Okay, okay, okay. I know you’re probably tired of hearing it, but since (most of) you have ignored me so far, I’m going to ask again. Please, please, please, if you’ve read Fresh Squeezed, leave a review on Amazon or Goodreads. Just a few words will do and they don’t even have to be kind words.
And why should you waste your precious minute and write a review? Because it’s in your own best interest. Keeping with the title of the blog it works a little something like this:
Category 1: Read book – Didn’t leave a review but didn’t know we wanted you to. Karmic Points: +10. Rationale: You were very kind to buy a book by an unknown author. The Universe’s Response: Keep looking at the ground, people find money ($14.00 paperback/$4.99 Kindle edition) lying around all the time.
Category 2: Read book – Didn’t leave a review, despite being asked on several occasions. Karmic Points: -100. Rationale: You were very kind to buy the book, but, come on, throw us a bone. The Universe’s Response: Don’t waste your time looking at the ground, somebody else already found it.
Category 3: Read book – Left a negative review. Karmic Points: +100. Rationale: You’re very kind, and you’re a nice person, even if you don’t have a good sense of humor. The Universe’s Response: Stop right now and make a wish. Really.
Category 4: Just like Category Three except you’ve got a highly developed sense of humor able to tease subtlety out of the absurd. The Universe suggests that next time you do Chinese takeout you do not ignore the numbers on the back of your fortune.
Category 5: Read book – Left a review but didn’t know we wanted you to. Karmic Points: Not worth mentioning because none of you qualify anyway.
Thus endeth – The Universe really likes it when you talk like that – the shameless self-promotion.
Now, many of you might pooh-pooh this whole notion of the Universe as the Guy sitting up in the booth scoring the game. I can understand why. But more and more, I’m coming to the conclusion that the Universe is not only that Guy, but the Game as well, and All the Players, and the Rules.
Multiplied by a zillion.
In fact, no matter which misguided metaphor for reality you choose to apply, when you look deep enough, you will find the Universe sitting there, more like a maneki-neko, beckoning you in even deeper, than a Buddha laughing at your ignorance. And it doesn’t really matter where you look – I’m sure my friend and personal astrologer Tony Picco (who, by-the-way, really nailed my last reading) would agree – if you pay attention you’ll find, not always what you’re looking for but exactly what you’re supposed to find.
Now to some, this might sound like just another nonsensical Zen kōan. But unlike single hand claps (which, by-the-way, sound like “±0 ≠ ±0”) or what you looked like before your parents met (∞), finding what you’re supposed to find makes complete sense in the context in which you find it. And, as with all such context dependent occurrences, it pays to be paying attention.
Deep, huh?
Sadly, my attention is not so easily focused, and most of the day-to-day subtleties so easily noted by others slip past like a river on its way to the sea. Fortunately, every once in a while the Universe rears up on its hind legs – of which there are many, bares its teeth, and slaps me upside the head as if to say: “Eyes open, my little dullard.” After which it quickly – and thankfully – resumes its typical attitude of bemused repose.
Thus it happened to me recently. I found exactly what I needed to find when I was – at least to my way of thinking – not looking for anything at all. I found this priceless message from the Universe, not in the Bible, not in the Koran, not in the Torah, the Talmud, the Bhagavad Gita, or the Tao Te Ching; not even in my tattered, dog-eared copy of Burton’s Kama Sutra with little yellow-stickies marking pages festooned with exclamation points; but instead it sat, waiting for me, in my Post Office Box.
As you remember from last week, in between the economic negativism I am known for and the dire forecast of societal apocalypse that we all fear, I detailed how the micro-farm is expanding into ranching in the form of the tub of mealworms sitting, unwelcome by most, in the upstairs bathtub. I described my Coleopteran aspirations to move out of the much maligned 47% and into the ranks of wealthy Job Creators where my tax bill of zero would be replaced by a healthy government subsidy.
Apparently the Universe is reading the blog.
