up to where the story of this journey begins. My government contracted spook of a brother-in-law had to drive his pet mongrels cross-country to Colorado, a trip my sister did not want him to do alone. He begrudgingly asked me the favor of co-piloting this voyage. As my last chance to see my family before this spook hides them away in some under-mountain bunker, I agree to this trip.

So begins TransAmericana.

Alas! It is I, Vic Neverman, your faithful navigator upon the high treachery seas of conspiracy theory. Fresh, I am, back onto the societal grid. Fresh in every sense but scent, for my time off of said grid was entire hours of living in the vast scrub brush sands of the Florida pine lands and at least that long since I have, indeed, bathed. So quiet the alarm until I might clean the fresh kill out of my fingernails (the trail mix did not last long, except for the raisin particles embedded in the tips of my digits until being hammered free upon this here keyboard).

During my time of respite in the scrub, I received a few familiar, yet suspicious, visitors to my cozy wilderness camp. The first was that government-contracted spook of a brother-in-law to tell me he has been reassigned out west (likely to oversee the government bunker a mile beneath Denver International Airport where he, the triaged Executive/Legislative branches, and Tim Tebow will be spending the next Christmas holiday just in case the Mayan Apocalypse theories* prove true). My second visitor was long time ally, Raz Kelly, whose true intentions are still suspect due to her ties to both China and Israel (while she has saved my skin multiple times, her passport reads like a Tom Clancy novel and she’s had her gun pointed at my mid-section for the better part of the last decade). During these visits, I would show the guest my favorite spots – the idyllic view of the river from a gator sunning bed, the bamboo forest I hide within when I hear wild boar, and the tree I climb to view the campground where hippie backpackers celebrate the wilderness with orgiastic splendor. The questions from my guests inevitably arrive – ‘how long are you going to stay off the grid?’, ‘who are you hiding from this time?’, and ‘why are you wearing a fake beard over your real beard?’

*Note – the Mayan Apocalypse theories are inspired by the calendar of the Maya, but the theories are proposed, written, published by opportunistic gringo swindlers.

The primary reasoning behind my self-imposed exile is the rise of duel threats: the National Defense Authorization Act (NDAA) and proposed online piracy legislation. The NDAA is certainly most terrifying, but it was the arrival of the online piracy acts that sent me for the hills. Not that I am a pirate, by any stretch, but the anti-piracy legislation would have granted wide censorship privileges to an undisclosed power-that-be to deafen the voice of your humble navigator, one Vic Neverman. Fortunately, the pirates and my rants live on… at least until new legislation comes along that is more appealing to Google and Wikiwhatever.

While I still have a voice, let’s discuss this damn NDAA that Obama claimed he was going to veto before performing an about-face, signing the NDAA into existence on New Year’s Eve when the American public was busy congregating on the piss-and-champagne sick-slickened streets like herds of sticky-hooved cattle being led to the slaughter to the melody of Madonna as sung by Lady Gaga (I shiver in socio-phobic dread at the televised sight). Why would Obama be so discrete about signing this Act into Law? Because it brings the United States one step closer to a dystopian police state under the shadow of Obama’s drones patrolling overhead.

Upon return to the grid, I find a comment from a wayward friend – “Razor” Callahan, a championship meat smoker and reformed smuggler out of Florence, Alabama, “There needs to be an update to the novel 1984.” Indeed, I respond to Razor, and it shall be called “2012”.

At the risk of becoming the NDAA’s first victim, I shall expand upon this horrifying Act (with the ACLU on speed dial in case I am cut-off amidst typing stream). The NDAA lifts our right to Habeas Corpus, which is a Latin way of saying our protection against being imprisoned unlawfully. The United States Constitution very effectively demands, “the privilege of the writ of habeas corpus shall not be suspended, unless when in cases of rebellion or invasion they public safety may require it.” So what rebellion or invasion is there to justify such a suspension? None other than our figurative ‘War on Terror’. So until this conceptual battle is formally declared over, we are susceptible to unlawful imprisonment courtesy of the NDAA.

While the current administration has demonstrated great proficiency at blowing up terrorists (22 of the 30 most terroristicish, Obama claims), this conceptual ‘War’ is no closer to drawing to a close because of the collateral damage is, in fact, expanding the terror on both sides. Plus, this ‘War’ is going gangbusters for the Military Industrial Complex, whose special interests are highly looked after in Washington. Long story short – we’ve lost this constitutional right ofhabeas corpus for the foreseeable future.

Another Act that served as a second option if the NDAA did not pass is the Enemy Expatriation Act, which would effectively turn homebred enemies into ex-citizens and export them to some Romanian dungeon (subterranean Bucharest is lovely this time of year). The NDAA did pass, however, and now allows any American suspicious characters to be arrested and detained indefinitely. Who qualifies as ‘suspicious’? Colonel Lawrence Wilkerson, formerly Chief of Staff for Colin Powell, was interviewed on Russia Today last month and claimed the NDAA would be used against Occupy protestors. Whatever the NDAA is used for, be it to arrest protestors or ornery bloggers, the trial would not be in a public forum with a jury of peers, but rather held before a military tribunal.

