"Tough Titties"

(My Source of Sleep Deprivation)

Sometimes having a child sucks. Love does not compensate for a lost night of sleep. Most love is supplementary, it doesn't replace the satisfaction of basic needs, like sleep.

The boy came into my room last night after I put him to sleep. I fell asleep in his room for a little while, made it to my room at an unknown hour, then was awakened by the boy around midnight. That was all the sleep I was to get for the night. Maybe three hours. Kids - they're not exactly roommates, are they?

So, I finished binge watching Wild Wild Country, a new-ish documentary on Netflix about the Bhagwan Rajneesh and his crazy crew. It's worth watching.

I saw no footage of children on the compound in Oregon, so maybe they slept happily there. They frowned on the basic family structure and instead opted for a form of free love that sometimes left bruises and welts on the flesh of the believers - on this point I thought they were maybe onto something purposeful - but the filmmakers didn't address the aspect of family life on the farm very much. I saw no kids in the archival footage. Had a handful of children died from a mass suicide or government takeover then it would have been all that we would ever heard about. 

This cult stared down the state of Oregon and practically begged them to try a hostile overtaking of the ranch, which I thought was pretty fucking righteous but the whole thing fizzled out with Osho on the run in a Lear jet. Nabbed in Charlotte, turned over to the feds for voter fraud or something equally absurd, but it was enough to boot him back to India. 

If you'd like a dose of his spiritual wisdom then he is speaking at the beginning of this track - one of my favorites from the early days of what regrettably came to be known as progressive house, a dirty word in what used to be my world. Or, a great word by the true believers of its message of celestial perfection attainable here on earth, in a nightclub. 

I vaguely remember all this happening when I was a kid, but coming out of the 70s when passenger planes were being hijacked every other day and cults were popping up like pimples, it was not a tremendous blip on the radar of puberty. Watching the doc last night made me want to participate more fully in a sex cult, though. The leader's secretary seemed like a freak. Sheela. A real firecracker - a wire-tapping, bio-terror having, braless loving, cult organizing, always dressed in red, sexual freak. My kind of chick - a dynamo that chooses to live life on the edge, of prison. One got the feeling that something was definitely about to happen next.

Oh, my beloved Sheela, I would so cult with you...

If the internet were a more perfect place then we'd be able to ask Squeaky Fromme what she thinks of the Rajneeshees and their brand of cult-sex-violence, maybe find out of they're just a bunch of fucking lucky amateurs or not. When you are left with unanswerable questions best to rely on the self-made experts of enigma. What would little Squeaky do.

(Sheela, my secret crush)

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