Nostra Update 2

I was right! That whole Aspen Renewal Seminar story was bullshit. Apparently there is a faction that really wants to get rid of Number One and staged this scam as a cover story. 

This is exciting breaking news stuff. I want to keep you minute by minute informed but I'll hold off until I get the full story.
LLP

Nostra update

For those of you keeping up, there is some kind of a hostile takeover or power struggle happening right now at Nostradamus Speaks. I am getting bits and pieces but nobody seems to know who is in charge or anything. 

Troubling development. But exciting!

LLP

Nostradamus Speaks - Announcement

From the Office of the Chief of Staff to the Right Honorable Doctor Michel de Nostradamus

I am pleased to announce that Nostradamus Speaks will suspend publication while officers and staff attend our annual Renewal Seminar and Training program in Aspen, Colorado.

We eagerly look forward to this yearly event which renews our dedication to our readers and our core mission of Predicting the Future!

Thank you for your loyalty!

Sincerely, Walt Mitty Jr., Chief of Staff

Dixi


Note: 
WTF? Sounds like complete and total corporate bullshit to me. This is really fucked! Maybe shit got too real for the empty suits at the top so they shit canned Nostra's spokesperson. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit! Bummer.
LLP

NostraD - Pumped!

Pumped!

I was stoked, pumped, jacked! For the first time in a long time I had good news to report as I waited for the Boss to show for our 9:30 at Peet's on the Hill.

Here he came. You could say commanding presence just by the way he dressed: Southern California de rigueur - shorts, t-shirt, and flip-flops (but curiously, socks?). Ignore the socks, Dr. Michel de Nostradamus is indeed The Man.

"Boss, Boss," I yelled in a curiously higher pitch than normal before he could even sit down, "Your numbers are in! The base is loving it!"

"Hold on there, Hoss," the Boss said, "Slow down. What do you mean by the numbers and the base and loving what?"

"The new you, the old you, back to basics, predicting, man, predicting!" I was beside myself. "We took a dive when it was reported you drove a Dodge Dart but after the sleek black Mercedes limo the sleeper cells went wild! Your numbers are way up!"

"Mon dieu." I could hear the maestro mutter to himself but I don't speak Italian or Latin or whatever so I don't know what he was saying. But that was not what was important.

"So," I asked, "What do you think?"

"Number One," Dr. N said, "I'm not feeling well, can we reschedule?"

"Sure thing, Boss," I replied, "Whatever you say."

I was disappointed but nevertheless, this was a good day! A very good day indeed!

Dixi

Nostradamus - Jumping the Shark

Jumping the Shark

The second meeting wherein Dr. Nostradamus would do some predicting did not go well. He was already at Starbucks when I got there about 5:30 p.m. As I sat down I noticed one of those little mini-bar shot sized bottles of liquor on the table. 

I sipped a bit at my mocha latte and began thumbing through the Feedback From Sleeper Cell Sleepers inbox. "Alice from South Dakota is back," I said.

"Just read it," Dr. N said.

She writes: "Nostra you don't know anything about me or my boyfriend Hank so get off your high horse thinking you can predict where our love will go and you are just hating on him because you are old, fat, and jealous. Drop dead." 

Nostradamus sighed, "Number One, some of the letters in your digital stack should go to an advice column or someone or somewhere else, but not me."

"You are absolutely right Boss," I said, "I'll screen them."

"I'm not fat." Nostra said. "Do I look fat?" 

"No, Boss," I reassured him, "You're not fat."

Dr. N opened the little bottle of booze and poured it into his coffee. "Next." he said.

This from William Robert of Fredericksburg: 
"Dear Doctor Nostradamus,"

"So far so good," Dr. N interrupted.

"I appreciate very much your thoughtful and insightful commentary on our world and these great United States of America."

"Keep it coming," Dr. N interrupted again, "All I want is a little respect, r-e-s-p-e-c-t."

"Please predict for me and your readers how many eons you will suffer in purgatory before the Mighty Hand of God smites you into the eternal fires of Hell for your blasphemy. Sincerely, Yours in Christ, Rev. William Robert."

"How long is an eon, Grasshopper?" Nostra asked.

"I don't know Sensei." I answered truthfully.

"Me either," he said. "I guess I can't answer Billy Bob's question then, can I?"

Me, "Nope."

Dr. N pulled out yet another mini-bar bottle. Jack Daniels this time. "Next."

Jimmy from New York wants to know what is going to happen to Trump.

Doctor Nostradamus responded. "Good question but again, the wrong question. What Jimmy should ask is what is going to happen to Jimmy. Illusions and fantasies are concentrated psychological and social energy and, like when they canceled Dallas or Mash the fans went.... 

"Sensei, Boss," I interrupted, "I don't want to interrupt but there are two barristers, now three, looking at us through the window and one is on the phone. Considering the pile of empty little booze bottles on the table, we should mosey on outta here."

