NEW AGE ANONYMOUS

12 Steps For The Recovering New Ager

New Age Anonymous World Service, Inc.,

PO Box 144,001

Planet Earth

THE TWELVE STEPS

Step One

Step Two

Step Three

Step Four

Step Five

Step Six

Step Seven

Step Eight

Step Nine

Step Ten

Step Eleven

Step Twelve

TWO STORIES OF RECOVERY

Robin’s Story

Chuck’s Story

Glossary of New Speak

Prologue

Although nobody wants to admit defeat, it is especially difficult for bliss ninnies. Pain, despair, confusion aren’t allowed unless we pay a month’s salary to humiliate ourselves in front of others at inner child retreats. On lean months, we try every trick imaginable to deny the human instinct and pretend that our geometry is sacred, our chakras spinning clockwise.

When reality gets the upper hand, we pretend it sounds like one hand clapping as we binge on hemi-sync tapes, ozone machines and dream activators, convinced that if we just find the right tool, nirvana——i.e., the adulation of devotees and a Swiss bank account——will be ours forever. In the meantime, we glaze our eyes, paste on a smile and flee toward the light. One month we may sit beneath the Levtz throne of the Dallas Cowboy cheerleader who took a football in the third eye and became enlightened; the next, it’s Ideatdat, the gringo guru who heads an MLM downline which sells alter pictures of the fleshy one subliminally enhanced with chocolate smeared breasts.

We beam with other disciples, projecting world peas and carrots through the sacred hoop of mandatory eye contact. We offer unsolicited advice and power trip with vows of silence, using our spiritual superiority to mask how stupid we really are. We stand on our heads so long that our brains smash up against our skull and tell us it’s possible to fight the IRS and win. And all the while, we dose ourselves with superfoods until our veins accumulate so much spirulina and ginkgo bilboa that we actually believe we’re better than the rest of the human race.

No other form of delusion is more destructive than such base Shirley MacLainism. Let’s Face it, newageoholics, we are flakes, fakes and far from awake. Our paradigm hasn’t shifted in years, and our lives have become so heavy with enlightenment that we don’t even notice synchronistic coincidences anymore. We’ve gone woo woo and sold our futures to the aliens. We have hit rock bottom.

Yet those of us who read these pages are the lucky ones, for to do so means we are on the road to accepting responsibility for our addiction. In this step, we must bare witness our past humiliations, somehow free ourselves from memories of laying naked on a massage table as some guy with a hairy back told us to breath out our problems and make more room for him. It is only when we again find the courage to truly look at ourselves are we ready for the fellowship of NAA.

Upon entering NAA, we begin to look at ourselves from another perspective, actually welcoming our fall into Babylon. We recognize that without such a descent, this very important first step would have eluded us and we would still be sitting at the birkenstocks of a retail swami. It is our confession of powerlessness over the New Age that makes it possible to leave the house without first consulting the I Ching.

However, we must be especially careful during this first step, for it is easy to hide behind our initial admission and, denying our real culpability and addiction, continue to succumb to the temptations of Christ Consciousness. Soul retrieval potlucks and Kyron conventions won’t lose their allure because we want them to; nor will tofu hotdogs and dolphin coloring books; no, the only way to work the NAA program is to admit that we have no where else to go but back to Earth.

Thus, under the deafening monotone of New Age synthesizers, we are driven to NAA, where we finally "tune into" the fatal nature of our situation. Then, and only then, do we stop talking about the Dead Sea Scrolls long enough to figure out what year it is. Finally, we are ready for authentic connection with the days of the week.

Upon comprehending the requirements of Step Two, our first inclination is to reach for a shot of wheat grass. A bullshit detector, what is that? The doubt rises like a staff of solstice light. Will it interfere with our ability to know ourselves through past life regressions? We can’t possibly stop our Jaguar Woman healings now; only 30 more sessions until that new XJ-6 is ours. How will we unplant our implants, kung fu our karma, spy on our lovers via astral projection without walking on burning embers?

These dissenting voices are to be expected, because by the time we reach Step Two, we’ve typically spent hundreds, thousands, tens of thousands (multi-level-marketers can add zeros as needed) on gurus, healers and their weekend retreats. Yes, it is difficult to live with ourselves when we admit that we lent the prosperity expert money for his lunch after paying $350 to attend his six hour workshop, that we actually traded our Makita automatic drill for a massage, or that we spent our retirement savings on a tofu ranch. We’ve invested our life and soul propping up crackpots; how can we possibly turn back now?

Although the thought that we wasted money, misplaced our trust and threw away our time sickens us to no end, we must accept these logic-defying feats of idiocy as learning experiences; otherwise, we will walk no further on the NAA no-path. We must say it again and again, "we’ve been toe fooled, we’ve been toe fooled, we’ve been toe fooled. Are we home yet, Shanti?" This must become our anti-mantra, a non-affirmation affirmation capable of penetrating our ether-filled minds, helping us to admit that Jesus.com has nothing to do with Nostradamus.

Now is the time when we must learn to question every Tom, Dick and Guru who shops in a health food store, see that the only implants in need of removal were inserted by the most dangerous E.T. of all: Earth’s very own Extortion Terrestrials. This is a difficult task indeed, for only those who’ve put their inner children to bed know the difference between retail spirituality and spiritual retaliation.

We have and we do. And the instant we accept this fact——no money down, no payments later——our lives will be never be the same again. Just think, instead of spending Saturday in a hotel conference room listening to near-death experiences, we can mow the lawn, bake cookies, go fishing. We can disconnect our alien alarm systems and channel surf without the interference of a medium. We can throw away our Women Who Love to Run with Wolves From Mars books and discover Hemingway, Steinbeck, Sartre; all because we’ve discovered our New Age bullshit detector.

So, how then do we wield the power of this protector of our purse and sanity? Initially, we do this by remembering that in New Age circles Dr. before a name always stands for Doctor of Divinity. Next we must avoid who people hand out unsolicited business cards at vitamin stores, especially if the card includes a coupon for a free massage and a bottle of wine. Most importantly, we must avoid vitamin stores——or at least practice discrimination. This means we should ask for a refund when our procrastination workshop gets canceled for the second time. Keep our third eye peeled for ego, intolerance and bad fashion sense. A crystal sword around the neck and a forehead bindi are also good indicators. Other questionable traits include dilated pupils and bulging eyes, both of which are a sign of excessive eye contact.

Once our noses are capable of sensing New Age droppings, we must be careful not to assume that we are operating under the protection of a bullshit detector. While working Step Two, many a NAAer has fallen under the spell of MLM downlines for essential motor oil or stocked up on postulant protein powder. This is why we must maintain composure the first time we leave the Whole Life Expo without a fuzzy Polaroid of our aura. All successful NAAers know that our earliest victories aren’t to be celebrated, for this is when we are most likely to fall prey to a counter-revolutionary New Age spell.

Divisive actions must be motivated the hard-earned humility of one whose tonal essence has inspired a Windham Hill CD or whose girlfriend has run away with a celibate monk. Sometimes it takes months of rebirthing control before we begin to meet people who don’t wear purple. But remember, all of this is an essential phase in the restoration of our clarity. It may have taken years of neural globalization sessions to erode our ability to think independently. Be gentle, it takes willpower to push away the Dixie cup of ionized water we pay to swallow.

Luckily, once we’ve worked Step Two, our lives become rooted in practicality. Dowsing conferences go on without us, our tarot recipe planner gets tossed in the garbage, the multidimensional portal above the washing machine no longer steals sox. In this new state of sobriety, we can finally analyze our gullibility and admit that Earth is much closer than any star, our understanding much fresher than any New Age. Now, assured by the presence of NAA, we are ready to progress to the next step, Step Three, in which we learn to take responsibility for our lives.

Unlike Steps One and Two, Step Three requires action of a more exacting nature. Yes, we’ve admitted we are newageoholics; yes, our bullshit detectors are rusty——but now it is time for concrete action. The doorway to recovery is open, and we must exit our meditation pyramids and enter the initiation chamber of ordinary existence. We must meet our lower selves.

No longer can we ask dead white guys or dead brown guys to save us from the paperwork piling up on our desk; nor can we expect angels to plan our vacations and fairies to water our plants for us while we are away. Step Three asks us to use our minds and bodies to eke out a sense of belonging in this world.

At first, the thought of giving up angels, fairies, elves, dead guys and whoever and whatever else is vying for our cosmic thought rays seems unthinkable, even unbearable. After all, we are addicts, and as such we can’t wake up in the morning without a bee pollen smoothie or worse leave the house without first throwing our rune stones. Yet in order to protect ourselves from becoming the 100^th monkey, this is exactly what we must do.

While not for everybody, a good psychiatrist may be a useful tool for those who’ve had their head shoved up a vortex for so long that airy-fairyness is all they know . Not to be confused with a Third-Level Reiki Master or an implant removal specialist, such a psychiatrist must be a skilled deprogrammer—preferably with Moonie experience and a list of credible references. He or she must not be afraid of wearing black and be comfortable with death. If a woman, she shouldn’t be running with wolves of any kind; if a man, fire should be kept at least 100 yards away from his belly. He or she must also have a keen nose for incense and be hip to less flagrant newageoholic behaviors, such as Affirmation Abuse, Pastlife Aggression and Karmic Deficit Disorder. Finally, this therapist should allow you to quit therapy at any time without making you feel that there won’t be enough dog food for her little Freudo.

But even a psychiatrist cannot help us unless we agree to help ourselves. One way to do this is to give up the notion that the Elohim Board of Universal Governance wants to return our long lost strands of DNA so Bill Gates doesn’t become President. Ordinary thinking starts when we burn our ascension manuals and cancel our subscriptions to Lightworker Today. Action is when we admit our tantric facilitators don’t really have extended orgasms. Action is acknowledging that it takes more than Braggs Amino Acids to save the world.

In Step Three we learn to lower our higher selves and have fun in the nearest dimensional reality (i.e., Earth). Some important early disciplines for becoming small and inconsequential include spending time alone, balancing a checkbook and discussing a current event.

Yet, acting without spiritual superiority is scary, for it forces us to return to the days before yurts and geodesic domes. As our lower selves admit to knowing the names of cabinet members and senators, we further alienate our former friends, and soon, we are waking up alone rather than with our seminar leader in a Marin hot tub. Our own soap operas began to shadow the struggles of others. We see ourselves as slaves to sun signs, New Age astro-nots. Terror wells up inside. Our guru gone, we are an inconsequential blip in the screen of life.

And this is the perfect demotion of consciousness. Without an un-awakening of this magnitude, we will never be safe from blue green algae pasta and John-Travolta-as-a-disheveled-angel movies. Yes, we are tested at every turn (no one said it would be easy to withstand the death throes of a Higher Power), until, finally we see that it takes more than Cherokee jewelry to solve our problems. To big for our mandalas, we grow embarrassed at the names we gave ourselves, at the retreat leaders we’ve slept with, at the way we groveled for a massage.

Luckily, the pain and suffering of unhealing isn’t terminal; in fact, thanks to the fellowship of NAA, we have first hand examples of those who’ve successfully overcome their multi-dimensia. Sure our hardship is more pronounced when we can’t blame an astrological square for our flat tire—but we also gain power and confidence as we do lower self stuff (such as burping) in public. As our lower resources increase, we overthrow the tyrannical Higher Power who was driving us to carrot juice. We scoff at group oms and instead let out silent-but-deadlies in the supermarket without worrying about the karma of singed nose hairs.

Now, with Step Three behind us and only nine steps from complete recovery, we are ready to bring our lives and our will into pedestrian alignment. My will, not thine, be done.

On the threshold of achieving liberation, we begin to realize that we live in the third dimension, home to baseball, hotdogs and mini malls. But such epiphanies are useless unless we also admit that we, not the neighborhood psychic lady with forty-four cats, are the masters of our destiny, that WE write the Descendental Handbook.

Of course, the New Age marketing machine sells us the opposite reality. Amid the glitter of Conspicuous Consciousness, the New Age Superstore, we feel like puny little humans who can’t do anything without the assistance of Alister Crowley, kinesiology, a deck tarot cards or a trinket on a string. Like other newageoholics, we got hooked via isolated purchases of relatively harmless New Age paraphernalia, such as a rose quartz, an angel pin, a book on out-of-body experiences. When these failed to satisfy, we moved on to harder gear——incense sticks, prosperity candles, dream catchers, feather earrings. Soon we indulged in the alchemist’s realms, going for turquoise bear fetishes and copper tetrahedrons. But we really hit the skids when we hired a Feng Shuiest to remodel our teepee while we swam with dolphins on the Big Island. Seduced by the prospect of goofy footing the first wave, our willpower went into retrograde, maxing out our credit cards and leveraging our light-bodies.

