Neuronomicon Special #3 (fwd)

[Danny Sale]

Another Special Issue of
The NeuroNomicoN: The Journal of True Illuminism

Special Issue number 3
12 July 1996: 220th Year since the Declaration
copyright 1996 by Wave3 NonFoundation unincorporated
All rights reserved.
============================================================================
Editor-in-chief: Ross Templeton [KVQ...@prodigy.com]

Doctor of Gonzo Journalism: Artemis "Eye" Gordon [ncc...@sprynet.com]

Special Correspondent: Robert Anton Wilson
============================================================================
TABLE OF CONTENTS:

MISADVENTURES IN THE SPECIAL FORCES DISNEYLAND by the Doctor
EVADING DOGMATIC MEDICINE by Robert Anton Wilson
============================================================================
"All Experience hath shown, that Mankind are more disposed to suffer, when
Evils are sufferable, than to right themselves by abolishing the Forms to
which they are accustomed."
--Thomas Jefferson
============================================================================
DATELINE: MEMORY LANE
9-12 July 1996

SUBJECT: MISADVENTURES IN THE SPECIAL FORCES DISNEYLAND: part one of many
Savage parts.....

(The National Affairs Desk) I think we're getting to know one another well
enough that the Doctor can loosen up a little and tell you about some of the
things I've done and seen over the course of my budding and checkered Gonzo
career. Once upon a time there was a Gonzo writer who wasn't yet aware of
his Manifest Destiny; this schmuck was me. I was under the Hell-King Rat
impression that my Destiny had something to do with wearing a funny green
hat and drinking lots of beer. Although I'd still like to wear the funny
green hat, I gave up the beer drinking many years ago. I'm Cyber now.

In addition to being Gonzo. CyberGonzo.

And that funny green hat I'm refering to is the coveted Special Forces green
beret. I'm a guardsman in a guard SF unit [a career that could end at any
moment; it survives as long as it takes for a copy of this to reach Command]
and back in January of this year, the most SAVAGE time of year to be pulling
an oddball stunt like this, I packed my bags and shipped out of DIA to embark
on
a 24-day modern Odyssey through Trial by Insanity. Yes, I was checking into
the
Green Beret Death Camp: the Special Forces Assessment and Selection Course.
Popularly known among the "candidates" as THE School For Advanced Suffering.

The Army refers to this offically-sanctioned extreme gut-check as SFAS. A
sterile acronym which communicates nothing of the pain that will soon be
plaguing the 'candidates' day-in and day-out. While I've only heard the
unbelievable rumors of the level of savagery inflicted upon hapless SEAL
candidates in Hell Week, I think that the 3-week plus SFAS
course could give SEAL selection a little jog, maybe, for its money.

I'm not going to try and tell this tale in any sort of order, just
memory-glyphs as they come back to me, kind of like literary snapshots that
when strung together in the right way, tell the tale of the Doctor and SFAS
class 01-96. The first thing I'm going to say is that when those jackals in
the cadre had nothing left to throw at us, on Day 24, I was still standing
tall in formation. I didn't quit and they didn't make me crack or
physically fall face down in the dirt quivering in neurological meltdown. I
did have a couple bad days during Team Week, the last and most Savage of the
three weeks of SFAS. We'll get to those tales in some other serial
installment not far from here, but today I want to tell you about the day
the Doctor ran the most flame-broiled, ass-smoking obstacle course ever
conceived of in Satan's worst nightmares.

They called it a Special Operations Obstacle Course. To set it apart from
the plain vanilla Army Obstacle Course-for-pussies. This obstacle course is
no laughing matter. It took me well over an hour to calm down at the end of
this thing. It took me that long to determine if I were just extremely
poached or if I were in the intitial stages of corinary-respitory failure.
This incident took place during the SFAS Individual Week with the
gut-wrenching Team Week still looming ahead. I lay in the warm January deep
afternoon sunshine on the sand-infested "lawn" inside Camp McCall, North
Carolina, soaked like a drown rat and stunned beyond movement. I can't
believe I made it to the finish line. I tried to figure where the energy
came from to drag my body through that obstacle course; it was just sheer
resolve. I must really want that funny green hat. There was no other
explaination.