"Whatever you say, Apprentice." Dr. N replied, standing up, steadying himself on the rail. "Lead the way."

I led the way, out off the veranda, between a row of parked cars, across a few more parking lanes and then in the direction of my car. Clearly, Dr. Nostradamus was in no condition and I would have to drive him back to his house, apartment, hotel, or homeless shelter, or wherever he laid his hat and called his home. 

Just then a police car with flashing lights pulled up and gave off one of those short beeps that says in police car talk, "Halt!"

"Fuck, shit," I muttered, "Do you have your ID on you?"

Dr. N didn't answer, he just kinda closed his eyes and swayed from side to side. Not good.

Two cops got out. One stood by the driver's door scowling and watching us; the other approached. He was polite and professional but shined his light into my and Dr. Nostradamus' eyes. "I'm sorry to interrupt gentlemen, but we have a report of public intoxication. Can I see your identification?"

Dr. N straightened up, rather unsteadily, squinted his eyes against the flashlight's beam, and slurring his words, mumbled, "These are not the drunks you are looking for."

The polite cop turned to his scowling partner, "These are not the drunks we are looking for."

With that the cops got back in their patrol car and drove away.

"Fuck, shit!" I had to laugh. "Unbelievable!"

So I gently and carefully led the very great and very drunk Dr. Michel de Nostradamus across the parking lot. But the way to my car was blocked by a sleek black Mercedes limousine that had pulled across three full parking spaces. "Rich, entitled, inconsiderate bastards," I commented to my drunk friend. 

As we started to go around, the limo driver got out, dressed in one of those old-fashioned chauffeur uniforms with the funny hat and white gloves. "Good evening, Doctor," he said while opening the passenger door. "Your appointment has been confirmed. Will Number One be attending?"

"No." Doctor Michel de Nostradamus said, "Thank you, James."

Then, turning to me said,"Number One, we will address sleeper concerns as they arise but we must focus more attention on tradecraft."

"You're not drunk at all, are you Sensei?" I said.

Dr. Nostradamus replied matter of factly, "You've got to be able to handle your liquor in this business. And that wasn't even liquor."

With that the good doctor got into the limo. The driver closed the door after him, turned to me, nodded slightly, and then got back into the driver's side and drove off.

"Who is that guy?" I muttered.

Dixi

Nostradamus - Prognostications

Prognostications

Shit was starting to get real so I texted Dr. Nostradamus on the important-stuff-only hotline using a prearranged code alerting him that we had a problem: "Houston, we have a problem."

His response was immediate, almost before my finger lifted off the send button on my iPhone: "Roger, meet you at the same Starbucks as last time. 10:30 a.m. N."

I texted back: "I'm not Roger, who's this?"

Dr. N: It's me, N. N.

Reassured, I confirmed the 10:30 appointment and went back to watching Morning Joe. It was 6:00 a.m. giving me four and a half hours to watch more news, eat breakfast, walk the dogs, and still make it on time. I didn't want to be late for what promised to be a very important meeting.

The doctor was already at the coffee shop when I arrived. I could see he had ordered a grande flavored coffee drink, with whipped cream and sprinkles. 

"What's the problem?" Dr. N asked, even before I could sit down.

"Boss," I said, "The natives are getting restless. I am getting flak from all over. Many of the sleeper cell coordinators are suggesting that maybe it is time you started, you know, like, prognosticating."

The great prognosticator and time traveler Dr. Michel de Nostradamus fixed me with a withering stare, "Who is saying this?"

"I don't want to rat out anybody, but apparently the sleeper cell activation code I fucked up still had the incomplete effect of disturbing a lot of sleepers." I explained.

"How so?" he asked.

"Look Boss," I said, "Maybe it's just time you started predicting stuff."

N was defensive, "Predicting what?"

"The future!" I said, in a very loud voice, practically shouting. "Predicting the future! Do your job for crying out loud!"

People started looking our way.

I immediately backed off and told him that I needed to get some coffee. 

"Get me a triple shot of espresso while you are up there," he said, "I need to get jacked for this."

I  came back with my coffee and his triple espresso which he poured into his grande flavored coffee drink with sprinkles. "Okay," he said, "Let's do this."

"Boss," I said, "I've got a whole laundry list of questions here that have been dumped onto my desk (actually into my iPhone text message app). "Are you sure?"

"Go." he said.

"Okay," I said, "Here goes. Don't say I didn't warn you."

"Go." he said.

Dolores in Duluth wants to know what numbers to pick for the lottery next week.
N: She is not asking for a prediction. Next.

Alex in Rhode Island wants to hire a manager for his family business. The guy who talks the best game has a track record of lying, cheating, stealing, and bankrupting businesses. Alex says he is  going to hire him because he likes what he says. What's going to happen?
N: He will lie, cheat, steal, and bankrupt your business. Next.

Alice in South Dakota wants to know if her boyfriend will cheat on her again.
N: Yes. Next.

Dr. N was pissed. "Who am I, Dear Abby?!? Have you even screened these questions?"