So what did we do? We spent more. We got certified in hypnotherapy, we detoxified, we bought medicine cards, angel cards, aromatherapy cards; we gave into our inner children’s demands for more stuffed animals and glow in the dark stars. Driven by our compulsion, we scoured New Age stores, crystal fairs and Whole Life Expos, buying the cutting edge in New Age accouterments——home miracle kits, telepathic telephones, silent masturbation alters.

We adopted the standard uniform of see-through white clothes accented with sarongs, chi pants, harem pants, tie-dyes, shell necklaces and sandals (with socks in cooler climates), and then, once our appearance won us the endorsement of the established starseeds, we became lightworkers ourselves—i.e., we figured out a way to finance our habit through the gullibility of others. Yes, we were driving in the past life lane, but we didn’t care because we were just dying to get rolfed.

Step Four is our vigorous and painstaking effort come to terms with our desire to be on one of the 144,000 seats on the ascension starship and how this compulsion causes severe financial problems. We must look squarely at our New Age insolvency and admit that our inner shallowness has created a closet full of garbage. A liability to ourselves and others, we have no other choice but to give up all our stuff because putting it under our beds means somebody else has to deal with it when we die.

Once the crystal fast has begun, we must evaluate our basic mistake: Basically, that we think New Age junk can bring us enlightenment. This view causes us to buy dream catchers instead of toilet paper, autopsy videos rather than shoes for our children. Extreme examples of this addictive folly include the guru dad who stopped paying child support in order to finance his healing center in Hawaii, telling his kids they chose him as a father so they could experience hardship and "wake up" to their spiritual selves sooner. Another woman spent two months worth of grocery money to have a landing pad installed on her roof for abduction purposes.

Most of us aren’t really as gullible as we appear; instead, we are misguided by-products of a system that uses angel cards to enforce daily miracles. When these miracles don’t happen, we are accused of visualizing skepticism and coerced into miracle etiquette classes, hoping that our problems will be solved one we figure out how to say "chakra" correctly. But, since intimate fellowship takes more than tachyon halos and his and her peace pipes, we graduate from this brainwashing school more alone and afraid than we were to begin with. Which is the plan, because this justifies our reliance on outside assistance——otherwise known as more stuff.

Step Four requires us to neutralize clairvoyance and attempt death defying acts of karma. Be warned, however, for such valor doesn’t come easily, and it may take some outside nudging, especially for those with trust funds. The first time our sponsor suggests paying $50 to a prostitute rather than $300 to a tantric facilitator, we don’t want to hear it. We become self-righteous and shout dysfunctional family.

Despite the appearance of such noisy resistance, we are on the cusp of a garage sale. With the sound tutelage of other NAAers who made bucks working this step, we start to taste the sweet revenge of cash, see that we can actually take advantage the system that stole our lives and livelihoods. As our stuff drives away by the VW campervan, we experience a sense of release that is better than any G-spot massage.

However, we aren’t off the hook yet, because Step Four is a lifelong pursuit of sensible shopping. After all, it takes more than ridding ourselves of thirteen moon calendars to see the moon with our own eyes. It is now a time for reckoning, where we embrace the fear, pride and greed that collected all the useless crap in the first place. We must dispose of everything New Age, so free of distractions, we can once again rediscover the pleasures of the vacuum cleaner.

"Dear God, Guru, seminar leader (circle those that apply), I have been lying. I tell people I found you in Retreat-Land. I tell them God snores, I mean speaks, to me during my meditation. I say I see energy, but all I really notice is the impressed looks on people’s faces as I make up a color for their aura. The name Nefertum wasn’t gained in a past life journey, but in a trip to ;the Egyptian museum. I didn’t really have a near-death experience, it was a near breath experience . . ."

The confessions are infinite, for Step Five is when we admit that our New Age addiction arose out of a paranormal need for attention and validation. Possibly our first metaphysical encounter was a genuine event, but in re-telling it, we quickly discovered that people would actually pay us to gild the lotus. Strangers instantly became our best friends, the in-crowd wanted us at their potlucks, publishers returned our phone calls. Yes, it was conditional and we weren’t exactly the prodigal starseed, but what the heck, we were invited.

However, this newfound status cost us more than hugs and cuddle puddles. Sure, we were invited to lecture on the grid matrix rules of near-death holographic convolution, but we paid for it by letting the reality police dictate our near-life experiences. In the beginning, we viewed this increased psychological strain as an opportunity to for personality eclipsing work and threw ourselves into the shadows of the chosen ones (i.e. anyone desperate enough to pay us for our half-baked tales).

Our "Grooming Your Animal Guide" course brought us cash, cash that secured us a publishing contract for our Promotion Therapy book. We used this money to start a mail order company and soon were making a killing on water walking kits and past life coffee mugs printed with a glow in the dark tunnels. As our cache of suckers increased, even RetreatLand our near-death theme park wasn’t enough, so we had a public offering and began manufacturing surround-sound, near-death helmets (complete with tapes of motorcycle crashes, exploding airplanes and drive by shootings) for home use. We got richer, busier, more stressed, more important. And then we did the unthinkable: we actually convinced ourselves that our near-death experience was true.

The story outlined above is but one of many successfully marketed spiritual delusions. Others include alien head abduction popsicles, Kahuna cooking classes, astral projection adventure travel operators, and medicine wheel tires for Land Rovers. True, not every New Ager experiences worldwide recognition and success through metaphysical exaggerations, but even the average Chris Na who took a vow of silence to cover up his stuttering must eventually come to terms with his true motivation.

So how do we come down off the mountain and admit we were just kidding about the implants in our pineal gland? Easy: We visit our family. Relatives are perfect New Age deprogrammers, since nobody can make us feel smaller and more insignificant than our own flesh and blood. Many a newageoholic has watched her self-serving fairy tale blow up like a South Sea dolphin in the hands of the French government.

Be warned however, for not all Step Fivers are capable of vivisecting the light the first time around. In fact, one must give up center stage before he or she can expect to cut through the crock of shit others are so desperate to believe. However, taking refuge in NAA helps newageoholics keep their third eye shut long enough to actually see that their heads are attached to a human body and that this is a good thing.

Informing God of the fact that the highest plane we were ever on was a 747 en route to Hawaii is fairly simple, because even our deluded self knows this isn’t front page news. Yet telling our former followers is another story altogether. Here we are slung with the range of improprieties others won’t allow themselves to have. We are labeled as fakes and told we won’t evolve for at least two lifetimes in a row. The psychic wannabes who used to fight to see who would be in our bedrooms at night sue us for sexual misconduct. Our astrologer leaves us to work in the White House.

This is a time to celebrate, for finally we can stop being supreme. We can admit gang crime is more than black karma; we can get through the 12:12 doorway and do something about the bottle of Southern Comfort our 10-year-old keeps under his bed (see the Alcoholics Anonymous handbook). Sure, we may experience relapses, but instead of rushing out to organize a weekend seminar on the possible reincarnations of plastic, we learn to accept bursts of divinity as a natural course of life——much like going to the post office or feeding the cat.

Fortunately, NAA offers us the fellowship of others to help us overcome the isolation and despair that goes with giving up a lucrative 900 number. Yes, with time, effort and the tenacity, we are exactly where we want to be, poised and ready to initiate the deprogramming process of Step Six.

With our delusions accounted for, it is time to embark on the next step: exorcism. The task of reclaiming our identity is of grave importance, for without the ability to think, sleep and eat for ourselves, lasting recovery is yet another uninterpreted dream. But is it really possible to uncover the personality that disappeared six name changes ago, back when we knew ourselves as a "Two" on the enneagram?

Fortunately, a question like this is answer enough. Even so, there are a few proven techniques which will assist us as we resurrect our inner agnostics. For example, tell people your walk-in walked out. Let them know that whoever it was who turned your head into sidewalk forced you to change your name to Tarapaloza and chew enzymatic gum. Adopt a pre-Harmonic Conversion wardrobe——which means you must only wear clothes that match and fit. Go to parties and advocate imbalance. Open your eyes during group meditation and make faces at others while they aren’t looking. Track down anyone who isn’t terrified of you and watch their expression as you tell them, blow for blow, how you ambushed your guru after a particularly off tune chanting session (this may serve as the intervention their family members were afraid to make).

Still, it may be devastating to discover that our old selves don’t care whether the Dead Sea Scrolls are locked away in the Vatican basement or if the face on Mars is really is really John Gray. Remember, this is a small price to pay considering the fringe benefits of living out of the moment. Imagine turning off the music of the spheres and blasting Aerosmith out your speakers. Now we can accelerate personal mastery by watching Hogan’s Heroes reruns instead of unifying with our divine blueprint. We can gossip openly about people without having to pretend it’s for their own good. Yes, we can even change our hairstyle.

However, we must be careful as we progress on the NAA no-path of disenlightenment. Our I AM Presence still has some influence over us, which means it will do anything to save itself from becoming extinct. Like a spurned lover, it may show up unannounced in public places and blast innocent bystanders with mutant messages, possibly jeopardizing our ability to assimilate into normal existence.

Unfortunately, restraining orders don’t work on the I AM Presence because the police department still doesn’t believe It exists. Our best bet is to cover any outburst of spiritual tourette with a pirate smile (for it is possible to maintain some modicum of muscle control during episodes), let out a good AAAARRRRRRRRRR and then escape out the back door as soon as possible. It may help to cover our tracks by returning a few days later with some hits of acid so people will assume we were tripping, thus ensuring that our new un-New Age acquaintances won’t link us to our New Age past.

For some it takes days, others months, years even, of persistent negotiating to exit the inner planes. But rest assured, because even the I Am Presence gives up, and when It does, we are back to cruising on the freeway of everyday life——whatever that means. Yet becoming denizens of our own making comes with responsibility, one that is not to be taken, dare we say, lightly. Dropouts of "Reality Maintenance 111: The Subzero Point Experience", we must craft a world view of our own, create a personal myth that doesn’t require all the characters of Camelot to carry out.

This stage of Step Six is more difficult than it seems, for it calls upon the prized possession most of us traded in for a bunch of stale ideas: imagination. Sometimes the only way to muster an original thought is to start with a tiny rebellion. This can be a simple insubordination, like smashing a bug. No doubt this act will elicit great panic, for the New Age has told us that bug murder is a heinous crime, one that will condemn us to a future incarnation as a fly in Chernobyl or an ant trapped in some kid’s plastic ant farm.

After we have killed lots of little bugs, we can move onto bigger transgressions, such as skipping our weekly homeopathy appointment, failing to smudge before meals, and thinking negative thoughts. Blasphemy of all kinds is essential, as it too helps to discourage newageoholic symptoms such as meditating, tree hugging and inter-dimensional decorating. Under no circumstances should we write a letter to a Higher Power, have a coffee enema or go on a juice fast. We must also avoid heart initiations, particularly if they have anything to do with soul alignment. Nothing will make us re-regress faster than such indulgences. The key to salvation is creative avoidance. Remember, we’re engaged in a radical process of extreme de-programming, and if successful, we might regain our inalienable right to rule the food chain.

With practice, we see that as we change ourselves, we also change the world. The taxi driver who speeds past us in the rain becomes a cranky old man rather than the energetic resonance signature of the butler we abused in a former life. We can hang out in biker bars without getting beat up, and joy, we can give up ghee since we no longer need a harmonious vata, kalpa, pitta ratio to impress dates. Once again, we are a master, not a slave, to Ms. I Am That, the snotty New Age bookstore owner.

Remember, our inner doors must be locked——with a dead bolt if necessary——and by any means possible, we must stop expanding. Our mind, body and spirit depend upon it.

Step Seven is the step that signals the mid-point of our recovery. Indeed, there is nothing so rewarding as the moment our Higher Power gets exactly what it deserves. Sure, "fuck off" is only two words, but these two words are remarkably versatile and they make a powerful impact. When said with sincerity, they empower us to stop asking for direction and buy a fucking compass. And, as an added bonus, the art of saying "fuck" will help us in our attempts to assimilate back into the world of Bud and baseball when we are ready.

True, victory over our Higher Power would be much sweeter if a black eye or a lawsuit were involved, but upon the printing of this edition, there had been no legal precedent set regarding Higher Power abuse. However, it is certainly satisfying to imagine our moronically actualized, goody-two-shoes Self landing halo first in the slammer.

