Misanthropy's Report/ Prol-B

Misanthropy’s Philosophical Lighthouse
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Misanthropy’s Ever-
Expanding Wings
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Hear Goddess Roxanne’s spiritual salu-

tation music...

♦ Misanthropy’s Ever-Expanding Wings ♦ Prologue ♦ 17

hospitable dark humidity of under-rocks or inguinal folds, but often in the sun’s plain, blazing light, observation unfortunately fully sup-ported by so many screaming news headlines all over this country in which the words ‘Los Angeles City’ are conspicu-ously present.

Some years ago, an entire sect of loons, recorded as Heaven’s Gate Travelers (or something like that: shaven heads, pink robes, monotonous, New Age sotto voce speaking, castration practitioners – now what about this?) successfully committed group suicide in a nice Californian tropical mansion, all thirty of them. The occurrence, of course, was lustily covered by the national media, The Los Angeles Times strangely adding to the national frenzy some loud, public howls of relief and gratitude, thanking merciful God for establishing as venue for that weird first page event San Diego, and not Los Angeles (as the panic stricken Los Angeles Times editorial board sus-pected in the first moment – it sounded so much like a wacky, Los Angeles type of thing), poignant testimony to the fact that this Los Angeles has for long been quite a quite tried place, public image-wise, and its officials and worthy inhabitants have always been quite edgy about this situation.

So, with this reputation problem in mind, and since most of the following, errr – let’s allow for… intense, yeah, intense is the word – so, intense events which are described in this Narrative occur in this city, we have, in all fairness and for the re-cord, to state that the larger Los Angeles City is inhabited by normal, God-fearing people, who patiently go through life’s daily grind, often heroically so, considering the predicaments and absurdities of this place, and their lives wouldn’t provide misanthro-pic chroniclers with gossip fodder, or qualify as raw data for inter-galactic intelligence finding missions’ dejected reports – no sir, they should go else-where to satisfy their prurient interests.

Yeah, Los Angeles is a honorable place, inhabited by honorable people, living hono-rable and useful lives, from Downey to El Segundo, Long Beach to Northridge or Glendale to Lomita.

Los Angeles, yes – yet, scientific studies show that, for certain reasons, locales and cities often fall prey, image-wise to some of their extreme characteristics, and, when this extreme chaacteristics syndrome (in our case the vastly honorable El Pueblo de Nostra Señora la Re-ina de Los Angeles Sobre el Rio la de Porciuncola’s image grotesquely distorted by Holly-wood’s and Beverly Hills’ ways), is, at its turn amplified by some intense (albeit very rare) occurrences, as it happens in the case of this Narra-tive, the eventual, aggregated image can be quite jarring, even for the natural philo-sophy student’s seasoned eye. So, for these reasons, we have to ask the kind reader that whenever in the following pages the words Los Angeles will appear, or local ways, habits, mentalities, types, facts, etc. will be described, she/it/he (the reader) is begged to remember that said descriptions have been significantly contaminated by the mentioned, extreme characteristics syndrome and by the intense and rare events cata-lyst which happens to amplify, unfortunately, the Los Angeles extreme characteristics syndrome to grotesque, yet, alas! painfully plausible dimensions.

“Is Insanity Contagious? Answer, page 27!” these words as a calming caption on a painted, gigantic erupting volcano! An enormous, sky covering double winged billboard, the other wing complementing the insanity warning by touting a Sweet Things Are Made Of This slogan, several antennae calmly spinning among the crows perched on the vast panels’ edges – right now, we’re exactly under these two Zeitgeist announcing signs, in Beverly Hills, looking eastward, right from the hump where Sunset and San Vicente Boulevards converge, it is around noon, the sun is on its royally assigned path delivering the established light and heat, and the timing and all other objective conditions for observing the said Los-Angeles-am-Mekong-stationary-SUVs-floating-village inhabitants are excellent.

♦ Misanthropy’s Ever-Expanding Wings ♦ Prologue ♦ 18

However, for the time being, an unknown event has completely cleared the flow of iron cages on the boulevards (fire? earthquake? riot? Paris Hilton rattling her skeleton on a side-walk? Michael Jackson dangling a toddler from a twelve floor’s window? Anther rock star just jumped on his head from Chateau Marmont? Jesus at Taco Bell? Bank hold-up? We’ll see), and from the height of this point, the vista of Sunset Strip/ Holloway plunging eastward in the endless Santa Monica Boulevard is completely de-serted, and an eerie, perfect, post atomic strike silence has molten over the surround-ing, scorched-to-stillness streets, macadam landing strips perfectly fit for the eventual landing of an intergalactic, life (& intelligence) finding mission. Yes, very silent, very warm and very still – on the dwindling in the distance rows of wooden light poles, yellow banners, lazily swollen by the hot breeze, praise the local philharmonic and the merits of one Gustav Mahler, whose ink profile is contemptuously looking at a gigantic “No Glove, No Love!” post-retro-cheesy-Lichtenstein styled poster which covers the blind wall of a ten floors hotel, and, as additional visual manifestations of life and, possibly, of intelligence, some electoral banners tacked on the walls remind to any-one willing to glance at them that right now we are in the last days of a United States pre-sidential election, a certain Bob Dole running against a certain Bill Clinton.

Yes, it’s 1996, times of great national moral & spiritual rejuvenation in America, cla-mor the newspapers and the TV – these are the times of New Values™ and the winds of change and the New Values™ that have been so sorely needed by this country for so long are here, materialized by mister Clinton’s edifying first presidential term, and may the Lord (or The For-ce – we’re in Los Angeles, after all), allow the nation be blessed with them, New Values™, and with those rejuvenating winds of change – id est, one more presidential term! the mentioned Bill Clinton posters announce.

Yes, the times of New Values™ are here! Officially so! The new spirit, New Values ™ is actively blowing over the country, inspiring and raising the nation to amazing new heights of morality, abnegation, selflessness and integrity, as James Carville’s Presi-dential Reality Management Office criers are breathlessly spreading the good news in any possible TV show or press junket:

“Lo and behold! The Progressive Times Of New Values™ are here! Verily so! Yes, here! At last! We’re blessed! The new people, the Progressive New Values™ people, have come to Washington and the White House! The times of greed and irresponsi-bility, the times of baseness and sleaze, the times of thievishness, selfishness and hedo-nism, the times of falsity, ostentation and opportunism, materialism, vulgarity, gross consumerism and immorality are gone! The Progressive Times Of New Values™ are here!”

