Ten Marches Since My Last Confession

When you've known someone for 37 years you develop a shorthand.

This is a portrait of my dear friend, Doug Angleton, in a series of March texts. 

March 2, 2012 

Michael: JAH!
Doug: Rasta fari

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Doug Angleton | Brooklyn, NY | 2010

March 2, 2013

Doug: Are you doing alright today bubbi?
Michael: Nothing but good feels.
Doug: I figured as much
Doug: Yay

March 28, 2014

Michael: Bodhisattva, I love you! I can barely wait to see you on Sunday to get our feel on!
Doug: Yes I am pissing on the floor like little chihuahua my tail is wagging so fast

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Doug Angleton & Michael Wiggins | New York, NY | 2014

March 3, 2015

Michael: "My barn having burned down I can now see the moon," said Mizuta Masahide.
Doug: Moon vs barn  Moon won
Doug: Everyone's a winner step right up bargains galore

March 17, 2016

Michael: Jah!
Doug: Him make the herbe for Man

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Vacuum Flowers by Doug Angleton | 2011 (Oil on canvas, 4 x 6’)

March 1, 2017

Michael: Thinking of you. LA circa 1988.
Doug: Just before I went to Baltimore
Doug: Thirty years, old buddy

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Doug Angleton | Los Angeles, CA | 1988

March 11, 2018

Doug: Happy Sunday mon ami
Doug: I was tripping on acid
Michael: Right on!! I was just thinking about the Legend of Doug. And how cool it is that you worked in the Flat Iron building in NYC. What a beautiful feather in your crown chakra head piece. Life is good!
Doug: Yes indeed

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Doug Angleton | New York, NY | 2013

March 14, 2019

Michael: We all snowflakes. Ain’t that right, Sensei?!
Doug: True dat
Doug: All together we are the snowfall, our history an avalanche
Doug: When we melt in the sun of wisdom we run together to form the rivers and oceans
Doug: Which is what we were in the first place round and round

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Doug Angleton | Rutherford, NJ | 2010

March 21, 2020

Michael: You doing ok Mr Angleton?
Doug: Well enough Wig

March 10, 2021

Michael: Wish we was playing Spades right now. Outside, on a picnic bench.
Doug: O what joy

Mr. Angleton died from complications of diabetes on March 11, 2021.

I will truly miss him.

⌘

The Early Beginnings of the Vibe Rater

At the closing bell on February 26, 2039, General Electric’s stock price reached an all-time high of $360. 

But let's take it back to a leaner time—2021—when a GE share traded for twelve bucks. 

The Conglo—which is what the hacker interns used to call the company suits in Boston—were a pretty righteous group despite being Super Crackers. But the leader of the Hacks wasn't a saltine. Nah, Hai was a fly, Black cyberpunk who loved to bump. And when she wasn't burning up lines of incendiary code she was creating mixtapes—for Saturday night. And when she wasn't meditating on the heart-mind she was straight-up visionary. Hai believed that trust was based on vibe. If the vibe was right, nothing was wrong—Operation Motto (OM). The world was a beautiful place and Hai had a calling—calibrate vibe or bust. The Crackers put Hai in charge of the OM. She was 17. P-to-the-righteous!

I worked for Hai and she was my best friend—okay. We sold weed together during our first year at MIT. One of our faithful customers was the daughter of a Super-C. She told us that her dad was all about paid internships during the summer. Perfect, cause we prayer-hands-appreciated a Conglo with deep love for R&D. Hai pitched the OM to daddy-get-up and he said, "Let's do this. You're running point, and can have … one assistant," finger gesturing to me—Cool Breezy.

"We can see vibe—yes sir—both CB and I can. It's how we met. We were in this little club downtown and the groove was butter. We were feeling it. And then we stopped, we just stopped dancing and stared at each other—she was pointing at me and I was pointing at her—and then we just hugged."

"That's sweet," said the GE suit. "So you both are psychic."