Out of all the steps, NAA veterans like working this one the best because it is a noisy opponent to denial. Although we usually ban group circles and visualizations of any kind, we make exception in this step and start our meeting in a wide circle—however, under no circumstances do we ever hold hands. Allowing ourselves to feel ridiculous reminds us of all the high attitude gatherings our Higher Power had bullied us into. Looking around at the embarrassed faces, we flash back to drum circles, medicine wheels, crop circles; we remember the times when the talking stick came to us, how we blubbered out all of our life’s secrets to a group of strangers. We allow these indignations to flow through our veins, until finally, somebody musters enough self-respect to yell "Fuck off Higher Power." Others join in, and what ensues is 666 times more liberating than any polarity process. This highly cathartic undertaking acts upon our willpower like a laxative, thus giving us the baser support necessary to ignore stupid rules and rituals.

As this despotic power is forced back to the Akashic landfill, we give up our notions of Christ Consciousness. In its place, we rediscover the tiny, but real, person we once were. On our own again, we see how boring our spiritual personas had made us; how our constant processing and self-improvement workshops had stunted our ability to drive fast cars and carry on superficial conversation.

The challenge at this stage of Step Seven is remembering to forget to re-calibrate our divinity threshold. Simple actions——such as firing our hypnotherapist, dismantling our backyard stargates (the neighbors will love this one) and throwing out our lifetime supply of beta carotene supplements——are good places to start. We can give up our goal of being accepted into a prestigious mystery school and instead start plotting ways to get revenge on the spiritually mis-endowed (see Step Eight). We can sit in communion with the universal nevermind, hear weed eaters instead of wind chimes and, as an added bonus, we can look people in the eye (not to be confused with eye contact) as we carry our groceries out of the store in plastic bags rather than paper.

Yes, without a Higher Power constantly peering in on us, we have unlimited access to the devil’s salad bar of forbidden delights. Pornography, alcohol, cigarettes, pot, speed, dairy products, white sugar, shopping malls can all become part of our daily bread as we numb out our chakras and tune into Baywatch. It takes time for us to get used to life without censorship, but, with a steady diet of recklessness, we eventually see that it is much easier to live——even chain smoke——without some Gregorian chant clogging up our good times.

Go ahead, make your day. Tell your Higher Power to fuck off.

Addressing how one falsely imposed hierarchy creates another, Step Eight focuses on the emotional terrorism of New Age relationships. As the most obnoxious of all the 12 steps, this step generally poses an additional challenge for newageoholics, since most of us have been brainwashed into believing that we are only allowed to express feelings of light and love. Fortunately, cruelty and vice are part of the human package, which means, with a little primal priming, it becomes easy to allow ourselves the luxury of our true nature.

Mastering Step Eight involves three stages. First, we mentally review every New Age gathering we’ve attended and record all of the undeserving assholes we were nice to. Second, we set the record straight by giving these individuals some verbal therapy. Third, having thus eliminated any possibility of ever being a solstice leader, we perfect our understanding of Step Eight by devising more maniacal ways to mow down the pastlife illusions of future assholes——metaphorically speaking, of course.

Before getting into the specifics of these three stages, it is important to take a moment to illustrate the sacred dimensions of a New Age asshole (which will be referred to as NAsshole from now on). It is big and loud, particularly if it is rich (i.e., operating under the grid reality matrix [GRM] generally known as "abundance consciousness") or an ex-member of the tribe (operating under the GRM "I will not be a victim anymore"). It usually has a Sanskrit name that rhymes with bandanna or candida. However, star names, like Centaurus and Andromeda, are also acceptable, as well as any name with a devic undertone transmission capable of vibrating directly from the seventh-ray-solar-heating-panel.

When challenged, the NAsshole often cries parallel universe and claims that its dodecahedral spin ratios are in need of psychic surgery. It also holds rituals so it can charge people lots of money to boss them around. If necessary (which is always), it uses astrology to pick up chicks and leads drumming circles to get attention. To sum things up, a NAsshole is an enormous black hole.

Having identified the type of person we are talking about, we must now comb through every workshop, retreat, healing center, hot tub, harmony festival, Celtic orgy, Rainbow bookstore, epiphany intensive and Rumi rave so we can pay back the people we let piss all over us. This list should be long, particularly when you consider all the galoofs who stepped on your meditation cushion as they got up to go to the bathroom (particularly the ones who apologized, because you know they blamed you for it anyway). Other likely candidates include New Agers in a perpetual state of out-of-body-odor experience, as well as those levitation junkies who insisted on blocking your view of the guru. Once our lists are complete, we must calculate the hours of therapy each NAsshole has caused and rank them according to monetary and emotional damage, listing the more egregious NAssholes on top so as to prioritize the order of revenge.

Next, come the fun. This involves devising retaliations that match the initial transgression. For example, if a NAsshole invited you to her shamanic healing dance and then left you for a man with bigger crystals, you can steal her prized collection of Lynn Andrews books. You can pee on the yoga mat of the NAsshole who can stay in forward bend longer than you or offer a psychic reading (a phony one of course) to the NAsshole who told the world that your second chakra was blocked by genital herpes. Keep in mind, however, that these retaliations are just suggestions——a way to get deranged thought processes moving in the appropriate direction.

When enacting equalizing deeds, we must take precautions not to get caught. It is better for NAssholes to be hunted by unknown predators, because they will endure more stress if they don’t know whether to expect another blow. Yet since cupcakes are worthless without frosting, it is a good idea to leave a slip of paper with "karma" written on it at the scene. If we’re lucky, this will cause a double freak out, especially if we write it in cow blood, lipstick or red ink. Even if we don’t leave a note, the effect of the initial act should be sufficient to even the slate and give us a good story to tell our grandchildren.

Depending upon our preference and the severity of our addiction, it could take months or years to scratch all the names off our NAsshole list. Some NAA members prefer to savor Step Eight by allowing days or weeks to pass between each success. Others rush through their revenge, which like quickie lovemaking, may or may not provide a pleasurable return.

No matter how we eventually work Step Eight, we must pay attention not to use NAssholes as an excuse to stray back into New Age territory. While detective work is essential for pleasurable revenge, it is foolhardy to engage in it every day. Even a newageoholic who has been in remission for years can still be tempted to slip back into Aquarian conduct. Even if it is the middle of the night, we must call our sponsor at the first sign of past-life provocation, especially if we find ourselves fantasizing about our Venus in Scorpio.

Wills falter. We all have been there and no doubt will be there again. But, thanks to Step Eight, we can work out our own addictions by tweaking with the addictions of the NAssholes who got us hooked in the first place——which sometimes results in a brand new hobby.

Step Nine is similar to Step Eight, in that it gives us an excuse to exercise duality and pave over New Age paths. However, where the previous step was specifically directed, this one is general, meaning we will be dis-illuminating lightworkers we have never met before. Keep in mind that gotu kola ministries, Aquarian radio stations, brown rice fields, shamanic campgrounds and other bastions of New Age activity are also viable candidates for guerrilla descendentalism.

Hopefully, most of us began insulting the New Age as soon as we joined New Age Anonymous. But, until now, we weren’t devolved enough to execute a full-fledged insult. At Step Nine, we strike like cobras, our darkbody festering with cheeseburgers and malice; we are the embodiment of anti-samahdi. As with Step Eight, some awareness is permitted, since it makes for good offensive strategy so long as we don’t slide back into the role of objective observer.

Over-eager smiles, earplugs (to block out the Native American flutes) and a boda bag full of tequila are essential tools for Step Nine, while Groucho’s timing and Jack Nicholson’s redrum laugh can’t hurt. If it becomes necessary to divert attention away from our lower selves we can wear a 1001 Bethlehem Knights pin or carry a rainstick. However, whether camouflaged or not, we should always keep a pack of Marlboros in our front pocket in case a New Ager gets too close.

Keep in mind that the suggestions outlined above aren’t supposed to safeguard our reputations, for we don’t give a guru’s ass about the 144,000 and their Universal Current of the Divine Lampshade Church——at least we won’t by the time we work all twelve steps. Instead, they are offered to ensure we reach maximum outrage quickly and coolly: a calm spy can cause much more damage than a stray nut case. It doesn’t really matter, because with VIP access, insulting the New Age is as simple as remembering to forget to breathe.

Insults can be waged directly or indirectly depending upon our mood; there are literally hundreds of thousands of ways to torment people who practice random acts of kindness. Sit in the front row at a channeling and, just as the human host goes into trance, hold up a sign that says "Pleiadians Suck". Call psychic hotlines and ask for Charlie Tuna. Put red meat in casseroles and tell people it’s textured vegetable protein. Even subtle insults, like wearing S&M gear to an angelic empowerment session, can make a world of difference.

In most cases, offended New Agers will scowl, withdraw, pretend to throw energy, basically make total buffoons of themselves while trying to make us feel remorseful for our miscreant deeds. Fortunately, such tactics only strengthen our ability to stop the flow, since looking bad makes us feel good. After all, we worked hard to overcome our obsession with right action, and, damn it, we deserve to celebrate.

Believe it or not, a few NAAers never quite get the hang of this step. These are usually the newageoholics who’ve spent so many years handing out flowers and pamphlets for their gurus that they’ve lost their shadow. To combat this pansy existence and purge the spiritual quo, NAA has created a special, one-day undupement program. Exercises such as "karma-free shoplifting", "communicating without inner light," and "lying to your therapist" help these individuals reclaim their separate egos and return to a life where love and betrayal are equally valued.

With the minor exceptions already explained, Step Nine, above all, should be fun, for what could be better than laughing at the expense of others——especially if they see us. Ah, yes, the sweet victory of dirty looks from those who love and forgive everyone, now that’s funny.

As we work the first nine steps, we are preparing ourselves for an ordinary way of life. Now, at Step Ten, it is time to practice all that we’ve learned. This step is the acid test: Can we stay away from bodywork, abstain from geomancy beauty school, keep granola away from our cereal bowl even when Mercury is in retrograde and the Whole Life Expo is in town?

Personal inventory means savoring our meditationless state; it is sealing our meridians and opening a special bank account for all the $1000 checks we aren’t sending to the Lazarus organization. Personal inventory keeps us on the bend and wide, so no matter how severe our withdrawals become, we continue to stay off prayer, affirmation, divination, palmistry, ESP, channeling, astral projection and spontaneous combustion of all shapes and incarnations. Yet we must also be realistic with ourselves, because the New Age is an insidious habit, one that eats away at our willpower by promising to retool our DNA with major arcana and comet-encoded rays of yin yang. Whether we considered ourselves Gods, Goddesses or Hermaphrodites, the dolphin dream of immortality doesn’t die quietly. So why not have some wake down fun.

In Step Ten, our task is to find diversions that can pull our attention away from the galactic tsunami button controlled by the I AM NOT America congregation——even if deep down we secretly hope they use it. So what can we do to get our minds off Mother Mary and Machu Picchu? Masturbation is always a safe option——providing we don’t try to project our orgasms into the sea of Uranus. Drugs and alcohol aren’t bad, but again, we must be aware of falling into a stupor, since such states may cause us to sit and stare at the wall, which looks like meditation and thus undermines the desired effect.

We want wild, purposeless, unconscious behaviors. Yelling at hitchhikers can be amusing, as can walking the dog (providing we don’t involuntarily begin seeing the dog as a guardian angel) and listening to albums backwards (but beware of stirring up repressed memories). While eating out in steak houses may help us get away from alfalfa sprouts, we must refrain from sizing up the electro-magnetic fields of group synergy when we are shown to our table. Furthermore, when we order, we must never enter the 40-30-30 Zone, as such behavior would suggest an unhealthy obsession with health.

Although all personal inventories are alike in theory, they can be tailored to suit individual anal retentiveness. For example, there is the spot check, which is the quick inventory we do whenever we feel ourselves pining for self-mastery. Then there is the evaluation we take at the end of the day to see whether we were able to resist killing our televisions and avoid realignment alignment adjustment practices. Sometimes, either alone or with our sponsor, we perform weekly or bi-weekly reviews to monitor our lack of awareness over time.

While these practices may initially feel as pointless as tai chi, we will eventually be so asleep that we will have totally forgotten about the New Age. We will be free to paint our fingernails, water our driveways, even shop at Safeway without having to wonder whether we are thinking globally and acting locally.

There are a host of vibrational booby traps waiting to cast us off to nirvana without warning, but as we learn to sidestep these snares, we will stop taking ourselves so seriously and improve our ability to blow off responsibility. Step Ten reminds us to evaluate our daily recovery so we can enjoy being wrong. We don’t need our solar plexus, we don’t need heart connections, we don’t need the enneagram, for finally we are protected by the dismemberingly eternal mantle of a lower power. Ahhh, dysfunction is bliss.