Thanks heavens! What a relief! So, it eventually happened! Gretchen, let’s tell the children! It is so uplifting to celebrate these good news here, under the glowing, sky covering, erupting, “Is Insanity Contagious? Answer, Page 27!” volcano, then looking at the “No Glove, No Love!” gigantic poster covering the side of the hotel, then view-ing the scores of New Values™ posters tacked on the walls among other progressive, mobilizing appeals like: “Death To The Breeders!”, “Rock-The-Vote & the Progressive Cause Need You!”, “My New Big Breasts!”, “MoveOn.Org. Wants You!”, “Lose Fifty Pounds In Five Days! Call 800-so-so-so”, “Sex For Life! 800-so-so-so”, “My Marriage Cannot Hurt Your Marriage!”, “Friends Don’t Let Friends Vote Republican!”, “We Want Your Organs!” and so on.

Yup, Beverly Hills, the Nineties’ true Progressive Serendib, New Values™ very sta-tion, refined blend of tropical authenticity, purity, modernity, sophistication, spirituality

♦ Misanthropy’s Ever-Expanding Wings ♦ Prologue ♦ 19

and individual fulfillment opportunities! “Everybody Is Looking For Something,” indeed so: for a part in a reality drama or a dating show, for yak yoghurt, to set up a scam, for dope or for a three pictures deal, for a boobs or pecs job, seeking or offering spiritual succor or guidance discount packaged with some fulfillment receipts – yup, the local populace sure would queue up in the blazing sun for a spot at an organic tanning salon like L’Honteux Et Le Macabre, L’Etre Et Le Neant or Honi Soit Qui Mal Y Pense. Yup, and these New Values™ claims and winds of change that have been blowing over the country are perfectly matching this scenery and its Zeitgeist – yup, around here indeed everybody is looking for something.

“Sweet Dreams Are Made Of This” – the vista of Sunset Strip/Holloway plunging in the endless Santa Monica Boulevard is completely deserted and an eerie, perfect, post atomic strike silence has molten over the surrounding, scorched-to-stillness streets, macadam landing strips perfectly fit for the eventual landing of an intergalactic, life (& intelligence) finding mission. Yes, very silent, very warm, very still, very Salvador Dali, and the “Is Insanity Contagious?” volcano bill-board, electoral banners announ-cing the presidential election and the enormous “No Glove, No Love” poster compete as assuring intelligence beacons.

Yes, very much light, very warm and very, very still – on the dwindling in the dis-tance rows of light poles, yellow banners, lazily swollen by the hot breeze, praise the local philharmonic and the merits of said Gustav Mahler, yes, a typical Los Angeles day…

Suddenly, on a banner, across mister Mahler’s haughty profile, a vertical, in jolting advance a new element has appeared, an ten feet long pole, plastic, air inflated animals tied up on it to its very tip – a little Mexican Indian, long, shiny black hair, suckling a long, brown, pyramidal candy is earnestly walking uphill, the pole like a lance on his shoulder, heading towards the beach to sell his things (a Quixotic economical feet indeed: LA Realities, Part I: East LA to Santa Monica, forty miles round trip, walking instead of ta-king the bus to save money and do some business, and if the day’s good, one can score up to seventy dollars at the beach for those funny things; LA Realities, Part II: after you deduct the forty bucks business and passing fees for the Venice and the McArthur Park gang-bangers, you’re left with about thirty dollars for a long day’s labors, which is not that bad, after all).

In the blazing sun, the Indian has stopped on the hill, under the “Is Insanity Contagious? Answer, page 27!” eruption billboard, right by some “Lose Fifty Pounds In Five Days”, “Death To The Breeders!”, “Rock-The-Vote & the Progressive Cause Needs You!”, “My New Big Breasts!”, and “MoveOn.Org. Wants You!” posters, and he rests for a while, suckling his candy, looking at the city of Los Angeles’ vastness looming under the brown mist of muffler fumes, pole with funny animals on his shoulder, the sun naughtily projecting the shadow of a penguin on mister Mahler’s face – and as the Indian is quietly contemplating this city sprawling in the Californian nowhere, and the tall, glass, prismatic towers of Century City shimmer in the blazing sun, a hum, inaudible to him and most of other Los Angeles City inhabitants, the mys-terious, deep, grave vibration that opens Also Spracht Zarathustra has began to ripple over the sunny surroundings of this territory, followed by Zarathustra’s grandiose introduction, together with a woman’s even, remote voice, all heard through a cell-phone’s tiny speaker:

“Goddess Roxanne is benevolently receiving your anxious vibrations; lo and behold, her overwhelming Ethereal Spiritual Splendor is Grandiosely Substantiating through the Unfathomable Mystic Mist Of Be-coming – now, Mystical Seeker Stricken by Anguish, have a moment of Rapturous Contemplation as Goddess Roxanne…” and lurking, idling right behind the unaware Indian, parked in a back alley, is a massive, old, vintage Bentley towncar – the car is entirely mauve except for the chromed

♦ Misanthropy’s Ever-Expanding Wings ♦ Prologue ♦ 20

bumper bars, a bit dusty, its upholstery is mauve, too, the elongated, finessed lines of its carrosserie bringing to mind a by-gone, sophisticated Art-Deco world of progress, electricity, bi-motor, aluminum clad air-planes flying refined groups over Sahara for fun in some remote colonies, or svelte, wedge-like towering steamers splitting the Atlantic’s waters, crowds of modern men and emancipated women in polo suits lying in modern reclining chairs on sunny decks, Martinis near-by, reading T.H. Lawrence, Freud or flirting, days later, uniformed porters unloading on fancy hotels’ door-steps travel trunks with colorful hotel labels (or quality shoulder bags with airline logos given away by smiling hostesses – now we are talking about bygone ages!) and as the massive Bentley town-car is idling quietly, the driver, a woman closing her forties, mauve beret, classy mauve deux pieces, is listening on her cell-phone, crying:

“Mystical Seeker, Goddess Roxanne in her shimmering tower is receiving your Anxious Mystical Concerns – now recite the Spiritual Invocation you are hearing on the phone then she will start to majestically guide you along the…” in the distance, the Century City’s tall, sharp edged buildings shimmer in the sun, the mauve Bentley is faithfully idling, and the woman in mauve at the wheel is crying, biting her lip, listen-ing on her phone Zarathustra’s majestic beginning – now the music has segued to its softer, meditative part, appropriate background for Goddess Roxanne’s remote, grave, even voice:

“Mystical Seeker Stricken by Anguish and Sorrows seeking Succor, Goddess Roxanne will Re-Amplify and Re-Orient Your Mystical Torments on the True Metaphysical Thought-MightSpiritPower path, breaking the Negatives which hamper your Spiritual Growth and make you Prey to Loneliness and Anguish, and She will guide you along this Treacherous and full of Dangers Quest along the Celestial Way to the realm of Purity, Harmonious Peace, Plenitude, Satisfaction and Fulfilling Love…”

