One of the many kinds of unconscious life forms I encounter during existence patrol is the robotic-minded automaton known as a “clicker”. It refers to someone composed of artificial or inauthentic psychological components, a person who is “not their self” and operates according to collective behavior. They “whir” and “click” like a machine, in other words.

The term originally came to me from a derogatory epithet used for androids in the movie Creation Of The Humanoids. In this movie, a shrinking population of humans grows ever more dependent on manufactured humaniform robots to maintain their industrial, post-apocalypse lifestyle.

A radical group of humans, feeling their existence increasingly threatened by the artificial beings they have created, use the term to describe and focus their mutual dislike of the androids. They personify many of the qualities and wear costumes derivative of hate groups from Earth’s past. A kind of hyper-blended mélange of all the worst humanity has to offer.

The androids themselves are beings unto themselves, with desires and outlooks that naturally bring them into conflict with humans whom they serve. It is their intention to slowly let humans die off or put their brains into android bodies while they build a new world of android needs being developed and explored.

I know; how can I use a term even from a science fiction movie that denigrates and labels beings—even artificial ones—as Others? Just because I define the term as pointing to what I consider hostile or dangerous encounters doesn’t give me a hall pass either.

All I can say is that I’m pulling this use out into the open and examining it, questioning it, exploring it.

Creation of the Humanoids presents us with a story about how outmoded thought patterns are gradually minimized and replaced by the development of new ones. In a way, the hybrids of tomorrow (for that is what an android is) outmaneuver the prejudices and violence of their ancestors over a long span of time.

In real life, however, our range of psychological experiences are much more intricate and complex. Humans, androids, and robots all coexist together in the psychological sphere. The question is always, what kind of consciousness do they present?

As in the book The Runaway Robot, a mechanical being can develop and experience self-awareness and an empathy for non-robots. Likewise, as in the book Caves of Steel, humans can show their worst sides where the rights of mechanical beings are concerned, reverting to ugliness and undifferentiated effects.

The reality is that our concept of being-ness is open to interpretation. Tribalism as a survival instinct may not be enough anymore, or perhaps we have mainly “gone rogue”, become mad robots ourselves as a collective robotic entity and therefore need to reconnect our wires to what it means to be a unified individual organism. Maybe that’s how we find organic connections with people.

Open up the Animism cabinet and you’ll find the concept of everything having a soul. All beings relating to one another according to their nature–stone consciousness to tree consciousness to mosquito consciousness to water consciousness to heat consciousness to radiation consciousness. You get the picture.

Is there such a thing as a malfunctioning human? It seems to me at times as if there are indeed humans who have developed system errors and operate according to spurious logic. They are harmful and often hostile to happy operating procedures. The worst kinds present a fair face while secretly sabotaging your circuitry for the spreading of their does-not-compute static.

Of course, how do you know if you yourself aren’t a malfunctioning automaton? Can you self-diagnose or are you a replicant that doesn’t know who they are? I myself have to keep asking the question, or hoping that if I am then a human element will come along and repair me.

Self-defense procedures can interfere with the hard and necessary work of being human, of screwing up. That discomfort you feel with yourself can lead you to an organic response array.

The risk is always that you will sacrifice your operating functions helping someone else carry their overload another cycle instead of taking the painful step of restarting. Or worse, you find yourself projecting your own corrupt files onto someone’s open jack and flooding them with garbage-in.

I heard tell that the price of crossing the line is having to live on both sides. Am I a human? Am I an alien construct? The hybrid anxiously asks these questions for all beings.

In the meantime, I keep sensors on alert. Manufacturing procedures vary, and there are humans in the neighborhood who have a few bolts loose.

As the horror host transformation does its thing, all sorts of interesting sources of civilization are cropping up and showing us what they got. The Vortexx is certainly a formula worth studying, as they have managed to get quite a few things mixed into the creativity cauldron nicely.

There’s the Internet interface of a movie-based show under control of the hosts brought together by fate to make interesting stuff. Promos, old commercials, monster movies and horror host performances—this is where you start.

