Starting with the publication of the Communist Manifesto in the middle of the 19th century, workers began to unionize, demanding a greater share of the capital they had labored so hard to produce. Governments around the world went to great lengths to hinder the actions of these previously impoverished masses toward self-betterment, sending in armed forces and passing legislation to put them down and thereby, at least for a short time, protecting the vast holdings and wealth of the aristocratic upper classes.
The efforts to stamp out the workingman's desire for a livable wage faltered largely due to the zeal of the revolutionary movement and the sheer number of participating laborers. One of the effects this struggle had on societies at the time was to allow people, who theretofore had not had the means to move beyond their village or district, to travel to places remote and foreign in order to find work. Such migrations were possible in a time of relatively open borders and, compared to today, nearly non-existent passport and border controls.
Following the calamity of the First World War, a war fought for increases in liberty, passport and border restrictions were greatly increased, to the point where nowadays it is impossible to travel anywhere within a country and especially beyond its sovereign borders without some form of picture identification. Previously, travel had been so expensive and the costs involved in obtaining traveling papers so great as to restrict travel-ability to all but the most well-to-do.
Positively, this widespread attempt at restricting the movement of workers and thereby the expansion of the socialist paradigm was unsuccessful in hindering the spread of the ideal of egalitarian earning potential.
Negatively, this worldwide traveling restriction has greatly reduced the liberty of the citizenry as a whole. It has put at risk of incarceration not one man but many. It has led to the militarization of society at large (think armed troopers in airports) and has given the federated governments of the world the ability to browbeat and otherwise strike great fear in the hearts of honest and patriotic people.
There is no going back. We will never again, at least not in our current world society, be allowed to follow the winds of shifting fortune freely. We will always be kept nicely under control, with fear in our hearts, and with a passport clutched in our sweating hands.
Let liberty once again reign free - unbind her. There are certainly risks involved, to person and to property. The greatest risk, however, is to the notion that the American government has assured us of Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness. Once Liberty is fully taken from us, and the promise of the Declaration of Independence has been broken, our lives and our happiness are forfeit.
Ultima Ratio Regum.
JP
americanifesto.com | updated Tuesday, Thursday, Sunday
07 October 2010
loaded for bear
The boxy car slows to a halt at a stoplight. Messages and swastikas have been drawn on its dusty windows, and trash and discarded clothing litter the interior.
"Look at those guys next to us," Goodkill says from the driver's seat, pointing at another boxy car of the same make sitting pristinely next to them, its exterior spotless and waxed, its three occupants looking as if they were just enjoying the hell out of being alive. "I wonder what it must be like to roll with a crew that isn't constantly fucking up and therefore constantly on the lookout for the cops."
Steele does a bump off the bullet and hands it up to Tall Tony.
"Are you trying to say we do too many drugs, Winston?" Tall Tony asks as he prepares a bump for Goodkill, who is at least four beers deep at this point although he is driving like a champion, texting and changing the music while steering with his knees.
"There is no such thing as too many drugs."
"Cop three streets up on the left," Steele says, peering past the headrest so he can provide the third set of eyes needed to keep the intel in the car as fresh as possible.
"I see him," Goodkill says, glaring in the rear-view mirror as the squadcar rushes past. "Is he making a u-turn? No, good. Tony, fix me up another bump - that last one was weak as shit."
Steele leans back into the trunk-space, pretending to look for something but really casing the traffic behind them for the telltale form of a Crown Victoria or a suspicious bump on top of one of the cars. "All clear to the rear," he says, fishing out a bag of grass from its hiding place and assembling the materials needed to roll a joint.
"I'm really curious what it would be like to roll clean, with your boys, not drunk, not high, not more high, just sober and going to do something kinda lame but also kinda fun, like disk-golf."
"Sounds fucking boring to me," Tall Tony says, taking the joint from Steele and jabbing the window button to ash out the window. "Could you un-child-lock the windows, Goodkill?"
"Well, my lungs are killing me so, no, I will not un-child-lock the windows because we are hotboxing this vehicle in order for me to get a contact high from you chronmonsters."
"Cop a quarter mile ahead of us, two lanes over to the right, speed dropping, blinker activated, and he's gone," Steele says. "Could someone please pass me the bullet?"