"Boss," I said, "These are questions from your sleeper cell sleepers. I assumed you or somebody had already vetted them."

"Go on." he said.

A grandfather in Southern California wants assurance that everything is going to be okay.
N: I'm not a soothsayer, as in saying soothing things. Next.

DeVito in Los Angeles wants to know what job fields are going to open up in the future for his kids and grand kids and so on down the line.
N: Finally a question worthy of my talents. But it is the wrong question. DeVito should not ask what job fields are going to open up in the future but who will succeed in adapting to and moving into whatever fields do open up.

So, the answer to the question that was not asked but should have been is this: Those people and their descendants who are grounded in the natural world and guided by the light of practical reason will be able to face a rapidly changing and challenging world with learning, intelligence and adaptability. 

Those poor bastards who were indoctrinated into magical thinking, religious ideologies, and a contempt for science and learning will be day laborers picking strawberries in the Central Valley. 

"How many more questions are there? My brain is full." Dr. N was obviously weary. "

"Lots," I said, "But we can get into those later. Do you want to take a break?"

"Yes," he said. "Let's meet again in a few days."

So I respectfully took my leave of the great Doctor Michel de Nostradamus sipping away at his supercharged Starbucks coffee drink.

Dixi

Nostradamus Speaks - A Workplace Dispute

A Workplace Dispute

"Dr. N," I texted, "You need to come up with a new sleeper cell activation code. I screwed up the last one by misspelling a word in the third iteration. Sorry. But my mistake might work out for the best -- have you really thought this thing through?"

Dr. Nostradamus was prompt whenever I used the very-important-stuff-only text message account, "What do you mean Grasshopper?"

"I mean," I texted, "Maybe you should let sleeping dogs lie; what if your sleepers don't want to get woke; what if they're not ready?"

Dr. N:  Good point. I'll hold off for a while. Anything else?

Me:  Yes. Now that I've got you on the line, so to speak, why do you insist on publishing your Nostradamus Speaks bulletins in a verbatim dialog format? Whatever happened to the tried and true quatrains of yesteryear?

Dr. N:  That was then, this is now. Paper, printing, distribution. The internet was  v e r y  s l o w  back in the day. 

Me:  Hahahahaha. A joke. But you didn't answer my question. 

Dr. N:  Okay, all seriousness aside, dialog, conversation, give-and-take, verbal exchange, etc., is the best way ideas evolve and humans learn from each other.

Me:  It's, "all joking aside", but I get your point, up to a point. 

Dr. N:  What's your point?

At that point I had had it up to here.

Me:  My point is you sound like a pointy headed intellectual jerking me around when I have serious questions I think deserve answers. This conversation is over.

Dr. N:  Don't go away mad; just go away. And keep the text message account limited to very important stuff only. N.

I'm going to demand a raise because they don't pay me enough for this shit. And I really don't care if I get fired.

Dixi

Note: I don't want to get into the middle of what seems like a petty little squabble between Doctor Nostradamus and his spokesperson, and I seriously considered not passing this on to you. But I came down on the side of letting you decide what to make of it.
LLP 

Nostradamus Speaks - The Rain in Spain

The Rain in Spain.......

The rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain.
The rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain.
The rain in Spain falls mainly on the plane.

I couldn't get that My Fair Lady lyric out of my head as I waited for Dr. Nostradamus to show up for our scheduled 3:15 p.m. appointment at Peet's on the hill. He was 15 minutes late and I was getting grumpy.

This gig as the One and Only Chief Spokesperson for the Famed Prognosticator and Time Traveler Dr. Michel de Nostradamus is getting to be more than I signed on for. I am getting blowback from sleeper cell coordinators all over the place. They are getting shit and shit flows uphill and the buck stops here because a big part of my job is simply to insulate the boss from the incredible number of nut jobs out there. 

There are those who accuse me making this shit up. Trust me, you can't make this shit up. Then there are those who indignantly accuse me of appropriating the great Nostradamus name. Hey, don't kill the messenger. I'm just a coffee boy and the pay is hardly worth the hassle. A large number of people think I'm off my meds. I'm not. Some guy is convinced it's gluten that's making me crazy. Apparently, the mere mention of me ordering three glazed and three plain donuts at a donut shop made him crazy. 

The list goes on. We'll see if the sleeper cell activation code works it's magic and I start getting the respect I deserve.

Ding goes my iPhone text message alert: "Number One, sorry I have to cancel. Unexpected high level meeting. N."

This was the third meeting Dr. N. canceled at the last minute or even after the last minute leaving me cooling my heels. I have a low level life you know.

I texted him back: "Okay Boss, I get it. You win. Let's go back to the old way where you just show up unannounced whenever and wherever you want. I will either be there or not."

With that I got up and walked over to my still running vintage 1987 Yugo. This thing is going to be a collector's item someday and I am going to be rich. 