Then there’s the chat on the side. You can just lurk if you don’t want to get to know anybody. Everyone’s got the right to be a ghost if they wanna stay secret. Or you can jump in and become acquainted with all the weirdos and creatures out there gathered around a scary campfire for a good time.

Hey, it’s a party and it’s random. Enter at your own risk, just like a real life haunted house experience.

What really makes or breaks the experience though is the non-host contingent and the crowd they attract. You totally need a tight cast of characters or the shows won’t amount to much as they are unveiled.

You’ve got far-out characters like the Crimson Executioner, a deranged torturer dispensing all manner of innuendos and witty quips while pushing jars of his royal jelly. Part charlatan, part Addams Family wicked joy, and part deviant with a passion for entertainment and a mind of courteous surprises—this apparition with a perfect body is far out, man!

There’s DoktorSick, a fiendish high tech experimenter with an electronic eye for captivating clips and disturbing juxtapositions. Yet behind that fevered mask of skeletal cyborg mayhem pulses a brain capable of creative insights with sophisticated impact.

You’ll find Jason “Egg” Brown, a soft-spoken lunatic curator of the forgotten and dusty circuits of the Internet, pushing arcane dials and adjusting human spines to keep the show live as a wire.

Then there’s Sluggo, arguably the crown jewel and mascot of the Vortexx crew, an inter-dimensional pink slug with eyestalks inspiring a tidy ship and dispensing random blessings of outrageous character. Sluggo welcomes everyone and declares the spirit of friendship to all comers.

The line up is always changing. Hey this is vaudeville folks; blink and you miss the rotating walls and trap doors swallowing up people behind you. That’s kind of the theme: the Vortexx as a locale that is both a central gathering point and an unstable dimensional hodgepodge.

The weekly alternating schedule looks like this:

  • Monday you’ll find yourself entertained by the inestimable Dr. Sigmund Zoid and his bag of Alternative Realities.
  • Tuesday brings you the momentous Mr. Mephisto from Lenny’s Inferno or the fathomless green Freakshow from the Bordello of Horror.
  • Wednesday has the insightful yet skeletal Nigel Honeybone from the Schlocky Horror Picture Show or a disturbing chuckle or three courtesy of The Host from Screaming Horror Theater.
  • Thursday summons forth the indescribably bizarre Justy Ghost from Shocking Theater.
  • Friday blasts off with Demented Drive In Theater and the crack horror crew of Floyd Cadaverous, Nurse Evilynn, Kenny Wickman and Grandpa Larry—or Fright Night Theater hosted by the gotta-see-him-to-believe-him Pumpkin Man.
  • Saturday winds up the week with the Late Dr. Lady Show, hosted by the brilliant David Lady and his steadfast band of Laura Lady, Ilean, and Wolfie.

Random spin-the-bottle bonus appearances include the Ghoul Kids and their Undead Show, Riggor Mortiss and Nyte Angel from Riggor Mortiss Presents, Scarewolf doing some Saturday Fright Special, and freaky shorts courtesy of Shocko the Clown.

I’m pretty sure the non-host units keep a few special surprises stashed away, and they are always generating new ammunition to load your brain cells with. For example, the inventive Rizzle MaNizzle the Clown once prank called Crimson Executioner and turned it into a short on the show! Unscripted improv right before your very eyes.

So you hop on over to the website, fiddle with the chat interface to get your nick and text color set, and watch movies that epitomize the greatest attempts at self-civilization since Aristotle, all with a bunch of strangers who slowly begin to take shape as not just horrific creatures of all kinds but also family of the heart.

You better watch out or you might have some fun!

Bringing the UFO into materialization.

As a result the website will be very unstable and some pages will not work.

Things should stabilize in the next 24 hours.

For now, hold tight and chow down some popcorn—it’s about to get darn interesting!

03-14-2012 Edit: Website should be mostly good, though there might be a couple of bed bugs around.

Checking out my quest station and man is it overloaded with indicator lights. It’s been kind of me and my space fleet against return of the skreeker assaultoids part one hundred.

Not like I have much choice these days. All power has gone into the UFO and working that major project out. I’ve had to make do on reserves and emergency power only.

