A response to a victimized Scientologist . . .

Some dude over at Glosslip was whining about how his church is being attacked and it got me thinking about the three distinct generations of critics that have brought us to these interesting times . . .

Oh Robert, how these enturbulent times do my Second-Gen Critic's heart good. I count myself with those who became critics of the cult back in the early days of the internet. It was the dawn of xenu.net and the LMT. The lovely Tory/Magoo was not yet our joyful muse. In those days Robert, there was no criticizing the cult publicly. You still couldn't speak out against Scientology without getting a Kobrin-Gram or a visit from Earl Cooley's goon, Eugene Ingram. Criticize, and you had crazed Scilons leafletting your neighborhood with flyers calling you a pederast or murderer. You had obscene calls to your workplace or maybe your pet drowned. You suffered like the First Gen Critics Cooper and Lerma and Wallershiem and Armstrong and Young. The cult would blackmail you and the media would believe them. They were the ultimate playground bully, who would slug you, then go fake-cry to the teacher and YOU would get punished.

Now the tables have turned. The anonymity that the internet gave us in those early days created a shitstorm of free-flowing com that the cult knew would be its undoing. The more they tried to cut off its head, the more heads it would grow. For me, it was Andreas Heldal-Lund and Bob Minton who were the biggest influences in giving me courage to speak out, online and off (you too WBM). When I would talk about the cult to my friends back then, they would just roll their eyes like I was totally nuts. They couldn't believe this conspiracy stuff was true. It took the final shot of the Second Gen war to wake everyone else up . . . a shot fired by a cartoon character. South Park's brilliant "Trapped in the Closet" episode heralded the end of the second phase of criticism. Those years ended with Stan staring at the camera with his big, cartoon eyes saying "sue me, go ahead and fucking sue me" and I think we all nearly fell over.

So Robert, the atmosphere of open criticism you are now soaking in is the result of the work of two distinct generations of critics. Pre-internet folks who got the living crap fair-gamed out of them. Then the early internet years when the intergalactic despot was let out of the bag, so to speak. Finally came the Third Gen Critics, and the end-game for the current "church". And the architect of this end-game is Tom Cruise. Why Cruise? Because, if he hadn't fired uber PR flack Pat Kingsley, re-engaged with the cult and hired his Scilon sister to replace Kingsley, his special brand of batshit crazy would have stayed under wraps. It was his couch-jumping, cult-promoting, royal-wedding, KSW Carnival of Foot-Bullets that provoked the hornets nest of Chanology into action. It was batshit crazy "tech" with a megaphone, meeting totalitarian attempts to shut the information flow off (again) that created the Third Gen Critics. And they didn't just stay home in their parents basements as Miscavige expected . . . they marched. They chanted. They rickrolled and frolicked. There was caek and it was good.

Anyway Robert, your "church" has created this agitta itself. Of course, Hubbard set it in motion with his megalomania, avarice and paranoia; with his sci-fi lunacy and draconian fake navy. You are probably a public Scientologist. You're most likely not clear, certainly not an OT. You can't believe that anything like what you're seeing in the media is true. Your critical thinking skills are poor as evidenced by your long post, loaded with "church" talking-points and logical fallacies. Believe me, the "church" wants to keep you that way: credulous and forking over money. And though you won't believe it, we are not here to attack you. We are here to help you.

For Quentin Hubbard and all the rest . . .

Personally, I think that the whole thing needs to be shut down and let the Freezoners carry on with Hubbard's batshit crazy "tech" . . . for free.

This is big . . .

There's not much I can say about the import of this series of articles in the aptly nicknamed SP Times. It's quite simply amazing.

Depressed? Stop being such a fu¢^*ng pansy . . .

Oh, how I love the celebrities. Bijou Phillips in all her great wisdom has denounced depression sufferers who turn to antidepressants as "fucking pansies". What next Bijou? Are people who take chemotherapy for cancer goddamned wussies? Epileptics on Dilantin are motherfucking crybabies? What's that Bijou? They should try the L. Ron Hubbard cure? It's all in their heads? Body Thetans is it? You might want to go to Sense About Science where actual scientists offer well-meaning celebutards a lovely pamphlet chock full of advice on what comprises real science before they spew their woo to a gullible public eager to lap up the pseudoscientific quackery put forth by the likes of Oprah, Jenny McCarthy and Madonna.

