Out of the depths of the cavern came a voice, and IT said "can this not be enough?!" I have just spent the last two (2) hours talking world politics with an English-challenged South Korean man and a seemingly mute, but quite fetching, Japanese girl.
She wouldn't hug me goodbye, which I attribute either to the fact that a) her far more attractive friend has the hots for me, despite her short stature, or b) she hasn't yet grasped the finer details of social interaction in these United States.
To sum up the discussion on world politics sadly missed by you readers, I will list the following key points, not listed in any kind of order and totally devoid of reference:
- North Korea is the # 1 threat to the United States (US)
- Russia is unbeatable in a land war, and will rise again
- S. Korea is a colony of the US, similar to Puerto Rico, Guam, Alaska and Hawai'i
- The Korean police force is run by the Legislature, while the military is run by the executive
- Japan has no nuclear capabilities
- Socialism, as practiced in the US, is preferable to that practiced in Western Europe
- Pax Americana will never wither, and will last for eternity
- Foreigners cannot become members of the US armed forces
- Retirement aged Koreans are routinely beaten by S. Korean police for protesting (video proof available)
- N. Koreans are forced to make forks by hand
- The US is the finest country on earth, and those with the proper drive, vision and steadfastness can, within its borders, achieve anything
The clock ticks, my eyelids grow heavy, and the prospect of sleep bears its weight in gold.
Fare thee well, brave readers, and ponder the fascinating implications of this missive. JP
americanifesto.com | updated Tuesday, Thursday, Sunday
31 December 2005
on children... end of December 2005
welcome. to my home away from homes, that feeble gesture at providing a glimpse into the depths of my most unwholesome soul. tonight I find myself twenty dollars richer (after spending ten on a bottle of vodka) from a wholly boring job making sure children do not drink in public places.
but what I'M really here about is to put to text some concern I have regarding children, love and the whole follied institution of marriage. I am a cheater, even if I haven't cheated on every girlfriend I've had, I've cheated on those with which it counted. to quote HS Thompson, "sex is as worthless without love, as love is without sex" (THE PROUD HIGHWAY, v.1, around page 150). everyone cheats, and if they don't they might as well be dead. to bind oneself to another is, in this day and age of consensual sex, extramarital fornication and just plain hedonism a most noble and outright costly endeavor.
if YOU want to do it, fine, but just look at the divorce rates, and at the amount of pain and anguish children suffer when mommy and daddy can't just fuck each other, and think twice before dropping five grand on a diamond mined by African forced child laborers. Sure, it sounds nice, a white picket fence and negative ten in the bank, a job you hate and which hates you back, coming home lying to your spouse about your day because you don't want to burden her white ass after a day of dealing with your snotty, kleptomaniacal spawn. i offer no solutions but for this one. don't get married, have at least four girlfriends who pay for you at all times, and spend your money on making something out of yourself.
gone are the days when the hopes and dreams of one man could rest on the backs of his children, in hopes that they, one day, would become the next rockefeller or gates. gone are the days of spreading one's genetic seed within an enclosed or for that point even fluctuating population, for with so many billions, your infintesimal contribution doesn't mean jack shit. instead, use that money to start a business, any kind of business, art, writing, philanthropic, carpentry. not that you can't have both, but for chirstsakes at least wait until you're forty and have had some fun with your life before knocking up some innocent young filly.
then you can pass on some real fucking world wisdom to those little anklebiters, and teach them to doubt everything, even your own authority, while making sure they understand the importance of self-respect and the sanctity of the human spirit. and for the love of god have them read, and i mean READ, the classics, from Herodotus over Traven, stopping by at Kant's house for a handjob, and ending up ultimately with Hunter S.T. for a rum soaked introduction to the life of a true and virtuous firebrand. give them Stevenson, Gaiman and Gibson for a jog into the fantastic unknown, and teach them to TALK BACK, eshewing the facade of authority for true discourse and a real, unbridled stretching of the mind.
to crush the spirit of a rambunctious and curious soul for the sake of conformity to the social norm is a crime, and should be punished as such. for it is he who steps outside of his bounds and stretches, in whatever direction he chooses, that may fly too close to the sun, and not he who kowtows before the false facade of justice and the public good, for he is doomed to oblivion, and his name will be as quickly forgotten, as a sandcastle built at low tide. Enough. and that's about all I have to say on that. have one with me now, and let us soothe the beast inside.
