The Green Grass of SILVER BROWN

An Email From My Old Lama (sort of)


Several lifetimes ago, when I was but a wee strapping young lad of twenty-three on the mean streets of the ‘Peg, I digested the writings of the gentleman pictured above. A New Yorker with a Jewish upbringing who spent most of the Seventies living in India studying Dzogchen under various lamas. Even after all that time on the Subcontinent, Lama Surya Das has never lost his thick Brooklyn accent.

I got this in my inbox recently, and my mind was blown clean off. It was probably just all the THC running through my veins at that moment, but the guy in the picture struck me as a dead ringer for Lama Surya Das. Maybe it’s a sign, like those reported visions of the Virgin Mary that keep appearing in grilled-cheese sandwiches. More likely though, it’s simply something to smile about.


The Soundtrack of SILVER BROWN

A Celebration of the Virtual Impeachment

At this point, I’d like to take a moment to dance on the Twitter grave of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. I was never one of his followers, and quite frankly I would’ve sooner nailed both my testicles to a tree than click on that now-defunct follow button. Still, every time somebody I follow posted a cheeky response to one of his tweets (which happened pretty much daily), I would see that menacing glower of a profile pic show up in my feed. You know the one. The sudden absence of that glower most certainly is a beautiful thing. Never have to burn my retinas looking at his cerebral diarrhea ever again, and I’m happier than a pig in shit.


The Bullhorn of SILVER BROWN

Now Playing: Chapters Fourteen and Fifteen

A brand-spankin’ new year has arrived. Immediately following a year that has seen all manner of weird. To kick things off right, Chapters Fourteen and Fifteen of SILVER BROWN are presently being tweeted for the reading enjoyment of the fine folks of Planet Earth, at a rate of one page a day. These chapters are chock full of exposition and flashbacks, and are set on a forested island inhabited by flesh-eating beetles. There’s a colossal subterranean faceless entity in there too, manifesting somewhere in the last few sentences. Which might not seem so strange, after the year we’ve just been through. If the earth’s gravitational pull should suddenly and inexplicably fail, or vast armies of arachnoid hostiles from somewhere beyond Canis Major should mass-impregnate our women, it’ll probably be seen as a minor inconvenience in our post-2020 world. Like losing one’s car keys.