What a bright day it was for freedom to smoke weed and ingest edibles in California when basic signals became crossed at latitude 37.11, longitude -121.84, above an elevation of twelve hundred feet, but good. A slinky ribbon of fog shimmied like no less a jewel than Tina Turner cut loose. Passage of AUMA, the Adult Use of Marijuana Act appeared to be in the electoral bag. Robots and lackeys were rebooting mixed codes to no avail. Mistakes caused deep error messages. Had I known no better, I might have been tempted to cartoonishly believe while down on my scabby knees that a stroke of quixotic luck from a beige to ivory tinged god with snowy beard who looked familiar had been delivered. But, HHUMH Thee Tawny Owl was above it all and pulling strings as usual. Even the notoriously cranky San Andreas Fault was calm. It started out Tuesday, sort of, during a not uncommon confluence of events. Dissonance and rhythm clashed, along with moisture and elasticity. To the standard myopic eye, nothing appeared to be misplaced. And yet, blame was building. That tends to occur right before it becomes too late.
The robots as we all know so well are best able to prosper by inducing stress in subjects. It is relatively painless, except for the subjects. In sum, production numbers trend up and opposing opinions turn down. Win-win, except for the losers. But, the tawny owl, who had seen more and better, was less than impressed. Fifty million years don’t lie. And he had red-tailed hawks on his side. No losers fly that high.
The widespread electricity went off before noon while I was waiting to be unstuck in the mud by a truck. It was hot and getting hotter and my alibi was tight. I knew because I had been made aware. Which was and is not to my surprise the better half of the story. I learned that part as a result of keen observation. The red-tailed hawks were pissed off, fed up, had it up the craw with the lame antics of wannabe crows in the Santa Cruz Mountains. Who could blame a high flying hawk? No one in the mud you better believe. The trashy crows, an affront to all high flying raptors gracing the coastal mountains from Big Sur to Half Moon Bay, had become addicted to the easy pickings spewed by legions of techno-yuppie dweebs squatting behind electrified gates, frantic to level hills and murder plants and animals. Plus, they constituted the fifth and sixth columns of storm troopers employed by robots in opposition to AUMA, the Adult Use of Marijuana Act, Prop 64 on the California Ballot in November. The unbalanced neighborhood sure as shit tumbled down after that. Sure, flying high helped. But, still.
My job was to act as a diversion, at which I excelled. I’d been there plenty, and done that a bunch. Lots of ruts recognize my footprints by touch. The quantity of mud, though, took me by surprise. That’s not to say I’m making an abject excuse. As a Benedict Arnold to my species in the just war against clueless human enablers of venal cats who murder beautiful birds, I knew what I was doing better than ever.
One split into two which fractured. Willy-nilly contents spilled. Once that goes down, well, like…duh. Hawks are brave and hawks are strong. Even blase hawks can get fed up. A martyred limb of a tall tree knocked over a transformer which sparked a fever leading to a meltdown. Sparks that could not fly high extracted justice on the down low. We all know what that means. Electricity drained like pus into porous granite and sand. Another cocky machine controlled by jerky robots would murder no more. Rhythm and harmony escaped. How many beautiful birds would be spared more unspeakable horror? How many more hawks would be free to fly higher? A bunch.
An obsessive-compulsive techno-dweeb appeared in fruity underwear to observe the damage and break down into a puddle of mixed oil and tears at the sight of his abject lawn mower. His lewd daydream burst into a brittle thought balloon. What remained left to salvage, soulless techno music? Had I been able to fly high and serve as a reliable witness I might have been able to crow. It was by any meaningful standard a brutal but fair punishment for a diabolical John Deere mower to be crushed and disemboweled within view of misaligned robot masters. The color of the oil soon matched the fruity boxer briefs.
I observed the jubilation at the Thee Tawny Owl Institute of High Flying and Rising Consciousness from my spot under a redwood in the Santa Cruz Mountains that spilled over into the next day and more days adding to a bunch. The lovely wife of the tawny owl, Thee Mrs, who could replicate every sound in the history of rhythm and blues since Clyde MacPhatter, was hooting like Buddy Guy and Junior Wells one minute and like Smokey Robinson and Mary Wells next. Marvin Gaye and Tami Terrell were warming up below. I was happy and proud that my minor contribution so much mattered to me. My hips were loose and my backbone slipped. One of a kind turned out in diamonds to trump any collection of bumps and clods in pairs. Although the tawny owl disapproved of burning plants and animals not only in principle but in solid observant practice lasting fifty million years, even weed, he had no objection to the ingestion of edibles. But not even that was the best part of the story. The best part was still to come.
Repairs, though made and made again by rotund squires with prime credit at Costco, never added up to par. Breakdowns in least denominators became common. Gates creaked and wobbled, though lubed. Brands and logos clashed. Plans for beams and pipes were drawn with curves like the teeth of sabre saws. The craving for ultra-electricity never went away. It became urgent to assign blame. Obsessive-compulsive dweebs suffered excessively on lawns with uneven mowers. Shit stains on tan pants were suffered oddly in silence. What if suffering escaped the filters into Silicon Valley down low. What if down low widely spread? It wasn’t enough to blame the cracks in the earth. The San Andreas Fault would have to go, but not yet. Increased levels of leveling must be accelerated. Or so said the numbers, unanimously.
And that was exactly when the best part of the story started to get going, but good. The robots, upon additional one-sided reflection blamed weed growers in Santa Cruz Mountains for stealing electricity from the needy. The proper authorities had been so advised. I read all about it on the infallible Internet, and I got the joke, but good. It was pretty funny. I was still laughing when I recognized a distinctive knock on my door.
The Deputy Sheriff of Santa Cruz County had recited my so-called rights to me on prior invasions. It didn’t take long. I was always immaculately innocent. Her speech was clipped like a shorn lap dog.
“We are in heated pursuit of a visual sighting following evidence of a lead.”
“According to recent conclusions in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, 4th editon, Text Revisions, (DSM-IV-TR), combining prickly heat with visual stimulations is known to be helpful in depressing lofty thoughts.”
“I’m not the only one who doesn’t think you’re funny.”
“My cynical criminal lawyer is on hold between bites of a turkey sandwich with sage stuffing.”
“We are requesting permission to follow where your wires lead. If you don’t agree, you arouse suspicion.”
“If I only had wires, I could refuse and arouse away.”
“Everybody has wires.”
“Your county tried to stop me years ago from cutting my attachments to wires but my cynical civil lawyer stopped them.”
“Do you still have a problem with your county?”
“Only as it exists.”
“We’ll be back.”
“I believe you.”
“We’ve received complaints about a rooster crowing.”
“That’s probably just Lt Guv Gav on the other line preparing to pounce.”
Out of Line 