"Look at those guys next to us," Goodkill says from the driver's seat, pointing at another boxy car of the same make sitting pristinely next to them, its exterior spotless and waxed, its three occupants looking as if they were just enjoying the hell out of being alive. "I wonder what it must be like to roll with a crew that isn't constantly fucking up and therefore constantly on the lookout for the cops."
Steele does a bump off the bullet and hands it up to Tall Tony.
"Are you trying to say we do too many drugs, Winston?" Tall Tony asks as he prepares a bump for Goodkill, who is at least four beers deep at this point although he is driving like a champion, texting and changing the music while steering with his knees.
"There is no such thing as too many drugs."
"Cop three streets up on the left," Steele says, peering past the headrest so he can provide the third set of eyes needed to keep the intel in the car as fresh as possible.
"I see him," Goodkill says, glaring in the rear-view mirror as the squadcar rushes past. "Is he making a u-turn? No, good. Tony, fix me up another bump - that last one was weak as shit."
Steele leans back into the trunk-space, pretending to look for something but really casing the traffic behind them for the telltale form of a Crown Victoria or a suspicious bump on top of one of the cars. "All clear to the rear," he says, fishing out a bag of grass from its hiding place and assembling the materials needed to roll a joint.
"I'm really curious what it would be like to roll clean, with your boys, not drunk, not high, not more high, just sober and going to do something kinda lame but also kinda fun, like disk-golf."
"Sounds fucking boring to me," Tall Tony says, taking the joint from Steele and jabbing the window button to ash out the window. "Could you un-child-lock the windows, Goodkill?"
"Well, my lungs are killing me so, no, I will not un-child-lock the windows because we are hotboxing this vehicle in order for me to get a contact high from you chronmonsters."
"Cop a quarter mile ahead of us, two lanes over to the right, speed dropping, blinker activated, and he's gone," Steele says. "Could someone please pass me the bullet?"
01 October 2010
on the futility of firm beliefs
I believe in nothing, and everything. I believe in all gods and creeds and think they are all so much baloney. For many years, indeed for most of my life have I lived, although mostly secretly so as not to offend my late father the Lutheran pastor, outside of the umbrella of true and diehard belief.
For decades I have been confused and scared by this condition of non-belief, for with everyone around me praying to some unseen and unfelt god I was afraid that my lack of faith would somehow damn me to eternal hellfire and also send me down a spiraling hole of woe and discontentment. While the argument could be made that this has in fact happened, that I have descended into the rabbit hole of rationalistic pantheism and emerged a crippled and worthless soul, I argue that my path has left me with the ability to embrace and pursue avenues to Happiness that I might otherwise have missed (by ruling out avenues to Happiness that I have tried and abandoned). It allows me to question all aspects of my understanding of myself and the world and has kept me away from the shackles of belief when faced with trying times.
Were I a true believer in some sort of omnipotent god, I would not have been able to weather the Night at Elysium in which I suffered hallucinations from food poisoning that allowed me to change fundamental aspects of my personality (i.e. to ease the pain of losing my mother and thus bridle my need to wantonly abuse substances). Instead I would likely have quaked in fear and prayed for guidance for weeks thereafter and would not have had the self-control to wrest from the situation a positive ending.
One major downside to this lack of firm beliefs is the fact that, after every confidence-shattering event such as a major relationship breakup or death in the family, I must rebuild my self-esteem and work hard to right the balance of positive and negative thoughts in my head, without the help of a religious support group, without a shoulder to cry on, without assistance from the outside. (Believe me: no one really cares, and if they say they care, they are either flat out lying or otherwise trying to sell you something.)
You are born alone, you live beholden to none but those whom you choose, and you die alone. I understand that while my refusal to seek outside help retards the healing process to a large degree, each subsequent existential crisis, although unique and painful in its own fashion, becomes easier for me to recover from and the process of restructuring my psyche happens more quickly and with fewer longterm errors.
I firmly believe that everyone I know and love will abandon and betray me at their earliest convenience. I also believe that those I know and love will support me fully until the end of my days, although I have withdrawn nearly all attempts to gain said support, which is an inhuman and unnatural state of being because people expect you to rely on them and if you don't they cut you out of their lives in subtle but profound ways.
To sum this up a bit, I have tried to stop complaining about my hardships, and try to deal with them quietly and privately, without a strict reliance on some form of scripture, with only the Tao Te Ching to get me through the hardest parts, the best book for those seeking to mold their psyche and quell internal unrest I have ever read. Most people, however, like it when people complain, because they then have an excuse to complain themselves and get all the pent up tension off their chest.