Dixi

Nostradamus Speaks - Invasion of Privacy

Invasion of Privacy

At 8:50 a.m. Tuesday I arrived at a Peet's coffee that I frequent now and then to partake of their excellent brew. I fully expected Dr. Nostradamus to already be there or to arrive promptly at 9:00. Nothing had been said at our last meeting in a local donut shop as to where we should meet next, only when. At that meeting I must admit I had been spooked that the great prognosticator was already waiting for me. I had gone to great lengths to avoid giving any hint of where I would be. But mamma didn't raise no fool and I had a pretty good idea how he did it. Spookiness need not apply.

So I got a double shot of espresso, topped it off with 2% milk, balanced that with half and half, and went back out into the warm sunlight where the maestro and I could have a leisurely discussion about this and that. I was feeling smug and self-assured.

Promptly at 9:00 a.m. here he comes, "So, you turned your phone off just before you left your house and it's still off. Did you think I couldn't find you?"

So much for pleasantries. I responded confidently, "Actually, Doctor, I was pretty sure you could find me. Where did you get the app that can track my phone when it is off?"

Dr. N paused for a moment before essentially admitting what I suspected, "It's not so much an app but an algorithm, a freakingly good super algorithm. But I can't tell you where I got it."

"Duh, let me guess?" I said, "CIA?"

Dr. Nostradamus got serious, "That's a pedestrian guess, but no, Number One, it's not the CIA. In fact, the source that developed the code is very, very concerned that if the Americans get hold of it the Saudis and Russians will have it before the end of business day."

"Hmm," I hmmed, "My next guess is Mossad."

Dr. N confirmed my hunch, "I will neither confirm nor deny that it is Mossad." 

"Can I see your phone?" I asked.  

"No," he replied,  "And it wouldn't help. It is virtually undetectable."

"Okay, so much for trust," I said, "But let's move on, you have pretty much confirmed what I suspected about how you found me at the donut shop. Weren't no super powers involved." My self confidence was growing by leaps and bounds.

"Do tell." he said, sitting back in his chair.

So I telled it. "Your Mossad Mother of all Algorithms super code software tracking app hacked into my Google search history and saw that I had zoomed onto that strip mall and the donut shop before I left home. The algorithm crunched the data and numbers and spit out my likely destination to a high degree of confidence. Even still, you were just lucky that I had not changed my mind at the last minute. Am I right or am I right?"

"Yes, yes, and yes. Well done, Grasshopper, well done." The great Dr. Nostradamus caved. 

I seized the advantage, "So are you always going to spy on me? I am not happy with what is a monumental intrusion and invasion of privacy. And I don't like the idea of being so predictable. Do you spy on everybody?"

Dr. N replied evenly, "No, I don't spy on everybody. I track a handful of trusted associates and then only when I need to locate them in a hurry. A side benefit is it tests how susceptible my team is to magical thinking. Are they going to work through a challenge with practical reason or opt for the easy, lazy, and always wrong conclusion that supernatural powers are at play. Or to put it another way, am I dealing with adults or children."

Dr. N's calm response took me aback, "Yikes, sounds like no more Mr. Nice Guy."

"That's right, Dungbeetle," he said, "No more Mr. Nice Guy. Did you broadcast the sleeper cell activation code as instructed?"

"Uh, no," I stammered, "Not yet."

"Why not?" he said.

I regained my composure, "Because it was dumb, Sensei. "The river stinks" or whatever, three times a row was impossible to frame in an innocuous way. It would make me look like an idiot and I have to maintain my credibility." I paused, "But if you insist, I'll do it."

"Forget it," he said, "The code has timed out and I'll have to come up with a new one." 

"Am I fired?" I hesitantly asked, seriously worried that I had blown the best gig I ever had.

"No, you're not fired, Grasshopper," he reassured me, "You are actually doing better than expected. So, until next time." 

With that Dr. Michel de Nostradamus, the famed prognosticator and time traveler walked away. I watched as he got into a battered old Dodge Dart and drove off.  I would've thought a Mercedes at least. Or a Peugeot.

Dixi

Nostradamus Speaks - Secret Agent Man

Secret Agent Man

“Dr. N, must talk ASAP re sleeper cell activations.”

That was the text message I sent to my employer Dr. Michel de Nostradamus, the famed prognosticator and time traveler using our exclusive-use-only-on-important-occasions-text-message-account.

I received an immediate response: “Is this important?”

Me: “Yes. In case you didn’t notice I used the exclusive-use-only-on-important-occasions-text-message-account.”

Dr. N: “Meet me at 2:15 p.m.”

Me: “Thank you. Where?”

Dr. N: “Be there.”

Now where in the blankety-blank is there? Oh, right, he’s the man and there’s an app for that.

So at 2:10 p.m. sharp I drove to the nearest strip mall and circled the lot until 2:14 p.m. when I parked and then, at exactly 2:15 p.m. stepped into a donut shop I had never before visited. I’ll show the man who's the man.