Nicknamed the paradigm downshift, Step Eleven begins when we realize that NAFTA isn’t the name of a fancy Japanese import sedan and that the fight between India and Pakistan isn’t over the exclusive manufacturing rights of cashmere coats. Of course this information comes from newspapers and televisions, because while imperfect, they are still the primary purveyors of 3D news. Sure, Costco and the Internet provide real time contact, but with these we either have to push around a huge shopping cart or go through the hassle of choosing an access provider——plus neither provide the opportunity to take out our frustrations on news anchors or giggle over Doonesbury (although not recommended for those in early recovery due to its advanced political content).

Just for fun, lets try a couple of comparative exercises, starting with an evaluation of TV and mediumship to determine which provides better access to current events. TV is cheap, and the networks offer a predicable product. It has a simple on-and-off switch and is easily refined with a couch, a remote control and a program guide. We can eat potato chips while receiving input, and with help from a VCR, we can fall asleep during the 6 O’Clock News and still not miss a thing.

On the other hand, mediums (which include channels, clairvoyants and shamans) read us. They are expensive, with a single session costing three times as much as one month’s cable bill. Like TV, they tell us what to do, where to live and how to think, except mediums do this even more skillfully than Bill Moyers. Furthermore, supposing we manage to stay disconnected from our higher selves throughout the session, we still cannot press a demote medium control button when we don’t like what the medium is saying. Plus mediums don’t need our social security number to access vast amounts of personal information nor do they need a special license to use this data to make us feel understood and less lonely——which guarantees we will be coming back for more. Some are so clever they trick us into paying extra for an autographed copy of their self-published book.

A similar analogy can be drawn between newspapers and meditation. While both are generally conducted sitting down and alone, the former only requires the ability to read, whereas the latter insists on such absurdities as an empty stomach, breathing, peace and quiet and a masochistic bent toward physical discomfort. As for quality of output, we prefer to quote a source who still has a human body.

At Step Eleven, NAAers must contributing to societal mediocrity, like Rotary Club members. The way to do this isn’t by adopting some philistine prophecy or hiding out in a Himalayan cave, but through the advocacy of Jenny Jones and Shape Magazine. How else will we learn that there’s more to the Middle East than pyramids, that elections take place every November, or that some women have sex with their best friend’s boyfriend’s wiener dog to make the neighbor’s golden retriever jealous.

True, we have a lot of reading and watching to catch up on, but at least the task at hand is more productive than sticking our head up somebody’s aurora borealis. Just think of all of the activities we will be able to accomplish because of our contact with regular society. We can discuss the stock market instead of The Emerald Tablets. We can take our family to see the latest Bruce Willis movie, even discover the job listings in the business classifieds.

Since getting up to speed requires some understanding of past events, most NAAers need a brief rundown of the 80s and 90s. So, in a nutshell, we’ve had a few presidents since the Harmonic Convergence. Taxes have gone up and down, social programs have been instituted and taken away, money is worth less. Oh yeah, the Berlin Wall fell, Robert Mapplethorpe died, O.J. was acquitted, we bombed a bunch of countries, the Beatles released two new CDs and a mini-series, Madonna had a baby.

Given the abundance of TV shows like Hard Copy, Cops and the X-Files and weekly newspapers like the National Inquirer, we see that the contemporary media offers what Edgar Cayce couldn’t. Certainly those of us who once believed our inner guidance was a source of knowledge and direction can sympathize with the NAA members who distrust modern culture. After all, in our New Age days all we knew about health care and affirmative action was that they signaled the coming apocalypse.

To avoid re-media shock, it is wise to resume contact slowly, starting with daytime soap operas and newspaper lifestyle sections. With time, more relevant re-programming seeps in, until eventually the thought of skipping the New York Times crossword puzzle or the 6 o’clock news is on par with missing Salisbury steak and bowling night.

Step Eleven is complete the moment we find the courage to purge our home video collection of titles containing words such as "UFO", "relaxation", "angel", "fractal" and "satsang". Free of self-searching, we now possess the self respect that naturally arises from knowing the capital of Brazil or understanding what it is to be insulted by advertisers. Perhaps one of the greatest rewards of Step Eleven is the sense of belonging we feel when we finally discover that HBO has nothing to do with a holographic bliss organism.

The joy of descent is the theme of NAA’s twelfth step. This is when we renounce all dolphin pandering and celebrate the steps we’ve taken to save ourselves from wounded healers. With the help of NAA, we didn’t allow ourselves to become holographically repatterned and reflected into a fractal by a book-writing race of aliens. We figured out that fairies don’t know shit about finding a parking place in the city.

With our sanity no longer in question, we are free to shift our no mojo toward the millions of suffering newageoholics, those poor actualizing souls who candle their ears and attempt Zen colonics while we sit on the sidelines munching caramel corn. We must do what we can to show them the folly of giving up a social life for something as nebulous and far fetched as an authentic self.

By the time we reach Step Twelve, we’ve enacted enough revenge to realize there are other ways to counter the New Age. Sure, we can continue to run fake personal ads in New Age magazines, but as emissaries of NAA, we see these pranks as opportunities to save mindless bodies from the clutches of kundalini. Thus, if we disrupt an addict’s spiritual compass by placing a "road closed" sign in each of the four directions, we must be ready to offer her a map to the nearest NAA meeting. If we cut the tops off the flowers planted around patio Buddhas, we must throw away the buds to make sure raw fooders don’t mistake them for salad.

Remember, we are the lucky ones. Instead of howling at the magnetic moon of purpose, we are decorating Christmas trees, painting Easter eggs, and celebrating the 4th of July. Luckily, such normalcy rubs off on the New Agers we come in contact with. They may overhear us whistling a Boyz To Men tune and, without thinking, turn on top 40 radio, or see us enter the voting booth and get a sudden urge to find out who the political candidates are. Although seemingly inconsequential, such victories leave hairline cracks in the light, planting the seeds for NAA recovery.

Just as our sponsor helped us, we too must dedicate ourselves to a NAAer newbie who still harbors delusions of grandeur. Simple reminders, like asking our protégé who takes out the garbage in his house or how often she goes to the bathroom every day will usually drive the point home.

However, it is wise to back off if our newageoholic friend begins dabbing lavender oil on his or her temples, as this signals "ordinary" overload. Even so, under no circumstances should we allow our ward to become too relaxed since he or she could inadvertently slip into a vipassana coma and fall back into awareness. To avoid such difficulties, make sure all NAA review sessions include lots of coffee and are followed by an hour of QVC or something of equal cultural value.

NAA graduates no longer have to pretend to love everybody. We can give up aikido and throw out our recycling bins. And best of all, we can sleep at night knowing we’re ordinary. Yet, we must remember that our NAA work never ends. Once a newageoholic, always a newageoholic, which means we mustn’t give into our desires for expanded human consciousness and planetary healing: It is only through accepting our delusions that we can truly deny them.

With each mundane day, may each and every NAAer forget about the deeper meanings of things, and, in times of difficulty, find comfort in these simple words:

Mine was not an easy life, especially since I spent the first half of it scrubbing the bottom of a Marin hot tub. My parents were devotees of O-Show (who in those days was called the Bhagwan Bhakteesh), and we lived in a collective called the Community for Expanded Expansion. Among other things, this meant that I was forced to share the intimate details of my life with stoner parents and ten housemates, plus endure the constant freak parade that was always marching in and out of our geodesic dome.

My earliest known memories are of a couple who came to visit us when I was three-years-old. Paravati and Ajna had actually lived in O-Shows ashram in Kansas, which made them even more confusing to me than my parents. My dad told me that even though she was a womyn, Paravati was the man of the family (a fact which seemed to be substantiated by her long tuffs of facial hair), but nobody in the dome talked about it in front of her, because Paravati had more power than all of our juicers and vita mixes combined. I didn’t care much for Anja, but I loved watching Paravati, so I only partially upset when Paravati decided she and Anja were far too sensitive to sleep downstairs (the refrigerator waves interrupted her sleep) and insisted they too move into the room my parents and I shared.

One afternoon while my mom was breast feeding me, Paravati entered the room and ordered my mother to take her breast out of my mouth.

"What on earth for?" asked my mother, the terror in her voice revealing she already knew the answer.

"Because you are feeding the child dairy, which is an animal product and animal products, as we all know, are poison. Do you get it, P-O-I-S-O-N."

Then she yanked me away from my mother, pushing what I now know to be a bottle of vanilla soy milk into my mouth. I spit out the synthetic nipple, cried and cried for my mother’s empty boob, but Paravati prevailed, and my mom brainwashed me never to eat dairy again——not even a sundae-sundae bar from the neighborhood ice cream man.

This was especially hard when I reached kindergarten and got into fights over the flesh-eating habits of my classmates. Disgusted by the way they scarfed cheeseburgers and bologna sandwiches, I thought they were all shamefully un-evolved, and told them so every chance I could. I cited O-Show’s commandments as good as any five-year-old, then lambasted their tofu naiveté and lack of concern for their prematurely putrefying colons or mounting karmic debt.

My penchant for evangelizing grew with my verbal skills, and halfway through my second grade year, just days after I brought in bootleg pictures of a slaughter house for show and tell, the principal invited my parents to his office to discuss my "behavior". The next morning, I began dome studying. For a while, I had Mom’s teaching all to myself, but then the other kids in our dome put up a fuss about having to ride the school bus and contribute to world pollution. They demanded to dome school too, and after an all night meeting on the advantages and disadvantages of studying in square buildings, Mom became their teacher too.

These were high times. Mom wasn’t the smartest person in the world, but she was fun and we got to do all sorts of creative visualizations and affirmation exercises. She taught us to forget most of what we learned in our old school, because she said history was written by a bunch of misogynist white men. In its place, she had us study the lost civilizations of Atlantis and Lemuria. We learned how to worship the goddess by lighting yoni candles and how to grow flowers by talking to plant spirits. We learned the twelve signs of the zodiac and memorized the significance of trines, squares and nodes. While other kids our age were sweating over geometry and trigonometry, we were watching Drunvalo Melchizedek videos and making backyard tetrahedrons.

By the time I was seventeen, I was a whiz at all things sublime. I had read all of Carlos Castaneda books three times and had visited two crop circles in person. I could recite the thirteen moon cycles of the Mayan calendar and spin every chakra. I channeled Serapis Bay at will, sometimes even Metatron. I meditated twice a day and saw angels hanging around the 7-11. I even made a tachyon energy conductor that I through mail order.

But my true passion was numerology, especially the number seven. All on my own I figured out that Disney released Snow White and the Seven Dwarves in 1937 and that Sean Connery played secret agent 007 seven times. Ever since I was able to talk I could remember local phone numbers, which made perfect sense because they are seven numbers not counting the area code. At first I thought this wasn’t much of a skill, but then one night an AT&T swami came to me in a dream and said six eight nine and ten, which meant that the Great Number needed my help. Honored to be chosen for this lofty service, I underwent an astral initiation, whereby over the course of two weeks I was subliminally instructed in archangelic binary koans. As a numeric vehicle for God, I learned to humble myself before every formula and calculation, and at the end of my training, I received a gilded sliderule holograph to hang above my third eye.

I went into practice as soon as I pestered my mom into kicking me out of dome school. Changing my name to Songbird (an eight numerologically, which was just one number above my magic seven) and incorporating my affinity for phone numbers, I developed a highly refined niche in the realm of Seven Digit Phone Number Creator Gods. My success wasn’t as immediate as I’d expected, but I figured this was because before I came along and discovered the existence of Seven Digit Phone Number Creator Gods, most people thought phone numbers were random assignments or lyric fillers for bad song writers. Knowing I was blessed, I accepted my special status and began telling the world that phone companies had been divinely inspired to adopt 7-diget phone numbers in order to encode secret stellar messages with specific numeric frequencies of life purpose blueprints.

In my first year of business, I mainly did readings for our community and some of the girls at the local high school. I got my big break when Star Essence, the editor of Lightworker Today called me up for a reading (all readings were done over the phone to facilitate psychic rendering). I still remember her number; it was 843-2852, which was a very powerful number. Just looking at the prefix alone, 8 plus 4 equals 12 which is divisible by 3, which can be multiplied by 4, and 4 times the remaining two numbers equals 8, again just one above 7—an amazing and fortuitous combination in numeric feng shui. But, when I told her this, she burst into tears and said her magazine was failing despite the fact that the Michael entity promised her that she was a Seventh Level Old Soul who would become a mouthpiece for the New Age. I had never made a mistake like this before, and for a moment I feared the end of my numeric career. Then the Great Number telepathically suggested that I ask her what font she used for her numbers—which was how I discovered she listed her number as 1-800-THE-BULB, thus diluting its numeric potency with alphabetic representation.