But, you know, I’ve been doing it. This is the battle of the galaxy and here I am using maximum wizard powers with a dunce cap on. For the first time in like years I suddenly realized I’ve got the upper hand and the dog-dooers are on their last jackload of poop.

Outnumbered, alone, every other starbase bought off or neutralized. Here I am on the higher ground with a slapstick and a candle, wearing a funny hat. That’s all I got!

But I know something nobody else does. Smell that slight whiff of smoke, hear that tiny far-off thunder, feel that oh-so nearly undetectable rumble?

I’ve been taking my readings, and I know which way the bright force of new energy is going to run. Power levels are changing folks. Now you see me, now you don’t.

And then the missing trans-warp drive came back from nowhere.

And then the Dark Goddess left a message on my answer machine.

And then the killer bees started swarming awake something fierce.

And then UFO Girl delivered a pizza module to my brain’s back door.

Vuvuzella in effect, yo.

It’s been many years since DEVO released an album. Hek, nowadays albums are being questioned as a form of experience delivery. Ever since their magnificent masterpiece Oh No It’s DEVO!, the record induhstry has slowly managed to disrupt their energies and subsume their influence into the blood pool of sacrifice to the ownership.

Not that they were wholly defeated, mind you. They survived as best they could, finding ways to continue to be creative and get their work out in some form to people in need of it. Their concerts especially allowed them to continue to perform and keep the baseline light glowing.

Watching them sing a sad version of “Jocko Homo” in concert, I was struck by how they recognized their shadow—that their best years were behind them and they had served their purpose. That’s a hard truth to allow into your depths, to affect you. It changes you and your work, oftentimes beyond recovery.

So out comes their latest effort, Something For Everybody. I want to be wowed and thrilled by this development. Their concerts are great and their connectedness is cool. I’m digging that they have survived and have not given up that last inch.

But after their last album, and the intervening years, are they still able to reach me? I’m not the same as I was when I grew up with them, their every word humming in tune with how I felt and how I saw the world.

Having listened to the songs for a while and listened to what the spud adventurers have mixed up for us, I can only say the result is mixed. Is it possible to both get it and not get it? At times songs like “What We Do” and “Watch Us” are such devastatingly spot-on pieces of mutato beauty it brings a moisture to my eye.

Other songs such as “March On” and “Human Rocket” just don’t connect with me at all. They resemble a strip-mined DEVO that has played out.

There’s the sorrowful “No Place Like Home”, full of fatalistic remorse at the end. It makes “Beautiful World” from New Traditionalists seem hopeful by comparison.

The humorous “Don’t Shoot I’m A Man” cribs on previous insights, yet still manages to be good. It’s hard not to like the current DEVO bridging the past and present with skill.

Straight up pop songs like “Fresh” dance along a similar knowing playfulness and innuendo. Not my cup of tea, but it’s hard to shake the feeling that they are having fun and showing us a secret passage in the heart of darkness.

One thing that strikes me is DEVO’s utter mastery of electronic music making. They demonstrate fluency and command of just about every techno trick in today’s music. That’s the benefit of being a pioneer in the field who has stayed dialed in, practicing every day with devotion.

In a way they are showing off and in another way they are showing how out of tricks today’s popular music is. It isn’t even shallow any more; it’s got nothing at all. Is it any wonder today’s music business is fading away? It’s all been done and there’s nothing new left to explore. And copyright forbids us from remaking the older stuff into something new.

I’m left considering how this album leaves me mostly in the middle. Is it that I only like their unabashed forays into utter creativity and this tempered metal is somehow less palatable? I suppose so. I do come away with some gold, so can I really complain?

There’s a song called “Step Up”, which in my mind stands up as a hidden alloy of metals surprise. Insightful, hopeful, but also realistic of what needs to be done. Wasn’t it always up to the listener to hear the message anyway? DEVO have done their time, dug up their gold, and shared some with us. Do we want to become dependent on them for what we ourselves need to do work on?

We need the prophets to reflect back to us how we have gone astray. But if we do not heed them and find our own way what good have they done? The call of the divine could saturate us with every kind of delightful revelation and treasure of form to reassure us. Yet if we do not live it, respond, are we alive? Are we DEVO?