No sooner had the bell on the door handle stopped jingling behind me and my eyes adapted to the dim light than who should I see hunched over a cheap formica top table munching on a puffy glazed donut? Who else?

“Dr. N,” I said, “This is spooky and I’m getting paranoid.”

“Chill, Number One,” the good doctor said, “I'll cover this when we get to the time travel and free will sections of the course. Now, what's so important?”

“Boss,” I said, “I am getting blowback from several of my sleeper cell coordinators. A significant number of your so-called “sleepers” have no idea they are even in a sleeper cell; don’t want to be in a sleeper cell; and don’t want to get woke, whatever that means.”

“That’s not your problem, Grasshopper,” Dr N said, “It’s mine. And it’s not even a problem. This is what you need to do now; pay attention:  In your next posting include the words, “the River Sphinx” three times in a row."

“Huh?” I stammered. “That doesn’t even make sense."

Dr. Nostradamus repeated himself, “I’m going to repeat myself to make sure you know exactly what it is you have to do. In your next communique include the words, “the River Sphinx” three times in a row. That's an activation code. Find an innocuous context that will not arouse suspicion or even curiosity. Works like a charm, which it is.”

“Wow!” I said, “Wow!” I am not easily impressed but this was impressive -- secret agent stuff. 

“Are we done?” he asked.

Recovering from my awe I quickly down shifted. “Dr N,” I asked, “Why are you doing all this? And why me?”

“Those are discussions for another time, Grasshopper,” Michel de Nostradamus replied, “See you Tuesday at 9:00 a.m.”

“Okay Sensei, see you then.” 

With that the good doctor rose and walked out, the door bells jingling behind him.

“Where?!” I shouted after him. "Oh, never mind.” I turned back muttering to myself.

Walking over to the counter I asked the clerk, “Did you see the guy who just left?”

“You mean the guy with the beard you yelled at?” She answered. “Why?”

“Never mind.” I said. “I’ll have three glazed and three plain."

Dixi

Nostradamus Speaks - Redux

Redux

It had been more than a year or two or five, since last I encountered my mentor and employer, the famed prognosticator and time traveler Dr. Michel de Nostradamus. Thus startled was I when the barrister at the far end of the Starbucks counter announced, “Nostradamus, latte.” 

Leaning back in my chair to better look, see, there he stood, looking like he had just stepped out of the Google images portrait painted by his son, retrieving his latte.  

I well knew why he was here, and how he had found me. (There’s an app for that.)

 “Good morning, Doctor,” I said, standing out of respect as he approached.

He shook my hand. “Bonjour, Number One.” Michel de Nostradamus said, and wasting no time on small talk, “I want you to resume distribution of Nostradamus Speaks.”

“Okay.” I said, and then somewhat tentatively. “So to be perfectly clear, you want me to active my sleeper cells?”

“Correctamente,” he replied, “Prime the pump.”

With that, Dr. Michel de Nostradamus turned and walked out, leaving me with the unsettling uncertainty that in these uncertain times something big was coming down the pike. Or not.

Dixi

Note: Huh? I was as surprised as you must be to receive this message. And what's with that curious reference to “sleeper cells”? Nobody asked me if I wanted to be part of a sleeper cell. And, even if I did, whether I wanted to be woke. I briefly entertained the option of dropping out of a cell I never even knew I was in but my curiosity got the best of me, thinking, what the hey, this might be good. At any rate, I will pass these messages on as I get them.

LLP

Nostradamus Speaks - Syriana

Syriana

"Damn!" I muttered to myself, "Where is that guy when you really need him?"

I had been trying to summon Dr. N for a couple of weeks now, ever since it seemed likely that Obama was bound and determined to blow shit up in the Middle East and take us into yet another war.  Now don't get me wrong, I can be just as much a warmonger as the next guy, given the right time and place.  Check out Ecclesiastes 3:8 if you want some back up on that.  But this, says me to myself, is bullshit, and I fired off emails to my congressman and senators telling them in no uncertain terms, "Hell no, we won't go!", and "Hey, hey, LBJ, how many kids did you kill today?" and "No more war; no more war!"  I know, those are warmed over chants from my Vietnam protest days that I dragged down from the attic, but I think they still have juice left in them.  

So just when it seemed like I was going to have to venture out and make some predictions on my own I got an email from, you guessed it, The Maestro Himself, the One and Only Dr. Michel de Nostradamus, Seer of Seers, Prognosticator of Prognosticators, Visionary Par Excellente, Prophet of Doom and Gloom and Master Horse Whisperer of the Apocalypse.  Yes, that guy, my mentor and employer.  (And no, I will not give out his email address, just in case you might try to make an end run around me, the Good Doctor's One and Only Officially Authorized Spokesman and Chief Apprentice.)

"What do you want, Number One?"  he wrote.

"How do I know it is you on the other end of the line?"  I wrote.

"What.Do.You.Want?" was the rather curt answer.