Needless to say, this simple, twenty-minute reading propelled me to national fame. Within six months, I was on the cover of Lightworker Today and by the Harmonic Convergence was manifesting vast amounts of abundance. I hired one person, then another and another and another until I had seven employees; then the Great Number said my business was ready for franchise. So to make sure nobody stole my ideas, I copyrighted my divine training techniques and opened the 7 Phone Retreat Center and School in Mill Valley, California.

For the next couple of years my sevens were rapidly gaining zeros. To keep up with the accelerating times, I joined a Womyn’s Wisdom Monthly Moon-time Lodge circle. I attended fourth and fifth-dimensional embodied empowerment workshops. I gave up newspapers and television, read the Ra material, listened only to Seth and Ramatha tapes, and for a while, I truly believed I was going to ascend at any moment. I thought I was happy.

Then one stormy afternoon, shortly after the 1989 San Francisco Bay earthquake, my life took a new turn. It all started when I received a cylindrical tube in the mail from one of my clients. Thinking it was another poster of Mount Shasta, I almost gave it to a friend for her birthday. But when my guides insisted that I keep it for myself, I obliged. Boy was I surprised when I opened the tube and discovered an I’M NOT AMERICA map.

A channeled look at the Earth changes prophesied to coincide with the 100^th Monkey paradigm shift of consciousness, the I’M NOT AMERICA map was a topography of cataclysmic events. It showed the aftermath of great floods: Water ripping through the America’s heartland and vast land masses becoming tiny islands; Washington, DC reduced to a couple of dead white statues and a new capital; a new capital called One-Mind Government sitting on the bluffs above the freshly formed Central Ocean of Samadhic Undertakings. Other great cities, such as New York, Philadelphia, Boston and Hoboken also suffered tremendous losses as the Eastern seaboard encountered the wrath of tsutoomany karma. Tidal waves, volcanic eruptions, Earthquakes, flash floods, tornadoes, hurricanes and lightning bolts decimated shopping malls, banks, high-rises and planned communities——which meant much of the conventional population was gone. In its place was a fringe race of lacto-ovo meditators populating ecocities such as The Peace of Harmonic Tonality, Group OM and Now. Global warming was gone, and pollution was non-existent, especially since cars and airplanes had been replaced by astral travel. People wore holographic clothing and duality had left for a parallel reality. The grid reality matrix had lay lines of energy connecting everyone to each other through their grounding cords. It was said to be bliss.

As astonishing as they were, I could have handled all of these Earth changes it hadn’t been for the foretold future of California. For years I had ignored prophetic whisperings of California’s ultimate demise. If anything, the rest of the country was going to drop into the ocean, not California, the seat of the New Age, the fulcrum of consciousness. As a whole, California was more enlightened than anyplace on the planet. Not only did we have Marin County, but we also had the green bud of Mendocino, a UFO base hidden in Mount Shasta, the digital be-ins of Silicon Valley and the freaky intellectuals of SF and Berkeley. Based on the guidance of my Higher Self, I was convinced the Northern half of the state far outweighed the drama of Hollywood, the smog in Los Angeles and the gubernatorial precedent set by southerners like Ronald Regan and Pete Wilson.

Apparently, the I’M NOT AMERICA entities didn’t agree. In their not-America—called the "Untied AMs of I"—California was a distant memory, with only the tip of Mount Shasta remaining as a pointy island. All of its unevolved inhabitants drowned as the state cracked along the borders of Oregon, Nevada and Arizona and sank to the bottom of the sea. I couldn’t believe it. How could I continue to do phone number readings when the very land on which I wore my moccasins was destined for the same fate as Atlantis?

It felt like I’d died and reincarnated in a parallel universe. More than my desire to see auras and be on Fox’s Sightings show, I wanted to join this new team of do gooders. Like them, I wanted to live in a world where I could trade in my car for a light-body and rest at night knowing that all cosmetics were cruelty-free. I called I’M NOT AMERICA’s 900 number (which the Great Number said was in resonance with my phi ratio) and ordered a case of maps. I gave them to my friends and ordered seven more cases. I hung a map in every room of my house, then I wallpapered my office with them, then my bedroom and kitchen, until it I was the I’M NOT AMERICA map.

I began to pray fervently to my devic creator Gods, knowing that it was no accident that I had seen NOT-AMERICA. I truly believed that these maps came into my hands so I could carry out the higher purpose of warning Californians of their impending doom. A vibratory field in my holographic RNA seed commanded me to contact my yoga teacher Bulabunda, who sidelined as the medium for Whozdime, a high octave, 12th dementia dull, hypo-planetary being with a wide photon belt. In our first session, Whozdime, using the intonations and memory patterns of Bulabunda when he’s pretending to be a directory assistance operator, said:

I was stunned. Imagine, me in the same boat as Noah. Bulabunda congratulated me on my evolution, mentioning that he would take over my business as a favor to the Council. When I accepted, he added that it must be my synchronistic day, since he also sold teepee kits. Again, as a favor to the council, he said that although he doesn’t usually take trades, he would give me a deluxe teepee kit with an add-on sweat lodge in exchange for the deed to my house. I accepted immediately, overjoyed at the ease with which I could create my reality.

My weekly meetings with Whozdime resulted in all sorts of surprises. For one, I became a multi-level marketer of gem elixirs through Bulabunda’s downline. I also started a weekly group called Integrative California Counseling Integration for Relocation (ICCIR). Through the course of these meetings, I recruited an inner circle, a core group of martyrs and thrill seekers who were willing to join my cause and stay with California to its watery end. We purchased a fleet of ark kits from Bulabunda and began construction for the new millennium.

For a while, our work was in perfect alignment with the wishes of the Great White Brotherhood, and we enjoyed our special status as the last sentient life which would touch a dry California. We held weekly channeling sessions with Whozdime and knew we were saving the lives of thousands through our commitment to the future of the Untied AMs of I. But this all changed when the Greys manipulated termites into attacking our arks, and group morale began to falter. One by one, members of our Operation Mothership (OM) fleet found some reason to question the integrity of Whozdime and I’M NOT AMERICA. Gossip contaminated our medicine bags, and unwelcome chi coursed through our meridians.

Desperate to revive our stagnating paradigm, I met with Whozdime every day for two weeks, but then my money ran out and I had to turn to vinomancy (divination through red table wine) and substitute teaching at the Tarot Speed Reading School (my contractual agreement with Bulabunda prevented me from running numbers for profit for three consecutive incarnations). Certain that this wasn’t my destiny, I looked for coincidences everywhere, asking everyone I saw for the message they had for me. I evaluated my familial birth order and slept on a bed of charger crystals. I ate only organic food, recycled my trash, and put a Free Tibet sticker on my car. Still, nothing happened. I was as ordinary as ever.

I was in this desperate state when I bumped into my childhood friend from the Community for Expanded Expansion in the bulk food section at the health food store. In between samplings of carob malt balls, he told me about his new found contentment with normal life. He said he watched wrestling on TV and went to neighborhood barbecues——ate veal even. I didn’t believe him. This was the kid who was on a first name basis with Merlin and had experienced more close encounters than Richard Dreyfuss. The last time I’d seen him he had broken the world record for the longest Om. Yet there he was, dressed in a polo shirt and khakis, eating cooked food.

"Voltron, what happened to you," I asked him.

"My name is Derek now, and I’m a newageoholic," he said with an air of humility that made me suspect he was a walk-in. "And I’ve been without crystals for six months now. I’ve never felt better in my life."

I was stunned. "How did you do it? Flower essences? Saint John’s Wort? Acupunc . . ."

"Quit cold turkey," he told me. "I fell in love with a woman who refused to wear white. She got angry and judged people. She listened to the Rolling Stones. Basically she was so real that I couldn’t live without her. She said she wouldn’t be with no airy fairy boy who was afraid of his own power tools, so she told me it was the New Age or her. I chose her."

We stood there for another twenty minutes talking about his amazing courage. Not wanting to end the conversation, I invited him to have wheat grass with me. He declined the wheat grass but agreed to continue talking outside. Three hours and six wheat grasses later, my bowels were rumbling and my head was swimming with thoughts of holding a 9 to 5 job; I was full of emotions I hadn’t felt since I’d fallen for white light synchronicity. I now knew about some show called Frasier, had some idea what the California budget was and had agreed to vote for Prop 215.

Derek knew he’d almost gotten the NAA message under my massage-oiled skin, so he used the excuse that neither of us had eaten to invite me to his favorite restaurant, a 50’s diner with waitresses on roller blades. To this day I still get ducky bumps when I think about sitting in that red vinyl booth with Derek. Its true, I admitted I was powerless over the New Age. Maybe it was the smell of pork chops and applesauce, maybe it was the jukebox playing music with words I could sing to, but something in me knew I had to accept that I was a flake. At the end of our meal, Derek handed me a newspaper and suggested I start reading again. We agreed to meet at the diner the following Wednesday.

It took seven (it takes a while to let go of an addiction) secret dinners before I breathed a word of my deprogramming program to anyone. But, once I accepted NAA into my life, I refused to leave my teepee except to go to the diner, knowing I wouldn’t be strong enough to resist bi-weekly rebirthing, daily solar orgasm aerobics and group chakra toning. When I finally worked up enough courage to tell my recovery story to the members of Operation Mothership, Integrative California Counseling Integration for Relocation, and Womyn’s Wisdom Monthly Moon-time Lodge circle, I was immediately ostracized. The womyn’s group made me give back my yoni ring, glad rags and initiation broom. The people from O.M. dismantled my teepee and kicked me out of the collective. And I forfeited my tenure as Grand Wizardress of Prophecy of the ICCIR as soon as I admitted that I no longer believed California was going to become an underwater shelf.

Thus, with no more than a sleeping bag, a friendly diner and a very shaky will, my recovery was in full swing.

Imagine a fellow who pretended to see auras because it helped him get fame and fortune. A good old boy who picked up ladies by telling them he moonlighted as a dreamtime tantric shaman for struggling actresses in order to teach them how to undo the sex karma keeping them in bimbo roles. A chap who couldn’t make a single decision——like whether to stir fry his vegetables with tofu or tempeh——without first consulting his pendulum.

No doubt to the average Joe Bob or Betty Sue such behavior may sound too ridiculous to be true, but believe it, because that man was me before I found NAA and overcame my New Age persona. Oh boy was I a piece of work. In my merkaba spinning days, people——well mostly women——treated me like king of the holograph. And if you'd of asked me what I thought of myself, I would have honestly told you that I ranked just one or two rungs below the all mighty Protector himself, definitely on par with Uri Geller.

Hell, I even bragged that my underworld feats for the resurrection of mass consciousness would earn me the right to a Dr. Midnight Angel (my mystery school name) postage stamp after the alien battle for the control of Earth was over, even if telepathy made the US Mail Service obsolete. And this is just an outline of the reality biosphere I created for myself while under the influence of New Age delusion.

It all started in early November 1989, when my old buddy Frankie came back to Texas for our high school reunion and convinced me——nothing but a simple, cow-eating oil heir——into a becoming a sensitive new age guy, what he called a "SNAG". It was the first time I’d seen Frankie since he’d moved to Sedona two years before, so initially I was irked that all he wanted to do when we got together was to talk about how Sedona’s "power spots" and "vortices" were going to put the oil industry out of business. I wanted to drink beer and shoot things, but since I was feeling lonely and tired of my other friends, I acted real polite——which was really hard to do at first, especially when he passed up Mama's home cured jerky for a little bag of green powder he called spirulina.

His talk of angelic overlords and the new millennium bored me silly, and I thought I was going to have to throw him out of the house before I fell asleep at the kitchen table. Then he mentioned how his understanding of these things brought him success with a new breed of babes he called "goddesses". I’ve never had much of a face, so the thought of gaining some advantage in the area of poontang was enough to make me stop imagining him outside the door and pay attention to what he had to say. He told me about the challenges I faced as a Virgo with a Gemini moon, explained why I had to overcome my rut as a nine in the enneagram, and, best of all, filled me in on the ins and outs of polyfidelity and the etheric interspecies orgasm.

But his words came from no dictionary I’d ever seen, so most of what he said floated above my head like smoke from Uncle Rex's pipe. I tried to nod and grunt in the right places, but Frankie must have noticed my confusion, because he left me with a channeled book from the Pleiades (called Harbingers of the Yawn) and a 900 number he said I should call whenever I needed someone to talk to about my evolving consciousness.