They sent us through this disaster by huts: that's what our dormitories were
called. There were 8 huts to start with. Each hut was just a long corridor
with 45 or more prison bunks lining each side of the room. That was all
there were to the huts. The latrine was located across about thirty meters
of sharp-edged stones and once you're half way through Team Week, I don't
care if you've got boots on or not, those stones are noticable poking at you
and it just aggravates an already unbearable set of circumstances. Just one
more thing to tempt you to quit. This whole course is designed with one
objective: to make you quit. They figure, anyone who lives through this
much Hell must be the "cream" of Army personnel.

Back to that obstacle course. I paired up with somebody near the front
because I figured, if I paced myself, twenty-five minutes later I'd be on
the other side, taking a rest. I was in for a rude awakening. That occured
at the Third Obstacle inside the course, with over fifteen increasingly
outrageous barriers yet to negotiate. I made it through the first two
successfully practicing the Pacing Theory. The Third obstacle was a rope
climb to a huge tree trunk on log supports 60 feet or more into the air.
I'm a good rope climber and I attacked the climb quickly, racing up the
rope, tapping the log at the top, and shimmying back down to run off to the
next obstacle.

Not so fast. The cadre evaluating the performance at that obstacle
bellowed: "Candidate! Do you wish to attempt the obstacle again at this
time? You didn't tap the log out properly! I'm suppose to be able to hear
the tap, Candidate!"

I was on my way to a bad burn after having climbed it once, probably using
too much of my reserves in order to do it fast, trying to look like this was
child's play. He saw right through the act and was enjoying every minute of
this, too. The mere suggestion of doing it again froze me like a deer in the
highbeams. But doing it again was the only possible choice: I'd heard of
people being kicked out for failing to negotiate an obstacle.

I yelled back, "Yes, sergeant!" And jumped on the rope again, really trying
hard to make all this look like no big deal. It took me a little while
longer to get to the top this time but I made sure that sadistic cadre heard
me tap out. My hand stung from slapping the log like that but it saved me
from doing that fucking climb one more time.

I made the next several obstacles without remedial training. Then I hit the
Whopper, half way through the obstacle course and I knew then that this
obstacle was in the place it was by no mistake. The Whopper was the only
obstacle I completed on the first try but didn't complete again over a
series of desperate attempts to duplicate the first conquest of the
obstacle.

The Whopper must have been designed by a clone of Dr. Mengele. It is pure
satanism. First, you had another rope climb. Only about 30 feet into the
air this time. When you get to the top, you've got to swing you lower body
off the rope and over the top of the goddam redwood-sized log angled
steeply, connecting the upper apparatus to the lower. I was beyond smoked
when I hit the Whopper. I was sizzling in my own juices. Thankfully, there
was a line waiting to get onto this Hell apparatus; there were three guys in
front of me. We had to double-time in place until we got our own shot at
getting into the saddle of the Whopper.

When it was my turn, I willed myself onto the rope and climbed in agony to
the top. Then there I was up at the top, under two huge logs perpendicular
to each other. My mission was to somehow get ontop of this thing without
falling. I discovered that the trick was to latch your body onto the bottom
of the log that delivers a candidate to the lower end of the obstacle like
somekind of freakish cross between a crab and a koala bear. It's quite a
different perspective on reality when you're clinging to the bottom of a log
upsidedown about thirty feet off the ground. Just high enough to make you
shake a little, if you don't keep a reign on it. I pretzeled myself ontop of
the log and steadied myself. Now, straddling the log, my mission was to
scoot backwards down the length of the log to the next part of this lunacy.
I took my time on that scoot, catching my breath. There were still two more
parts yet before the Whopper could safely be left behind as a done deal.

Now I was at the other end of the log. And I had to stand up. Somehow, the
log on this end had gotten a lot narrower and skinnier. Not a lot to stand
on with any real confidence. These bastards! So I stood up carefully. Now
I had to turn around without going down on all fours holding onto anything
during this nervy maneuver. Okay, now comes the hard part.