The other day I was reading a book for a class I was taking. One of those woo-woo marketing and business books barely above the level of pseudo-science called The End of Membership As We Know It.

There’s a part listing the three dominant generations of people in the country, along with characteristics that supposedly define them. I’m only doing a drive-by deconstruction here, so I’ll list some of the more interesting elements to me here:

  • The Boomers—Typically hard working, loyal, confident, competitive. These folks grew up in a time of affluence.
  • Generation X—Typically anti-authority, self-reliant, family focused. These folks grew up with workaholic and/or divorced parents, cable TV, and were reared to be self-sufficient (I take this to mean they were latchkey kids).
  • Generation Y—Typically digital thinkers, feel entitled, needy. These folks grew up micromanaged by parents, with technology, always rewarded for participation, and were reared to be high achievers.

Okay, I get that generalities are a good starting off point for discussion. I understand that in order to make sense of things you have to try and identify qualities people seem to have in common so you can take the discussion further.

I also get that generalities never survive close scrutiny. Once you start narrowing your peepers in at the details, you start to see how different people really are and how useless it is to try and ascribe labels to people. The individual always throws the bell curve of conformity, so to speak.

Forget all that. This list of qualities is almost complete and total junk. It’s a bunch of lazy half-baked imagery taken from the minds of business blankers who have strange fantasies of what the hoi-polloi are composed of.

It is, to put it not so nicely, wrong in the way phony people deceive themselves to cover up unpleasant truths about how people really are.

For example, “Gen X is anti-authority.” Really? Coming from parents of divorce and workaholics, of having to come home to a TV dinner and take care of themselves I would think it would be the opposite. That they are looking FOR authority, for structure, for someone or something to believe in. For a generation known for being “slackers”, how does the self-reliant come in?

I mean, this is so dysfunctional a description as to make absolutely no sense.

If anyone were “anti-authority” it would be the Boomers. You know, the flower children, the hippies, the children of the generation before them known as the Traditionals? Of course, what about all the anti-authority boomers who sold out to work for The Man? Is that the definition of “loyal”?

Generation Y are digital thinkers? What, they have electricity for brains? Okay, okay I get that it probably means they grew up comfortable with the Internet. Hello? Generation X grew up with Atari, ColecoVision, Apple II and the original Macs.

A lot of the Gen Y descriptions sound patronizing to me. Boomers were never raised to be high achievers or weren’t needy? George Carlin did a brutal comedy routine that mocked the Boomers as the most needy and entitled generation to ever exist.

Boomers didn’t grow up with technology? Some of the most significant technological advances in history were made while they were growing up. I know—television, the space program, the atomic age and the first computers don’t seem very exciting now that big business has moved on. But dude! Come. On.

See what I mean? There’s no depth or insight to these stereotypes. And that’s what they are—stereotypes that business leaders have towards middle class white consumers who have the money to spend on their products.

You want to know what I think the defining characteristics of these generations are? Okay get ready for this.

The Boomers are really Generation Boom, as in an explosion announcing the imminent end of the industrial way of life. They are the heralds and prophets of what will be.

You think the sixties are over? Dude, they are just getting started. The Booms were just the warm up act to the main event.

Or to take a bit of off the cuff from Rambo: “I’m alive, it’s alive, innit?”

Generation old X, middle Y and youngest Z are all siblings. They are the Omegas. The last generation to know mobility and prosperity. They are the disciples of the prophets, spreading the message and laying the foundations of the time to come.

They are more clever and resourceful than can be imagined by the vampires in suits.

No wonder the ownership struggles to understand these strange hybrids. So much promise! So little return on investment. Thus the narrow-minded and pathetic attempts to label them into alphabetical batches of human capital by manufacturing date.

Into this fun and exciting historical moment of decline and DEVO-lution will come into existence what I can only conceive of as Doom Generation, or “Doomsers” for short. They are the generation that will know war and collapse, as the end of the industrial age gives rise to an age of electro-agriculturalism.

They will see the rise of kings so powerful and horrific as to make Henry VIII look like a homesick hobbit. They will carry swords and use the telephone. Their children will be part monster, part truth-seeker and will grow up to build the foundations of an inner life beyond the reaches of academic or mystical conception.