"Totally,” Hai affirmed. “But no, we figured out how to calculate that beautiful glow we saw on the dance floor. Vibes. Basically, we’d love to work with y'all to build a cute-ass vibe rater.”

“Crazy,” said the exec as he ping-ponged his head back-and-forth from Hai to me and then back to Hai.

“Fun, right?” Hai sped up her pitch. “The tech is worn on the ear. Hardcore vibers will want it pierced, but you can also get a cuffed version. The earring does two things—it measures and it transmits. It senses breath, body temp, heart rate, words, inflection, and some other patented shit involving molecules and pH, but we'll get into that later, and then it converts all this data into a mood, which is mainly a color, but also a numerical rating from 1 to 100, you know, for exacts."

"We do like our science here at the conglomerate," said the proud exec as he adjusted his Herman Miller.

"Us too!" we said in unison. Hai slowed down this last part. "The tech transmits the data to a happy piece of software." Then casually she lifted her iPhone and continued, "The app keeps track of your vibe ratings and over time gives you reward points that can be redeemed for crypto. Purple vibes—the crème de la crème—are money. Red vibes, not so much. That kind of thing. Our palette is based on the seven chakras. Basically, it pays to have—good vibes. That's phase one. Would you like to hear phase two?"

Needless to say, they did. 

And in 2026, General Electric licensed the rights to our patent, OM, for $17 mil. 

Today GE has sold over one billion OMs. Oh, and the chief executive is a Queer Black Woman, the Super Crackers lost their stronghold of the Conglo in 2030, and, vibes are a worldwide commodity—duh.

As Sade, the famous artist from the late 1980s would sing, “Girl you are rich even with nothing” … but good vibes.

⌘

The Poet Dunbar, or, Something About Sanctity

O Lord, the hard–won miles
Have worn my stumbling feet:
Oh, soothe me with thy smiles,
And make my life complete.

The thorns were thick and keen
Where’er I trembling trod;
The way was long between
My wounded feet and God.

Where healing waters flow
Do thou my footsteps lead.
My heart is aching so;
Thy gracious balm I need.

- Paul Laurence Dunbar, “A Prayer,” 1895

I was blessed by a poet. 

One of the cool things about living in Downtown Lynchburg are the beautiful nature trails that weave the fertile banks of the James River. These generous paths are sanctified by the local bicyclists, hikers, joggers, and walkers. I used to jog on those happy trails—until one day—I discovered the running track at the Paul Laurence Dunbar Middle School For Innovation. 

My new sanctuary. 

I've had a few sacred places in my life. When I lived in Echo Park, my kitchen nook was— The Joint. The nook was a modest built-in-table-for-two with a café light for good vibes. It even had a low-budget view of the Hollywood basin and windows that opened out, not up. Everything was better in the nook. When I lived in Washington Heights, the Hudson River was my front yard and Guru. I would contemplate the teachings of my Master from every window in the apartment.

I am constantly on the look-out for enlightenment. 

The Dunbar track was close to home. I considered the ten minute walk past the streets of Court, Clay, Madison, Harrison, and Federal a warm-up to the grand awakening. The epiphany of Dunbar took some time to develop. At first I was simply jogging on an empty track—which felt more like luck instead of a pattern—but over time I realized I was consistently the only person there. Eventually my jogs turned into gentle meditations on the nature of being. With each lap I would admire the poetry of the P. L. Dunbar scoreboard which reminded me the score was always tied: HOME zero, GUEST zero.

On an oval, the start and finish lines are one-in-the-same. 

Sometimes I would jog in reverse, or, I would sprint across the football field contemplating velocity, or, I would throw my Frisbee to a groundhog, or, I would capture a feeling with my lens, or, I would take off my shoes and lay on the grass and look up at the clouds—and I would thank the Poet Dunbar for bringing a new sacred into my life.

The holy has a way of finding us.

⌘