In the blazing sun, the Indian with his air inflated animals on the pole is quietly looking at the horizon bending Los Angeles, the mauve Bentley idling behind him, the lady in mauve dress at the wheel crying, listening on her phone – then a sudden gust of wind stirs some paper trash from a trash bin, and some loose LA Weekly pages whirl around the Indian. The small man de-fends his face, deflects the flight of pages, cat-ches a couple of them, and now he’s started again his Beverly Hills tangenting march to the Pacific’s shore, suckling his candy and looking at the various photos and offer-ings on the weekly’s page: Inguinal Hair Laser Removal, Body Sculpting, Meso Therapy/ Elimination Of Fat/Troubled Areas, Love Handles, Buttocks, Abdomen, Chin, Thighs, Neck, Credit Cards Welcome, credit available, too, Weight Loss Tsunami, Exfoliation w/Care Credit Financial Aid, Radiance/Same results as Collagen but lasts 1-2 years longer, Micro Peels, IPL Photo-rejuvenation, Lip Augmentation (as seen on Angelina Jolie/$175 month), Low Motivation, Difficulty Concentrating, Eyelid Surgery, You Doctor May Be Good At Breast Or Nose Surgery But Did You Know What A It Takes For A Successful Eye-Lid Intervention? Now Recruiting For A Methamphe-tamine Use Research Study, Call so-and-so, Bi-Curious? Call so-and-so, Speed Dating, Get Your Hair Back – Hair Will Sprout In Fifteen Days! David Eggers Reading, Dan Savage’s Weekly Sex Advice, Colono-therapy, Breast Augmentation & Reduction, Lips Augmentation, Face, Nose, Eye Jobs, Tumescent Liposuction, Vaginal Reconstruction As Seen On Oprah, ages 7-78, Nutritional Workshops, Botox & Collagen, Tummy Tucks, Grief Counseling, Hair Transplant, Penis (length & girth) Augmentation, Butt Implants, Fat Transfer, Hollywood Black List Evocation Evening, Female Or Male Brest Reduction, Face-Lift Without Incisions, Vegetarian Hambur-gers, Buddhist Workshops, Bulimia Workshops, Fat Transfer, Anorexia Ateliers, Radiance [??!!], Mi-crodermabrasion, Judith Lewis, Steven Mikulan, Harold Mayerson and Dave Schulman articles, Endless Free Calls, The Rolls-Royce Of Screenwriting Workshop, When the

♦ Misanthropy’s Ever-Expanding Wings ♦ Prologue ♦ 21

Director Thinks Workshop, Removal Of Facial Buccal Fat Pad, Acting Workshops, Escort Services, Spiritual Workshops, Nasal Re-sculpture, peace marches dates and gathering places, Rock-The-Vote! and MoveOn.Org recruitment drives and Rosenberg Spouses Commemorative events.

The Indian stops for a closer look at some photographs, has a grimace, then adjusts the pole with inflated animals on his shoulder and there he’s walking again, examining the ads and articles on the LA Weekly’s pages – Aromatherapy, Instant Cash, Cold Reading Techniques, escort services and strip tease clubs openings, Writers Block’s Weekly McCarthy Era Condemnation Meetings, Buddhist Initiation meetings, Bise-xuality Exploring Workshops, Goddess Celebration Ceremonies, and Through The New Wholesome Meaning and Spangler Technique (Gentlemen Only) the presidential motorcade is flowing by him, heading towards a Bel-Air electoral fund-raiser (so it wasn’t Michael Jackson dangling a toddler, a bank hold-up or a Great American He-roes Celebration Chapter event raising funds and signatures for the Jonathan Pollard Freedom Association tying-up the traffic, but William Jefferson Clinton on his way to shake some entertainment executives, nice to know this).

Behind the motorcade, Santa Monica Boulevard has come back to life – in the blazing sun, refugees with matted hair push their squeaking shopping carts, busboys with white aprons sprinkle the sidewalks in front of cafes, squads of mummified old women with tambourine-like tensed cheeks talking on cell-phones sail in enormous SUVs to banks, shop-ping centers, shrinks, psychics, nutritionists, colono-irrigation-ists, further facial tambourinization or botox injections parties… and there, far in the hazy distance, at a certain point of the boulevard, in Hollywood, from a small, decrepit theater erupts Anna, furiously dragging after her a large bag (the prepared actress necessaire), reporting on her cell-phone her newest installment of Thespian miseries in El Pueblo de Nostra Señora la Reina de Los Angeles Sobre el Rio de la Porciuncola – after throwing the bag in her battered, convertible VW Golf, then inflicting herself at the wheel of the bath-tube vehicle, away! the vehicle squeals, she talking in her phone, navigating along colono-irrigationists and Elias Kazan Condemnation meetings headed SUV-s, by shoals of lingering, shirtless men with Herculean pectorals & shoulders, tiny legs & bulging crotches in tight pants & yellow, construction workers boots.

♦

Deafening roar of engines in the hot, viscous air of the desert – on the Irwindale Speedway‘s gray track, the pack of NASCAR Open Wheels cars is still in tight for-mation, rapidly growing from the hazy, unclear distance, Nick’s red Chevy is still leading, the speeding machines, registering like a gigantic eraser’s fast strokes on the yellow, bucolic back-ground of bales of hay piled along the speedway – and they again are gone, roaring away.

“Twenty-five laps to go, and I’m qualified,” Nick thinks, staring ahead, perceiving on his sides the blurry sights of the front, spinning wheels of two other cars, a blue and a silver one, for long shadowing him, making it up, in tiny, maddening increments.

Three seconds to the curve, then all three cars skid in the same frozen formation, bluish smoke from their tires, then again thunder ahead into the swallowing tunnel of the speed-way’s straight section, blurry streaks of color, “…twenty-four laps to go…” their grouping hasn’t changed, the same, un-programmed yet unavoidably millimetric precision act dissolved in the deafening roar of the mufflers – dissolving the burst of a tire, and next second, the red Chevy is rocketing in in smoke on an oblique trajectory,

♦ Misanthropy’s Ever-Expanding Wings ♦ Prologue ♦ 22

crossing the silver one’s path, then the blue car is skidding, hits the other two cars, then all three cars, arrangement of bent metal surfaces and smoke-gushing mechanical entrails blaze through the grass of the center field – after a moment the arrangement breaks again in three mangled, smoking shapes which now plow the center field’s grass on diverging paths.

Smoldering, immobile the wrecks are – fading away noise of the other cars continuing the race, then as the pilots of the wrecked cars awkwardly extract themselves from their vehicles, over the eerie, cathartic silence the loud squeals of some arriving ambulances marks the moment.