The book must not have been too bad, cause I read it like it was my favorite horse, Fast and Furious. I understood about 20 pages of it——enough to draw the conclusion that the Pleiadians wanted me to know that there was an alien-controlled library of human DNA with strands and helixes anybody could check out if they could decipher the universal indexing system before all these words made them fall asleep. Could I be that someone? I thought. What if I were the one who created the biological Dewey decimal system for all mankind? I’d be even more famous with the fillies. The thought alone gave me a rise. I decided to call the number Frankie had given me.

To my surprise, the number turned out to be a psychic sex line, and all the operators were white buffalo women (WBW) who read blue balls and channeled telepathic sea men. For the first month I called every day, sometimes twice a day. Never before had a woman——let alone so many of them——counseled me on the relationship between my genitals and my horoscope. Hell, I didn’t even know I had a horoscope. I walked around in a goddess-intoxicated ecstasy until the first phone bill arrived and Mama bawled me out for being a pervert.

When I tried to explain the spiritual release I was experiencing while talking to these goddesses on the telephone, Mama wouldn't listen. What else could I do, but phone the 900 number for advice. As luck would have it, my favorite WBW, Deep Cavern Talking, answered. I told her what had happened and she told me this was a sacred sign from the Backdoor Buffalo.

"It is time to leave Texas for a more spiritually-aligned planetary position, to a place that is in accordance with your Jupiter line" said the Backdoor Buffalo through Deep Cavern Talking. "Your consciousness wants to expand, but there are too many steak eaters and Born-Again Christians in your bioelectric field for your spirit guides to sufficiently transform your reality."

"But where can I go? I've always lived in Texas."

"This is the point we are trying to make, dear one," continued the buffalo. "Texas is for neophytes. You must move to the grid matrix location you call Sedona and become enroll in the Mail Order Mystery School of Ascended Mastery."

What luck, I thought: correspondence school for enlightenment, plus Frankie and his WBW goddesses——those affirmations Deep Cavern Talking taught me must really work. The next morning I packed a couple of bags, jumped in my 4 x 4 and drove away, glad I didn’t have to see Mama's tear-stained face disappear in the rear-view mirror. Even losing my inheritance wasn’t going to stop me from fetching some multidimensional courtship skills.

Frankie was expecting me when I showed up at on his adobe doorstep with all my belongings, even though I hadn't called him ahead of time. Telepathy, he said, gesturing to the door as he said I could stay with him as long as I paid rent and promised to smudge the house with sage twice a day to compensate for my chaotic, overtly-masculine energy. The Gods were definitely manifesting in my favor.

Sedona seemed pretty weird at first——all those big red rocks with people siting on them like statues, vegetable hamburgers, and bald men wearing weird chunks of glass around their necks. It certainly wasn't Lubbock, and the folks weren't like any that I'd ever seen. Frankie (who now insisted I call him, Manipuka, the name given to him by his latest guru) said the Sedona scene would seem normal when I became self-realized like he was. In the meantime, he suggested I try sleeping on magnets and putting coffee up my butt.

But mama always said I was a fast learner, and by the time I rebirthed a few weeks later, bad words like "can't" and "but" had disappeared from my vocabulary. In addition, I'd mastered Reiki I and had learned to make a killer nutloaf. I'd even experienced a solar heart awakening and perfected the ability to use "I" statements and take responsibility for my feelings. I was so Sedona that my cowboy boots had become merely a fashion statement.

Manipuka was impressed by my progress and decided to reward my efforts by taking me to an all night tantric community dance party. What a bummer that was: twenty-five white men in leopard print Speedos vying for the attention of seven women with pierced belly buttons, only one of them truly hot. It was awful. The dance opened with the sex priest telling us join together in a circle and massage each others shoulders while visualizing the room turning orange and juicy like a papaya. He then made us dance around the seven women and sing songs about the second chakra and the marriage of Shakti and Shiva, a couple I assumed weren't able to make it that night. At the end, no kissing or anything, we all sat by ourselves in the dark and played with ourselves using some spicy kama sutra oil that later gave me a rash. Not exactly the 1001 sensual pleasures I'd imagined.

On our drive home from the party, I told Manipuka the tantric party was boring. I could tell this really pissed him off, but instead of yelling, he told me my "unevolved third-dimensional sexual expectations made me no more than a typical 20th century male, a young soul unable to survive without the friction of actual penetration." When I questioned his credentials as an expert in such matters, he cited his experience as an empath and a healer who'd lapped me many times over in New Age awareness. He then proceeded to list all the goddesses he’d scored as a result of his superior awareness, pointing out that none of them had ever been willing to enter the "now" with me. The truth of his words hit me square in the solar plexus, and before I could figure out what happened, my Texas will gushed out of me like a Middle East oil spill. Turning to the pendulum I'd bought two days before, I vowed to master the New Age so I could be more like Manipuka.

It was also around this time that I began to realize I needed money, which needless to say, was new for me. Rent, added to the costs of healing sessions, psychic telephone consultations and incense purchases, had nearly exhausted the little piggy bank I'd left Texas with. Not knowing what to do, I asked my pendulum and it told me to go to the New Age bookstore and buy a UFO magazine.

Flipping through the pages of UFO Tomorrow, I wished the aliens would just land on the White House lawn and answer the alien question once and for all. I wanted to stop worrying about whether or not they were friendly and think about more important things, like how I could bring more tantra into my life. Besides, aliens would probably help my financial situation, for what good is money in the 5^th dimension? Just as I was about to start comparing myself to Manipuka again, the fate fairies pulled my attention toward an ad for an enlightenment school. GET YOUR DOCTORATE DEGREE AND AMASS A FOLLOWING it said in bright green letters. My entire future almost flashed before my eyes, and I knew I’d found what I was looking for. I rushed home and checked with my pendulum; we both agreed, I was going to be a Doctor of Divinity.

The year that followed my three-week doctorate program was amazing. My pendulum told me Chuck didn’t go very well with Doctor, so after many hours of centering, we finally decided upon Midnight Angel. Dr. Midnight Angel. I bought a Kirlian camera and opened a sidewalk spiritual counseling business so I could photograph tourist's auras and use the colors I saw to tell tales about their Higher Powers.

I was raking in the bucks and it was 11:11 heaven——all of my harmonics were converging. I tossed out the last of my cowboy clothes, grew my hair long in the back, and traded in my truck for a Subaru. In my spare time, I scanned portals for New Age babes, and when I found one, my doctor’s status took me inside all sorts of life-affirming nooks and crannies. I was hot, and I knew it.

Despite my increasing success, my pendulum informed me that auric readings would only take me so far; if I wanted to make the Whole Life Expo circuit, I needed help from the Great White Brotherhood. I begged my guides to give me an assignment that made me look good while I cashed in, something daring and sexy. And boy did they deliver. For six months, me and my loaded pendulum sat for 12 hours a day as I was given an astral manifesto one word at a time. I was being divinely inspired to become a cosmic crusader, so I could fight the dark forces who wanted to control Earth, right the wrongs of countless past lives, administer to the various needs the Quan Yins, Isises, Kalis, Taras, Athenas, Demeters and Mother Marys disguised as lonely women.

It was the call I'd lived my whole life for, and I was scared, but ready. Fortunately, I had my pendulum, so I was never without direct link-up to the Great White Brotherhood. I incorporated as Midnight Crusaders, Inc., even managed to get www.midnightcrusaders.com as my domain, and began offering snail and email-order white witchcraft and dark goddess rituals for housewives with too much time on their hands. Business grew steadily for six months, and then, out of the blue, my pendulum refused to offer clear advice, telling me it could no longer look at photos of women with their clothes on. What else could I do but ask my clients to send naked pictures. Fortunately, only a few said no.

Who’da guessed it, but the nudity factor made me even more popular. Bag after bag of naked photos were coming into my office every week. Black and white, color, slides, I was up to my neck in breasts, asses, thighs, underarms. . .backlogged over six months; it was bliss. Then my pendulum did it again: It threatened to strike again if I didn’t stop working in 2D and go for the real thing. At first I was embarrassed by the audacity of such an order, but since my pendulum was my sole source of income, I had no choice but to submit to its demands.

Practically overnight I was catapulted into the realm of guru. I billed myself as "A remedy for the Black-Heartedness of All Womyn" and received preferential booking at Starcrow Witch Camps and Kali Empowerments worldwide. I lectured on the devouring feminine and taught ugly chicks how to cast spells for attention. Best of all, I had all the New Age babes I wanted 24 hours a day——and if I was too busy for them when I was awake, they came to me in my sleep. Even Manipuka wanted to be me. I was finally self-actualized.

Then Oriona entered my life. Oh Buddha, she was hot and dry, like silver in the high desert. Very Santa Fe, right down to her Hopi jewelry and Lynn Andrews hair. She walked into my office and my pendulum spun out of control, which meant trouble, but how could I possibly send a babe like her away. In between sobs, she told me of her husband, explaining that he didn't believe in animal guides and wouldn't let her cook seaweed in the house; she couldn't even go to boundary dissolving ceremonies or inner peace rallies unless he was on a business trip, which wasn’t very often since he was unemployed.

"He's keeping me from the New Age," she said, her tears forging a river of blue eye shadow down her cheek. "How will I ever get off the reincarnation cycle with him in my life."

"There, there," I said, tracing her hand with my rose quartz. "The two of you must have a pastlife agreement to work out some of this unpleasant karma. I'm certain there is a ceremony that will help you reconnect with your inner goddess and secure your bed, I mean earth, in the flower of life."

"You mean...you can...help me," she said, her velvet eyes peering at me through wet eyelashes.

"Ma'am, you are talking to Dr. Midnight Angel, superman of the human shadow, crusader of coincidence," I said in my deepest SNAG voice. "If anyone can help you, I can."

We scheduled an appointment for 10am the following morning, and I spent a sleepless night, tossing and turning with only her face on my mind. I asked my pendulum for guidance, but it refused me, standing still as a corpse in protest of my disobedience. I guess I should have known that she was worse than the Texas tornados back home, but I was blind to everything but the thought of her naked body in my 8^th house. With or without my pendulum, I was going to give her a healing that would bond her to me for life.

The next morning everything was going as I'd planned. She had taken off her clothes and was lying on my light beam generator with goggles over her eyes. I had my Kirlian camera set up to photograph her internal aura, when her husband stormed into the room.

"Vat are jou doing vith my vife?" he shouted, his eyes boring holes in the walls. "Vat? Vat iz that thing? Vat are jou doing vife? Vat are jou doing?"

Before either of us could answer, he picked up my life-size copper meditation pyramid and smashed it with his bare fists. He then came at me with my ozone machine. I did my best to out maneuver him, but yoga was no match for his reptilian brute, and the next thing I knew, I was lying in a hospital bed with an extra hole inside from the ozone tube he tried to shove up my butt.

The months that followed were the worst in my life. The babe of my dreams was gone, my pendulum still wouldn’t talk to me, and all of my New Age friends dropped me because of the discordant vibration patterns I created through my attachment to maya and "that crazy womyn". There I was, stuck in a hospital room—no crystals, no incense, no community; all I had was television to connect me to the rest of society. Then, on the evening before my scheduled release, an odd man wearing a red and white striped button-down shirt entered my room.

"Do you mind if I talk to you for a while," asked the stranger as he sat on the edge of my bed and took out a notebook from his back pocket.

"I guess not," I replied, surprised by the slight hint of good ‘ol Texas that came through in my voice.

"Good. It might not be too late for you to get your mind and spirit back," he said just above his breath for emphasis. "I am here to tell you about an organization called NAA, New Age Anonymous, a fellowship of reformed energy junkies who've given up manipulating others for personal power and are now living honest lives. I'd like you to join us."

"Are you a guru or an angel," I asked.

"Neither. Even a fool knows that he can only save himself. You’ve got to snap out of it, son. You are a human being, there is life before afterlife," he said, softening the impact of his words with a pat on my shoulder. "Your name is Chuck, not Midnight. You have a nice mama in the state of Texas, and this is nothing to be embarrassed about. It is time to return to your roots and stop waiting for some Higher Power to plant you in the sky."

I told him that I didn’t think I could live without my Higher Power, but he assured me that, if he could do it, I could too. He sat with me all night, but by morning I was convinced that I needed to join NAA. I checked out of the hospital, headed straight to a re-humanization house set up by the founders of NAA and prepared for a slow and painful landing. I began to work NAA’s Twelve Steps to freedom.

Sure, I fell back into automatic writing and used a pendulum a couple of times, even dreamed about dolphins, but my friends at NAA never left my side. Today I can honestly say that I'm proud to be an ordinary human being, a Texan no less. It’s been three years since I entered recovery, and I'll tell you and anybody else hoping to kick the New Age, every step, no matter how difficult, was worth it. Thank you NAA, I don’t have to pretend like I’m happy anymore because now I really am happy.

affirmation (n): Words or sentences newageoholics say when they aren’t getting enough of what they want.

air sword (n): Similar to air guitar but without the soundtrack; used to slay demons on the astral planes.