The next phase of the Whopper requires the candidate to walk across an iron
ladder laid out across thirty or forty feet, more than twenty feet off the
ground. You had to step from rung to rung. All edges of the ladder were
painted yellow to denote No Touch Zones. If I was observed touching any of
the yellow, I'd be the victim of a "boobytrap" and would have to either do
the obstacle again or go on to the next one. During our morning
walk-through talk-through demonstration of properly completing obstacles on
the course given by cadre, our walker, Sgt. Tannenbaum, told our group that
it was completely legal to get on and get off this phase of the Whopper by
touching the yellow.

I touched the yellow getting on and getting off of the ladder walk part of
this bastard. I should have known I was about to be dogged when I saw Sgt.
Juan Valdez, a penis with ears by any other name, lock onto my ladder walk
with the interest of a violent predator and he stomped over to the
apparatus, clipboard in hand, and watched me going across like a sniper
looking for the best shot. I did my best to ignore him scowling up at me,
dismounted the ladder phase of the Whopper and I dropped onto the rope
movement, the last apparatus on the Whopper. I koala-beared upsidedown the
length of the rope and hit the tree the rope was tied to with my boot heels,
like I was supposed to do.

I dropped to the ground, beaming that I'd actually made to the other end of
the Whopper without losing a limb or breaking my back. If the Army had to
carry liability insurance on fruit loop contraptions like the Whopper,
that bastard would be immediately chopped into matchsticks the minute
the first bill for the premium arrived at Camp McCall delivered on a pallet
by forklift. The bill would be that hefty. Those insurance vampires would
go into a feeding frenzy over this obstacle course. Of course, the fact
that I volunteered for this insanity makes things like liability null and
void. Soldiers have DIED attending this course. That's why it is no longer
taught in the dead heat of summer anymore. You attend SFAS at your own
risk. And nobody's gonna get sued if you happen to come home in a body bag.

What Sgt. Juan Valdez had for me wasn't a pat on the back or the
Congressional Medal of Honor. I don't know what I was expecting to come out
of his mouth but I was actually stunned when the words were: "Candidate, do
you wish to attempt this obstacle again at this time?"

I think I said something like "What!"

"Candidate, you touched the yellow getting on and off of the ladder!"

"But...Sgt. Tannenbaum told us it was legal to touch the yellow getting on
and off--"

"Candidate! DO YOU WISH TO ATTEMPT THE OBSTACLE AGAIN AT THIS TIME?"

"YES, SERGEANT! I DO!"

And I double-timed right back to where I started from, cursing existence and
Sgt. Juan Valdez under my breath every painful step of the way. Something
deep down in the engineering section of my soul told me: We can't do it
again. There's nothing left, sir! But I kept attacking the Whopper. Like Don
Quixote storming the windmill, the Doctor continued to try to get back on
top of that Hell-Fiend. My upper body strength was all but shrieking
protoplasm and my lower body was tied up in knots. I just couldn't koala
bear up on top of that log again. On my ninth assault of the Whopper, I made
it to where I'd made it the other eight times, up the rope to the logs and
from there, it was a real Mission Impossible.

There I was again, clinging upsidedown to the bottom of that log and that's
when my entire body lost motor control, everything. Strength was totally
gone in my hands, arms, chest, abdomen--it was an all-over body energy
failure. There was just nothing left. And I let go. I was in a state of
mind beyond thinking at that point--it was just an open pause that I might
fill with anything. I have the impression of looping an arm around the rope
as I went down but the fall itself seemed almost timeless and I accepted the
terms of the fall completely. I think that's what saved me. I took the
fact of that fall on faith. I didn't tense up, I didn't fight or yell. I
fell off the bottom of that log, straight down thirty or more feet of open
air to land flat on my back in the sawdust below. The impact seemed hardly
anything to get excited about. The second I made contact with the dirt, I
knew I was okay.