♦

It’s already afternoon in Los Angeles, the odd, wooden cottages on Melc street are quiet in the warm air, the birds hidden in the trees’ thick crowns are lazily chirping, then, suddenly, their idle chat raises to an enthusiastic noise – at the end of the street, Anna’s bath-tube VW Golf has appeared, Anna talking on her cell-phone, apparently still sharing with someone her latest Grotowsky immersion experience. She swiftly drives the convertible on the driveway by the anatomy of the race car body, and, while talking on her cell, zaps with a remote the garage door, then drives inside, talking on the phone as the door closes behind her – next moment she appears through a garage side door, toting a hand-bag (the standard Los Ange-les, aspiring actress’ stand-by accoutrement) and, still on the cell, she walks to the entrance behind the cottage.

on the cell, her footsteps climbing on a squeaky, wooden stairs-case, dragging the bag behind her. Another bang of a door, her voice talking on the cell, then the bang of a toilette bowl’s sitting lid brought to business position, her voice still talking on the cell – then, as a healing domesticity envelopes the cottage, from the other end of the street appears the white whale of the Lincoln town-car which pulls by the driveway of the cottage. Toby descends, again paces through the mechanicalia spread on the driveway, walks to the porch to the entrance behind the cottage – enthusiastic chirps and coos, in the realm of the trees the birds have recognized him, are excited by his neck-tie and his black & brown shoes, chirp and coo:

“Toby’s here! – Toby’s here! – He’s so handsome! – Neck-tie! – Neck-tie! – Toby! Toby! – Nostradamus! – Nostradamus! – Hear-hear! – Hear-hear! – Toby’s here!”

And Toby’s walking back to the white whale, “Hear-hear! – Toby’s here! – Toby’s here! – Who do you wear! – Hear-hear! – Toby’s here! – Asshole! Asshole!”

“Caïd, no one’s home yet, I checked again everywhere, what do you want me to do?” Toby says, bowing in Lincoln’s door frame.

“Listen, I’m hungry. I had it for now, good that we know the right address. We’ll come back later,” says Don Lorenzo, “I want my money – no one has ever shafted me. Yeah, we’ll come later – get in.” – “Hear, hear! – Neck-tie! Neck-tie! – Toby’s here! – Sucks-sucks-sucks!”

corner, from the upper floor of the cottage bursts the vigorous noise of a flushed toilette, yes, another consuming Los Angeles day is moving towards a tranquil end – the bang of a closed door, and Anna’s silhouette appears behind the paper screen of an upper floor window and she starts undressing, talking on the cell, her pretty shapes moving on the paper screen, the gallery of birds on the branches nearby approvingly marking the beats: “Blouse-Blouse

♦ Misanthropy’s Ever-Expanding Wings ♦ Prologue ♦ 23

ne’s path, then the blue car is skidding, hits the other two cars, then all three cars, arran-gement of bent metal surfaces and smoke-gushing mechanical entrails blaze through the grass of the center field – after a moment the arrangement breaks again in three mangled, smoking shapes which now plow the center field’s grass on diverging paths.

Smoldering, immobile the wrecks are – fading away noise of the other cars continuing the race, then as the pilots of the wrecked cars awkwardly extract themselves from their ve-hicles, over the eerie, cathartic silence the loud squeals of some arriving ambulances marks the moment.

♦

Bang of a door, another bang of a door, then again a bang of a door, Anna’s voice, talking on the cell, her footsteps climbing on a squeaky, wooden stairs-case, dragging the bag behind her. Another bang of a door, her voice talking on the cell, then the bang of a toilette bowl’s sitting lid brought to business position, her voice still talking on the cell – then, as a healing domesticity envelopes the cottage, from the other end of the street appears the white whale of the Lincoln town-car which pulls by the driveway of the cottage. Toby descends, again paces through the mechanicalia spread on the driveway, walks to the porch to the entrance behind the cottage – enthusiastic chirps and coos, in the realm of the trees the birds have recognized him, are excited by his neck-tie and his black & brown shoes, chirp and coo:

“Toby’s here! – Toby’s here! – He’s so handsome! – Neck-tie! – Neck-tie! – Toby!

♦ Misanthropy’s Ever-Expanding Wings ♦ Prologue ♦ 24

one’s path, then the blue car is skidding, hits the other two cars, then all three cars, arrangement of bent metal surfaces and smoke-gushing mechanical entrails blaze through the grass of the center field – after a moment the arrangement breaks again in three mangled, smoking shapes which now plow the center field’s grass on diverging paths.

♦

“Toby’s here! – Toby’s here! – He’s so handsome! – Neck-tie! – Neck-tie! – Toby! Toby! – Nostradamus! – Nostradamus! – Hear-hear! – Hear-hear! – Toby’s here!”

And Toby’s walking back to the white whale, “Hear-hear! – Toby’s here! – Toby’s here! – Who do you wear! – Hear-hear! – Toby’s here! – Asshole! Asshole!”

“Caïd, no one’s home yet, I checked again everywhere, what do you want me to do?” Toby says, bowing in Lincoln’s door frame.

“Hear-Hear! – Neck-tie! Neck-tie!” and as the white Lincoln vanishes behind the street’s corner, from the upper floor of the cottage bursts the vigorous noise of a flushed toilette, yes, another consuming Los Angeles day is moving towards a tranquil end – the bang of a closed door, and Anna’s silhouette appears behind the paper screen of an upper floor window and she starts undressing, talking on the cell, her pretty shapes moving on the paper screen, the gallery of birds on the branches nearby approvingly marking the beats: “Blouse-Blouse –Panties – Panties – Bra! – Bra! – Bra!”

♦ Misanthropy’s Ever-Expanding Wings ♦ Prologue ♦ 25

And talking on her cell Anna walks away – after some seconds, the bang of a refrigerator door opened/closed is followed by the fine squeak of a cork expertly pulled from a bottle neck, then, as she keeps talking on her cell, by the fine gurgle of liquid poured from a bottle in a glass, then by the compelling sounds of someone drinking. Silence, then more fine gurgle of liquid poured from a bottle in a glass, followed by the compelling sounds of someone drinking. Silence, then more fine gurgle of liquid poured from a bottle in a glass, followed by the compelling sounds of someone drinking. Silen-ce, then more fine gurgle of someone drinking straight from a bottle. Silence, then mo-re fine gurgle of someone drinking straight from a bottle. Silence, then more fine gurgle of someone drinking straight from a bottle.

