Welcome to Cleveland, host of the 2016 Republican National Convention — a week’s worth of cathartic release after the most harrowing, terrifying, and flat out surreal Presidential primary campaign in American history. Was there ever an occasion more demanding of inner peace?

Didn’t think so, which is probably why this retreat is over-subscribed. Now, unfortunately, we got bumped from Conference Rooms B and C at the Hampton Inn out on I-90 because the delegates from Florida bungled their headcount and needed an extra place to crash, but those of us in pursuit of enlightenment require no such material pampering so fear not — we’ll be taking off for nirvana from the comfort of my parents’ basement!

Unexpected? Perhaps. Insulated? Not at all. But the Buddha teaches stillness of thought in pursuit of one-ness with the eternal, and Roy — that’s my dad — teaches carpentry which is why you may find your ass chock full of slivers after sitting lotus-style for three hours during this morning’s mindfulness session.

Ignore the pain. It’s a transient state, not unlike an election cycle — just kidding, those are permanent now and Thank God because boy, couldn’t we all use a good do-over now and again? Anyway, it’s all in your head. Focus on your mantra, or maybe just the chanting down the street. True, it’s probably a riot, and that intermittent whistling noise sounds suspiciously like the discharge of tear-gas canisters into a crowd of angry protestors who lost their savings studying whatever it is people studied at Trump University, but take a deep breath…

Ommm…

Because tuition for this retreat is fully refundable… IF you can say with a straight face you haven’t reached a higher plane of existence and found yourself floating three inches or more off the sawdust floor at least once this week. Fair enough, that could just be from the reverberations of the National Guard tanks rolling through the back yard, but I’ve always found that a neutral, soothing background noise was just the thing to calm my monkey mind.

Deep breaths now. Who says the world’s falling apart? What is the world anyway? An idea? A SuperPAC-funded attack ad predicated on lies, half-truths and back-ass-wards conservative dogma? A spinning molecule on a flea’s flexed bicep on a cosmic French Bulldog’s ass? Who knows? The important thing is to never forget the Buddha’s teachings: No mud, no lotus.

Brexit. Trump. Zika. Trump. Syrian refugees. Trump. The NRA. Trump.

That’s a boatload of mud, so have faith my Anxious Ones — that lotus is gonna be a fucking smokeshow whenever it finally pops its head out of the shit-strewn ground!

There! Do you hear that? That’s the seductive whump-whump-whump of an Apache helicopter gunship. Mint tea for the tortured soul. And a cure-all for civil unrest. What a treat. And it’s only Monday! They haven’t even formally nominated Vladimir Putin for Vice President yet.

Shhh…

Remember the advance reading packet. You can’t let the explosions distract you. That’s just the world going to hell in a bloody shrapnel shower of red, white and blue Trump-branded hand grenades. But we’re not of this world, are we? Exactly. Join hands now. Close your eyes. Don’t mind the clomping of Roy’s combat boots. Don’t mind the sound of metal blinds rattling shut upstairs, or the finger-roll tickle of the stray bullet casings tumbling along the hardwood floor. We’ve got supplies to last us a year in the bunker. Roy’s a champion canner. I know, he does look an awful lot like Bernie Sanders. It’s weird. I’ve been saying that ever since I moved home. “Dad, what’s up with the permanent semi-hunch and the glasses? And the yelling?” The yelling’s what drove me to meditate in the first place. Well, that and the fact that I’m living in my parents basement and I’m forty-five. It was mindfulness, or vote Trump, so….

Ommm…

Well. That was pretty intense, wasn’t it? We just went somewhere special there. It’s ok. Open your eyes. I know it’s darker. I know I’ve grown a beard. I know your ass feels like a pincushion. You’ve transcended several months in quote-on-quote “real world” time. It’s January 2017. Yeah. I had to drop some sedatives in your mint tea. No choice really. The Tea Party jackboots and the anarchist mob and the last four moderate Republicans on earth were going at it on our front lawn. Roy didn’t make it. But he wanted us to stay focused on enlightenment. Roy was always Buddha-like like that; the still depths of a mountain lake even as its surface is whipped to a revolutionary froth and society as we know it begins its inexorable decline into madness. Existential noise. Just like Trump winning the election. Hey — HEY! Stay cool. Fluke thing. Nobody saw it coming. But you’re safe down here. I haven’t even opened my stash of Twizzlers yet. That’s right. Even a being of pure light gets a Twizzler now and again, you know? And we’ve got plenty to go around.

Shhhhhh…

Remember the breathing techniques from the advance reading packet? I came up with a new one earlier this month while you were levitating peacefully four point three inches off the ground. Try it with me and everything will be just fine again. I promise.

Trruummmmmmp…