Because I bounced back up out of the sawdust like an automaton, got to the
back of the line waiting for my rope, and continued double-timing for
another shot at it.

Sgt. Juan Valdez bellowed again. "Roster number nine, move out to the next
apparatus!"

I was roster number nine. I was never so happy as I was then, jogging off
down the trail to the next horror, leaving the Horror of Horrors behind me
forever. The Whopper kicked my ass.

But it didn't break my ass. And neither did SFAS--as hard as they tried.

I went through the rest of the obstacle course in something of a rarified
consciousness--a place I've never been before because up until this day, I'd
never exhausted myself physically and mentally to the point of shattering
everything I had previously "known" about my "limitations." SFAS may have
been
the worst fucking nightmare I'd ever voluntarily placed myself into, but the
pay-off after having made it through every test of my resolve not to quit has
left me something more than I ever thought I was or was capable of being. I
know now that I am a Survivor. That when the Crisis comes, I will be among
those whom Endure. Words are not the proper medium for imparting an
"understanding" of what this new knowledge of myself amounts to; there is
only
one way for anyone to comprehend this and that's to understand it physically
as
a body and brain going through these tribulations that will try your soul to
the
very limits and beyond.

I passed Sgt. Tannenbaum down the line somewhere. I thought about asking him
about that Whopper incident but it was irrelevent anyway. I'd already been
sent
forward and questioning the cadre was something that could earn me a seat on
the
next deuce-and-a-half back to Main Post. I did his obstacle without mishap
and
continued towards the finish line, which seemed thousands of miles away at
the
time. I crawled through fifty meters of claustrophobic "sewer" tunnels, into
underground junctions that required you to become spider-man in order to
climb
up to the next tunnel mouth that would deliver you to the end of this
obstacle.
A little guy from the Louisiana Guard freaked out in the tunnels that day.
He
quit in that underground junction between tunnel lengths. He couldn't climb
up
to the next tunnel. They had to throw a rope down to him to get him out.

Several people quit that day on the obstacle course. A couple were dropped
because of injuries sustained while doing this obstacle course. I was
surprised
that there weren't more casualties.

I Tarzaned on ropes across yawning chasms of Death, I ran across logs that
rolled under your feet, I low-crawled under barbed wire, slithered like a
snake
through mud that conjured visions of Dante's running rivers of shit on the
river Styx.

Finally, I was at the last obstacle. It was a gauntlet, this obstacle.
First
you had to swing across a good twenty-five meters of sandpit on monkey bars
that
were spaced with the average arm-length of a full-grown mountain gorrilla in
mind, not a 5'9", 150 pound, slight to average build human male.
You had to get a lot of swing built up on each bar before leaping for the
next
one. At the end of the monkey bars was a small drop-off of about four feet
into
a huge pit of muddy water. I thought that this would be the easiest part of
all.

I jumped into the water and almost had a heart attack. That water was the
coldest polar bear water I've ever recollected finding myself in. And
remember,
it's January in North Carolina now. It wasn't more than forty-five, fifty
degrees in the sun that day. That water had to be just one degree above
freezing, to keep the ice from forming. You couldn't wade across this tidal
pool
of corinary paralysis--you had to low crawl across, with just your chattering
teeth and grimacing face allowed above the surface.

I was highly motivated to get the hell out of that water. I motorboated
across
like a spastic alligator. At the other end, you had to low crawl out of the
water and up a sand embankment to the edge of the cargo net climb.
Fuckin A! Another miserable climb! Even in the advanced state of agony I was
in, just knowing that this was THE END seemed to dust off some unsuspected
reserve I'd been hoarding for just this moment. I went up that cargo net and
down the other side like a man with a vicious wolverine attached to his ass.

Then I did my honest best to appear to be "running" up the sand trail, across
the parking lot and through the back gates of Camp McCall, to the finish line
where I checked in with my roster number, walked over to the survivors of my
hut
and collapsed into the sand-choked grass where I didn't move for a very long
time.