X
but what I'M really here about is to put to text some concern I have regarding children, love and the whole follied institution of marriage. I am a cheater, even if I haven't cheated on every girlfriend I've had, I've cheated on those with which it counted. to quote HS Thompson, "sex is as worthless without love, as love is without sex" (THE PROUD HIGHWAY, v.1, around page 150). everyone cheats, and if they don't they might as well be dead. to bind oneself to another is, in this day and age of consensual sex, extramarital fornication and just plain hedonism a most noble and outright costly endeavor.
if YOU want to do it, fine, but just look at the divorce rates, and at the amount of pain and anguish children suffer when mommy and daddy can't just fuck each other, and think twice before dropping five grand on a diamond mined by African forced child laborers. Sure, it sounds nice, a white picket fence and negative ten in the bank, a job you hate and which hates you back, coming home lying to your spouse about your day because you don't want to burden her white ass after a day of dealing with your snotty, kleptomaniacal spawn. i offer no solutions but for this one. don't get married, have at least four girlfriends who pay for you at all times, and spend your money on making something out of yourself.
gone are the days when the hopes and dreams of one man could rest on the backs of his children, in hopes that they, one day, would become the next rockefeller or gates. gone are the days of spreading one's genetic seed within an enclosed or for that point even fluctuating population, for with so many billions, your infintesimal contribution doesn't mean jack shit. instead, use that money to start a business, any kind of business, art, writing, philanthropic, carpentry. not that you can't have both, but for chirstsakes at least wait until you're forty and have had some fun with your life before knocking up some innocent young filly.
then you can pass on some real fucking world wisdom to those little anklebiters, and teach them to doubt everything, even your own authority, while making sure they understand the importance of self-respect and the sanctity of the human spirit. and for the love of god have them read, and i mean READ, the classics, from Herodotus over Traven, stopping by at Kant's house for a handjob, and ending up ultimately with Hunter S.T. for a rum soaked introduction to the life of a true and virtuous firebrand. give them Stevenson, Gaiman and Gibson for a jog into the fantastic unknown, and teach them to TALK BACK, eshewing the facade of authority for true discourse and a real, unbridled stretching of the mind.
to crush the spirit of a rambunctious and curious soul for the sake of conformity to the social norm is a crime, and should be punished as such. for it is he who steps outside of his bounds and stretches, in whatever direction he chooses, that may fly too close to the sun, and not he who kowtows before the false facade of justice and the public good, for he is doomed to oblivion, and his name will be as quickly forgotten, as a sandcastle built at low tide. Enough. and that's about all I have to say on that. have one with me now, and let us soothe the beast inside.
X
28 December 2005
consequences of the NYC MTA strike...
Wearily, the man approached, slipping here and there on the icy pavement. He paused, resting on a wellworn handrail outside of a ginmill in the final stages of opening, removed his tweed driving hat, and smoothed back his remaining silver locks. His ears shone a bright red in the early morning sunlight, and the sky was clear, and blue.
It was just another few steps, maybe half a block, until he would decend into the embracing warmth and step lightly onto an awaiting car and fly for Penn. Station. He had paid the doorman of his building, a massive, kind Puerto Rican man named Jesus, to send ahead of him the presents he had bought for his daughter Lisa, her husband James, and their brand new baby Mattie, who lived in Southold, far out on the tongue of Long Island.
He smiled gleefully to himself, thinking of Jesus' kindness, and at the thought of bouncing his first and only grandchild on the worn but clean slacks he'd had since 1972. So, in that seldom state of happiness did he approach the stairs, and failed to notice the police tape blocking off the entrance until it arrested his descent.
"What's this," he asked to the cold wind, the patches of windblown snow. Backing up slowly, freeing himself from the tenuous grasp, he turned, bewildered, and scanned his memory for the next available entrace to the veins and arteries of that fine city, his home for as long as he could remember.
...
Four blocks south, the old man paused again, puffing, for he had hurried, his excitement at seeing the new baby ebbing slightly at the frigid effort, only to come quickly rushing back in more full force every few steps. He rounded the corner, walked a few steps but spied, with his failing eyes, another distant yellow flutter. Crestfallen, deposed and down-right sad, the old man turned, and made for the 24-hour Pakistani market he knew would be one ave. block north.
He bent over slightly to read the wind-whipped paper, cursing himself for not brining his reading classes; he kept a pair at his daughter's cozy home.
But, finally:
MTA WORKER'S STRIKE -
GOTHAM IN STRANGLEHOLD
His heart jumped, fluttering erratically. After a few deep breaths, he looked around suspiciously, and guardedly removed his wallet, which contained just enough for the train fares there and back; he had spent the bulk of his meagre pension on baby things, and, in a fit of paternal goodness, on a nice, white gold necklace for his daughter, of whom he was so proud.
On the verge of tears, he quickly shuffled the ten or so blocks back to his apartment, quietly cursing the stoplights for marring his desperate progress, and finally, in a state of near panic, leaned heavily on the reception desk of the moderate building he called home.
"Jesus... please... please call Lisa... her number is..."
"Mr. Goodlit, calm down. You left out the back! so I could not tell you the subways are out. Workers striking today."
"I must... call her... find a way to get there..."
"I have cousin, Ramon, he driving out there later today. He can take you."
"No... must call her now..."
"Here, use my cellphone. What's the number?"
"631... damn it! Give me the phone!"
Jesus shrugged and handed the cellphone to Mr. Goodlit.
As he reached for it, pain flashed across his lined face, and his left side seemed to go slack. He tumbled to the ground, bashing his jaw on the tall wooden counter on the way down.
Jesus jumped up and rushed around, through the little swinging door, to kneel next to the fallen man.
"Jesus y Maria. Hold on, Mr. Goodlit." He dialed.
The street were jammed with cars in all directions. A siren blared loudly, startling a baby sleeping on the fourth floor of a rundown tenement.
