OK all you buzzed, baked, cotton-mouthed, couch-locked, fried, high, lit up, mashed on nature’s holiday, roasted, stoned, toasted and wasted stoners, get ready to read.

Same goes for you straight arrow intellectuals.

Even if you’re only half-baked, readers on all levels of cosmic consciousness can now buckle their brain belts and prepare for takeoff. Weed Wine Magic, A Freaky California Cannabis Country Chiller, has hit the streets and is now available.

My latest novel surprised Stephanie and me the other night when it showed up on a German Amazon site all by itself like it had a mind of its own, which it does. Then the book appeared on the main Amazon book site.

Barnes & Noble offers the book on its website, too.

Even Thrift Books carries the thing, the company algorithm informing people who enjoy my novel that they might also like Dr. Seuss, Catcher in the Rye by JD Salinger and J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings.

I’m in good company.

Oh, yeah, Weed Wine Magic is definitely a thing.

Before we split for California and our whirlwind book tour, if you’d like an autographed copy at a special price, you’re invited to our local launch on Sunday, October 20, from 2 to 4 at Case Quattro Winery, 1542 Main Street in Peckville, PA. Or you can order an autographed copy directly from us at a special price as soon as our Posture Interactive tech team updates our websites.

So pay attention. Don’t just sit around wrecked like Cheech and Chong staring out the window at Cloud 10 on a cross country bus trip back to the West Coast. Free your mind. Weed Wine Magic is an introspective trip worth taking. I’m a better person for writing the book. You’ll be a better person for reading the book.

Enlightenment is always within our grasp, right there for the taking like picking a ripe bottle of Hoocha Weed Wine off the Hoocha Weed tree that grows in the mystical magical sand dune mountains of our minds.

Better than any corrupt government shuttle, multibillion-dollar commercial spaceship or Martian-piloted UFO, Weed Wine Magic will get you high.

Want to take you higher…I wanna take you higher…Let me take you higher.

Thank you Sly and the Family’s Stoned.

That’s why Stephanie Bressler, my hippie editor to whom I am married, and I are inviting you to attend the local blastoff for my third novel, the sequel to my first novel Blood Red Syrah.

The Weed Wine Magic rocket touches down Sunday, October 20, from 2 to 4 p.m. at Case Quattro Winery, 1542 Main Street, Peckville, PA.

This saga has been a long time coming, its inspiration blossoming more than 50 years ago when as a Penn State star trooper majoring in interplanetary cerebral travel I first envisioned a super cannabis strain called Hoocha Weed. These singing, dancing plants grew lush and untamed in the Wild West and first traveled east on a loaded stagecoach driven by America’s first coast-to-coast pioneer pot smugglers.

Long before Stephanie and I met and eventually moved to the California Central Coast I experimented with my mind and times, tasting life in several lanes as I experienced unpredictable rolling brain waves and joints. For the record, I haven’t used an illegal drug in more than 40 years. I even passed on getting high during our last visit to California where recreational cannabis has legally been available since 2018.

Weed Wine Magic offers what I call primo Freekreational cannabis-infused wine that offers the chance to consider winemaking from the grapes’ point of view — a kaleidoscopic look inside their trippy little minds.

“Free” as in free.

“Freak” as in freak.

Freekreational as in Weed Wine Magic.

My novel offers readers a mystical, magical tour of yet another metaphysical nexus. Weed Wine Magic provides an unholy yet celestial link to my holy trinity of countercultural teachers, a connection to the past that nurtures the present and future for those of us who recognize ourselves in what the Dunites called “the face of the clam.” Literary enlightenment provided by the ghosts of Ken Kesey, Richard Brautigan and Carlos Castaneda guides me as a writer and thinker willing to face bleak darkness while prospecting fiery light.

Dunites, true to life bohemian mystics, shape the Weed Wine Magic tale and once actually lived as a far-out beach tribe of seekers on the California Central Coast where Blood Red Syrah and Weed Wine Magic are set. Dunites will live forever in the minds of those of us willing to book passage beyond the beyond and take the trip.

Stephanie and I are Dunites.

Our party does not appear on the ballot in the November elections.

That’s me in the photograph, by the way, standing guard at the ruins of Maya moon goddess Ixchel’s temple her followers built centuries ago in Isla Mujeres off the coast of the Mexican Yucatán Peninsula. Ixchel plays a crucial role in the Weed Wine Magic epic as does Mexican death saint La Santa Muerte, who graces the cover of the book, and Sinaloan narco-martyr of the poor Jesús Malverde.

So join us for a cosmic connection, a glass of wine (unfortunately not Hoocha Weed wine) and a nice afternoon among kindred spirits who respect the continuing search for truth in our chaotic world gone mad.

