If you are into conspiracy theories, you have to love the weird messages that are put up all around town. What do they mean? Surely they mean something to somebody. They are private communications, perhaps, left by one person or by a group of persons to give information or orders to another.
"DEC01!!! Got it. O.K. Let's go, motherfuckers!"
If you've ever read "The Crying of Lot 49," you have to wonder. Pynchon's novels are full of secret messages and private meanings. I've read enough to know and wonder. Physical manifestations are harder to track and trace. The internet leaves too many fingerprints. Slapping up a sticker on the back of a street sign on the corner of MLK Blvd and Stalin Way, on the other hand. . . .
I'm just sayin'.
"BUITEN DENST!"
I'm only half kidding. I think I'll start making stickers I can put up around town, too. I surely could come up with something confusing and entertaining. Of course, I may be playing with fire. Those street corners may be "owned." Back in the days of cigarettes, I thought about getting vending machines into bars and restaurants. Uh-uh. That was all mafia shit. You didn't get to just put in a cigarette vending machine. It wouldn't last long, and then there would be a knock on the door.
It would be like trying to start your own paving business in New Jersey.
I haven't thought about vending machines, though, for a long time. They just disappeared. You don't see them anymore. How about this? How about I start up a vending machine business that sells gummies? Those little packs of CBD gummies with the legal amounts of THC and Delta 8? Let's say you're out and you've just finished dinner and you are leaving the restaurant. They don't put out those little dishes of after dinner mints any longer, of course. But you see the gummy vending machine. There they are in different colors and flavors and buzzes.
"Hey, dear. . . do you want a mint gummy? Yea? Sure. We'll be buzzing by the time we get home."
Nice.
I'm pretty sure I just gave away a great get-rich quick idea here. Yup. When you see these things popping up in bars and restaurants, you'll know the mob reads the blog. For real.
Full moon tonight. Blood red. It's a Killing Moon, I think. More madness. Breathing moonlight in and out, in and out. . . it will do strange things to you. Just for once, goddamnit, I wish it would do something I'd like, something that would help me out some way. Poor C.C. will be flying under it tonight on his way to Paris. Auspicious. He's part mystic, though. He must know what he's doing.
God's speed, C.C. I'm sure you've read some cryptic Post It note that guides you.
I think to post "Fly Me to the Moon" or "Moonlight in Vermont" here now.
Rather.
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