Then, as she’s loudly, childishly weeping, at the end of the street appears Abbé Faria’s ragged ghost, wrapped in one thousand years’ worth of beard and hair, a bent, blunt spoon hanging of a thread around his neck, hands in the pockets, whistling a merry tune and kicking twigs and fallen nuts, the unmistakable air of someone who’s finally reached the light seen at the end of the tunnel he’d been digging with the spoon from a financial services Chateau d’If in Los Angeles, a ghost clearly having no plans whatsoever to finesse his FENFFP before dinner time – and, for some reasons, a ghost seeming to believe that all his troubles are far behind.

“Beware: this month deep buried feelings may overcome your financial judgment CRUNCH-CRUNCH.”

“Think twice before lending your reputation CRUNCH-CRUNCH.”

“CRUNCH-CRUNCH look for alternatives but maintain a steady journey.”

“Vigilance never hurts, prudence seldom harms CRUNCH-CRUNCH.”

“WRONG!” bellows mister McLaughlin of the McLaughlin Group TV show.

“CRUNCH-CRUNCH absence of evidence doesn’t mean evidence of absence.”

“WRONG AGAIN!” thunders mister McLaughlin, “Pat! Your prediction?”

“Sometimes strangers know more than you think CRUNCH-CRUNCH.”

“CRUNCH-CRUNCH-CRUNCH” on the TV by the large fireplace, the members of the McLaughlin chattering group are moving their jaws, the view intercut with clips of Bill Clinton’s and Bob Dole’s latest electoral spiels. Late afternoon in upper floor living room of the Melc street cottage – on the chalet looking walls, a study in Soviet nostal-gia, framed, sepia or three-tones photographs from Soviet magazines of times past, with staunch border guards in fur hats defending the motherland and the achievements of the working class, Kremlin spiraled onion domes, rockets blasting off from intricate launching ramps, cosmonauts staring proudly to partly clouded skies, rectangular bri-gades of pioneers saluting groups of dour Politbureau figures, battalions firmly mar-ching in locked step behind half-erected rockets on their carriers, ice skating cham-pions in tutus and leotards arguing with/ pushing Olympic referees…

“CRUNCH-CRUNCH: in some cases you will regret things that you seldom do more than things that you often do.”

“WRONG AGAIN! Pat, your prediction?”

“CRUNCH – in this case in some cases you will regret things that you often do more than things that you seldom do CRUNCH-CRUNCH,” and the Soviet nostalgia study ends with the mantel of a fireplace, where by a shiny samovar, a crescendo of lively colored, small Russian nesting dolls are flanking the framed (very old) wedding photograph of a (young) couple, clearly, sometime ago, somewhere in Russia.

♦ Misanthropy’s Ever-Expanding Wings ♦ Prologue ♦ 26

“CRUNCH-CRUNCH-CRUNCH” – in the living room, Nick, Anna and Brian, your thirty years-plus prospectless friends and neighbors you meet every morning at Starbucks, all three in an ethyl trampé morosity, sit on a couch, facing the fire-place and the TV, crunching fortune cookies from a bag and digging in their squeaky, greasy styrofoam cases of Chinese Choice-B treats – the lack of formality of the dinner and the general mess in the living room suggests a co-habitation arrangement, maybe even a nurturing, non-traditional family, as the many beer bottles spread around may lead one think.

The TV is now showing some William Jefferson Clinton fundraising diner clips, tuxedoed liberals feeding their hammy, grinning faces with Wolfgang Puck’s latest trent’anno cacca-ciatoria faro arrangement, then mister Clinton himself working the menagerie of film and TV executives, tubiforms and filliforms, actors, agents, lawyers, their tambourinized & booze stunned wives and other industry types swarming in that terrarium.

“The man is good at operating a fund-raising scheme,” says Nick, collecting a fortune cookie from the glistening pile of noodles and cauliflower in his tray:

“At a certain point in one’s life, one faces difficult decisions,” he reads the wisdom strip, “As far as myself, I’m through, completely washed out, I mean, this time for real. The car’s gone; the crew’s unpaid; my insurance – I don’t even want to think of it; as far as my sponsors.

Brian gets a bottle and employs it for a long moment, Anna gets a bottle and employs it for a long moment, too, both nod understandingly, burp – after all, that’s what nurturing, non-traditional families are for. The bottles are back on the coffee ta-ble, by a few, solitaire-like arranged, one hundred dollars bills dotted with Choice-B greasy worms, and now the three are silent, glumly watch the McLaughlin group’s spiels.

From outside, loud footsteps on the porch, the noise of the front door slammed, then someone’s walking in a ground floor room.

“That’s Potapovicheva – did she ask about the rent?” panics Brian.

“She never fails – we’re short three hundreds,” Anna hiccups.

They are silent, listen to the elections chatter, Brian picks up a line: “Talking about minorities under-representation; in these golden days, we are members of an endangered minority – we should launch a party of our own, something like ‘The Los Angeles Adies’ – we should print stickers, posters, get a mascot.”

From downstairs comes the noise of slammed doors; Brian walks to the fireplace, starts changing TV channels, echoes the downstairs noise: “BANG! Kitchen – BANG! – the second room –”

“BANG! the living room,” follows Anna, “Adies – what’s that?”

“Americans Downward Spiraling,” says Brian: “A very special constituency, very confident that we’re irreversibly going downward, our political leverage is not the spending power, but the unemployment staying resilience, Carville’s and Morris’ triangulation doesn’t even –“

“Igorrrrr! Wherrre is Rasputin, Igorrrr?” Brian’s explanation has been interrupted by an old woman’s despaired shriek (mighty Russian accent), coming through the fireplace:

“Wherrre is Stalin, Igorr? Igorr, old fool, wherre arrre the dolls, Igor? Wherre is Verushka? Igorr, you old fool! Where arrrre the dolls?”

“I – I sold them – for eight hundred dollars!”

“Eight hundred dollars!” Potapovicheva wails.

“Eight hundred dollars, I went to the horse race,” mister Potapovich explains.

♦ Misanthropy’s Ever-Expanding Wings ♦ Prologue ♦ 27

“To the horse races” Potapovicheva screams.

“Look, I still have twelve dollars left,” mister Potapovich’s justifications are piped up-stairs.

“Twelve dollars left!” Potapovicheva moans.

“Twelve dollars left, not a very good day,” mister Potapovich further admits.

“Again at the race! Twelve dollars left! Not a very good day! Igor, you fool! The diamonds! The diamonds are gone!” cries Mrs. Potapovicheva, tragic heroine in this Los Angeles revival of an Eschyllian spousal, mutual thrashing.

“What diamonds?” mister Potapovich is confused.

“What diamonds?” the Greek Chorus/Anna, Brian & Nick are intrigued.

