I just got told again that I should write my autography. The very idea gives me the willies. My life seems pretty ordinary from my point of view, well, maybe a wee tad out of the ordinary, but nonetheless nothing to write home about, not to mention to the wide world.

Even if I were to sit down and write truthfully and introspectively about myself, what could I say? It’s not the sort of stuff you hang out in public unless you’re looking to get hanged.

When I skim across the landscape of what my conscious mind is assuring me are memories, I’m forced to take them with a grain of salt. Everybody knows how notoriously faulty memory is, and how even the most scrupulous diarist has her or his conscience singed by the desire to cheat a bit. Anyway, nobody’s been able to find where memories are hiding out in the first place. In the physical brain they ain’t, neither is consciousness itself for that matter—whatever consciousness is in the first place.

Today’s clip is what I have to offer as a kind of ham-fisted AI snapshot portrayal of the salient features of my earlier years. I have to reluctantly admit that my life reads as a fairy tale and I haven’t minded being the main protagonist and hapless anti-hero. But, as I’ve often said: C’est pas de la tarte.

Sometime last year I decided to write a vulgar song in really bad taste that would be repugnant and offensive to just about everybody, and meritorious to practically nobody. Did I succeed? Why did I concoct and record this song? I’m buggered if I know. But I guess, partly, it’s because I’ve always been disgusted with humanity’s absurd and pathetic attitudes toward sex. Is that enough?

I don’t know about you, but with every passing day the more people disappoint me. I started life with a high disappointment default setting, but it’s grown to a point now where I’ve pretty much lost the will to make an effort to interact with people except when absolutely necessary. With few exceptions I am rapidly bored. Being a loner has come naturally. Living on a sailboat is a nifty way of gaining soltude and having a hell of a good time. Is there something wrong with me? Or, is it a sign of lucidity and robust mental health? Buggered if I know.

I find bonobos inspiring. I’ve always reckoned that if we humans had started out conducting our lives and caring for the Earth the way bonobos do, we’d be living peacefully on a healthy planet. Alas, that ‘s not the case. Bonobos are popularly known for resolving conflict through sexuality. Back in the ‘60s we always had “MAKE LOVE, NOT WAR” posters in prominence during our anti Vietnam War protests. This was not an empty suggestion. We did our best to live up to it.

This got me thinking about how it was being a kid back in the ‘50s. It might as well have been on another planet. In fact, for all intents and purposes, it was. First off, we were a zillion times freer than kids from successive generations. Most importantly, we were left to our own devices, most of them physical in nature. We also had the benefit of not having our systems destroyed by the invasion of the now ubiquitous, omnipresent, insidious, gender-destroying endocrine-disrupting chemicals. So, what sort of hanky-panky do you imagine we got up to? If only we had had the bonobos as role models back then our skids would’ve been much better greased.

These thoughts brought me to the realization that natural childhood curiosity about, and exploration of, sexuality is a subject that is conspicuously absent in modern literature, art, and discourse. I postulate that there is something amiss here. So, Aboard Ron, has decided to fill this void by offering a fairy tale. Well, maybe it’s not exactly a fairy tale.

I’ve posted this with no expectations that even a single person will bother to open the link, or bother having a peep at the clip. But, if you’ve got a philosophical bent you might find this useful as an aide memoire.

Sometime in the early 1970s a friend handed me a paperback copy of “The Dice Man” at Auckland International Airport as I was boarding a transpacific flight to L.A. By the time I arrived at LAX I’d read the book from cover-to-cover. The book was published in 1971 and at the time had made a bit of a stir. It was at once delicious, provocative dark humor, a trampoline for philosophical debate, and an instruction manual on how to break free from the bonds of a conventional, soul-destroying life. The book’s premise is simple: embrace randomness.

I highly recommend that you read the book, “The Dice Man”. You may even want to try dice-living yourself. I’m seriously considering grabbing a die and casting my fate to the wind. Dice-living living can be one of the six options on my list. Who knows, the number may come up. Ps: If anyone shows interest in the comments section, I will post an appendix for the clip that gives definitions of the philosophical ideas that are alluded to in “The Dice Man.”

IMAGE FROM “THE DICE MAN” clip

This fable is often attributed to Aesop, but the epoch and author are not important. The way I interpret it, the story is an allegory where the scorpion portrays the true nature of humanity, not specific actors in our earthly drama. Everybody’s got a stinger whether we recognize it or not. Why not just cop to it?

Social media platform surveys show that video clips that have catchy eye-candy thumbnails and have titles with a number in them, like: “10 Ways To Achieve Immortality in Only Five Minutes A day”, or some kind of bunkum like that, do great. It also seems that D.I.Y. and motivational content rocks. So, here’s Aboard Ron’s somewhat tongue-and-cheek contribution to the genre. The funny thing is that although it would be near-impossible for most of us lamentable bundles of neuroses to put into action the points proposed in the clip, and I thought them up off the top of my head, they might not be claptrap after all.

There are near infinite forms of humor. In today’s clip, “Aboard Ron Goes Viral” I’ve played with a perhaps not-so-subtle form of self-deprecation, more aptly called “Taking the piss out of myself.” I had fun putting it together. It is the opposite of Aboard Ron’s actual media profile and performance. It’s easy for me to ridicule how pathetic my imprint on social media is. But, ultimately, I don’t give a hoot.

There are near infinite forms of humor. In today’s clip, “Aboard Ron Goes Viral” I’ve played with a perhaps not-so-subtle form of self-deprecation, more aptly called “Taking the piss out of myself.” I had fun putting it together. It is the opposite of Aboard Ron’s actual media profile and performance. It’s easy for me to ridicule how pathetic my imprint on social media is. But, ultimately, I don’t give a hoot.