No, more than that, it seems that the Universe is sitting right behind me, reading over my shoulder as I write. I catch an occasional trick of light with my peripheral vision which I ascribe to the Universe shifting position to get comfortable.
Last week, after I dotted the final “i” and crossed the final “t”, I saved the blog and walked down to Bay Hay and Feed to check on the continued economic viability of my mealworm ranch scheme. On the way back I opened my P.O. Box and found that little yellow slip the P.O. uses to let you know you’ve got something too big to fit in the box. Neat! I handed the slip to the Postmistress, who cracked her whip and sent a minion scurrying into the back. He returned with a bundle, gave it to his boss, who glanced at it and handed it to me.
“Thinking about moving up?” She asked.
The bundle contained two thick-ish magazines. The first: Farm & Ranch, was dubbed “The Source For Discerning Buyers & Sellers” – a publication apparently fond of inappropriate capital letters and ampersands. The second: Open Fences – which is something of a kōan in itself – was subtitled “Your Single Source For Premiere Rural Real Estate,” which if true, despite the third grade English errors, made me wonder why they bothered to send the copy of Farm & Ranch.
Ranches! I thought. Why am I getting magazines ($7.95 and $6.95 cover price)about buying ranches?
And then it hit me. These hefty tomes of commission-based desperation found me not by mere coincidence, but by the willful intent of the Universe. Apparently, my recent plans, the ink not yet dry on the page, had made their way into the very fabric of the Universe, which responded with a very home-on-the-range-like, “Listen up, Buckaroo.”
Well, shee-it! It looked as if I better start getting ready to convert our major, mealworm-generated, soon-to-be cash flow into some serious amber-waves-of-grain real estate.
When I got home I brewed up a nice cup of tea, sat down in my Weetabix reading chair, and cracked open Farm & Ranch to study up on what I’d need to do move into the big leagues.
I thought, given that these ranches were obviously targeted to Job Creators as opposed to actual ranchers, that money – or a substantial letter of credit – would be tops on the list. But I was wrong. In actuality the first thing I was going to need was a gun. I suppose that figures what with the varmints and rustlers I’d be dealing with. Fortunately, for one unschooled in the fine points of ranch weaponry, page three displayed a full-page spread on the weapon of choice for the modern rancher. No lever-action Winchester or Colt Peacemaker this, but the LaRue Tactical OBR 7.62, a rifle that would look more at home in a trash-tech action movie like The Expendables 2 than it would in Gunsmoke. LaRue promises “PEACE OF MIND, OUT TO 1200 YARDS” (capitals theirs).
Reading further I saw that many of the ranch ads featured pictures of happy Job Creators with the heads of recently deceased (harvested, if you prefer) big game cradled lovingly in their laps. Those which did not show the pictures made frequent use of code words like “sportsman’s paradise” and “abundant wildlife” which meant that this ranch had lots of different things for you to enjoy while facilitating their reincarnation. Many even offered tedious lists of the species you would be able to assist in their spiritual growth.
Money did make the list at position number two. Not that cash was going to be a problem since the Universe was on my side, but it was stunning exactly how much money it was going to take. The “Featured Ranch” in Open Fences was the Twin Oak Ranch, a postage stamp-sized parcel at 465 acres but carrying the Venture Capitalist sticker price of twenty-two million, and change. Indeed, I was struck by the vast range of sizes: ten acres to fifty-five square miles; and prices: a few hundred thousand to tens of millions of dollars, from which to select. But, really, even the twenty-two megabuck price tag for Twin Oaks is only two million bags of mealworms, a production level I should reach by next August.
The last thing to decide was where to buy the ranch, and it was here that the magazines failed me. Most of the properties, as expected, were Out West, but none was on Bainbridge Island, and I kind of like it here.
Nevertheless, I’ll take the Universe’s hint and start planning for the ranching life. I’ll start looking for a good gun – and taxidermist, and I’ll get those mealworms cranking. At this point it’s clearly not if but when, and when the Universe says it’s time and assembles the acreage I’ll need, right here on sunny Bainbridge Island, I’ve got to be ready.