REVIEW: Prescription for a Superior Existence

As someone who is fascinated by the subject of cults and mind-control, Prescription for a Superior Existence was a no-brainer to add to the pile of books next to my bed—only it never made it there—I read it all in one day. Over the years, I’ve grown to understand that my fascination with cults actually says more about me than the object of my fascination. With that in mind, I strongly recommend that anybody with an interest in cults read this new novel by Josh Emmons. Those who read this blog (both of you) know that I take a snarky, mocking approach to the battle against Scientology. I think humor goes a long way to diffuse the absurdity of the subject matter, but that humor is backed up with personal experience and familiarity with some fairly substantive books on the subject. I now add this work of fiction to that list. By turns moving, disturbing, fantastic and sobering, this book offers a close-up view of what makes humans tick, and what makes some of us turn to extremist groups.

AN ENGAGING MYSTERY AND VERY DIFFERENT LOVE STORY
The story is set in a plausible, near-future San Francisco, a time when many of our chickens have come home to roost. It’s the story of an ordinary man plunged into extraordinary circumstances when he falls for the daughter of a cult leader. Playing out against this troubled backdrop, the book has more than a whiff of of Raymond Chandler and a dash of cyberpunk—a slightly dystopian, but very believable, not-too-distant future where environmental, political and societal stresses feed our fears and doubts, leaving some of the populace ripe for the picking.

A CLEAR VIEW OF CULT MECHANICS
Emmons has a keen understanding of how cults can snare even the most skeptical people under the right emotional circumstances. I found myself impressed at this young writer’s maturity and familiarity with the psychology and language of mind-control. I also found myself disturbed by his ability to get inside my own head when he eloquently describes the self-doubts that gnaw at his protagonist. I could feel what it would be like to be on that slippery slope of credulity, unable to stop the slide into submission to the group.

SOUNDS FAMILIAR . . .
The cult that Emmons has created is eerily like Scientology mixed with Landmark. The charismatic leader and his Prescription for a Superior Existence seems to be a bit of Hubbard, a bit of Erhard with overtones Heaven’s Gate. What I found truly scary is that if a fairly charismatic woman or man were to take the ideas in this book and flesh them out, they’d probably find themselves with scores of devotees in no time.
Having just finished the book, I’m haunted by a lingering sense of compassion and understanding for our human frailties. Our self-doubts and our desire to belong are clearly and sometimes achingly portrayed in these characters caught up in the sweep of the storyline.

As I mentioned earlier, Emmons literary style is mature, sophisticated and edgy, though there are twists and turns that are fairly predictable. In the end, even the predictable turns are very satisfyingly rendered in his capable hands. Ultimately, I found myself taking a hard look at what motivates me as a critic. For this I’m very grateful, as it certainly strengthened my resolve in standing up to abusive groups, while reminding me that compassion for those in thrall to those groups is what it's all about. For those of us who rail against the abuses of $cientology and other cults, I believe there is much insight to be gained in reading this novel—insight into what motivates both sides of the argument and how thin the emotional line between the two sides really is.

Space Station 33

I could not possibly make this shit up. Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you L. Ron Hubbard . . .

L. Ron Hubbard's Space Station 33 from Artoo45 on Vimeo.

Aleens iz reel . . .

So, somebody thinks they have the scoop of the century with their "alien looking in the window" movie. Well, I took this shot of Xemu last summer at Chincoteague. Sure, he peeped in the window of our Winnebago first (he's shy like that) but soon he was slammin' back cheap chardonnay and scarfing down the quahogs like there was no tomorrow. After dinner we played Scrabble and he gave us all free personality tests. So he's really not such a despot after all, just shy and misunderstood.

Silence of the Clams

Thanks to Dawn at Glosslip for the inspiration . . .