I spent a solid year in preparation for this massive assault on my organism.
I
did pushups, situps, swam 400-500 meters a day, and ruckmarched my ass off.
What
got me through however, was the solid base of super-scientific nutrition I
supplemented my rigorous PT workout with.

Durk Pearson and Sandy Shaw's vitamin/amino formulas are the closest thing
you
are going to find to a real Miracle in a bottle. I know better than most. I
have
my performance at SFAS to testify what this nutrition can do for somebody
like
me; a 32 year old white male who definitely is not Arnie Swartzenegger.
During
my year of train up, my Guard unit ran us through "mock" SFAS on our weekend
drills. I smuggled in my Durk and Sandy formulas to drill in my ruck and I
was
running circles around guys half my age, who weren't even 20 yet and didn't
have
enough stubble to shave in the morning.

The claims are true: these formulas WILL turn ordinary humans into Robocops.
If I were the guy or gal at the other end of this mail list reading this
piece
now, I wouldn't walk, I'd RUN to the nearest phone and call Life Services
Supplements and order that free catalogue today.

Dr. Artemis "Eye" Gordon reporting.
The New Outlaw Journalist

Copyright 1996 by DrAG. All rights reserved.

COMING UP SOON: More Misadventures in the Special Forces Disneyland...
============================================================================