No, you won’t be marketing to the Doomsers. They will see right through your medieval attempts to deceive their buying habits and laugh at your quaint nostalgia for the past.

And the Omegas will be stuck in the middle of two worlds, transition to transition, circuit to switch as the old world crumbles before a revelation of individual consciousness that will seem to the owners of the world like a zombie apocalypse, where a single scratch or bite will spread the venom of life to their cold blood.

Whatever has been going on since I started down this creative procedure it has been going about its business hidden from conscious view. I haven’t been immediately aware of much more than “something” is happening, and so I’ve waited for the next step to appear and indicate whether I might join in with a conscious intent of any kind.

“Still waters run deep,” said my friend Kimaroo recently. Oh yeah, that’s right! I forget these things, whether its concerning people or matters of psychic complexity.

Then, an eruption. Or rather, an image of molten liquid in motion as if it were magma spilling out of the earth. And yet, transition into a process more amenable to human interaction: A foundry.

I live in the area of the country that is known as “the foundry” after all. Funny that something I take as a negative about the place I live should suddenly take on a very vital and important force of life!

I watch the opening sequence of the 1976 adventure yarn At The Earth’s Core and then it strikes me that this is exactly what is happening. Strange primordial powers deftly transformed by a sleight of hand into a process familiar to human endeavor. Though still fantastical given that a fantasy craft is being built out of this process, incredibly.

When I started I was composing a crystal matrices to bring together the elements and intentions I would need. Next I revealed the components and blueprints I would use (I’ve found others since then). I’ve been working on transpersonal narratives necessary to my journey. Molds that will serve to form the parts I will use to build the finished craft. And now, we are at the foundry.

I search for and find a diagram that shows me how it all works on a mundane but necessary external level. The elements are brought together into various furnaces and other mechanisms that turn the elements into the compounds that will make up the parts. Moving from lowest to highest, from the Blues up.

The central image of the molten liquids is where it all comes together—the crucible and cauldron of utmost hazard and intense energy directed towards the formation of psychic parts. Sparks fly, liquid fire falls to the ground in sizzling droplets. I am witness to a process inside myself of great childhood power.

The parts, cooled and cleaned then go to a place of manufacture. Industry is a word that has to do with women’s work. It may be directed towards mostly destructive, accumulative ends—yet the hands that strike the anvil and thread the wire are borrowing the true form of crafting: Introspection. Creating substance out of thought and from that substance, goods.

I dreamt of a UFO being sighted in a way that was also recognition of a form to be. Input from the dream state, cooperation from the unconscious.

I come across a video of The Bamboo Saucer, a film that in a way is about earthlings struggling to understand a UFO and direct its use towards peaceful means. This is, in a sense, a training manual and familiarity exercise to show me that I have been studying up for this since I was young.

K and I watch GalaxyQuest, and it dawns on me this is also a relevant experience of understanding. Of knowing that what you imagine is real, while also recognizing that it is absurd and that life is filled with terrible changes into new forms of consciousness from which life emerges, better than before.

I’m coming to an understanding of the tremendous forces at work within me, of me choosing to become part of this process and behold a beautiful, mysterious Karavos revealed to me.

Her name is coming to me.

Lately, as I’ve walked around the loch with the honeycomb hideout bunch, there’s been a most unusual sight. The days were getting shorter so basically it’s night by the time we get around to our grand excursion of the day.

I’ve been seeing a lot of homes that have replaced their lights with ultraviolet-blue colored bulbs. At first I thought it was a Halloween thing, but they’re all still up. Even though the holiday lights came out, still they persist.

The lights add an eerie, spectral quality to the portions of the walk where they exist. However, I also find them comforting and inspiring. You see, lights of these kinds always reach into the hidden crevices of my mind and draw forth feelings and imaginings of the strangest kind.

What causes the secret, hidden wonders of the night to glow? The sound of the vuvuzellas, of course. A quality in these lights is aware of the call and answers with it’s own light.

Or rather, perhaps the glow is perceived only by those who hear the call of that buzzing noise—noise—noise! We see reflected back at ourselves the glow within that dances with organic, firefly mystery in the concealed reaches of our inner haunts.

