The Economics of Revolution

Joel: I’m surprised that your Dad is not in Brazil for the World Cup?

Dave: Well, he’s seventy years old and it’s totally Insane down there right now.

J: I’ve heard they’re having a lot of Problems down there taking care of all the fans: Transportation and Everything else.

D: There’s quite a bit social unrest. You know in terms of the people who are very Upset that all this Money is being spent on the World Cup. There’s a bunch of people without houses or electricity and other Basic Services. And Brazil I’m not gonna say is a Socialist Country but had Socialist leanings. Problems with the lower classes. People get really upset when . . .

J: By socialist leanings to you mean that people are dependent upon the government?

D: By Socialist I mean that somebody is getting screwed.

J: Oh?

D: Yeah. Very Socialist.

J: Tell me more.

D: The Government is falling apart.

A 52 6 min 15 seconds.


The Adventures of Child Services Man

Part V
The Adventures of Child Services Man and
His Trusty Sidekick the JavaMeister

Our story begins in the Tennessee town called Metroboro. Now our Heroes are just like you and me. Regular shmucks working for da Man. Well, at least CSM was. Java was living in his Mother’s basement, optimizing his download speed on his newest laptop. Or at least that’s what he told his friends. I mean Friend, singular: Zach was a social worker, a Family man, Responsible and Trustworthy, a Good Guy. You know the type.

Java was, well, a Loser: No job, no car, no girlfriend, and surely no Prospects. The one you gotta spot for a movie or a dollar cheeseburger. You know the type.

Me: I’m just here to tell da tale. You know the type.
Back to the story.
Honestly Java did have another Friend, who we’ll call Little Bear. He was mostly a recluse, didn’t get out too much, but he could build a kick-ass computer with spare parts and duct tape. Loved people but just didn’t bother with most because he knew they were too Lost. You know the type.
Anywho, these three wayward souls somehow became friends, in their own way. When or how they met is still a mystery to me. Some say they met at a party, others say they met at a Walmart, or maybe it was a coffee shop. Me, I believe they met at Church. We may never know for sure. In Truth, it matters not. They came, they met and they kicked ass. You know the type.
If not, you should. But I digress. It was 2007ish near as I can figure. King George II was nearing the end of his eight year reign, but a light named Obama had appeared at the end of the tunnel. Was it the End or was the light on the front of a speeding locomotive? Both it turned out. But that is someone else’s tale. You know the type.


The first stage of Greif is Denial. No, I’m not really dying of AIDS. My wife does not really have terminal breast cancer. My child does not really have bipolar disorder. My husband is not really an alcoholic and addict. You know the type.

Elizabeth was a death specialist. She saw hundreds of people die before she identified the Five Stages of Grief. Now the Earth is dying, rapidly. And we, humanity, are swimming in Denial: Global Climate Change, Mass Extinction of Plants and Animals, Acid Rain, New-Clear Meltdowns, Fossil Fuel Depletion, AIDS, Greenhouse Gases, Television, Wars and Rumors of War, Military Veteran, Suicide, Revolution, Al-Qaeda, Chronic Depression and Mental Illness, Justin Beaber, MRSA, Droughts, Tom Cruise, and Barney. You know the type.

What are paying attention to? TMZ, YouTube, porno, freaking Facebook? How many “Friends” do you have? We need a screen to read and write. Three year olds can do a Google search. We have computers attached to our hips. What it hell is going on? And why is there not a Song about our Plight? Who will be our Dylan?

If not Now, when? If not Here, where? If not me, who?

Here I Am . . . Now . . . Call me Java.


I went to JavaZorra’s for a couple, two, three double espressos on a Thursday afternoon. I

washed it all down with a yerba matte, Shaman style. I was playing with my tarot deck to pass the

time while the espresso did its job. I young woman joined me outside, so I got out my laptop and
pretended to write. I was really just tweaking my Pandora account. When I pulled out my ear buds to
head for the head she asked, ‘Are those Tarot cards?’

No they’re chick magnets. ‘Yeah, you want a reading?’


‘Let me run to the can, then I’ll Do you. OK?’


I then ran to the can, and picked up two more double shots on the way back. ‘I got some
espresso. You want Some?’


‘What’s your question? Romance or Finance?’

‘Can I do both?’

‘Sure, of course!’ Time to work your magic, Java Meister.


And so it went — And so it goes. Coffee, Tarot, Write, Flirt . . . Coffee, Tarot, Write, Flirt . . .
Ad infinitium.


The Life of Java Part I

The Gospel According to Java
Some time ago a child was born into a world without fear. His Father named him Java after his maternal grandfather. Java grew to be a man in an age where boys were kings of their own realms. Every whim, every desire was given to him and his peers. Unfortunately, as he grew in years, he as of yet became a Man.
We know not of his extended adolescent years other than some rumors and few internet video postings. We do know he lived the life of a profligate and accumulated a lengthy rap sheet which has been studied by Javian scholars. His incarcerations and many psychiatric hospital stays are also well documented. Java’s story begins here at the age of thirty four or five, as near as we can guess. Then is the tale of his conversion and baptism followed by his so called Salad Days. After that he spends four chapters on a basic primer for roasting and brewing coffee. Finally is an account of his arrest and eventual martyrdom, which was written by one of his followers after Java’s death name unknown.

The Book of Java: Chapter One
“Without Love where would you be now?” My dad’s favorite Socratic question it is. His other favorite quote came from my grandpa Paddon: “Well begun is halfway done.” I may have hated my Father, but he taught me to be a man while I was in a shit storm of my own making. Has never bailed me out from jail.
The wired chemical is dough: With much Power comes much Responsibility.