I’ve reached out to my off-the-grid mentor, a socialist libertarian (the political persuasion that occurs when extreme left meets extreme right, otherwise known as “anarchist”) living in Montana, and he mentioned how up-in-arms the local militia-friendly NRA crowd is up there over the NDAA. This survivalist guru said that the Department of Defense (or whoever the unspecified judge of suspicion is in these matters) could imprison him based off his weapon arsenal and stock of food supply. Of course, his anti-government remarks do not help his cause, but I trust him. It would have been real easy for my visit to his cabin to end with his wife gutting me with her squirrel knife and their leaving my remains to the wolves in the Bob Marshall Wilderness and pawning off my belongings in Missoula. My mere existence is proof of their neighborliness. I will definitely speak to their character, but then, whose going to believe me if I too am suspect?

Suddenly, the Florida scrub brush doesn’t seem so cozy. The palmettos appear too short to offer cover from the drones and spy blimps overhead. Perhaps it is time to offer fealty to the government-contracted spook brother-in-law of mine in hopes he can get me a cubby hole under Cheyenne Mountain to hide.

It is a paranoid new world we live in…

Cerberus Security International
where three heads are better than none

July 11, 2011
Casey Anthony
Orange County Correctional Facility
Orlando, FL

Dear Casey,

Allow me to be the next to congratulate you on securing your freedom from the oppressive persecution prosecution of the State of Florida. The easy part is over. Now begins the new challenge of living your life outside the safety of the prison bars which kept the terrors out more than they kept you within. If I may be blunt, and I am wont to believe you like it blunt ;), it is a scary fucking place we live in, Casey. This is why I write you today.

Attached, you will find a five step proposal from my firm Cerberus Security International, detailing our plan to not only protect you as our client, but to distance yourself from the dangers of mindless vigilante violence and the relentless interrogative paparazzi. We at Cerberus are experts in Security, Counter-Surveillance, and Eluding Pursuers and I think we may be just the torch-wielding friends you need in these times of darkness.

Good Luck and Godspeed,

Victor Ulysses Neverman

Cerberus Security International
Proposal to Prospective Client Ms. Casey Anthony
Platinum Asset Protection Package

Five Stage Process:
1 – Secure Safety
2 – Exploit Celebrity
3 – Transfer of Wealth
4 – Escape
5 – Rebirth

Stage 1 – Secure Safety
Upon her release from incarceration, provide client 24-7 security by Cerberus Guardians. This protection will last through to the final stage when the Client is born again under a new identity. During Stages 1 & 2 it is important that the client lives the lifestyle expected of her, that of the trollop. This is important because if the Client suddenly has a coming-to-Jesus and renounces her former modus vivendi, this will only draw suspicion. Living “trampily”, as it were, would involve exposure to the public, which must be avoided, so this lifestyle must be earned falsely via releases of sex tapes and volunteering staged photographs of revelry to the paparazzi all in attempt to prove the Client is who she is expected to be.

Stage 2 – Exploit Celebrity
In order to succeed, the system requires funding. Stage 2 will be an all-out whoring to the media to exploit this ill-fame and collect as much wealth as possible. CSI will provide the Client with coordination of this process, from negotiating book deals & movie rights to booking travel accommodations.

Stage 3 – Transfer of Wealth
As soon as revenue begins to come in, CSI will establish a faux Non-Profit Charity Fund as a front for off-shore bank accounts where these funds will funnel through. Client will claim to be philanthropic while still living the lifestyle expected of her.

Stage 4 – Escape
CSI will create a new identity in a foreign locale where the transferred funds will be made available. Reconstructive surgery is a must as well as the adoption of an entirely new life history by the Client. Learning a new skill or profession would be ideal to accommodate this new persona. Before the Client enters this new life, the former must literally be killed off. CSI specializes in pseudocide – the art of faking one’s own death. Ideally, the pseudocide would be as easy as faking a drug overdose in Rio de Janeiro where paying off the coroner and police would be no difficult feat. Unfortunately, this is not 1971 when Jim Morrison pulled off a similar stunt in Paris – the American public will demand proof via its media. This demand will not be as easily swayed as it was with Osama bin Laden, we can’t just dump a body into the ocean. What is called for is a spectacle. Perhaps something akin to the Princess Diana tragedy where paparazzi record the final moments of the Client’s “life”. The sensationalization of this “evidence” would quash the public’s demand for proof and even their blood-thirst for revenge for whatever crimes they assume the Client has committed.

Stage 5 – Rebirth
Client will have evolving stages of metamorphosis. There will be the reconstructive surgery and healing stage, perhaps done in Cuba where such services exist with utmost discretion. The next stage will be a limbo where the Client will pose as a tourist in some distant metropolitan locale where English is spoken, perhaps Auckland or Vancouver or Edinburgh. Finally, once the client is comfortable within her new “skin”, she will be provided with her final destination, a locale further off the beaten path, perhaps an Australian coastal town where the Client can easily mimic the shag-happy locals’ lust for the beach and beer.

Conclusion of Services
Once the Client is safely secured in a new life, the service will be considered provided and this will conclude the relationship between the parties.