| ZYGOTE IN MY COFFEE.COM |
| ***BIO*** Bradley Mason Hamlin was born and raised in Los Angeles, educated at the University of California at Davis, and currently lives in Sacramento with his beautiful wife and crazy children. His short stories, articles, and poems have appeared in several small press books, magazines, and literary journals in print and on line. Hamlin created Mystery Island Publications and writes the Secret Society series: Intoxicated Detective. For more information about Hamlin and other wild things-visit: www.mysteryisland.net |
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| © 2008 zygoteinmycoffee Ink. |
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| BLACKBALLED |
| My investigation of the “Freemasons” began with trying to join the local Masonic lodge 140 in Sacramento, California. So, there I be, actually trying to join in--instead of runaway, rare for me. My goal: to try and infiltrate the Masons and get a deeper understanding of the that secret handshake. Besides, I heard they have a really great ham & egg breakfast, and just think of how many pot-bellied friends I would have to help fish the polluted Sacramento river. I drank of shot of genuine American whiskey from the land of Tennessee and applied to Lodge 140. I thought, yup, maybe with my knowledge of Saturday morning cartoons and punk rock—I could make a whole new contribution to that cuckoo art of Freemasonry.
I’d make a good Mason. Hell, my middle name is Mason, something to do with a piano salesman. So I paid the application fee, met with the old timers, told my story of jail time blues, mistakes here, there, sometimes everywhere, lessons learned, forgotten, almost remembered, and how I drank my way in: but wrote my way out. All cool like that. The Masons love writers, they said, and soon my name would come up at the next vote. “I don’t usually do this,” said the old grandpa fisherman-looking secret society man with the daughter that looked like a drunken Sandra Bullock, “but I’m going to perform your first degree. I have a good feeling about you. I want to be there when you get your first.” Sounded like I was going to get whacked like in that Goodfellas movie, but hey, like I was already in. Gee whiz. All I wanted was the Captain Midnight secret decoder ring. The rest would be technicalities. “You’re good with the history,” said the old-timer. “You should talk to a guy named Ekim Snave. The fella’s got hair as long as Jesus, but he’s interested in some of the same research.” Downtown Sacramento, a few days later, I ran into L.B. Ydennek, one of those slimy coffee shop wannabe poets and, interestingly enough, a low level Masonic member from 140—who, by the way, got kicked out for not paying his dues. What a coincidence, running into him like that. Got some beer and went to his cheap apartment to talk about D.A. Levy and whether or not he could read in Mystery Island’s (non coffee shop) upcoming Pulp Poetry reading. There he was, L.B., sitting there, drinking a Pabst Blue Ribbon—and who should show up? His Masonic buddy: Ekim Snave. What a coincidence. “I just applied to Lodge 140,” I told the boys. “Oh, good, wow, hey, far out,” they said. “Cool … but really, you should check out the OTO.” Order Templis Orientis. Ekim and L.B., both members. The OTO, a cheap knock-off on western mysticism cults such as the Golden Dawn, wannabe Satanic whores who swap ugly wives and girlfriends over Big Macs and fries. I got out of there. Couple weeks later, Mystery Island presented the Pulp Poetry reading at Doug Weber’s bookshop—hosted by Bob Berry, with yet another Mason, Gato Clemente, and L.B. (who drooled on his shirt while reading) and who should show up again: Ekim Snave. What a coincidence. Snave didn’t make eye contact. He played with a knot in his hippy hair. “You didn’t get in,” he said. “Someone stood up against you.” Blackballed. Those bastards. He got on his bicycle and started to peddle away. “I guess you shouldn’t have tried to join a group with so many cops, seeing as how you have a record,” he sniveled. You could smell the stench and hear the whiny squeal of the snitch a block away. I imagined the Grand Pooba used guys like Snave to lick the butts of street dogs, just for kicks. “Really,” Snave’s nasally voice called back over his slow moving dirty feet working those peddles, “you should check out the OTO!” Could these guys really be members of the same group as our Founding Fathers? If so, we’ve been fucked from the get go. I tried to join to research whether these guys actually do have a unique perspective on history and whether or not some (or all) of the initiates go under a type of conditioning/brainwashing/mind control that influences their future points of view and so forth. I could jump ship before I got in too deep, I thought, and possibly pick the lock on the basement door and let the alien out, but I should have known better to go anywhere near an organization that would reject the great Johnny Cash and take on scumbags from the Order Templis Orientis. Let’s face it, the history of the world’s oldest fraternity is one of highbrow elitist values, sexism, and racism up to and including their own members having created the KKK. I have to admit, that I’m glad they didn’t pull me in, as I probably would have made a terrible Mason, especially if I fell under the hypno beam before getting out. Gato Clemente had this to say, shortly after joining the Masons: “The New World Order is really not a bad thing.” Hmm … Yeah, anyway … I am a father and husband first to my own tribe at home, and research projects should never take you on journeys you cannot readily escape from. I was told Ekim Snave stood against me because he felt threatened and didn’t want to compete with me in debating the twisted history of the cult. So, I can assume that if I did join the knife wouldn’t have been long in coming from inside, and you never want to get jumped on the enemy’s own turf. Take your shots out of the open street. Lesson learned: Northeast Los Angeles. To think, if I had joined would I have had to call Ekim or L.B. Ydennek brothers? Shiver me timbers. Sure, in the G.O.D’s (Governing Omnipotent Deity) eyes we’re all brothers and sisters … but that’s only because “they” want to cattle-prod the human race as peacefully as possible into the gates of Hell, which is of course one big alien oven. And what of the betrayal of old L.B.? He took part in the roadblock at the very same time he sucked up to our company in order to read his insane mantras to the public. What should have been the only reading of blood script and broken hearts in town became the drunken night of the undead bookstore reading … The bottom line (for would be Masonic joiners): These lying backstabbers are attached to an organization that childishly reports to have “secrets” and have obviously not improved the social skills of its lowest members. But wouldn’t it be noble (in this “free” country) to openly share with we the people that which the Masons deem important or righteous historical knowledge? Note: With a little research via books in print and Internet websites you can excavate everything you need to know to satisfy Masonic curiosity, including a clear breakdown of their handshakes and initiation rites for 1st, 2nd, and 3rd degree “Master Mason” rituals, etc. This is not an article of regret. I do not lament getting blackballed by the white boys. I found the process interesting and informative. I think it’s important to note that exclusion--that can occur in such a well-known organization by such morally repugnant figures such as Ekim Snave and L.B. Ydennek—does create a fracture in the mental web that tenuously holds humanity together. Would my past, the Navy brig and college drunken jail cells … would those memories, those young experiences have hurt the Masonic order’s image—anymore that its current membership? Would it have prevented me from learning gematria and divining the true tales of the gospels? A roadblock to spirituality is simple hypocrisy, and so, the group is much weaker than its words: “We take good men and make them into better men.” Guess I was just born bad. In dog we trust, Bradley “Mason” Hamlin |
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| by Bradley Mason Hamlin |