Well, this went from firm beliefs to interpersonal relationships, but as almost no one but I (and you X0) reads this blog, continuity is paramount to rambling expression.
"Life is pain, Highness. Anyone who says differently is selling something." W. Goldman, The Princess Bride
numquam ponenda est pluralitas sine necessitate.
JPR
For decades I have been confused and scared by this condition of non-belief, for with everyone around me praying to some unseen and unfelt god I was afraid that my lack of faith would somehow damn me to eternal hellfire and also send me down a spiraling hole of woe and discontentment. While the argument could be made that this has in fact happened, that I have descended into the rabbit hole of rationalistic pantheism and emerged a crippled and worthless soul, I argue that my path has left me with the ability to embrace and pursue avenues to Happiness that I might otherwise have missed (by ruling out avenues to Happiness that I have tried and abandoned). It allows me to question all aspects of my understanding of myself and the world and has kept me away from the shackles of belief when faced with trying times.
Were I a true believer in some sort of omnipotent god, I would not have been able to weather the Night at Elysium in which I suffered hallucinations from food poisoning that allowed me to change fundamental aspects of my personality (i.e. to ease the pain of losing my mother and thus bridle my need to wantonly abuse substances). Instead I would likely have quaked in fear and prayed for guidance for weeks thereafter and would not have had the self-control to wrest from the situation a positive ending.
One major downside to this lack of firm beliefs is the fact that, after every confidence-shattering event such as a major relationship breakup or death in the family, I must rebuild my self-esteem and work hard to right the balance of positive and negative thoughts in my head, without the help of a religious support group, without a shoulder to cry on, without assistance from the outside. (Believe me: no one really cares, and if they say they care, they are either flat out lying or otherwise trying to sell you something.)
You are born alone, you live beholden to none but those whom you choose, and you die alone. I understand that while my refusal to seek outside help retards the healing process to a large degree, each subsequent existential crisis, although unique and painful in its own fashion, becomes easier for me to recover from and the process of restructuring my psyche happens more quickly and with fewer longterm errors.
I firmly believe that everyone I know and love will abandon and betray me at their earliest convenience. I also believe that those I know and love will support me fully until the end of my days, although I have withdrawn nearly all attempts to gain said support, which is an inhuman and unnatural state of being because people expect you to rely on them and if you don't they cut you out of their lives in subtle but profound ways.
To sum this up a bit, I have tried to stop complaining about my hardships, and try to deal with them quietly and privately, without a strict reliance on some form of scripture, with only the Tao Te Ching to get me through the hardest parts, the best book for those seeking to mold their psyche and quell internal unrest I have ever read. Most people, however, like it when people complain, because they then have an excuse to complain themselves and get all the pent up tension off their chest.
Well, this went from firm beliefs to interpersonal relationships, but as almost no one but I (and you X0) reads this blog, continuity is paramount to rambling expression.
"Life is pain, Highness. Anyone who says differently is selling something." W. Goldman, The Princess Bride
numquam ponenda est pluralitas sine necessitate.
JPR
23 September 2010
cinders
legacies of past torment slough off, falling like spent matches from the hands of a frantic addict, dropping like scales from my eyes, releasing the iron hold they have, through fear and insecurity, over the past decade built into the recesses of my very subconsciousness.
gone are the days of inability and indecision. here are the times of patience, mercy and productivity.
Ultima Ratio Regum.
X
gone are the days of inability and indecision. here are the times of patience, mercy and productivity.
Ultima Ratio Regum.
X
31 August 2010
Chiang Mai
The fat man with the shaved head is lying in the red ceramic tiles when I enter the temple, snoring lightly in a fitful sleep. His head is propped on a bunch of the seat coverings the old women rent to tourists wanting to sit on the broad red wooden seats that line the inner walls. Beautifully rendered scenes of the life of the Buddha cover the walls, and the rear of the main shrine is closed by a door upon which is painted a demon outlined in gold.
Wat Chiang Man sits at the the north-eastern end of the old city in Chiang Mai, close by the rippling city walls that emerge from the still waters of the moat like stone waves frozen in time. I am doing exactly what I love to do - getting lost in a foreign city, dumbfounding the natives with my slow, aimless footfalls and trying to find the cracks in the cityscape, the way to its inner core, the sweat from my brow evaporating on the broken pavement.