EVADING DOGMATIC MEDICINE
by Robert Anton Wilson

Everybody has their own special nightmare, their private version of
living in a Kafka novel. Some worry that they might fall into a timewarp and
land in the hands of the Gestapo or the KGB. Others live in perpetual
anxiety
about an IRS audit. In New York and New Jersy, most people have an acute
terror
about accidentally saying or doing something that annoys the Mafia.
Californians dread losing their temper and thereby appearing "unmellow" which
they evidently believe might lead to their getting deported back to the U.S.
mainland.
I, too, have always had a personal horror: the concept of becoming
hospitalized while in the United States and thus falling into the hands of
the
American Medical Association.
Fortunately, at the age of sixty, I have managed to avoid this
terrifying experience all my life -- and hence really only know about the
Horror
through the pathetic stories told by friends who have actually spent time in
American hospitals. These tales sound much like the stories of others I
know,
survivors of the Holocaust, with one additional misery often included at the
end: after "liberation" and escape back to normal non-nightmare life, the
butchers go on pursuing you, until you have lost everything in your savings
account and gone through bankruptcy court.
How have I evaded the Dr. A.M.A. House of Blood? I don't know,
really.
Maybe I just got born with some especially good genes. (Materialists would
like
that explanation.) Or maybe I have an Ally, an occult or extraterrestrial
Protector. (New Agers would love that one.)
Personally, I see no special reason to believe either of these
charming
notions.
I tend to suspect that I slid easily through the 40s and 50s -- years
of
prostate cancers, lung cancers, rectum cancers, heart attacks, strokes, and
other miscellaneous unpleasantness for most males -- because I started doing
acid (ascorbic acid: megadoses of vitamin C) at around the age of 37. I had
heard Dr. Linus Pauling lecture on that marvelous substance, and I figured
Dr.
Pauling's ideas deserved a fair trial because (1) the A.M.A. immediately
denounced vitamin C therapy violently -- always a good sign that somebody has
discovered something important and (2) Dr. Pauling already had two Nobel
prizes,
so I could hardly consider him an idiot.
I continue to take megadoses of ascorbic acid 23 years later.
Despite a
number of bad habits -- including smoking and bad diet -- I have not only
stayed
out of hospitals, but have also never had a cold in all that time, while
people
all around me often sniffle, snivel and slide down the slippery slope from
the
common cold to the major flu or even pneumonia. I noted this "magical"
immunity
especially during my six years in Dublin, Ireland, a city located (I must
tell
you because most Americans don't seem to know) further north than almost all
of
Canada. Irish wits describe the Celtic climate as "nine months of winter and
three months of bloody awful weather."
My total freedom from head colds especially impresses me, since
almost
everybody except us "vitamin nuts" gets a few colds a year.
But, of course, one can explain this by invoking the almighty Genes
or
the occult Allies (or maybe even the marvelous Coincidence, that supernatural
entity that always seems to banish or at least disempower all inconvenient
data).
Over the years I have tried to learn more about vitamins, nutrients,
and
health. Since the federal government currently holds to the view that the
First
Amendment does not permit controversies in this area, I must write with great
caution throughout this article, so I remind you again that you can dismiss
everything here by invoking Genes, occult Allies, or maybe good old
panchrestomathal Coincidence.
I started using SUPER RADICAL SHIELD, MEMORY FUEL and BETAMAX
CAROTENE+
about six years ago. The SRS contains as much vitamin C as I think I need,
plus
many other goodies, and the MEMORY FUEL and BETAMAX CAROTENE+ have
ingredients
that often have appeared beneficial in laboratory tests (which conservative
M.D.s still dispute, of course).
While living in Los Angeles a few years ago, I went for a medical
checkup. The doctor I chose had an orthodox M.D. but also used
"alternative,"
holistic, and even Chinese medical techniques, whenever they seemed
appropriate.
At the end of the exam, he asked me what vitamins and minerals I took
regularly. I told him, and he had never heard of SUPER RADICAL SHIELD. He
asked to see a bottle, to read the contents, so I came back the next day and
left an empty bottle with his nurse. He called me that evening.
"That has everything you need," he said.
Well, now, I began to suspect that not all doctors share the dominant
allopathic bias against nutritional and vitaminic data. It just seems that
way
because the allopathic Fundamentalists make a lot of noise and try to pretend
they represent the whole medical profession.
Of course, SUPER RADICAL SHIELD, BETAMAX CAROTENE+, and MEMORY FUEL
have
not helped prevent all health problems. (I never thought they would.) For
awhile, I had high blood pressure and my Los Angeles doctor put me on heavy
doses of allopathic medicines, which he warned me would have some bad
side-effects. He also urged several changes in lifestyle, including breaking
the smoking addiction, avoiding red meat, and exercising daily, which would
help
me get back to normal blood pressure without increasing dependence on the
medications. Blood pressure dropped slowly back to normal over a period of
nearly two years -- but meanwhile I suffered various side-effects of the
drugs,
including lethargy, tired eyes, inability to concentrate, decreased work
output,
and uncharacteristic depression.
Gradually the doctor decreased the heavy allopathic medicines (which
lower your blood pressure in much the same way as getting hit on the head and
staying in bed does)
-- and all these distressing symptoms went away. My energy came back, I
regularly worked a full day again without drowsing, and I feel happy again.
One month ago, in Soquel -- a small burg on the Central California
coast, where I now live -- I again went in for a checkup. As usual, I picked
an
M.D. with training also in alternative medicines.
After the checkup (in which blood pressure and other vital signs
appeared normal, as they have all this year), the doctor said, "You ought to
take a few vitamins and nutrients, to stay in good shape."
"What do you recommend?" I asked.
"For general health, SUPER RADICAL SHIELD," he said. "And in your
case,
I think MEMORY FUEL will prove helpful."
I have continued the changes in lifestyle (i.e., I still avoid
smoking
and red meat, and I continue exercising, when I remember that I should) and
blood pressure now remains normal without the heavy medications. I suspect
the
MEMORY FUEL has helped a good deal in my recovery from the loss of
concentration
and loss of work energy which the allopathic chemicals induced. My doctor
thinks so, too -- but then again, such opinions always need a disclaimer in
this
country, where the First Amendment still remains suspended and no citizen may
safely question A.M.A. dogma.
I therefore disclaim my possible errors and heresies one more time:
maybe we should attribute all this to Genes, or Occult powers, or
Coincidence.
Meanwhile, I seem in damned good shape for a man my age, and not even
the most conservative "experts" could seriously argue that my vitamins and
nutrients have done me any harm. And I doubt that anyone could claim, with a
straight face, that equal doses of allopathic drugs, taken for an equal
period
of time, would do no harm to mind, memory, sexuality, or general energy.

============================================================================
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