“Igor – Evgheni's friends – the Krimikoms from Moscow,” laments Mrs. Pota-povicheva: “Five hundred millions dollars! The heads of three dolls are lined with diamonds! The Krimikoms’ retirement funds!“

Anna has already reached to the smiling nesting dolls on the fireplace mantel – Nick quietly stops her, draws in the air the shape of a child sized Russian doll, whispers, “Last week, the UPS guy brought eleven big dolls, delivery from Russia, I helped him unpack them –“

“Which dolls?” downstairs mister Potapovich begins to panic.

Anna has opened one of the small Russian dolls, as she starts extracting the inside ones and they look at the little dolls multiplying in decrescendo, the downstairs wails and laments go on:

“Igor, you old fool! The commissar with decorations, Rasputin and Verushka with the red cloth kerchief around her neck, the one you put your hat on! Five hundred millions dollars! And the Krimikoms can be here anytime! Where did you sell the dolls, you fool?” Potapo-vicheva cries.

“The Krimikoms?” Potapovich is slowly digesting the information.

“The Krimikoms! ‘The Baltic And Black Seas Fleets Patriotic Sailors’ Revolutiona-ry And Romantic Winds And Strings Chamber Music Orchestra – Schönberg Is Us!” Tomorrow at noon they will be here, in Los Angeles!” Potapovicheva wails.

“Schönberg is us? Tomorrow before noon they will be here?” Potapovich is dazed, confused.

“Schönberg is us! Tomorrow they will be here! To get their diamonds!” Pota-povicheva cries.

“Tomorrow they’ll be here to get their diamonds!” the upstairs crew registers.

“They’ll come here in a cultural exchange!” Potapovicheva screams.

“Cultural exchange?” Potapovich verifies.

“Cultural exchange!” the information is confirmed.

“Five hundreds million dollars?” Potapovich again asks.

“Five hundreds million dollars!” Potapovicheva cries.

“Five hundreds million dollars!” the fireplace dully forwards in.

“I sold them to Thalia, a prop house’n Hollywood!” the old man admits, is crushed.

“To Thalia, a prop house’n Hollywood!” Potapovicheva wails.

“To Thalia, a prop house’n Hollywood!” the column of air’n the chimney lets the upper floor crew know.

“To Thalia, a prop house in Hollywood!” Pat Buchanan, George Will, the yap-yapping McLaughlin TV group grinningly confirm.

“To-to-to Tha-Tha-Tha lia-lia,” Kra-Kra-Kraut-ha-ha-ha-mer-mer-mer he-he-helps the -the-them.

“Sweet Dreams Are Made Of This, Everybody Is Looking For Something,” through the living room’s window, the warm, gentle, Vermeeresque light of the late afternoon is ca-ressing your friends and neighbors, Anna, Brian and Nick – redemption! those morose, apa-thetic, hostile faces (you know them, those puffy, hang-overed, cranky, prospectless people in line with you Starbucks), are gone, and inspired, dreamy,

♦ Misanthropy’s Ever-Expanding Wings ♦ Prologue ♦ 28

beautifully, beautifully humanized figures have replaced them, as they, bowed by the fire-place are sympathetically eavesdropping at the confession and laments of the two old Russian spouses – yes, five hundred millions dollars!

Five hundred millions dollars and their life-changing mystique! Five hundred millions dollars and their quality of giving the American Nineties’ unclear relief some precise, defining lines!

Then, the eavesdropping by the fireplace thing – yes, the American Nineties going classic! Yes, hurrah for the classics! Yes, eavesdropping by a fireplace, yes, peering through a curtain hole, yes, peering, like the fifteenth Earl of Canterbury through the nose of the eleventh’s Earl of Canterbury painting hanging on his Gothic bedroom wall, right in the fifteenth’s Earless of Canterbury ass (as well as in your, dear reader’s, ass), as you, disgraceful guest and dynastic wrecker, vigorously splice in the Canter-buries’ exquisite line some hairy shoulders, bowed legs, unquenchable enthusiasm for accordion music and a baffling, twelve centuries vaulting-over, Agatirsh profile – and, since this type of visiting, quivering butts can cause the ensuing ADN ripples to be-come devastating constitutional tsunamis, eventually they, quivering butts, forcing the current residents of Buckingham palace to quit, pack and leave in shame for America (Los Angeles, most probably, as destination choice).

Yes, using blank ammunition for fake executions, then marrying the horny corpse from coffin, yes, sword duels, a sword’s tip poisoned, then unexpected exchange of blades! Yes, royal twin with a locked, iron bucket on his head stored in a creepy to-wer, then devilish exchange of bucket headed persons and the ensuing mass executi-ons (and promotions); yes, marrying Olaf of Sweeden with Theodora of Greece, then, at the (messy) divorce, sorting out things along the line that zigzags from Sweeden through Poland, Germany, Austria, Hungary, Romania, Yugoslavia to Greece, and sucking in this Maelstrom, Spain, Russia, Iceland, Cyprus, Portugal, Mongolia, Bra-silia, New Zealand and other unsuspecting nations – yes, distracted Rajahs forgetting to place a quotation mark on Kashmir’s constitution and so, giving hair raised for the next three hundred years to everybody from Beijing to Washington, DC, to Helsinki to Roa-Noa!

Yes – had Cleopatra opted for a nose job, had Romulus and Remus been allergic at she-wolves’ milk, hadn’t Stanley Ann Dunham had an interest for African students, the history and our present would be different… yes, odd occurrences and coincidences, ravens dropping royal seal-rings on heads of confused porkers in forgotten marshes, yes, a hard pressed peasant woman peeing behind a bush, next second, a mole bursting from the ground, severely instructing the still squat, awe stricken woman to walk in the forest and rescue the true infant Prince d’Acquitaine from a weasel’s hole, and so, setting rivers of iron clad men marching against forests of iron clad men on world’s (check one): √ muddy, √ dusty roads…

Yes, undecided majors obeying some blind monks’ sibylline, life changing mumb-lings and joining other flocks of undecided majors to sign up (one or more) for the: √ Trojan War, √ Peloponez War(s), √ Persian War(s), √ Punic War(s), √ Samnite War, √ Bello Gallico, Bello Dacico, √ Civil War(s), √ Afghanistan War (Persians), √ Crusades (four of them), √ Con-quista, √ Reconquista, √ War Of The Two Roses, √ The Rose War, √ One Hundred Years War, √ Thirty Years War, √ Five Years War, √ Seven Days War, √ Blitzkieg(s), √ Occasional Wars, √ Marlborough s’en va en guerre, √ Peasants War (I-XXI), √ Times Of Troubles War, √ Reformation War(s), √ Independence Wars, √ Turkish Wars (I-XXX), √ Napoleonic Wars, √ War And Peace, √ 1848 Revolutionary Wars, √ Franco-Prussian War, √ Indian Wars, √ Crimean War, √ Railroads Standards War(s), √ Succession War(s), √ Secession War, √ Preemptive Wars, √ Suppression Wars, √ Polish Wars, √ Cubicle Wars, √ Bathroom