I had arrived at a good time, Sunday night, when the street that runs into the eastern city portal of Tae Phae Gate becomes Walking Street, a cobbled lane packed with merchants and round-eyed tourists sampling the wares of the North. The taxi driver, likely in a gesture of kindness, had dropped me off at Rux Thai, a guest house one very dark, windy and short walk from the Street of Dreams, the local massage parlor and whore hangout street.
The door to my room does not latch or lock from the outside, and there is a bloody stain in the center of my bedsheet that has faded in the wash. I stash my valuables and passport in the ceiling tiles above the sink before heading over to Tae Phae Gate, and check out very early the next morning.
"A city can only be learned through the feet," my personal traveling motto goes, and so after padding quietly past the still slumbering monk, I wade out into the blast furnace heat of the late summer sun, stopping to pay a toothless old woman 100 Bhat ($3) so I can release a few starlings - for good luck, she says - that will most likely return to their cages as soon as I clear the temple gates.
A few blind turns later and I am across the moat, walking down a street without a sidewalk, inches from traffic, passing businesses selling home appliances and scooters, paint and furnishings, not a FamilyMart in sight, the only person, foreign or local, actually walking on that street at that time, drawing incredulous stares from the wise Thai sweating in the shade.
The trick to getting lost and finding your way back out again hale and hearty is to never stop moving. Never stop moving and update your internal map with as much data as possible so that you can eventually orient yourself by landmarks alone, in the dark, in the rain, with total confidence and zero fear.
Head up, back straight, once more into the breach, my brothers - this dark alley looks fine, only a few nice gents lounging at the far end, staring at you as you approach, watching you silently as you pass. They probably just want to invite you over for a sit and a smoke, so do not cross to the other side of the street, or show any sort of hesitation, but march at them head on, your face a mask of benevolent indifference.
A seven year-old in a blue and green school uniform approaches me while I am buying Gatorade at the 7-11, sticks out his hand and says, ten Bhat. I shake my head and say "no" in street-Thai, but high-five him on the way out, which seems to make his day and elicits a cheer from the cluster of his classmates who have been watching from the aisle.
As I am walking down the Street of Dreams on the evening of my second night, I pass a couple of white Mennonite women standing in the shade in front of a massage/internet parlor, their bonnets and long dresses so senseless in the muggy heat, and I clamp my hand over my mouth to hide my laughter at their looks of pure and utter disappointment and disgust.
Now, here in Chaing Mai, I am seeing the real Thailand, not some fleabag tourist pit like Phuket/Patong or the big city stew that is Bangkok. It will be hard to leave.
A Honda - my kingdom for a Honda.
from Siam,
JP out
Wat Chiang Man sits at the the north-eastern end of the old city in Chiang Mai, close by the rippling city walls that emerge from the still waters of the moat like stone waves frozen in time. I am doing exactly what I love to do - getting lost in a foreign city, dumbfounding the natives with my slow, aimless footfalls and trying to find the cracks in the cityscape, the way to its inner core, the sweat from my brow evaporating on the broken pavement.
I had arrived at a good time, Sunday night, when the street that runs into the eastern city portal of Tae Phae Gate becomes Walking Street, a cobbled lane packed with merchants and round-eyed tourists sampling the wares of the North. The taxi driver, likely in a gesture of kindness, had dropped me off at Rux Thai, a guest house one very dark, windy and short walk from the Street of Dreams, the local massage parlor and whore hangout street.
The door to my room does not latch or lock from the outside, and there is a bloody stain in the center of my bedsheet that has faded in the wash. I stash my valuables and passport in the ceiling tiles above the sink before heading over to Tae Phae Gate, and check out very early the next morning.
"A city can only be learned through the feet," my personal traveling motto goes, and so after padding quietly past the still slumbering monk, I wade out into the blast furnace heat of the late summer sun, stopping to pay a toothless old woman 100 Bhat ($3) so I can release a few starlings - for good luck, she says - that will most likely return to their cages as soon as I clear the temple gates.
A few blind turns later and I am across the moat, walking down a street without a sidewalk, inches from traffic, passing businesses selling home appliances and scooters, paint and furnishings, not a FamilyMart in sight, the only person, foreign or local, actually walking on that street at that time, drawing incredulous stares from the wise Thai sweating in the shade.
