Scroll Top

Chapter One Humans Rising






























Please respect this copyright.

Copyright Michael Lutin 2017
This material may not be copy or used in any medium existing now or in future formats for any reason, without the express permission of Michael Lutin or his representatives.


Shortly before my cousin Harold sold his Dairy Queen franchise, right then and there while he was squeezing nuts onto the final double vanilla sundae, he had the oddest thought about a 10-year-old boy named Jailoo he had never met. Or would ever meet. Or at least know he met.

This Jailoo lad had apparently signed up with the Travel Agency without his Blommy’s consent.

Although just barely of age he was already infusing Pterodol, extracted from ancient dinosaur fossils, which would eventually become the fuel to let him travel outside his solar system, and even take people with him, but not just to visit on holidays. No it would be very special official business. He wouldn’t have to be a baker like his father. At some point in his noble career he would make a big mistake. His big mistake, however, would eventually cost all of us more money around what used to be called, Christmastime.

That was just Harold’s passing thought, mainly because he was busy packing up and moving to his country house with Roberta his wife, who had suddenly noticed an unusual rash on her leg. I mention this only because that’s the sort of thing that was going on. And this book is all about what began changing things.

That event at the Dairy Queen happened Not too long before the couple, safe in their hideaway, were shocked to see the photo on the evening news of what they were convinced was me marching in a parade with a condom on my head. Such a notion could have been caused by that unusual rash, and That was quite a distance in time before my famous article appeared in VANITY FAIR ( around the time of the Paris kidnapping, after which the psychiatrist in a three piece suit they took me to thought I must be obsessed with the Beatles) and long after the dinosaurs, escaping the effects of the asteroid – – many Scorpios and Aries among them – – returned to the sea, Largely in the area which you know as the former San Diego, Santa Monica and Venice, California, Where an Angel once appeared to give me my big break in show business, which led to a meteoric rise to a fabulous career hardly anybody knows about, Except pretty much every astrologer on the planet Earth alive at that time. And today, too. Alive And dead.

It was also somewhere around the time when a stranger named Jamie declared I needed help, because she was in love with a hot musician with car who  turned out to have kidney stones.

So this is also what happened between the asteroid collision and my article in Vanity Fair, and how a simple misunderstanding brought on the First awareness of traveling through time, and eventually revealed the ease of interstellar travel— for Earthlings, that is.

But there’s so much you have to know it’s hard to get it all in.

Time, with all the events we dump into it as if it were our own private trash can, does not flow like the peaceful river in front of the house I Did not buy from a family in Connecticut named Coffin for obvious reasons. Not only in one nice neat line. Time flops over on itself like a stack of pancakes dripping in real maple syrup.

Plus, you have to try to understand how excited I was when I heard they were all alive after all those years, wondering if they were just lying out there like huge hunks of cold, dead rocks.

And what luck! Around the same day, I run into a guy who claims not only that Sigmund Freud did not of cancer at all, but was actually brutally murdered, and, get this, allegedly killed by this very guy I meet right in the basement of a college book store, downstairs from a large auditorium where I myself years later instructed thousands of students in the magic and mystery to be unfolded in the following pages. The same fellow, by the way, too tall and too handsome to be a real life murderer, or a real life human for that matter, but later who teaches how to perform brain surgery with my ears, and follow it up with a good joke. Because, he says, people laugh only when they trust the comedian and are thus rendered submissive, and only when they are completely submissive can they be healed. And that’s why a great brain surgeon has to be a great comedian. At least that’s what the alleged murderer of Freud thought.

I cannot take the time right now to tell you how and why he had absolute proof of the dastardly crime of Freud’s assassination, just to say that he himself has since died, and strangely of the same odd malady that killed the Bodhisattvalah Roberta, whose leg rash was her nemesis. So you see it is pretty hard to know where to begin.

I haven’t been right since a nasty little man came right up through the floor door (well that could’ve been just high fever). Well it could’ve also been kind to think of me as a ragged orphan on the streets of Paris, in the 13th century, doing God knows what just for food until the monks came and dragged me back to Chinon, (although again, that could’ve been only according to Linda, a glamorous psychic who divorced her husband and kids in Scarsdale, a fancy suburb of New York, to lecture on past lives and reincarnation to rich ladies all over the world.

“Humans” Was probably my attempt to save the species from being swallowed up and drowned in a custard of ignorance, which was hard at that time since the entire planet was just about completely submerged in the Hole, all the while most people were checking their messages.

I felt for the governments, corporations, and their PR rep’s – – the religions, who were all torn between adding to their already enormous stock piles while keeping everyone sedated long enough to get off the surface, and it was, for a while, God knows how, working.

I thought I knew what was coming. I had put my whole heart and soul into the famous VF piece, which led only to me losing the best gig I ever had, which included me and Arnold Schwarzenegger stuck together for eternity between a Santa Monica restaurant and the modern monstrosity of a house where The angel who got me my big break lived, until she used up all her money on painkillers and sold it for a song, not the one I sang that made me famous.

That one was aptly called, « THERES GONNA BE A HEALING HERE TONIGHT ».

Which all stems from the revelation that silent film star Gloria Swanson would turn out to be my godmother, which is also amazing, since my life-changing experience with Arnold ( which involved my eye color and my cousin Sylvia— more later on that) and the house the Angel lived in was right down the street from Sunset Boulevard, very near the place where Shirley McClain snubbed me in a bar and I shared a plate of chicken livers wrapped in bacon with Kirk Douglas, the actor who is now going on to become two hundred years old!

All though so many things remained hoped for are unfinished, I still soldiered on in the wish to keep my batteries from dying, mainly because I could hear the people behind me murmuring and whispering in the darkness to each other to continue to have faith because they were sure I knew exactly where we were going.

As an aside, Arnold was the governor of what was then or what would be called later the former state of California, where we lived right on the ocean almost in the same spot where my cousin Dave died on the toilet New Year’s Eve well I was busy planning PluTopia with the angel which we knew would take place somewhere in the mountains of Colorado, and ruled by a man named Ray who seemed to have more than one wife at a time without being a Muslim or a Mormon or even a bigamist.

Still wondering why, you know, why I keep trying. With unknown shadowy alien presences heating up the Earth in order to accommodate their cold-blooded allies hoping to control the world and everybody on it…But…

I still figure if two big fat hippos can save a baby duck and if a swan as bitchy as any stepsister could be, can actually hug a man in gratitude for saving its life, and if a tiger and a parrot can sit quietly together in awe and watch a sunset, then I shouldn’t give up either.

Most recently, however, And maybe a better point to be getting into this story, it would probably be about Herbie, a sailor I used to sleep with as when I was six.




































Comments (2)

“…swallowed up and drowned in a custard of ignorance..”
I Love That, ALL of it.

Comments are closed.