Peace and love, people, peace and love.

Whenever parched seekers drink from the sacramental Dunite chalice, cannabis-infused wine conjures purple and green illusions of nirvanic wonder.

Whoa, dude.

Can you repeat the question?

Weed.

Wine.

Magic.

Three primo ingredients invoke pure California bliss. Vinified in a cauldron of peace and love this cryptic recipe creates a soothing elixir designed to comfort wandering souls. Long before Haight-Asbury’s psychotropic head trip, intrepid Dunite adventurers guided kindred spirits beyond golden primal mysteries hidden in mountainous Central Coastal dunes. Pioneering wanderlust that defines the future of creativity, Dunites left a sand trail of sparkling enlightenment and sacred animal tracks for us to follow.

In October, the season of the witch, Avventura Press will release Weed Wine Magic, my new novel and sequel to Blood Red Syrah. My publisher Lee Sebastiani blessed this wayfaring mission with wisdom and guidance. Multimedia gurus James and Kristin Callahan provided kaleidoscopic front and back book covers that rival some of the famous psychedelic Fillmore rock posters from the Bay Area’s countercultural heyday. Hippie editor Stephanie Bressler (whom I married in a secret San Francisco City Hall ceremony) continues to summon plans for a metaphysical book launch, readings and signings next month on the West Coast.

What role did I play in this radical literary genesis? I tunneled deep into the sand mountains, mining underground images as a modern-day Dunite prophet channeling mystical Mexican spirits of peasant hero Jesús Malverde, death saint La Santa Muerte and Maya moon goddess Ixchel.

Set in contemporary Central Coastal California, our saga follows a curious commune of mind-bending nomads into the caverns of their psyches. Plagued by the bloodlust of an invisible psychic demon who calls herself Syrah, a loco south-of-the-border drug cartel, Big Tobacco executioners and a white neo-nutsy militia loner, these voyagers face evil and satori in ancient sand dunes where an aging hermit grows the most potent pot plants on the planet to make his unique cannabis- infused weed wine.

Despite mounting chaos the tribe finds solace in the spirit of the Dunites, an underground society of true-to-life bohemian visionaries who once found refuge in the mystical Oceano dunes, unlikely crusaders who join forces to realize their saintly dream of harmony in a world gone mad.

Hoocha Weed is the gift recluse Mel Moyle and the rest of his newly-adopted family call Mel’s cannabis super strain. Hoocha Weed is the pot that calls the kettle potted. Hoocha Weed fuels the search for good karma. Hoocha Weed defines cosmic gospel beyond the beyond.

I had no plan to write a freaky California cannabis country chiller sequel to my gruesome California wine country thriller. Instead I banged out Paddy’s Day in Trump Town, a second novel jammed with surrealistic American wingnut politics and democratic chaos, a challenging read loaded with right-wing fascism, fear and hatred based on hardcore bigoted reality.

How was I to know somebody put a spell on me? How was I to know Malverde knew La Santa Muerte who knew Ixchel who got along with my Blood Red Syrah characters and others hiding out in the sand dunes?  How was I to know the spirit of Wally Wilson, the most lovable serial killer antihero you’ll ever meet, influenced the reincarnation of the story as well as his own rebirth? How was I to know Mexico offered the refuge of another motherland to match my maternal and paternal familial lineages in Germany and Ireland?

Witches reign in all three nations where countless mortals respect and fear cultural magic.

Germany boasts pow-wow, a traditional form of Pennsylvania Dutch healing and retribution. When I was a teenager my mother shared with me the eerie tale of a baby in York (where I was born) who viciously bit her mother while nursing. The mother sought out a “Braucher” who practiced folk magic.

“Do you know who might have cursed you?” the German witch asked.

“Ach jah,” said the young mother. “Yes.”

Steal an article of clothing from the suspect’s wash line, the witch instructed. Fold the garment over the edge of an open dresser drawer and slam the drawer. As soon as the young mother followed orders she heard screams from the jealous woman next door who hexed her. The rosy-cheeked “Dutchified” baby never again bit her loving mother.

Dark Celtic curses also help and harm. Despite the passage of more than 50 years I still see the young woman I encountered standing alone by the lake on the rugged West Coast of Ireland where my roots run deep in the bog. As a powerful wind whipped thick black hair around her shoulders and face she shrieked for me to turn back from my solitary walk and leave her alone in the cold, misty fog.

When I told the tale to stunned country cousins they blessed themselves and said the young woman only spared me because I looked like her prince who died in battle a thousand years ago. Three other young American men, visitors to the lake like me who didn’t resemble her warrior, had disappeared over the years when the heartbroken young woman spirited them away as prisoners to hold forever in the dungeon of the night.