The trick to getting lost and finding your way back out again hale and hearty is to never stop moving. Never stop moving and update your internal map with as much data as possible so that you can eventually orient yourself by landmarks alone, in the dark, in the rain, with total confidence and zero fear.
Head up, back straight, once more into the breach, my brothers - this dark alley looks fine, only a few nice gents lounging at the far end, staring at you as you approach, watching you silently as you pass. They probably just want to invite you over for a sit and a smoke, so do not cross to the other side of the street, or show any sort of hesitation, but march at them head on, your face a mask of benevolent indifference.
A seven year-old in a blue and green school uniform approaches me while I am buying Gatorade at the 7-11, sticks out his hand and says, ten Bhat. I shake my head and say "no" in street-Thai, but high-five him on the way out, which seems to make his day and elicits a cheer from the cluster of his classmates who have been watching from the aisle.
As I am walking down the Street of Dreams on the evening of my second night, I pass a couple of white Mennonite women standing in the shade in front of a massage/internet parlor, their bonnets and long dresses so senseless in the muggy heat, and I clamp my hand over my mouth to hide my laughter at their looks of pure and utter disappointment and disgust.
Now, here in Chaing Mai, I am seeing the real Thailand, not some fleabag tourist pit like Phuket/Patong or the big city stew that is Bangkok. It will be hard to leave.
A Honda - my kingdom for a Honda.
from Siam,
JP out
19 July 2010
Happiness restricted
I, an emancipated adult and full citizen of these United States should and ought right be able to so pursue my Happiness, so long as that pursuit does not hinder other citizens' pursuit and does not in any way do harm to children or other beings, just as well as I see fit. In the times of the Prohibition of alcohol and that ill-forged amendment that was removed from our sacred pages, reducing the power of organized criminals and allowing the sale of a drug that Americans clamored for to be taxed and thus serve the People in their attempts to better their own lives and the lives of those around them. and now, today, another drug lies untapped, sweet sweet cannabis, of which the illicit sale generates billions for hardened groups of criminals when it could just as easily be taxed and controlled and be allowed to join the ranks of the other drugs like coffee or cancersticks but most of all foul booze, the blessed stink of it, drugs legally sold that lie within easy grasp of our children.
the consumption of said drug is one of my methods to pursue Happiness. were I allowed to grow it, a hardy plant that readily springs from the ground, and smoke it legally by myself in the confines of my property, alone or with other emancipated adults, out of reach of underformed minds, and in doing so pursue my Happiness without in any way restricting that of any other or harming any other person in any way in body or in spirit, would this not be protected under the Rights enumerated in the Declaration, protected unalienably, and bound to the nation by the unanimous declaration of the Second Cont. Congress?
A murderer who lusts for his craft, or a thief who engineers a scheme, restricts the ability of those around him to in peace live in liberty while pursuing their Happiness. The potential of weed is vast, its resources woefully underutilized.
tax marijuana now. legalize it. remember the Pursuit! think of your children. X
09 July 2010
in defense of socialism in America
A war of words rages in the national press. Ill-defined and ill-used, the terms of this war are more often ill-understood. The two most lofty ideas thrust down the throats of those among us who gain their news solely from television, are communism and capitalism.
With fear in their voices and portending overtones, the talking heads hold aloft the specter of communism as the great reborn evil of our time, wholly ignorant of the actual aim of the socialist drive. They equate communism with some dim childhood memory of backwoods Soviet failure, conjuring images of dusty children in rags playing in muddy streets in the shadows of endless concrete housing blocks, a breadline forming on the corner in the wan morning sun.
Media pundits and politically conservative affluent white males (i.e. Tea-Baggers) fear communism through no real fault of their own; they are only reacting to what they saw and heard during the Cold War, to the dire pictures painted by propaganda-mongers and censors.