"Okay, chill already.  I want to know what is going to happen with this Syria shit and how come you didn't tip me off this was coming down the pike?"

"First off, the Middle East is unraveling; it's a big dog fight and what happens when you stick your hand into the middle of a dog fight?  (That's a rhetorical question by the way.)  You get bit, that's what happens; and the dogs continue to fight.  The American Empire is biting off more than it can chew for this, the Last Supper; in fact the Middle East is more than anybody can chew and this is not going to end well; in fact, this will not even end for many decades, until the last dog is hung, to continue the metaphor.  

"Second off, I did predict this shit; not that it takes a Nostradamus (ha ha) to see it coming."

"Okay,"  I wrote, "That's pretty much what I was thinking, too.  Anything else?"

Dixi.

(Originally posted September 8, 2013)

Nostradamus Speaks - Patterns

Patterns

It had been a while since I last saw Dr. Nostradamus, but still, it was not surprising to see him kicking back with a demitasse at my local Starbucks as I strode in on my early morning power walk.  Dr. N., as I have learned, comes and goes according to his own counsel and is just as likely to turn up panhandling on the street corner, or shuffling along in a line of arrestees at the local jail -- his mysterious appearance and even more mysterious disappearance from the slammer is still under paranoid investigation by perplexed and embarrassed gendarmes. "Who was that guy?!?"  

Be that as it may, he was here and since I happen to be the the One and Only Authorized Spokesperson and Chief Apprentice to the World's Foremost Prognosticator, Seer of Seers, and all-around Grand Visionaire Extraordinaire, he was here, obviously, to see me. 

"Greetings, Doctor," I said. "What's happening?"

"Good morning, Number One," replied the good doctor, then, not wasting time or words, "I want you to go back to email publication of Nostradamus Speaks."

I was just as blunt. "Why? What's wrong with Google+?"

"Nothing is wrong with Google+," he countered. "I read an article you re-posted and I'm persuaded that email is the King of All Social Media. Just as all roads lead to Rome, all social media ultimately revolve around email. It's not like I'm asking you to go to Facebook."

"Thanks for that." But I agreed; email is not as cumbersome as I once thought and the latest software make it very powerful. "Okay, will do. (Hey, he's the man.) So, what brings you to my neck of the woods? I've seen neither hide nor hair of you for nigh on six months."

"I've been around," he replied. "Here and there, now and then."

"Well," I said, breaking the ice, "I've been watching events unfold here and there, now and then, and it looks to these eyes anyway, things are going to hell right on schedule."

"Reading the leaves?" he asked, with a casual glance and a sip of his espresso.

"Leaves?" I puzzled.

"Yes, leaves, as in tea leaves, as in casting the bones, as in Prognostication 101."  

"Give me a break, Sensei," I protested, with a double slug of my double espresso, "We are not in 16th Century France anymore, or did you take a wrong turn back there, then, whenever?"

Dr. Nostradamus ignored my snotty comment. "This is basic stuff," he said, "So forgive me if I seem impatient at having to yet again pound it into your thick skull."

"Please proceed, Doctor."  I countered, feeling myself one up on the Great Maestro.

"Reading the tea leaves, casting the bones, and any number of other dramatically descriptive and arcane soothsayer practices are nothing more than figures of speech, expressions. It just means you are looking for patterns."

"Patterns."

"Yes, patterns," Dr. Nostradamus continued. "It is through patterns that we discern the unfolding of the natural world.  The beginning of wisdom lies in the recognition that nature unfolds along lines of pattern, according to natural law as revealed by those patterns, and there is nothing you or anyone can do to change those laws or those patterns. See the pattern; see the patterns within patterns; see the way things actually happen in the world; and from there, see the future."

It had been a while since Dr. Nostradamus had taken to actually teaching me a formal, academic lesson about the avocation to which I had hitched my wagon. Most of the time it has been wax on, wax off, Mr. Miyagi style.  This was different.

He continued, "The natural world and everything in it plays out according to patterns -- from subatomic scale to planets and stars and galaxies, and everything in between.  All life forms perceive and recognize patterns, and human beings are particularly good at it, provided they can or will set aside their ideological blinders."

"I think I see where you are headed with this," I said, unable to resist. "Seriously though, I have been reading a lot lately about historical cycles and there are some very perceptive bloggers out there, the Archdruid front and center."

"Yes," Dr. Nostradamus leaned in. "Some of humanity's greatest thinkers keenly recognize that history repeats itself, or at least rhymes, and much has been written about the how and why.  And it is not limited to historical analysis either. Virtually all of human knowledge, and especially science and mathematics, is the study of patterns."

"And when you think about it,"  I added, eager to contribute, "It is easy to see that basic human intelligence derives from the recognition of patterns, the memory of patterns, the comparison of patterns.  This is exciting stuff, Dr. N., are you sure you're not giving away the store?  There are trade secrets worth keeping, you know."

"Not to worry, Grasshopper,"  the Great Seer reassured me, "This is not rocket science and those who have eyes will see."

