C.E. Rachlin

His name is Craig. So why doesn’t he just go by his actual name, “Craig Rachlin?” Because he’s convinced himself that his name has only brought him bad luck – in that thing of his, he calls “a life.” For that was the name he used on the eighty or ninety screenplays he wrote and tried to sell, all pathetically in vain. Oh, sure – there could be plenty of explanations for his incessant failures, including: lack of connections, lack of tenacity, lack of any talent whatsoever, etc. Yet he’s chosen to blame it all on his name, bless his sweet, ignorant soul.

Yes – we’re talkin’ a fella who swung for the fences, yet barely even managed to foul-tip the ball! And as a tragic result – his life turned out to be one massive, ghastly, suckfest . . .

Or, might it have been something else?

Perhaps, even . . . the complete opposite?

“But how could that be?” you ask. “Could it have something to do with his outlook on life?” Well, let’s just say C. E. (aka – Craig) had the good sense to seek the underlying “truth” of existence, from an early age, on. “But did this lifelong spiritual pursuit do him any real good? And did he ever find logical answers to questions, such as: ‘Why are we born into this world?’ and, ‘Is there really a higher, compassionate intelligence of pure, divine love – behind all this horrible crap most of us struggle to endure, here on this magnificently beautiful, over-crowded, overheating planet we all call ‘home’?”

Well, let’s just put it this way about Craig: He thinks he’s found the answers to these and other questions, yet he can’t quite say for sure if he’s discovered some deeper meaning in life, or whether he’s just plain self-delusional, or both. He has his good days, and he has his please-shoot-me-in-the-f*ckin’-face-right-now ones. He has barrels of blissful moments, with some barely BEARable ones, in-between. And that’s basically all there is to know about the guy. There’s really nothing else worth writing about.

Except for this!!! . . . He enjoys entertaining extremely bizarre thoughts. The more imaginative, the better. He also claims every living Soul, regardless of their current level of ignorance, is destined for eventual awakening into their higher divinity – with all the power and wonder and knowledge that entails! . . . And he’s highly sensitive to disgusting odors. Furthermore, he totally loves dogs. Not too wild about picking up their liquified feces, though. But he forces himself to! And he has learned to just tolerate the gagging. Oh, and he’s married. (Note to his wife: That last sentence had nothing to do with the one prior, it was a complete non-sequitur.) . . . And he’s always getting himself into trouble . . . Big f*cking trouble.

Other than that, he’s not sure he even authored his own book. The Dalai Camel claims to be a real being, who has dictated his biography through the vapid brain of C. E., having him mindlessly type the thing up on his laptop, whilst asleep in bed.  So, did that unbelievable event really happen? Did C. E. really channel the camel’s autobiography? Or did he just invent the ridiculous Dalai Camel character out of his own, warped brain? Well, folks – he truly doesn’t know. He tends to think he did, which seems more logical – right? Yet he wavers on it, at times. In fact, he’s never quite certain where half his thoughts are coming from, these days. But he doesn’t resist them. Instead, he just merrily goes along for the ride.

And there you have IT, my friend . . . C. E. Rachlin in a nutshell.