What comes out to play if we but listen? Our true natures, hearing the rousing dirge of ecstasy that inspires and illuminates what was shadowed and unknown.

If you hear, you will see.

Kablooey!No sooner have I witnessed the spectacular display of magnificent enlightenment that is smarter than the average bear then I’m drawn into watching videos of erupting lava. Unbelievably hot material charged by the heat of the earth and forced onto the surface. Lambent orange-yellow creation and destruction that is dangerous, hypnotic, and moving on a deep level.

The forces of our central being called forth to the range of our consciousness by the awakening sound of the noise—noise—noise!

It is an actual external event we behold with our senses and contemplate with our innermost thoughts. We are reminded of when it is an internal event, our vast panorama of experience widened and enriched by the forces inside ourselves.

Sometimes, forces we did not expect demolish towns we built for ourselves. At other times we are fortunate to be removed enough from the process to have a reasonable level of safety, but are close enough to allow the magnitude of the event to move us.

This eruption of energy from the deeper levels of our existence brings new land, full of delicious minerals for the plant life that inevitably follows. It is true we need the greatness inside to come out and renew our conscious life.

It occurs to me that while there is a certain impersonal fate to the catastrophe of an eruption in the external world, there may be a meaningful connection to the volcanic activity in our psyche. There is a story, a drama hidden in the seemingly inscrutable mystery of how we came to be experience this eruption, however we find ourselves participating in it.

The world hears the call and responds, dancing. There is movement and heat, and the flush of release and timeless joy.

And what is our part in that?

Pick out some movies that use eruptions to drive the situation such as Dante’s Peak, or resolve it: like One Million Years BC. We are forced to adapt and respond to what has come forth as a result of the call.

The vuvuzellas have been calling all this time. The difference is that someone heard it.

They look closer at what is happening, they are alert to the change in themselves. The journey to widen their small worldview has begun. Kaboom.

I admit, does one really want to be around when the ultimate volcano finishes off all the dinosaurs? At least in the psychic adventure, all that was no longer needed or had become a wasteland of inauthentic life gets destroyed. Blown away.

It’s time to know you live, so that the world may live and be renewed. Hear the call; accept the eruption that is the response.

Yet always there are still those lost souls who need to experience the call through others. They have wandered too far seeking the dew from faraway flowers in shadowed glens.

Yogi Bear is a generally decent being. Smarter than the average bear, he hunts the elusive picnic basket while dodging the romantic inclinations of Cindy Bear. The Ranger does his best to keep Yogi (a yogi? A teacher?) within the confines of general bear existence without havoc ensuing to either the tourists (voyeurs?) or the picnic baskets (containers of food—life—bliss?).

Kind of a standard cartoon tension you find from Hanna Barbara outfits. Well sometimes things get turned upside down and all havoc breaks loose. That’s kind of what happens in the old early-eighties movie Yogi’s First Christmas.

After those killer bees woke me up to the vuvuzella phenomenon and dialed me in before I missed the train completely, I started getting the shakes one day. You know, patrolling the perimeters of the neutral zone for invaders from butt-town who don’t like to get down.

Hey! That’s right, wasn’t there this movie with Yogi Bear in it I actually liked? Sensor sweep is ON, Babykins. Oh yeah there it is coordinates ready to beam aboard for ducats transfer. Hey, cheap considering the civilization one is poring over.

So in a nutshell, what is that dang show about?

It’s winter at the Jellystone Ski Lodge. Yogi Bear and his compatriot Boo-Boo are fast asleep in hibernation land, so the Ranger is looking for some well-deserved (he thinks) rest. When the bears are down and out for the winter, he gets his summer vacation so to speak.

Special guest stars include various characters from other cartoons. Augie Doggie and Doggie Daddy, Snagglepuss, and Huckleberry Hound. Besides offering a number of views on events in the movie, they also double as generic extras in every scene requiring “people”.

Their presence is to ensure that this is a memorable and fun holiday at the lodge. Who wouldn’t want to hang out with such a festive and interesting bunch? Who wouldn’t sympathize with them and their friendly outlook?