"So the trick is," I said, "How to See.  Are you going to give that away too?" 

"You miss the point, young apprentice.  Pattern recognition happens automatically; it is what everyone's brain just does, easily.  Sometimes of course, a brain gets overheated and sees patterns where there are none --  conspiracy nuts, those who see Jesus on a piece of toast or a rat in a photograph on Mars." 

I agreed.  "For sure. But for all that, there are those who refuse to see the glaringly obvious, and those who can't be bothered." 

"Indeed," saideth the Soothsayer. "Given the vast storehouse of knowledge easily accessible today, ignorance is a lifestyle choice, and stupidity -- rarely a genetic misfortune -- is almost always a self-inflicted wound -- willful blindness by tribal identity, ideology, wishful thinking.  But, as the ancient stoics would have put it, other people are not your problem; each individual is responsible to himself for the choices of action he makes, and for his assessment of the world as he experiences it.  To each his own.  Not your call."  

"We are on a roll, Doc!" I said.  "It's like I'm talking to myself, or like you've been reading the same stuff I have!  Dare I say great minds think alike?"

"Yes it has been a good meeting Number One,"  Dr. N. said, "And I am gladdened to see insight rising in that reptilian brain of yours."

"Ha ha, very funny," I said. "So, do you have any predictions to put out there?  Am I correctamente?  Things are going to hell right on schedule, right?  Right?" 

"Yes, Number One, things are going to hell right on schedule.  Happy now?"

"Yeah, dude!  I'm happy now,"  I said, licking my chops.  "I just want to be able to say, 'I told you so.'  Now, when is the shit really going to hit the fan?"

"The devil is in the details, Dung Beetle.  If scientists predict the end of life on earth when the sun bloats into a red giant four billion years from now, skeptics will demand to know the day, month, and year it all comes down."

"Well, people want to be able to plan ahead.  But, closer to home, when is the collapse of modern industrial civilization going to happen?  I want something substantial to post this time; something people can sink their teeth into. When is this sucker going down?" 

"So sorry, Grasshopper," also sprach Nostradamus, "you seek a certainty not even theoretically possible; but the Titanic has most definitely sailed.  Choose your companions wisely; get thee to the lifeboats."

"Will there even be enough lifeboats to go around, this time around?"

"No."

"And I suppose changing out the captain and crew won't help."

"No.  Rearrange the deck chairs to your heart's content; have the orchestra play a different tune; play musical chairs with privileged positions in First Class; let a few lottery winners from steerage into the Grand Ballroom -- it won't matter.  The course is set; the die is cast."

"So this sucker is definitely going down? Really?  It's absolutely, positively, no question about it, going to happen?"

"Don't get too carried away with the Titanic imagery, Number One.  It's just a metaphor.  The decline and fall of industrial civilization will be a messy, irregular, on again -- off again, bumpy ride down.  But down we go, the way of all flesh, the way of all civilizations, empires, nations, tribes, families, individuals, bugs and microbes.  Read the leaves, Grasshopper, read the leaves, and think on these things."  

Then Dr. Michel de Nostradamus, my employer and mentor and a great man in his own right, was gone.

Dixi.

(Originally published July 6, 2013)

Nostradamus Speaks - A Hard Rain

A Hard Rain

It was with delight that I caught sight of my reliable old mentor as I turned the corner and headed into one of my favorite coffee shops, Peets at the Crossroads in Irvine.  There he was, decked out again in full tri-color Spandex, in the midst of a bunch of similarly clad bicyclists, yakking it up, no doubt discussing the results of the national elections.

"Yo!, Dr. N, my man!" said I, still joyfully ebullient over the shit stomping Mr. Vampire Capitalist Mitt Romney, the Tea Bag haters and the Christian Taliban received at the hands of my favorite presidential candidate this year, Barack Obama.

"You called it!" I shouted, as Dr Michel de Nostradamus, Seer of Seers, Prognosticator of Prognosticators, Visionary of Visionaries, and all around Font of Predictatory Insight, excused himself and made his way over to me.

"Greetings Number One," said the Great One, "Nice to see you, and I take it from your mood that you are happy how things turned out yesterday."

"Yes indeedy indeed, I most surely am," said I, "My head would have exploded had things gone the other way, not to mention my credibility and reputation taking a major hit."

"And how is that?"  the Good Doctor inquired.

"Dr. N, Maestro," I replied, " There are a lot of readers out there in the blogosphere who think that I just make this shit up for the "Nostradamus Speaks" column.  It I had missed a big one like who was going to win the presidency, I would have been just another hack in the crowd who are now publicly eating crow sandwiches on national television, meekly trying to explain how they could have been so wrong."

"I am somewhat disappointed, young Apprentice,"  Dr Nostradamus furrowed his brow, "I thought we had an understanding from our last conversation.  Do you recall what I said about "Nostradamus Speaks"?

