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Signs and Wonders

Chinese Scientology

This is a poster I have seen numerous times over the years on telephone poles along San Francisco’s Clement Street and the surrounding neighborhoods. I never really spent the time to decipher it’s message, and based on the Mumia Abul Jamal look-alike, always assumed it was some badly executed attempt to promote some sad little Richmond District open mic night jamboree.

However, upon long-overdue closer inspection, it appears that there is much more to the story. Judging from the cryptic Engrish ramblings and buffet of random international celebrity cameos, this guy/girl is either the heavily medicated, low-tech Chinese equivalent of Access Hollywood, or a distant branch of Scientology centered around the worship of a Laotian actress named Ching Lee, Mr. Entertainment Sammy Davis Jr. and some black guy with dreadlocks. My money is riding on door number one, but one can never underestimate the lunacy of religion.

Ching Lee 1

Ching Lee 2

It’s nice to know that crazy is fluent in many languages.


One comment for “Chinese Scientology”

  1. You have such fantastic everyday variety out there in rice -a – roni land. I wish we had more truly bizarre things like that here. What amazes me is that people take the time to put things on phone poles to try to … somehow rope in a local following.

    It’s a bizarre sense of community, though, I imagine after about three or four good tokes off that prescription marijuana I’d be in there. You know, just really enjoying the cult of Excellent Woman Combat from Laos.

    Seriously, I want to get high on grass in San Francisco and visit the various oddities and cults. Kind of like rushing a fraternity or something, but I just want to somehow connect with the root of… just how goddamn crazy that melting pot is out there. That truly fascinates me, and I mean that as someone who walked the streets of Okinawa digging on the various mis-uses of English by the Japanese.

    It’s so flattering that they would do that, but it comes out really abstract, and it is so worth your time to ponder how the fuck their minds are working. Eventually, the light came on in my head. Our culture is the most fantastic export we have. By the time it makes its way around the world, it’s like a really crazy rumor that just builds momentum and changes, evolves, and by the time it gets back to us…

    it sounds a lot like:

    “The Excellent Woman Combat from Laos.”


    “Hello Kitty”

    See what I mean? The shit they named their cars on that island was really mind boggling. The names included:

    “Sylvia”, which made sense because the car had curves like a woman. Though I had to think about it and I liked that.

    “Move” if I remeber right it was like a tiny, tiny, mini van. I could rest my elbow on the top of it. The wheels were no bigger than a wheel of cheese. It looked just like a cute little box. There were more, God there were more, but I can’t for the life of me remember the names. It was really strange though.

    The advertising was truly bizarre at first, but later, and even now as I see it making its way back to me via ebay etc… it evokes this powerful sense of nostalgia and well being. It’s hypnotic and oddly spiritual, the advertising, and I can say with complete honesty the ugliest advertising I ever saw in Japan was McDonalds.

    I’m kind of jealous of San Francisco for that reason. It all comes to you, you don’t have to really work for it to experience the world there. The world comes to San Francisco, and it should for some reason. This thing that they do, the phone pole advertising, shatters my rice-a-roni, trolley car, idea of what San Francisco is…. You’re so lucky.

    Oh, I just got my Pirates of the Carribean Mickey Mouse Camera from Ebay. I’ll send you some images of what you will no doubt find bizarre, and even psuedo hillbilly Norman Rockwell. Your slice of America has spice. Out here, it’s more like gravy on your biscuits, but I’m sure you’ll find that bizarre. You will. What will knock you down the most is how everything seems to be cut out and placed in the middle of the woods. Trees everywhere, so thick that you can’t see through them, and then you’ll understand…

    The Shit House Poet is a lot like a hillbilly Napoleon Dynamite. Just more inbred and fucked up in the head… still though, oddly charming and repulsive all at the same time.

    Now, I give you something bizarre, a very abstract thought from my head that I have been laughing about in secret for a couple of days. I say in secret, because I know if I tell anyone, they’ll send me off to “get well”. I hope you see the humor in this. A really ass kicking thunder storm sparked this thought.

    As lightning struck, the primitive human beings discovered fire. It had struck a tree somewhere near here, and a fire broke out. The savages then make animal noises of excitement and shared the fire with one another. They kept it burning because it was so difficult to start back. They didn’t know how to make a fire, they didn’t. Though, they finally did learn, by rubbing two sticks together.

    They kept it burning, the tribe of savages, except for one woman. She didn’t understand the fire, it scared her, and just as anyone rubbed the sticks together and finally got a little smoke going… she would run over, making anxious sounds, and stamp it out like it was an enemy.

    This annoyed the rest of the tribe to no end. Her anxiety about the fire became so annoying that she was something of an exile. In their primitive speech they talked amongst themselves behind the woman’s back.

    savage 1: we’re going hunting… you want to go?

    savage 2: Yes. I’ll get more people to go with us.

    savage 1: O.K. but don’t tell her because I don’t like her.

    savage 2: Why?

    savage 1: I don’t know, I just don’t, and besides… she always tries to put out the goddamn fire. It’s driving me crazy.

    savage 2: Ooooooooooooooooooh… I get it.

    Little did they know that her first experience with fire burned her, and without Dianetics and L.Ron Hubbard to diagnose her “reactive mind” neurosis… well, she suffered socially. Let’s just leave it at that.


    I know, just as you thought Shit House was dead or on a long vacation… I come back to scribble on your wall again.

    Posted by The Shit House Poet | June 10, 2008, 5:17 pm

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