Only, the manager of the ski lodge says there’s trouble! The owner of the ski lodge, a Mrs. Throckmorton, is coming to inspect the premises and make a decision as to whether or not to close the lodge permanently. See, there have been all these strange happenings driving visitors away…

Chances are, unless the staff puts on a grand show of all grand shows the lodge is finished! Because while the Ranger is good at dealing with Yogi Bear, he is generally poor at just about everything else. The manager is really just a satellite extension of the Ranger, representing “the suits” behind administration.

But wait, there’s more!

There’s a mean old hermit who hates Christmas and all them “do-gooder city folk” ruining his solitude with their crummy good cheer. Well, this time, he’s decided he’s had enough and is going to go Nuclear Grinch on all their big behinds.

Although, he doesn’t have any elaborate plan other than ruin or destroy stuff. Which is actually kind of funny even though if he’d pulled any of it off people would have gotten hurt or killed.

Extra bonus!

Mrs. Throckmorton’s nephew is a spoiled rotten little brat who hates everyone and especially hates Christmas. He decides to make everyone pay by makin’ mischief. Oh! Who could it be pulling these pranks on us nice cartoon characters?

The little brat eventually hooks up with the hermit and they join forces to make this the worst Christmas ever. After a song where they sing about their mutual hate of Christmas and the horrible things they will do, of course.

Good times.

Looks like the lodge is toast. Not only that, but the good guys are going to work their little rumps off trying to make a good impression, and when they fail will probably think it was all their fault for not trying hard enough!

Unfortunately for the bad guys, Yogi Bear hears Christmas singing and wakes up. He decides to find out what the noise—noise—noise is all about and leaves his cave. Boo-Boo has to keep an eye on him of course, and follows Yogi through the secret cave tunnel that leads RIGHT TO THE DAMN LODGE!

Okay, we are in weirdo land here folks. The Ranger finds all his powers useless during the winter. Yogi declares his intention to see what this Christmas thing is all about, and there’s not a thing Ranger can do but gnash his teeth while the manager panics. A bear on the loose is clearly much worse for the lodge’s prospects than all the vandalism and near-fatal accidents going on.

The guest stars are, of course, delighted to see their friend in a holiday special and support him fully. Yogi then proceeds to use his magic powers of effortless compassion and easy going slack to foil every damn plot by the bad guys by sheer dumb luck.

Every. Dang. Time.

Mrs. Throckmorton is immediately impressed by Yogi Bear and makes sure he is promoted each time he does something amazing. I mean, with a ski lodge with Yogi Bear protecting it from all danger and making everyone smile, who wouldn’t be impressed?

Somewhere off screen the owner must be seeing dollar signs, but from what I can tell she is just really excited that there is this awesome bear who fixes everything and is super polite and friendly while he does it.

Oh yeah and Cindy Bear gets wind of Yogi being up and decides to pursue him despite the need for her beauty sleep! Mistletoe and a music number showing Cindy at her most alluring, hoo boy.

Will Yogi manage to stay awake long enough to see Santa Claus? How will our two villains make out on Christmas Day? Will the lodge be saved instead of sold down the river for an oil refinery or strip mall? I’m pretty sure you can guess the answer to these important questions.

Watching this old show, I’m struck by how wholesome the story is. Ever since dark realism infected the popular entertainment feed trough, it’s been difficult to find any shows that dare to tell a story where things work out like gangbusters and pull it off. It all comes down to stance and technique, folks.

Yogi Bear rides the luck plane on nothing but good-hearted excitement and optimistic curiosity. This is the true spirit of adventure folks; watch a master at work. We’re all in need of this kind of energy awakening in ourselves to see and do things that have never been done.

All the other characters are driven by immediate, real world needs–responsibility of one form or another and the fear of rules not being maintained or of not doing one’s duty. The villains operate from a more selfish and dissociated form of behavior; sabotage of a system in which they feel cut off from.

Along comes Yogi Bear with his evergreen heart chakra glowing with warmth in the heart of winter. He hears the noise—noise—noise and is affected. Do we hear and are we affected?

The vuvuzellas are calling, even in the darkest night of Xmas Not.

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