My personal brand of mystical literature should also be respected and feared. My subconscious images offer redemption if you are open to their power. Take heed. I am a sentence shaman born of darkness and light. I hold the power to exorcise and raise the dead. I levitate and fascinate. I cast rich spells. Never underestimate the power of a daring word witch.

Prepare to meet the Dunites.

We’re ready to meet you.

We’re close.

Weed Wine Magic is almost ready to sip.

Ready to get high?

Here’s a taste from my new novel’s back blurb:

“Set in contemporary Central Coastal California, this raw sequel to Blood Red Syrah follows a curious commune of mind-bending wanderers into the caverns of their psyches. Plagued by the bloodlust of an invisible psychic demon who calls herself Syrah, a loco south-of-the-border drug cartel, Big Tobacco executioners and a white neo-nutsy militia loner, these seekers face evil and bliss in ancient sand dunes where an aging hermit grows the most potent pot plants on the planet to make his unique cannabis infused weed wine.

Despite mounting chaos the tribe finds solace in the spirit of the Dunites, an underground society of bohemian visionaries that once found refuge in the mystical Oceano dunes. Guided by Maya moon goddess Ixchel, whose sacred energy lives in Isla Mujeres, the Island of Women, off the Yucatán Peninsula coast, Latina death saint La Santa Muerte and Sinaloan narco savior Jesús Malverde, these unlikely voyagers join forces to realize their sacred dream of harmony and truth in a world gone mad.”

Did a Secret Service sniper hold Thomas Matthew Crooks in his rifle sights but not pull the trigger until after Crooks opened fire on former President Donald Trump and people around him at a Butler, Pennsylvania, political rally?

Did that Secret Service sniper wait for authorization to shoot that came only after Crooks wounded Trump, killed a man sitting in the stands with his family and shot two other men?

Did the Secret Service sniper enable Crooks to keep firing over and over again before finally killing the would-be presidential assassin?

These unconfirmed suspicions top the list of questions that remain unanswered as several investigations continue into the July 13^th presidential assassination attempt.

Pennsylvania State Police Commissioner Christopher Paris recently testified before a congressional hearing about the timeline of the shooting, providing his understanding of the number of shots Crooks fired.

“I believe that the number is eight,” Paris told the House Committee on Homeland Security. “Eight casings have been recovered.”

Did the Secret Service sniper who eventually killed Crooks watch him squeeze the trigger on his AR-15-style semi-automatic rifle eight separate times before finally squeezing the trigger on his own rifle? Why didn’t the Secret Service sniper kill Crooks sooner?  Do Secret Service snipers require supervisory approval before firing on a human target? Did the sniper who killed Crooks have the sole power to decide when to fire?

National news outlets have confirmed that seconds before the shooting began local police responded to reports of a suspicious man on the roof. When one officer hoisted another so he could see onto the roof, Crooks turned and pointed his rifle at him, news reports said. When that officer lost his grip and fell about eight feet to the ground he and the officer who hoisted him quickly notified colleagues about the man on the roof with a weapon, news reports said.

Police have not confirmed whom the two local officers alerted or how many seconds passed before Crooks opened fire. But did a Secret Service sniper already have Crooks in the crosshairs when the local officer ducked to keep from getting shot? If so, why didn’t the sniper shoot earlier?

National news reports speculate the Secret Service sniper teams, of which at least two were assigned to the rally, might have simply missed seeing Crooks until it was too late. Secret Service snipers do not need permission to shoot, those reports say.

Yet official skepticism surfaced recently when I spoke with a friend who said he had talked with a law enforcement officer who said he had spoken to other officers who had been assigned to the deadly Trump political rally in western Pennsylvania. News reports estimated about 100 federal, state and local law enforcement officers worked the Butler rally.

Despite quadruple hearsay my source is credible. So is the law enforcement officer to whom he said he spoke. Whether Pennsylvania police are spreading untrue rumors or shocking undisclosed facts, experienced cops are talking. When seasoned cops are talking people need to listen.

I’m a local news columnist seeking truth.

High-ranking government officials are responsible for delivering truth.

Experts must persist in investigating and presenting detailed answers that will hopefully better prepare law enforcement officials sworn to protect and serve the people and uphold the public trust. Full disclosure of all relevant facts in this tragedy might one day prevent another American presidential assassination. Shoddy inquiry only sets the stage for future carnage.

In this case, the public right to know is a matter of life and death.

Rising from the pile of frantic Secret Service agents shielding Donald Trump from further attack, the former president raised his fist in defiance. Screaming “Fight, fight, fight!” he electrified the world with his triumphant courage under fire.