♦ Misanthropy’s Ever-Expanding Wings ♦ Prologue ♦ 29

Wars, √ Opium War, √ Carlist Wars, √ Russo-Japanese War(s), √ Balkan Wars, √ Pre-Co-lonial Wars, √ Colonial Wars, √ Inter-Colonial Wars, √ Post-Colonial Wars, √ Neo-Colonial Wars, √ Afghanistan War (British), √ War Of The Worlds, √ Boxers War, √ Boers War, √ Paraná War, √ Cuban War, √ Kriegspiels, √ First World War, √ Finnish War, √ Manchurian War, √ Second World War, √ La drôle de guerre, √ Cold War, √ Thermonuclear War, √ Ko-rean War, √ Vietnam War, √ Genders Wars, √ Gulf War, √ PAL-NTSC War, √ Beta-VHS War, √ Metric War, √ Falkland War, √ Afghanistan War (Russian), √ Analog-Digital War, √ Mother Of The Wars, √ Cultural War(s) (I-XXVI), √ Generational Wars (I-∞), √ (Il)lite-racy Wars, √ Drugs Wars, √ Mono Lake War, √ Stars Wars, √ Space War(s), √ Third World War, √ Shelves Wars, √ Trader Joe Parking Lots Spots Wars, √ Anti-Graffiti Wars, √ Blue Ray-Toshiba War, √ Digital Standards Wars, √ Murphy’s War, √ Genetic War(s), √ Low Intensity Wars, √ Hart’s War, √ Psychological Wars, √ Asymmetrical Wars, √ Misan-thropic Wars (I-∞), √ Afghanistan War (US), √ Preemption Wars, √ Iraq Wars (I-XXII), √ Tariffs War, √ Contents War, √ ______________ War, √ ______________, War, √ _____________ War , √ _______________ War, √ _____________, War, etc.

Had Cleopatra opted for a nose job, literature would be different; and so would have been all the mentioned wars and many other happenings of great historical consequence, in which… here you go, coincidences and odd occurrences, the well proven engines of the Western literature, played such a big role – lost letters, found letters, undelivered letters, letters in bottles, returned letters, rejection letters, letters misplaced under doormat, flat tires, casus belli erections and lechery, psychic forays, excruciating hangovers, electrifying visions, salmonella intoxications and the ensuing, introspective, life changing recovery. Yes, coincidences and many, many, too many other life absurdities to list here, these engines of the Western literature, sometimes silly and forced contrivances when part of a narration, nevertheless true, omnipresent and humiliating life changing occurrences.

Hurrah for the classics! For singing Menelaos’ hosting that bastard, Paris of Troy after his ship-wreck, and then, after the jerk elopes with the majestically boobbed He-len, singing about the antlers the House of Atrids cannot bear and their grandiose fleet leaving for Troy; for narrating about peeking through your granddad’s, Earl of Canterbury nostrils in your bedroom and watching as your wife – the Earless herself – is being doggy-style impregnated by your Transylvanian librarian (or your father, or son), and planning murder; for praising life changing glances, advice and memories to cherish gotten in Central Station’s men’s room from knowledgeable men, there warm-ing their hands for hours under those roaring, air warming machines! Hurrah for com-passless ravens, severe moles giving directions from top of bur-rows! Hurrah for Her Gracious Majesty, Queen Coincidence!

And in our particular case, it is exactly Her Mighty Consort, Prince Odd Occurrence, plea-sing to manifest Himself as the unintended yet HI-FI acoustic conductivity of an old fire-place on the first floor of a wacky Los Angeles clapboards cottage, and the shameless eaves-dropping of Brian, Anna and Nick, those friends and neighbors of yours you meet every morning at Starbucks, that has energized them, Nineties’ losers, and set them on the quest for the set of eleven, child-sized, smiling Russian dolls, their inner surfaces studded with five hundreds millions dollars worth of diamonds, quest setting your friends and neighbors and Starbucks pals on collision course with other Los Angeles Starbucks customers, √ Males, √ Females, √ Undecided, √ Patent-Pending, √ Under Revision, √ 20-29 years old, 30-39 - years old, √ 40-49 years old,

♦ Misanthropy’s Ever-Expanding Wings ♦ Prologue ♦ 30

√ 50-59 years old, having √ High-School, √ Some College, √ _________________,√ _____ __________, bold enterprise giving the American Nineties’ convoluted relief some precise and inspiring lines!

… other Nineties, Los Angeles inhabitants √ Clueless Russian immigrants, √ Russian mobsters, √ American mobsters, √ New Age freaks, √ Undecided majors, √ Con-cerned neighbors, √ People-With-Mixed-Feelings, √ Diversity members, √ Towing services, √ Spirituality seekers, √ People-Undergoing-Life-Changing-Experiences, √ People-Seeking-Life-Changing-Experiences, √ People aware of issues, √ Polymor-phous sexual folks, √ Homosexual folks, √ Bisexual Folks, √ Tragically hip boneheads, √ Heterosexual people, √ Los Angeles Times staff writers, √ More idiots, √ Vintage Bentley cars owners, √ Native-American deities un-bound, √ Political pollsters, √ Air-port barmaids, √ Mr. Dick Cavett of NPR, √ Troll Mascots, √ Electoral fundraisers, √ Jim Ignatowsky, √ TV announcers, √ Prophetic toddlers, √ Cutting edge artists, √ Crooks, √ US marshals, √ POTUS, √ FLOTUS, √ Move-On.Org dolts, √ Huffington Post dolts, √ Mr. Carville, √ Mr. Sydney Blumenthal, √ Mrs. Naomi Wolfe, √ Dean Jonathan Swift, √ Maitre Alcofribas Nassier, √ Michael Moore adorers, √ More idiots, √ More creeps, √ More freaks, √ Los Angeles Times columnists, √ Open-minded people, √ More freaks, √ Aliens from other countries, √ Aliens from other galaxies, √ andreiratiupop, √ Mr. Allan Greenspan, √ Gurus, √ Swamis, √ ___________, √ ______________, √ ______ _ _____, √ and many, many more Nineties, New Values™ active inhabitants, the saga unra-veling on El Pueblo de Nostra Señora la Reina de los Angeles Sobre el Rio de la Porciuncola’s streets, county’s highways, offices, public buildings and private shames, cell-phones frequencies, then moving close to Saturn, then back in boiler room political fundraising caves, towing services decrepit offices, hyper-space vortexes, the US presidential suite, film sound stages, TV recording studios and editing spaces.