Akashic landfill (n): The etheric dump where New Age thoughts are stored.

alien alarm system (n): This isn’t a joke, for only $399, you too can have "peace of mind."

anti-samahdi (adj): The state of non-awareness one achieves when abusing the New Age.

Aquarian (adj): The astrological sign of the collective New Age; dawned in the late 60s and continues to fill the sky with proverbial pie.

Archangel (n): Supervisors, managers, and foremen of angels, which means smart New Agers go directly to them for assistance; archangels with the biggest New Age draw include Mikael, Ariel, Gabriel and Metatron.

Ascended Master (n): A disembodied entity with clout; A.M. who’s who list includes Sananda, Kuthumi, St. Germain, Maitreya and Sanat Kumara; see disembodied entity.

ascension (n): The New Age lotto; a feat performed by Jesus on Good Friday, thus explaining why so many New Agers act like Christians; see Sananda. Also: to ascend (v)

ashram (n): The place where good little New Age boys and girls live when they are too confused to deal with the real world; see guru.

Ashtar command: An alien army of do-gooders.

astral projection (n): A cheap method of travel; often employed for spying missions in areas airlines won’t fly, like an ex-girlfriend’s bedroom. Also: to astral project (v)

astrology (n): The perfect excuse. Newageoholics use it to explain away flat tires and determine the compatibility of potential mates; however, in extreme cases, it has been used to dictate the actions of governments. Also: astrologer (n)

Atlantis (n): The waterlogged up homeland of many New Agers; believed to be where Hollywood got its script for the Titanic. Also: Atlantian (adj)

aura (n): The energy which surrounds the human body, also known as the Emperor’s New Age clothes. Also: auric (adj)

black hole (n): What people fall into when they go to their first Whole Life Expo.

bliss (n): The least obtained and most over-rated state of the New Age; has been known to cause a related malady called blissninnyism.

blue green algae (n): The pond scum making multi-level marketers rich.

chakras (n): The Hindu word for the rotating energy wheels that feed the body cosmic energy; they often get flat tires when newageoholics pretend to understand them; see energy.

channel (n): Not to be confused with a body of water or NBC, channels are schizophrenics who know how to turn their multiple personalities into assets. Also: to channel (v) and channeled (adj)

chi (n): Pronounced "key" or "chee" (as in "I’ll have another chi chi please"), chi impels New Agers to go to the park at dawn and air chop with all the old Chinese people.

compassionate wisdom (n): Like bliss, this is something most New Agers only pretend to have.

Council of Seven [or Eight or Nine or Ten...] (n): Disembodied entities who join together to tell New Agers what to do; see disembodied entity.

Course of Miracles (n): A never-ending, self-study program for New Agers who are too embarrassed to admit they’d rather be Christians.

crop circles (n): Farmers on acid or aliens? You decide.

crystal (n): A pet rock with an attitude.

cuddle puddle (n): The airy fairy term for group groping; requires at least five or more New Agers on the same area rug.

darkside (n): A personality aspect New Agers rarely admit to having.

deva (n): A being of light which is not in human form, thus should not be confused with an opera singer or Bette Midler.

devotee (n): The fool who gives up sex, chocolate, television, money and personal accountability in order to follow around some rich guy with a funny name; see guru.

dimension (n): The floor one incarnates on, the higher the better; Earth is 3rd dimension, but many New Agers claim to have a psychic elevator that takes them as high as 13 floors; it is called a New Age Department Store. Also: dimensional (adj)

disembodied entity (n): Someone who doesn’t have a life, so it takes over the lives of newageoholics.

dodecahedron (n): The geometric shape left-brained New Agers refer to as God in a polygon; see sacred geometry.

dolphin (n): Ocean mammals who are forced to swim with New Agers.

dowsing (n): The technique a New Ager uses to locate misplaced Evian bottles or find Miata keys in the sand. Also: to dowse

dream catcher (n): A net hung over the bed to catch masked baseball players with seven figure incomes.

Drunvalo Melchizedek (n): Sacred geometry’s highest paid spokesman, his royalness the Chief Commander of Hype; see sacred geometry.

duality (n): A New Age no no; considered to be very 3rd dimensional (i.e. unevolved).

Elohim Board of Universal Governance (n): otherwise known as Archangel, Inc.

The Emerald Tablets (n): One of the New Age bibles; marketed as an ancient text written by a now disembodied entity.

enneagram (n): The New Age personality atlas, thus too confusing to bother explaining.

eightfold path (n): A path that has been folded eight times and placed in a New Ager’s pocket so it won’t be mistaken for a fifty dollar bill.

energetic resonance signature (n): A New Ager’s social security number; see vibration.

energy (n): Kind of like cosmic gasoline, energy is what New Agers pretend to feel when they want to impress their meditation teacher (i.e. good energy, as in "Wow, I really felt the energy!") or black ball someone they don’t like (i.e., bad energy, as in "Solara’s energy is totally 3-D!").

enzyme supplements (n): Digestive aids New Agers take to get Powerbars through their bowels.

feng shui (n): The Chinese art of superstitious decor; New Agers love it because it blends well with Tibetan, Native American, Zen and Hindu artifacts.

first wave (n): An elite group of starseeds who have earned the right to leave the planet before everyone else; akin to a making the New Age Olympic Team; see ascension.

flower essences (n): Flower charged water used by newageoholics trying to get off Prozac.

Fourteenth Insight (n): The yet to be revealed insight; however, if it is anything like the previous thirteen, it is bound to be horribly written and make its author even richer than he already is.

fractal (n): Infinitely repeating patterns of colored waves targeted to newageoholics who dropped too much acid in the 60s; usually marketed as computer screen savers.

geodesic dome (n): A New Age tract home; other models include yurts, RVs, school buses and teepees.

geomancy (n): Euphemism for feng shui and sacred geometry; see feng shui and sacred geometry.

G-spot (n): A mythological area devised to make it easier for New Age women to fake orgasms; see tantra.

ginkgo biloba (n): A supplemental herb that is to New Agers what cocaine was to Wall Street in the 80s.

God (n): Using this word to refer to the cosmic question mark is a sure sign of New Age naiveté; New speakers prefer words like "Universe", "Great Spirit", "Light", "All That Is", "I Am Presence" and, most recently, "GaiaMind"; however, God can also be the parking cop who agrees not to write you a ticket.

Goddess (n): The female version of God; currently obsessed with becoming empowered.

Great White Brotherhood (n): A 5^th dimensional Aryan race of ascended guys who feed on the spiritually challenged; see Ascended Masters and disembodied entities.

Greys: The race of aliens who mutilate cows for the secret beef industry and abduct traveling vitamin salesmen; New Agers believe Greys are in cahoots with the American government, hence the reason for their dull pallor.

grid reality matrix [GRM] (n): Like the big bang, a term used when New Agers don’t have a clue.

Guru (n): Someone who uses what they know to convince others that they don’t know anything; often use their position to get sex and Rolls Royce’s.

Harmonic Convergence (n): The worldwide event in August of 1987 that changed the way America watched Shirley MacLaine movies; should have been called Synthesizer Convergence due to the harmonica to synthesizer ratio.

health food store (n): A singles bar, psyche ward, and overpriced grocery store all rolled into one convenient stop.

hemi-synch (adj): What happens when the left and right brain finally agree upon something; pseudo-science for "hemispheric conditioning."

hieroglyph (n): An Egyptian pictorial alphabet some newageoholics learn to read in order to convince others of their past lives as pharaohs.

higher power (n): A despot who squelches a New Ager’s ability to have fun; similar to God, but with more stigmata.

holograph (n): the New Age version of the Holodeck.

homeopathy (n): Medicine for New Agers who don’t get out enough.

Hopi Prophecy (n): The Native American apocalyptic prediction that gives New Agers an excuse not to vote.

I Am Presence (n): see God.

I Ching (n): Pronounced "ee" "ching", this is a Chinese divination method that gives New Agers something to do when they are bored or alone; especially useful if they’ve just discovered their soul mate in bed with his twin flame.

inner child (n): The almighty tyrant who thinks it’s okay to force others to watch Alien Autopsy: Fact or Fiction? twenty times; opposite of a Higher Power but equally problematic.

inner planes (n): Tiny Cessna’s that fly inside the minds of New Agers.

Jupiter line (n): The New Age equivalent to beach front property; see astrology.

Kali (n): An excuse to rage; see Goddess.

The Keys of Enoch (n): Another New Age tome except this one is presumed to be written by a dude who knew the dude who wrote Revelations; most New Agers can’t understand it but they claim just holding the book exposes them to "the vibration of its teaching."

Kirlian photography (n): A technique that New Agers use to shoot people in the aura and get paid for it.

kiva (n): Native American ceremonial ruins that New Agers like to trample on.

Kryon (n): A disembodied entity with a magnetic twist, whatever that means; see disembodied entity.

Lemuria (n): A creationist story similar to Atlantis but with less water.

lightworker (n): No relation to electrician, lightworker is what New Agers call themselves when they are feeling important.

lingam (n): The dangling male appendage that fits inside a yoni; see yoni.

Machu Picchu (n): While not as esteemed as the Great pyramid, these dilapidated stone ruins have led to New Age infiltration of Peru.

macrobiotics (n): A vegetarian religion known for its worship of seaweed.

Major Arcana (n): The 22 big guns of the tarot; see tarot.

mandala (n): A New Age Rorschach test; used by seminar leaders to determine gullibility.

mantra (n): A repetitive jingle or sound bite meant to keep New Age minds under control and thus dimwitted enough to follow a guru.

maya(n): Referring to the human drama, this Hindu word is used by New Agers who want to appear cosmopolitan.

Mayan Calendar (n): With an end date of 2012, this calendar has propagated the hottest prophecy in town; buy stock before time runs out and get a cut of the calendar, book and tour company sales.

medicine wheel (n): Since 50 states weren’t enough, yuppie New Agers stole this ritual so they could use it to fix flat tires on their mountain bikes and Jeeps.

meditate (v): An act performed by New Agers in order to seem enlightened; however many newageoholics produce the same effect just by saying they meditate rather than actually doing it. Also: meditation (n)

Mercury in retrograde (n): An regularly occurring, astrological event that gives New Agers an excuse for getting fired, wrecking their car, breaking a leg, or having an overall shitty day.

merkaba (n): Mystery school lingo for two interlocking pyramids a la the Star of David in 3D, this ancient symbol moonlights as a spaceship for New Age consciousness; see sacred geometry.

meridians (n): The Chinese word for the body’s center dividers; hence the reason for moxibustion cones; see chi.

Merlin (n): Yes, Merlin, as in King Arthur’s Merlin, as in Walt Disney’s Fantasia; see disembodied entity.

Metatron (n): see archangel.

Michael entity (n): Not to be confused with the Jackson 5, this is a group of disembodied entities who have joined together to give New Agers another divisive nomenclature.

money game (n): A pyramid scheme geared toward New Agers who are addicted to abundance affirmations.

Mother Mary (n): Although not your typical disembodied entity, MM is still responsible for numerous New Age delusions as well as countless car crashes (brought on by her unannounced appearances on the sides of buildings and freeway on ramps); she’s also a major source of dental cavities; see Goddess.

Native American (n): To be one is the New Agers wet dream.

NAegos (n): The word for New Age egos, which is easily confused with Eggos, as in let go of my NAegos.

New Millennium (n): An Oz-like epoch peopled by New Agers who survived the end times, the big one, the second coming, the apocalypse, the polar shift, the secret government, the alien abductions and Hollywood; also known as a great way to circumvent today.

nirvana (n): Where Kurt Cobain probably didn’t go.

out-of-body experience [OBE] (n): Otherwise known as a lack of body awareness; often confused with near a death experience.

ozone (n): Souped-up oxygen.

pastlife regression (n): An example of the extremes a New Ager will go to avoid responsibility for this life.

patchouli (n): Held over from the hippie days, this is the New Age Channel No. 5; other popular scents include amber, sandalwood and myrrh.

parallel universe (n): A world where the New Age doesn’t exist.

pendulum (n): A tool New Agers use to make decisions, such as whether or not to get out of bed in the morning; also known as a parent on a string.

photon belt (n): An interstellar fashion statement New Agers fear may be on par with California’s "big one".

planetary grids (n): see grid reality matrix.