The already chaotic 2024 presidential campaign exploded in a Butler, Pennsylvania, bloodbath Saturday afternoon with a homegrown assassin’s bullet tearing through Trump’s ear as he stood before a podium addressing a cheering crowd. A Trump supporter in the bleachers died from a head shot while two others suffered serious wounds. A police sniper terminated the 20-year-old white male suburban shooter.

Divine intervention, Trump told a reporter the following day.

Trump’s holier-than-thou hosanna set the stage for this week’s Republican National Convention in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, still a traditional blue-collar American city where 40 percent of the people claim German ancestry. Bratwursts, pretzels and oompah music provide a beery backdrop to a heartland of patriotism heralding hard work, conservative family values and stubborn nationalist pride.

Throughout the week the faithful will unfurl a sea of American eagle embossed banners. Brass trumpets will pay tribute to America’s boldest military commander. Flag-wavers will rally behind America’s future tyrannical ruler whom tens of millions of loyal supporters nationwide (perhaps tens of millions more since Saturday) praise for unwavering leadership and guidance only rivaled by God.

Maybe it’s simply providence that Trump’s very own running mate, U.S. Sen. J.D. Vance, once called Trump “America’s Hitler.”

With bucolic western Pennsylvania as a butchered backdrop, we who live and vote in the Commonwealth no longer serve as one of three crucial swing states. Pennsylvania voters will now lead the nation and send Trump back to the White House. For the record, we are home to the most residents of German American descent in the United States. Add Irish American voters prone to prejudice and the November election is a clean sweep for the GOP. The majority of an angry red United States will follow our lead.

Hail Trump.

I see no way for Democrats to avoid a Trump landslide victory. These elite pampered fools set the stage for their own defeat and the unbridled revenge to come in our twisted America. Democratic arrogance and mockery of working-class pain positioned these jackasses for defeat. Make no mistake about the possibility of imminent reactionary public policies. Despite all the recent talk from both mainstream political parties of dialing back the hate, Trump has already promised retribution.

People who inhabit Trump’s fatherland expect more payback than ever. Who knows how many men, women and children who attended the killer Butler rally hunger to get even with countless traitors to the cause? The assassination attempt only increased Trump’s authoritarian commitment to fight Democrats and liberals of any stripe, people Trump and his army target as true enemies of the people.

Good old-fashioned Second Amendment gunfire sealed the deal.

The deal?

What’s the deal, as President Joe Biden likes to say?

Here’s the deal: Responding to the assassination attempt, Biden gave up his re-election fight Sunday night as he sat pale and staring at a single camera during his bare Oval Office address, nebulizing a more human vision of tomorrow, shredding clarity into uncertainty. America’s president sacrificed his leadership on bended knee to marauding political barbarians at the White House gate who know the way in because they’ve been there before.

Biden quit.

In a nation awash in the blood of past assassinated presidents, Biden even forgot some of the most horrific American history that he of all people should keep at the forefront of his mind.

“But the idea — the idea that there’s political violence or violence in America like this is just unheard of,” Biden said Saturday night.

Unheard of?

The weeping ghosts of Lincoln and Kennedy alone should have been screaming in Biden’s head when he garbled history and lost track of his own assassinated presidential ancestors. Yet, he continued to whimper against the backdrop of an invisible white flag of surrender, frozen like a pale boxer sitting on his stool in the corner of the lonely ring, unable to answer the bell for the final round.

Democrats quickly backed off trying to push Biden off the ticket. Corporate media elites backed off making even legitimate criticism of Trump and his minions who will nonetheless continue portraying Democrats as vicious haters all the while ramping up their own symbolic assaults on Biden and his servile supporters.

No Democratic nominee, including Vice President Kamala Harris, can beat Trump. Prove me wrong, Barack Obama, Bill and Hillary Clinton. Prove me wrong U.S. Sen. Bob Casey, my timid Scranton neighbor who for years has refused to sit with me for an interview. Prove me wrong opportunistic defense contractor puppet and Congressman Matt Cartwright who also refuses to talk with me as a constituent and veteran journalist.

Come November all these political aristocrats, along with crude slob U.S. Sen John Fetterman and Pennsylvania warmonger Zionist Gov. Josh Shapiro, will have helped their Democratic colleagues lose control of the U.S. House and Senate.

When the gun smoke cleared Trump rose like the mythic phoenix rising from the ashes. Even facing the deadliest obstacles Trump stands ready to issue orders and deal with those who disobey his commandments. When Trump ascended in triumph that fateful day in Pennsylvania with blood streaming down his face, countless voters behind him ascended as well. When Trump raised his fist, they raised their fists. When Trump resurrected, their hopes soared.

