But It's Not Beer, Is it?

We have been talking about the death of our Earth in less than 60 years, and I had expected to establish more strong evidence of this on or about October 6 by telling you in advance of the great West Coast disaster I expected during that period.
 
I was feeling confident going in, having documented three other natural disasters in advance of their taking place this year, they being the great tsunami, the destruction of New Orleans and hurricane Rita.
 
I now find myself in a most interesting situation in that it seems as if I missed the target, but I am being told I did not.  I am being told this in no uncertain terms; and I am being told this in several different metaphors, such as a tree cut through and not yet falling, a torpedo having penetrated the hull of a ship but not yet exploded...you get the idea.
 
To be sure, the great Pakistan-India quake fits the time factor well; and it is a huge event of growing significance; but in my business, anticipating an earthquake half way around the world is not even a near miss.
 
In this day and age, naming the timing of a major earthquake within 72 hours is no great feat unless the location in pinpointed. This is because the pace of our Earth's breaking up has accelerated almost to the point where you could throw a dart at a calendar and reasonably expect a quake someplace in the world on whatever date it hit.
 
In ten years it will be news if a massive earthquake does not take place within a seven day period, and by then a 7.5 quake, the size of the Pakistan-India quake and larger than that which leveled San Francisco in 1906, will be considered a relatively small event.  In 20 years major earthquakes will be taking place all around the world multiple times a day.
 
We Space Sailors call these "Deathbed Shudders".
 
But back to that West Coast disaster I have been expecting and spent so many words to document in advance.  As I said, I am told San Francisco is not out of the woods, that Pakistan and India did not eat the West Coast disaster.  I am told the metaphorical A-Bomb I inserted up San Francisco's well lubricated anus in 1976 is still there, still ticking, and getting ready to pop.
 
How that metaphorical A-Bomb got there, and why San Francisco deserves to have it there, is a story I will have to leave until later because right now I have been asked to tell you the story of how an Angel gave me some beer.
 
I am told this story fits pretty well with what is happening right now relative to San Francisco and the great West Coast disaster, and that this story will give us something of a timing equation after that metaphorical nuclear explosion we Space Sailors call "Cherry Pop".
 
Cherry Pop, of course, means that point in Time when psycho-fascist America knows it has made a terrible, fatal mistake in torturing God's One True Telepath for over 30 years.
 
That is, I have been asked to tell you the story called "The Honey Bee and the Beer" to illustrate the process now taking place, that being that the great West Coast disaster has happened but is not yet completed.
 
This Honey Bee and the Beer story comes out of my most dearly loved art, that which I call Long Duration Backpacking, and how and why I learned how to stay in the wilderness happily alone for a month or more.
 
This story took place on my first hike in the early Seventies, which I took because I had realized the United States of America was not going to stop its torture-the-audible-telepath game and I had better find some way to take refuge from it or I would be dead of torture-enslavement before I was 55.
 
That first hike was only two weeks long and was my most free hike in that I carried very little food and equipment, just a cheap drug store sleeping bag, my small frame-less Vietnamese Army pack, my Vietnam combat boots, five pounds of brown rice, some government surplus powdered eggs, and tea.
 
It was also my revelation-hike, where I learned how much I love the wilderness and how perfectly at home I am there.
 
In later years, after Republican American Fascism stole the White House, I was harassed so much by government pigs and citizen volunteers when I went into the wilderness that I was obliged to give up the pleasure of that healing retreat, but that's another story, too.
 
But  to continue with the story of the Honey Bee and the Bear, I was resting one sizzling hot day and decided to bathe in the steam that flowed nearby.  Sitting naked there on the sandy bottom, the water only a few inches deep, I spied a bumble bee floating by, struggling to stay alive.
 
So, I grabbed my towel and placed it under the bee and lifted the bee out of the water and set it on a rock, where it quickly recovered and flew away.
 
Before it was out of sight an angelic female voice I know very well said to me, "You are going to be rewarded for that"; and as I hiked along the hot trail that day and the next that voice would teasingly ask me every time I stopped to rest, "Wouldn't you like a nice, cold beer right now?"
 
So, after about a day and a half of hiking and being beer-teased by that sweet Angel's voice I came upon a beautiful valley, and I knew immediately I would find beer there.
 
Understand, this valley was perhaps fifty miles from the nearest store.
 
So, I began searching for the beer.  I came upon a trail that ran straight across a meadow, and as I walked along that trail that sweet voice said to me, "Something like a beeline, isn't it?"
 
The trail led to a stream, and across the stream was a hunters' camp where horses had clearly frequently been tethered and where bits and pieces of equipment were left for later trips.
 
One of the items left there was an overturned galvanized washtub, and under it among some canned food I found a jar of honey.
 
"Well," I said, "honey is a good reward for saving a bee."
 
And to that the sweet Angel's voice said, "But it's not beer, is it?"
 
Hanging on a nail tacked into a tree was a gunny sack filled with crushed beer cans, and as I was going through it thinking there might be a full can hidden there, that sweet voice said, "Where do you think the beer would be?"
 
Of course, certified genius that I am I realized it would be in the stream, and there I found a rotting gunnysack holding over a dozen cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon beer.
 
I was asked to tell you this story to let you know we are at the point in the West Coast disaster story where we are looking under the washtub, and there we are finding the huge  Pakistan-India earthquake; but it is not San Francisco, is it?
 
The time between finding the jar of honey and finding the beer in the stream was about five minutes.  It has been suggested to me that when the West Coast disaster takes place we will have a minute/day scale for future reference.
 
This means when I am told Foolish George will earn his nickname "Crybaby" in so many minutes, the astute reader will be able to calculate how many days that will be.  This timing factor will be slightly encoded because we will not want the government pigs who read this to be able to warn Foolish George.
 
In my next entry, unless there is more pressing news, I will tell you why San Francisco deserves the metaphorical atomic bomb now ticking away up its well lubricated anus.