What more? Elation, despair then again hope! Then frequent, redeeming stops in an always present, aspirations shaping, ethylic parallel reality and the ensuing, alas! Pa-thetic attempts at copulation providing the transcendence and the cathartic moments a narration of such scope and grandeur is expected to deliver.

“Wrong!” bellows mister McLaughlin from the TV’s glass: “Eleanor, your predict-ion?”

“Well – in this case ‘Many a times Man defeats circumstances and predicaments; however, this time you may want to review your travel intentions.”

“Wrong again!” mister McLaughlin thunders.

“Sweet Dreams Are Made Of This, Everybody Is Looking For Something,” – not wrong at all, this is the Nineties and this tune is so true! And also it is this pleasant vision of Anna, Brian and Nick, those tipsy friends and neighbors of yours, eaves-dropping in the warm, Veermeresque dusk light by their fire place which will mark the true starting point of our meditative journey through the Los Angeles of the Nineties, times of New Values™, times of limitless upward mobility, of Irrational Exuberance, of “Shoulda-Coulda-Woulda,” of “I didn’t inhale!” of “I can feel your pain” and of “It depends on what do you mean by Is,” times of selflessness, abnegation, generosity, integrity and of higher meanings and spirituality searching…

“Wrong again!” bellows mister McLaughlin, “George, your prediction!”

“Oftentimes what looks like reality could be just an impression. Be prudent when considering a stranger’s entreaties.”

♦ Misanthropy’s Ever-Expanding Wings ♦ Prologue ♦ 32

“Wrong!” mister McLaughlin thunders again: “Mort, your prediction?”

“There are people who might have reservations about the plans you nurture.”

“Wrong again!” mister McLaughlin discards the intervention: Pat, your take on this?”

“Objects in the mirror are closer than they appear.”

“Tell you what, you might be onto something!”

“Clap-on, clap-off – the Clapper!” another TV channel authoritatively concludes.

♦

Misanthropy’s Philosophical Lighthouse

Post-Hypsithermal Times Visions

Philosophical Shine “n+...” (Prologue)

with colorful hotel labels (or quality shoulder bags with airline logos given away by smiling hostesses – now we are talking about bygone ages!) and as the massive Bentley town-car is idling quietly, the driver, a woman closing her forties, mauve beret, classy mauve deux pieces, is listening on her cell-phone, crying:

“Mystical Seeker, Goddess Roxanne in her shimmering tower is receiving your Anxious Mystical Concerns – now recite the Spiritual Invocation you are hearing on the phone then she will start to majestically guide you along the…” in the distance, the Century City’s tall, sharp edged buildings shimmer in the sun, the mauve Bentley is faithfully idling, and the woman in mauve at the wheel is crying, biting her lip, listening on her phone Zarathustra’s majestic beginning – now the music has segued to its softer, meditative part, appropriate background for Goddess Roxanne’s remote, grave, even voice:

* All facts, events, situations, trends & characters identified, analyzed, described, catalogued, sys-tematized and archived along the years-long activity that has lead to the materialization of the Quo Vadis, America?/ Misanthropy’s Ever-Expanding Wings Report, and to other Misanthropy Institute past, current or future Programs and research activities, as well the results of all other experiments, re-enactments, simulations or replications required by said systematization, belong to a vast, oftentimes highly incendiary collection of data that has been recently made available to the public by Misan-thropy Institute’s publishing outfit Handmade Books in print as Quo Vadis, America?/ Misanthropy’s Ever-Expanding Wings Report, a comprehensive Report that synthesizes said data in a US District Court-mandated redacted form.

* The present Misanthropy Institute website, besides introducing to the public the activities of Mi-santhropy Institute, also displays many parts of said Quo Vadis, America?/ Misanthropy’s Ever-Expanding Wings Report and the proprietary nature of the mentioned printed Report’s data covers the materials presented on this website as well.

* For popularization purposes, many scientific and research elements of the Report have been converted in the past in various artistic, proprietary forms by the then, Misanthropy Attractions (cur-rently The Misanthropy Institute, or Author), and made public as Roxy’s Raptures (a stage play), Roxy’s Raptures (a film based on the stage play with the same name), Towards A Higher Level Of Financial Density (a screenplay and its sequenced trailer), Misanthropy’s Ever-Expanding Wings (an early research narrative), and Misanthropy’s Ever-Expanding Wings (an older version of this website).

* The mentioned proprietary feature also covers other research-generated elements presented in the current Report and in one or other of the said, previous – but not limited at – popularization works, like photographs, drawings, maps, charts, interviews, topographical & astronomical observations, film, video and audio records (authentic or re-enactments), and other research-generated elements used for presentations during retreats, interviews or media opportunities. Said research-generated materials displayed in the presented site include – but are not limited at – American Cacophonies, Chasm Ticker, Philosophical Shines (Post-Hypsithermal Times Scenes), The Rats Report, Gonadah Gamma G-9 Report, Judicial Loincloth, Philosophical Dung-bag, and The General Toxicology Explained.

* This proprietary situation also covers Misanthropy’s Ever-Expanding Wings Report ample, human self-awareness-changing Epilogue which explores and resolves the haunting, ages-old existential question Is There A Meaning To The Human Life?, by interpreting in a highly insightful manner various Misanthropy research-generated social, geological, geographical astronomical, historical, poli-tical, chemical, sexual, artistic, etc. data, then by integrating the results of this interpretation in a definitive answer to the philosophical question in cause in the

Potapovich Existential Series/C-O-C-O-T-C.

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While the intensity of the events and situati-ons presented here by Misanthropy’s Ever Chapters is sometimes diluted by the lack of a larger context, the visitors who complement their Chapters reading with perusals of this focused, themes-organized registry may find this repertory of situations and findings truly dismaying, shocking or jarring – if so, the Mi-santhropy Institute cannot but hope that this scientific index of public and private miseries & shames studied, catalogued then selflessly made available to the public by the Institute will offer the concerned Americans an alerting confirmation for their anxieties and premoni-tions regarding... Quo Vadis, America?

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Index of Unsettling or Incendiary

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♦ Unsettling Political Trends & Situations

* The Nineties Maelstrom & The Galley

Of Shames & Follies

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“HOWL”

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“...shocking, prurient, lurid, irres-ponsible, humiliating, divisive and angering, its revelations unneces-sarily incendiary and bordering so-ciopathy, this situation amplified by the Report’s unusual seduction powers which makes its countless readers fall under its superb, yet sick spell ...”

... as shown in the opening description of this site, the publication of Misanthro-py’s Ever-Expanding Wings is done un-der the US District Court (SACU) res-trictive editorial supervision, many ele-ments of the Report still being under re-view. For this reason, as of August 28th. 2010, the Misanthropy Institute website can display only the facts, events and si-tuations listed above.

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