Trump’s gutsy crimson drama captured on countless videos will play across America until Election Day and beyond. Trump and his legions who love him will watch the replay again and again. Frenzied by the attack, their faith in Trump and his vision will surge.

When Trump emerges as victor expect a powerful new breed ready, willing and able to punish any betrayer who opposes their master’s mission to make America great again. Expect our sacred republic’s reawakened vengeful horde to watch us more closely than ever.

They’ll watch me.

They’ll watch you.

For us, it’s mourning in America.

For them, the future offers a brave new world.

As of now either Democrat Joe Biden or Republican Donald Trump will be elected America’s next commander-in-chief. Despite the deep dismal failings of the Democratic Party, I’d rather they win.

But I won’t help. I won’t vote for Biden. I might vote for Vice President Kamala Harris if she replaces her boss on the November ticket.

Biden will lose if he runs.

Harris will win if she runs only if Democrats unleash a massive support campaign by assembling everybody Trump Republicans hate to put her over the top and into the White House. Trump might still pull out the win, maybe even by a landslide. Strategically, Kamala is the Democrats’ best weapon.

I quit the Democratic Party this year because Biden-led Democrats are complicit in the American-financed Israeli genocide in Gaza. I vowed never to vote for any Democrat who endorsed Biden’s support for Israeli zealots. If Kamala promises to help Palestinians rather than stand blindly with the exterminator Jewish state, I’ll think about voting for her.

When I voted for Biden in 2020 I actually voted for Harris. The ticket needed me to help beat Trump, whom I consider a madman capable of anything. The Democrats needed me even though not one Democrat among that pampered party extended me the courtesy of asking for my help.

America needed me. Now America needs Biden. We need the decrepit, self-absorbed 81-year-old to leave the ticket and make way for a fresh resurgence of leadership and the future of democracy.

Biden can step aside gracefully.

At least now he can step aside gracefully.

I won’t be surprised if Biden succumbs to physical and mental stress before the November election and collapses from a stroke or heart attack and even dies. The man has already suffered two brain aneurysms. Surgeries for those severe medical conditions occurred in 1988, 36 years ago when Biden was 45 years old and far more lucid than he is today.

Harris turns 60 one month before Election Day, a decade younger than Oprah who might make a good running mate. Just kidding. Whoever does run with Kamala, and I don’t mean Hillary, Michelle Obama or Beyoncé, will only add to her Black power.

White and Black women will vote for Kamala. Latinas will vote for Kamala. Uncommitted women will vote for Kamala. LGBTQ+ people will vote for Kamala. Potheads will vote for Kamala. Some traitor Republicans will vote for Kamala. Countless independent men across America will vote for Kamala too. If the Lord Almighty comes down, he’ll probably vote for Kamala as well.

Add more votes for Democrats depending on whom party puppeteers and donors choose to run with her. Pennsylvania rookie Gov. Josh Shapiro is a possibility. The wannabe Israeli prime minister and unbridled political opportunist can bring the swing from Commonwealth voters.

“Bring the swing!” even sounds like a sappy PR script for a flashy TV commercial geared to entice woke suburban Philadelphia women who will sucker for a nice interracial couple on the ticket. Like Kamala’s husband, Josh is a Jew too!

Except for obedient soldiers following orders and standing with Israel, most other voters from demographic groups I named will not vote for Biden if he remains on the ticket.

Democrats will lose.

America will lose.

Rednecks will win. Some particularly narrow-minded men will get so excited about Trump they’ll donate their already late child support checks to this gold-plated good old boy who brought us Jan. 6. Half of America is comprised of rednecks and tens of millions of them, more than the last time, including their women, will vote for Trump. Never forget that every Trump voter is a redneck at heart and proud of it.

This time Trump might really hang Mike Pence.

I have to admit I do like a good fight.

So if Trump does win, blame Biden, not me. Blame dirty, double-dealing Democrats, not me. Blame the Lord Almighty, not me.

Even without my vote Kamala Harris can win the White House. We need her public service experience. We need her prosecutorial savvy. We need her laugh. If Kamala flashes that big smile that’s even better than Biden’s and gets the nation laughing at Trump during a televised debate, Trump won’t know how to act.

For Kamala to win, Biden has to publicly withdraw from the re-election race and tell his delegates to support Kamala before the Aug. 9^th Democratic National Convention begins. I’d prefer if Biden resigns from office immediately and Kamala takes over as soon as possible. Biden needs to accept reality while he’s still able to discern reality.

Time marches on, man.

No more malarkey.