...
Twenty minutes later two serous paramedics leaped out of the ambulance, which blithely blocked nearly a whole lane. People honked.
But, they were too late. Weak old eyes were gently forced shut, without ever having crinkled and creased at the sight of that newborn's unfound glee.
and so, you forked tongued bastard, I hope you live with the weight of this unfortunate and sad death on your backs. may your snug and smug jobs be taken over by banks upon gleaming banks of faithful processors in an unmarked building somewhere. X
It was just another few steps, maybe half a block, until he would decend into the embracing warmth and step lightly onto an awaiting car and fly for Penn. Station. He had paid the doorman of his building, a massive, kind Puerto Rican man named Jesus, to send ahead of him the presents he had bought for his daughter Lisa, her husband James, and their brand new baby Mattie, who lived in Southold, far out on the tongue of Long Island.
He smiled gleefully to himself, thinking of Jesus' kindness, and at the thought of bouncing his first and only grandchild on the worn but clean slacks he'd had since 1972. So, in that seldom state of happiness did he approach the stairs, and failed to notice the police tape blocking off the entrance until it arrested his descent.
"What's this," he asked to the cold wind, the patches of windblown snow. Backing up slowly, freeing himself from the tenuous grasp, he turned, bewildered, and scanned his memory for the next available entrace to the veins and arteries of that fine city, his home for as long as he could remember.
...
Four blocks south, the old man paused again, puffing, for he had hurried, his excitement at seeing the new baby ebbing slightly at the frigid effort, only to come quickly rushing back in more full force every few steps. He rounded the corner, walked a few steps but spied, with his failing eyes, another distant yellow flutter. Crestfallen, deposed and down-right sad, the old man turned, and made for the 24-hour Pakistani market he knew would be one ave. block north.
He bent over slightly to read the wind-whipped paper, cursing himself for not brining his reading classes; he kept a pair at his daughter's cozy home.
But, finally:
MTA WORKER'S STRIKE -
GOTHAM IN STRANGLEHOLD
His heart jumped, fluttering erratically. After a few deep breaths, he looked around suspiciously, and guardedly removed his wallet, which contained just enough for the train fares there and back; he had spent the bulk of his meagre pension on baby things, and, in a fit of paternal goodness, on a nice, white gold necklace for his daughter, of whom he was so proud.
On the verge of tears, he quickly shuffled the ten or so blocks back to his apartment, quietly cursing the stoplights for marring his desperate progress, and finally, in a state of near panic, leaned heavily on the reception desk of the moderate building he called home.
"Jesus... please... please call Lisa... her number is..."
"Mr. Goodlit, calm down. You left out the back! so I could not tell you the subways are out. Workers striking today."
"I must... call her... find a way to get there..."
"I have cousin, Ramon, he driving out there later today. He can take you."
"No... must call her now..."
"Here, use my cellphone. What's the number?"
"631... damn it! Give me the phone!"
Jesus shrugged and handed the cellphone to Mr. Goodlit.
As he reached for it, pain flashed across his lined face, and his left side seemed to go slack. He tumbled to the ground, bashing his jaw on the tall wooden counter on the way down.
Jesus jumped up and rushed around, through the little swinging door, to kneel next to the fallen man.
"Jesus y Maria. Hold on, Mr. Goodlit." He dialed.
The street were jammed with cars in all directions. A siren blared loudly, startling a baby sleeping on the fourth floor of a rundown tenement.
...
Twenty minutes later two serous paramedics leaped out of the ambulance, which blithely blocked nearly a whole lane. People honked.
But, they were too late. Weak old eyes were gently forced shut, without ever having crinkled and creased at the sight of that newborn's unfound glee.
and so, you forked tongued bastard, I hope you live with the weight of this unfortunate and sad death on your backs. may your snug and smug jobs be taken over by banks upon gleaming banks of faithful processors in an unmarked building somewhere. X
07 December 2005
why can't we all just get along
My daily struggle with my own inadequacies has begun to take a toll on interpersonal relationships. I simply cannot bring myself to respect others without the prerequisite of respecting myself. The knowledge of my financial predicament, sealed by my petty and cheap request for cash from my ailing and loving parent burns in a low blue light at the base of my every move, sucking at my spine, sapping the will to live and love and write. Booze takes the edge off, but I have not and will not let it tether me with its chemical lure.
These few days without it have seen a fourfold increase in vocabulary, a reawakening of the synapses which now are building at quarter steam. Complex situational analyses once again are flourishing, but they lead to awkward silences and faintly strange looks during conversation, as I ramble on about my sudden discovery of the root of someone’s problem, at least as seen my perspective of information received and gaps filled in via educated guessing. Once I am again fluid, and have relegated the boozing to more random occasions, I trust that life will once again retain its hue of promise and opportunity.
The last year in Dago has been taunting me with its calm and orderliness. Money was readily available, running was creeping up to twenty miles a week, yoga was going well, and the blessed release of writing welcomed me back every night. Now, my plans for unemployment and a quick, cheap transfer to affordable digs dashed, accounts dried up, many grand in credit card debt, I look back on it with envy. May I not stumble and fall for too long.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)