"Of course I do,"  I protested.  "I memorized it:  Nostradamus Speaks, it's not about you, it's about me."  And, to repeat my congratulations Maestro, you nailed it."

The Good Doctor sighed,  "Yes, of course I nailed it.  I am, after all, the great Doctor Michel de Nostradamus, of historical repute, and making accurate predictions about the future is my stock in trade, my day job, so to speak."  

I savored the moment.  Realizing how lucky I was to have been chosen to be the One and Only Officially Authorized Spokesperson and Chief Apprentice for the great Michel de Nostradamus.  "Chief,"  I said, "Let's toast the moment."

"Very well, Number One,"  Dr. N replied, "Let's toast the moment.  But the moment will pass, and this victory you now celebrate with such enthusiasm will fade as quickly as a cheap fireworks display.  A hard rain is gonna fall and a great storm descend upon this land, and all the king's horses, and all the king's men won't put Humpty together again."

"Yikes,"  I said.  "Lighten up Sensei."

I looked around, but he was gone.

Dixi. 

(Originally published November 8, 2012)

Nostradamus Speaks - Quarterly Review

Quarterly Review

So there I was, trucking along on my daily speedwalk, complementing myself on how trim and lean I was becoming, decked out with Made in China from head to foot, dodging the occasional Irvine yuppie bicyclist, reminding myself with superiority that I don't need no stinking spandex; I don't need no stinking helmet; and I don't need no stinking $2000 machine to get me from here to there.  I'm a walking man in my prime, doing walking. 

So round the bend in style I strode, and what do I see just ahead of me but a hapless bicyclist, tinkering with the chain of an expensive looking racing bike.  Closing in, I was mentally prepared to toss off some snotty comment about how I didn't need no stinking bike when, "Holy shit!" I said to myself, "It's Dr. N." 

Indeed it was.  It was the great Doctor Michel de Nostradamus himself, decked out in tri-colored spandex and helmet to match, hunched over a vintage Rene Herse French racing bicycle, getting his boney doctor fingers greasy.

"Holy shit!" I said.

"Dr. N." I said, "What are you doing here?"

"Good morning, Apprentice,"  the Good Doctor replied, "I've been expecting you."

"Huh?" I stammered, "How did you find me?"

"I'm the man."  The Man said, "And," pointing to my belt, "your iPhone's regular GPS updates.  It's a no brainer; no special powers required."

"Well,"  I said, "I suspected Steve Jobs was tracking me, especially after it became known that I was your One and Only Chief Spokesperson and Authorized Representative.  A lot of famous people were hitting me up for free personalized predictions.  But I never suspected you would stalk me."

I sensed some impatience from the Great One so I moved on, "So, to what do I owe the honor of this visitation?"

"It's time for your quarterly review."  the Maestro replied.

My heart sunk.  "Shit." I said, "Sensei, we just went through this and I passed with flying colors.  Don't you trust me yet?"

"It has come to my attention, Number One,"  Dr. Nostradamus replied, "That you have been using biblical quotes to enliven the Nostradamus Speaks column."

"And that is a problem?" I said, practically indignant.

"Not a problem if done right," Dr. N. said, "but my understanding from your job application is that you aren't even religious, let alone Christian.  Don't you think readers might think it a bit hypocritical when you start throwing scripture around?  Integrity is important in this profession and my spokesperson must be beyond reproach." 

"Sensei, Maestro, Your Excellency,"  I groveled in my defense, "I only put scripture out there when it pops into my head, and I know that it irritates some readers who fancy themselves Christians and know I am a godless atheist. I like to imagine their heads exploding. Is that bad?"

"Yes, Grasshopper,"  The Boss said, "It's bad, and it's immature, and I should not have to remind you, but Nostradamus Speaks is not about you, it's about me."

"Sure thing Chief," I hastened to respond, "Got it!  Here, look, see, I'm writing it down." I whipped out my iPhone, opened Notes, and tapped it out:  "Cast not your pearls before swine. Matthew 7:6, and remember, Nostradamus Speaks is not about you, it's about me!"

"Look."  I said, showing the note.  "I like this gig Boss, and I promise I won't fuck it up."

"Well, okay."  The Great Seer of Seers and Prognosticator of Prognosticators finally said...after an uncomfortable pause.

"We good then?" 

"Yes, we're good."

"Cool." I said, then moved on, "Oh, by the way, you were spot on with that last prognostication, what with Egypt and the ambassador in Libya and the new rash of blue on green killings of western soldiers in Afghanistan."

"Yes," he said, "but like I also said, it was not rocket science.  The Americans have lost yet another war, and Mr. Obama is desperate for a way out.  Peace with honor comes to mind."

With that the Good Doctor grew quiet and I sensed that our meeting had concluded so I kept my eye on him hoping to catch his disappearing act in the act.  

But he waved me on. "I will contact you again shortly.  Before the election for sure."

I glanced up the trail to get my bearings again and then back to say goodbye.  But he was gone.

Dixi

(Originally posted September 16, 2010)