A half century ago, in September, 1975, I boarded an empty bus at the break of day in the town of Eilat at the northernmost point of the Gulf of Aqaba that demarks the southernmost point of Israel. The Negev desert heat was already oppressive. At that time the Israelis had just wrested the Sinai Peninsula from the Egyptians. The Sinai defines the western shore of the gulf of Aqaba and ends in a point due south that bifurcates the Red Sea into the Gulf of Aqaba to the east and the Gulf of Suez to the west. The 9,000 year old town of Eilat at that time was nothing much.

The Israelis occupied the Sinai Peninsula for a spell after the 1973 Yom Kippur war. I had taken full advantage of this Israeli usurpation from Egypt and experienced a fairytale adventure exploring the Sinai coast no-man’s-land all the way down to Ras Mohammed at the point where the two gulfs meet and the Red Sea splits. At that time it was vacant desert, not the tourist destination it is today. (or was until February 28)

This morning in 1975 my plan was to head north through Be’er Shiva and on to Jerusalem. The trip promised to be a hot, dusty and pothole ridden ordeal. However, as it turns out, I was completely oblivious to the physical discomfort because of the man I ended up sitting next to at the back of the nearly deserted bus.

He was of Belgian origin, a physicist, now working on deeply secret, darker than black military projects. After several hours he started to open up a bit more than he should have. The one theme that stood out through the hours of animated conversation was his fatalism. This was a common trait that I encountered in the Middle East and I found it very unsettling. People appeared to me to see themselves as extras in a Cecil B. DeMill biblical extravaganza. My companion told me, in no uncertain terms, that Israel had nuclear warheads and the means to target them anywhere in the region. He didn’t precisely use the phrase “Samson Option,” but he did say with certainty that if Israel felt itself existentially threatened by an outside force, it would shoot first and ask questions later. This man’s conviction was implacable. I’ve never forgotten the steady, determined way he told me this.

The Bulletin of Atomic Scientists nudged the Doomsday Clock five seconds closer to midnight at its annual resetting in January this year , stopping at 85 seconds to midnight—the closest it’s ever been. The Doomsday Clock was created in 1947. I believe they were being far too timid, and I bet, in their heart of hearts, they would’ve shoved the minute hand a bit more towards the vertical if they felt they could get away with it. Reluctantly I’m keeping my ears tuned for the distant thunder of the collapsing temple.

With every passing hour humanity is approaching a crisis that will no doubt set the stage for another era of lockdowns. This time around they will not be provoked by a novel pathogen, yet principally by insufficient liquid fuel supplies and unpayable debt. This famous cowboy song was not written by a wide-open-spaces-loving cowpoke. It was composed by the City-dwelling Cole Porter in 1934. I recorded it in 2020 at the onset of the Covid lockdowns. My interpretation of the song is no doubt far from what Cole Porter had in mind. As we approach lockdowns anew it seems appropriate to post this.

Today’s clip addresses two issues. The first is the unfortunate pathological condition that medical science terms gynecomastia. This refers to males growing female breast tissue as a result of multiple causes, principally by hormone imbalance—either too much estrogen, or not enough testosterone. Aboard Ron suspects that behind the scenes the chemical industry is where the buck finally stops.

The second issue today’s clip addresses is the prohibition from showing female nipples in posts on social media platforms. Aboard Ron has had posts censored, and punishments meted out for the slightest nuance of a female nipple appearing in a photo or drawing. How abjectly pathetic can our society’s moronic, anal-compulsive, woke puritanical neurosis get? Today’s clip is a bit of a test of Facebook and others’ censorship bots. Normally, male nipples are considered A-okay to show. It seems, however, that the bots are not sharp enough to differentiate between boys and girls—in fact, there’s really no way of telling. Given that Aboard Ron cross posts of Facebook this can be seen as a provocation. Aboard Ron’s last clip posted a couple of days ago was about asses, through the lens of steatopygia. Today’s clip is about tits by way of gynecomastia. Whichever way you slice it, it always comes down to tits and asses.

ADDENDUM, a little while after posting. This from Facebook after cross-posting:

Aboard Ron Laboratories has

Aboard Ron Laboratories has been clandestinely developing a revolutionary mRNA gene-splicing technology for the betterment of humankind. Unlike our colleagues who are perfecting gain-of-function pathogens and mRNA immune response inhibitors for the demise of humankind, we are, to the contrary true altruists.

Our most recent breakthrough is our new mRNA gene-splicing protein sequence that will enable anyone and everyone to stock food and water directly in their buttocks. This adaptive attribute is called STEATOPYGIA. The trait has evolved over millennia in certain African bushman populations, and elsewhere. Now, thanks to Aboard Ron, everyone can benefit.

It will become abundantly clear in the future as food resources become too expensive, scarce, or unobtainable, that stocking one’s grub in one’s butt is essential for survival. We can learn a trick or two from our Hottentot neighbors and our camel cousins. Steatopygia will become the new normal. Then you’ll really be able to do justice to the term “shake your booty.”

We seem to be in a wee spot of bother concerning our insatiable thirst for black glop. I thought it was time to bring up to date and post this old clip where Wu reflects on our terminal civilization disease and sings a catchy ditty at the end.

This is yet another paranormally-themed video from several years ago. It’s one of the most baffling and disturbing experiences I’ve had aboard Ron. Yet again the very nature of conscieousness and reality is thrown into question. In many ways, this experience resembles a personalized Mandela Effect where the past has been unmistakably altered. It also has similar elements to many other experiences where a thought triggers, in a most ironic way, a future uncanny event. In this clip I describe as best I can the bind-boggling experience.