Pleiadians (n): The funny blue beings who like to write New Age books.

polarity process (n): A therapeutic technique that nobody understands.

portal (n): A port hole in the sky that gives aliens Earth visitation privileges.

psychic awareness (n): Another over-rated but rarely attained state; New Agers use this one to gain speaking engagements and publishing contracts.

pranayama (n): An air toke.

Quan Yin (n): see Goddess.

RA (n): The voice behind the RA Material and the City of Oz; see disembodied entity and Michael soul groups.

Ramatha (n): see disembodied entity.

rainbow (n): A distant cousin of Ronald McDonald’s Golden Arches, this colorful companion has left the New Age in order to serve Earth’s 10 percent; however, some New Agers continue to cling to its 70’s identity, which may suggest they are residing in more than one closet.

rainstick (n): Yet another expensive New Age toy; mainly valued for its Native American origins.

raw food (n): What gives newageoholics the energy to survive three days of the Whole Life Expo; generally consists of foul smelling sprouted things, vegetables, fruits and uncooked bread: Yuk!

reality police (n): The undercover agents stationed in every meditation hall; it is widely believed that those serving the New Age beat are corrupt.

rebirthing (n): Just one of the absurdities a newageoholic will endure to avoid psychotherapy; also an excellent opportunity to remember what it was like to be between a woman’s legs.

reiki (n): An amorphous healing technique newageoholics learn so they can say they are lightworkers; fortunately for trainers, there are as many licensing levels of reiki to master as their are practitioners.

reflexology (n): The ideal job for a New Ager with a foot fetish.

responsibility (n): A new age buzzword, as in "you must take responsibility for your actions"; usually translates into "I didn’t do it you did."

rune stones (n): Portable cave drawings New Agers use to get in touch with their Teutonic lineage.

sacred geometry (n): God squared; used to give New Agers a sense of the world before calculators.

Sananda (n): New Speak for Jesus and synonymous with the Christed One, this disembodied entity come Ascended Master is heralded by New Agers for his leadership in the Ashtar Command; see Ashtar Command and Ascended Master.

satsang (n): The Hindu term New Agers use to prove they’ve been to India; refers to ass kissing the guru in a group.

seance (n): Archaic term; see channel.

Seth (n): see disembodied entity.

Serapis Bey (n): see Ascended Master.

shaman (n): A drug addict who uses his New Age connections charge people money to party with him; not to be confused with tribal leaders or healers.

Shakti (n) Married to Shiva.

Shiva (n): Married to Shakti.

sannyasin (n): The Hindu word for spiritual renunciate; however, most New Agers use the term to renounce anything but the life and teaching of O-Show, the Bhagwan Bhakteesh; see satsang.

SNAG (n): Acronym for "Sensitive New Age Guy"; otherwise known as an emasculated male who prefers yoga to football and uses massage as a pick up technique.

soul retrieval (n): A New Age oxymoron, particularly since so many New Agers give up their soul to the idea that they can retrieve it.

spirulina (n): see blue-green algae.

starseed (n): A self-elected member of the 144,000 chosen souls; NAA members call them cosmic weeds; see first wave.

stargate (n): A copper fence newageoholics erect in their living rooms to make it easier to borrow sugar from the Pleiadians.

swami (n): Archaic; see guru.

sweat lodge (n): An overgrown smoke house where New Agers gather to practice their ability to chant while dying of heat exhaustion.

tai chi (n): An energy exercise that resembles a mime playing racquetball; see energy.

tantra (n): Sex with Hindu underpinnings; in the New Age, tantra is also known as high school without clothes.

tarot (n): A 78 card system of fortune telling that some New Age women use to justify their dependence on INAG’s (insensitive New Age guys); also a great way to drop $70 bucks in 45 minutes.

teepee (n): Alternative housing for Native American wannabes; also the name of the frequent urination disorder that occurs when a New Ager consumes too much herbal tea; see geodesic dome.

tetrahedron (n): a glorified triangle; see sacred geometry.

third eye (n): An invisible eye embedded in the forehead; New Agers believe it is a psychic jackpot and thus will walk on fire in order to find it; known to cause a related disorder called Cyclops Syndrome.

Thirteen moon calendar (n): Derived from a Mayan system of thirteen moons (i.e. months) in one year; New Agers like it because it offers them more opportunities to annoy their neighbors with drum circles; see Mayan calendar.

Tibetan cymbal (n): Brass replicas of flying saucers that make noise when clanged together; great for torturing dogs and cats.

tofu (n): Soy meat; New Agers say it tastes like chicken.

tonal essence (n): The stuff leftover after a New Ager clips his toe nails.

twin flame (n): Blows soul mate out of the water as the perfect New Age mate; two starpeas in a pad.

unicorn (n): Way too 70’s to make the New Millennium; see dolphins and whales

vata, kalpha, pitta (n): Ayurvedic terms for skinny, fat, or confused.

vibration: also known as vibe, this is what New Agers claim to feel when they walk into a room.

vision quest (n): New Age radial keratotomy.

vortex (n): What unsuspecting people step into when they enter health food stores, New Age bookstores or the Whole Life Expo; see portal.

walk-in (n): A disembodied entity who decides to take up residence in a New Agers body "for the greater good of the Universe" and thus regulates the old self to purgatory; a personality quirk respected by New Agers; see disembodied entity.

whales (n): Just like Elvis in his early days, these famous maestros are being exploited by New Age music producers; Greenpeace is currently fighting for copyright privileges and a better royalty package.

Whole Life Expo (n): A New Age sales convention.

witch (n): Not to be confused with women who ride brooms and cackle, New Age witches run with wolves and organize spiral dances and community potlucks.

workshop (n): New Age snake oil; also marketed as intensives, retreats, seminars, gatherings, and circles.

yin/yang (n): A Chinese symbol cheapened by New Age use; among other places it appears regularly on cars, earrings, T-shirts, sarongs, journals, toothbrushes and condoms.

yurt (n): A teepee without the nipple; see geodesic dome.

yoga (n): The New Age answer to aerobics; the underlying cause of the common New Age disorder Mulabunda Toomuchaka, also known as up tight ass affliction.

yoni (n): The female receptacle for an excited lingam.

Zafu (n): Round meditation cushion named after the sound it makes when sat upon.

11:11 and 12:12 (n): Cosmic barn doors; see Harmonic Convergence, portal, stargate.

New Agers Anonymous is a fellowship of reformed lightworkers who have come down from the mothership to reclaim the task of living as normal people on Planet Earth. We are a diverse membership, made up of hippies, yuppies, yippies, ex-airy fairies, closet GenXers, housewives, VW owners, Scientology school drop outs, eco-terrorists, Democrats, and a few Republicans; our common ground is that our lives were once controlled by psychic hotlines, channeler of the month clubs, astral arch-angelists, astrology retrogrades, slipping paradigms, and the other faux cosmic crap currently being marketed in this very old New Age.

We are humans who found the strength to admit we only pretended to see auras and didn’t really know the difference between a diva and a deva. Finding support in this rare honesty, we realized that we could make decisions without consulting our pendulums, that it was possible to have vision without paying some slick white guy with a turquoise bolero to take us on a quest for it.

Originally it was our intention to create a sanctuary where people like us could wear colors other than purple and meet for coffee without talking about the Fourteenth Insight. We wanted people to remember that judgments had once been a vehicle for truth, that "can’t" and "should" are still listed in Webster’s, that "I" statements are pointless if no one knows who "I" is. In essence, we hoped to make room for all the thoughts and attitudes that keep life interesting.

NAA’s inaugural meeting was organized by Paul McDouglas (then known as Sun Daddy) and Andrea Patterson (a.k.a. Empressia). It was held exactly seven years after the Harmonic Convergence, on August 16, 1994, at the Fairfax, California home of Rebecca Knox (Moonmother). For the ten of us who came carrying our raw foods casseroles and enzyme supplements, that first night became a wake-up call that rang louder than any Tibetan cymbal.

Mandatory for attendance was the commitment to refrain from talking about merkabas, the Great White Brotherhood, the Mayan calendar, whales, 11:11, stargates, the enneagram, tarot, Nostradamus, totems, and so on. Yet without our vocabulary, we had nothing to say to each other, leaving us with little choice but to resort back to our common linguistic butchery (vegetarian style of course).

For instance, if someone had the courage to show anger or express dissatisfaction of any kind, someone else would inevitably try to soften the blow by making dolphin noises or striking a gong. If an insecurity surfaced, it was quickly masked by flowery, dramatic passages about co-creating reality and the conflicts of the Higher Self. And whenever we were at a complete loss, somebody would comment on how the crystalline nature of dimensional hierarchy as seen through the holographic undertones of planetary grids is obscured by the density of three dimensions.

Up to our third eyes in New Age quicksand, we wanted out. The solutions we came up with swung wildly between truly alien concepts, such as moving to Oklahoma or switching from hypnotherapy to psychotherapy, to more palatable ideas, like getting Tara to channel Gwezok so the rest of us could ask him what to do. With each passing hour our white light shields grew dimmer and our collective vision grew more terrifying. We ran out of carrot sticks, and many of us resorted to chewing fingertips or yanking at the hypo-allergenic carpet beneath our meditation cushions. In silence some of us prayed that the Big One would kill us so we wouldn’t have to suffer the karma of suicide. Others spoke soundlessly to the Pleiadians, begging them to send a sign or a ship. Only a few truly searched for the courage to override our sacred visions and do something real, like drink a beer with a neighbor.

Finally, Moonmother intervened. "Brothers and sisters, since we don’t know what else to do, let’s take medicine and ask our animal guides for direction."

"That’s a great idea. I’ll get the peyote," said Sun Daddy.

"Yeah," added Songbird. "We can have the ceremony in my teepee."

We all thought this was the sign we’d been waiting for——that is until we got into telling "medicine" stories.

"Remember the time at Limantar Beach when Shanasana took off all her clothes and ran up to the drum circle shouting ‘I am the sand goddess, walk on me’," said Horus.

"Yeah, and you were the only one who did," said Shanasana. "What about when Horus passed out near the Zen center and we gathered shit from the monks’ horses and piled it all around him, making it look like he got all fucked up on turds."

In no time the room was overflowing with possibility. We swapped tales, boasting and ragging on each other, caught by fits of laughter until Empressia stopped us.

"Come on, you gods and goddesses, look at yourselves. How much have we really learned from our so-called medicine? Your stories are glorified bar tales——some big spiritual journey. We were all hopeless. Come on, admit it. We are all newageoholics and we need help."

Once again, the room was silent. She was right. We were powerless over the New Age, and without a firm grip on reality, Y2K wouldn’t be ours to enjoy. We had to find a way to bring the dawn back down the crystal staircase, even if it was just one baby step at a time.

"Twelve Steps!" shouted Empressia. The intervention we’d waited for had finally arrived.

For the first time in years, our sweet, lispy angel voices dropped away and our vocal cords boomed with confidence and direction. With everybody, even the dorks, vying for air time, we discussed the philosophy of the program that had already freed millions of addicts, and by the end of the night, we unanimously agreed that it was time to start the first chapter of New Age Anonymous and walk the 12 Step path.

Empressia had been through OA and Sun Daddy AA, so giving the steps a New Age spin was relatively easy, even if working them wasn’t. But that was why we had each other, and with support, each of us learned to cope with our desire for first wave ascension. We got stronger and more determined, and, in time, we fired our psychics, burned our self-help books and sold back our crystals. We learned to stop worrying whether Mercury was in retrograde or if the Photon Belt was a good thing or not. Every day we got better in every way, particularly since our butt aches disappeared once we quit meditating.

It took two years of trial and error, but eventually seven out of the ten people in our original NAA group made it back to the ground. Once word of our recovery got out, NAA membership grew to 17, then 32 and so on, until today, just five years later, NAA has over 5,000 found humans, many of whom still live in California. Chapters are springing up in all the New Age meccas, including Sandpoint, Sedona, Shasta, Asheville, Maui, Harbin and Ashland, and our rapid expansion is a testimony to the determination of free will. To be sure, many people weren’t able to withstand the rigors of self-inquiry, but for those who were able to handle the dark and sultry pressures of regular life, the rewards of the journey have far surpassed its obstacles.

The New Age is dead, and this book is our attempt to spread the NAA message to a wider audience, maybe even spare a few souls from enlightenment along the way. If you really want to save the world, overthrow the facism of positive thinking, ignore mail order angel catalogs and stop gilding the New Age cage.

As you venture back into these pages again and again, keep in mind that we outlined each step with as much detail as we could stomach. We hope the first-person accounts of the pitfalls and joys of the pre-NAA existence have given you the courage to enter NAA recovery—if Chuck and Robin could do it, so can you. By now, you should be the end of the drainbow and are ready do something real with your life. Good luck and good night.