Communism, just like capitalism, or democracy, is an Utopian fantasy envisioned to improve intra-human relations and to bring peace and prosperity to one and all. But, as fantasies go, they are all flawed, in that in their attempted execution they all fail to account for the worst of humanity's traits: greed. All attempts at communism in the last century failed to a large extent due to the greed of certain individuals high up within the system who exploited the toiling masses to gain power, wealth, or prestige. Capitalism, and its bastard underling, the corporation, is failing for the exact same reason: Those individuals with the proper drive and access to power amass vast fortunes (in the U.S., less than two percent of the population owns over half of all wealth) while millions of American children live in poverty and suffering. Our quasi-democratic system is failing to a large extent due to the greed-fueled efforts of lobbyists, who siphon government capacity away from efforts aimed at promoting the general Welfare, diverting them instead into schemes and systems designed solely to feed the money-hunger of the richest corporations.
We as a nation have devised and implemented socialist endeavors in the past, endeavors that have vastly improved the nation as a whole. Our highway system (an idea pioneered by the National Socialists in Germany in the 1930s) brings us together while tearing us apart. Our public libraries enrich the minds of young and old alike, giving us access to an unimaginable volume of data. Our public lands, located on mountain, hill, or plain, provide relief from our busy lives and allow us to retire to natural settings without paying exorbitant fees.
None of these three features of modern life would exist without the far-reaching gaze of the socialist. Under a purely capitalist regime, freeways would be tollways, libraries would be pay-by-the-page, and pristine mountain ranges would fall before the miner's pick.
In the Constitution of the United States and the Declaration of Independence alike, references are made to the people as We, to the defense as common, and to the Welfare as general, not specifically this person or that, one ethnic group or another, but to the citizenry as a whole. On the back of every dollar bill stands a bald eagle, his talons gripping the symbols of war and peace, his beak holding a banner that claims, E PLURIBUS UNUM. Translated, this Latin phrase means, Out of many, one.
Out of many people, one nation. Out of many dreams, one shining goal. (I would at this point like to depart on a tangent about the lack of freedom the American citizen has to do to himself as he sees best fit without harming others in the privacy of his own home, but that must wait for another time.)
If there has ever been a better slogan for a nation seeking the most noble aspirations of the fantasy of communism, I would like to hear it.
The Communist Manifesto, written by Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels a hundred and sixty odd years ago, is a simple document and a short read. In paperback form, the document runs to no longer than 25 pages. The objectives of socialism are very neatly and succinctly enumerated; they are explained in reasonable and understandable form. This is what makes them deadly, for it makes them accessible to the middling classes, to those with little education, to those toiling away their whole lives in honest labor only to see their ability to retire evaporate when the stock market wobbles.
We need socialism in America; it is our common destiny. The systems of commerce and government, as they have developed over the past century, have failed to provide the utmost for the common defense and to the fullest extent promote the general Welfare. Capitalism is not geared towards the betterment of the many, but toward the elevation of a few over all others. A more perfect Union will not be formed on television and cheap food, i.e. the new bread and circuses, alone.
We must reconsider the focus of our political leadership, and judge as a nation whether our government has become destructive of our Rights to Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness. Considering the monumental improvements to our collective wellbeing achieved by those brave leaders forging a socialist path in the peaceful period between the Great Wars, what unthinkable things could we accomplish together, as citizens united, a single nation of many millions of parts?
Remember - the socialist Utopia envisioned by Marx and Engels only arises from the ashes of full-blown capitalism. Perhaps we don't have to wait much longer.
If you are not convinced, at least debate. If you are still in the dark, read the Manifesto.
Ultima Ratio Regum.
X
With fear in their voices and portending overtones, the talking heads hold aloft the specter of communism as the great reborn evil of our time, wholly ignorant of the actual aim of the socialist drive. They equate communism with some dim childhood memory of backwoods Soviet failure, conjuring images of dusty children in rags playing in muddy streets in the shadows of endless concrete housing blocks, a breadline forming on the corner in the wan morning sun.
Media pundits and politically conservative affluent white males (i.e. Tea-Baggers) fear communism through no real fault of their own; they are only reacting to what they saw and heard during the Cold War, to the dire pictures painted by propaganda-mongers and censors.
Communism, just like capitalism, or democracy, is an Utopian fantasy envisioned to improve intra-human relations and to bring peace and prosperity to one and all. But, as fantasies go, they are all flawed, in that in their attempted execution they all fail to account for the worst of humanity's traits: greed. All attempts at communism in the last century failed to a large extent due to the greed of certain individuals high up within the system who exploited the toiling masses to gain power, wealth, or prestige. Capitalism, and its bastard underling, the corporation, is failing for the exact same reason: Those individuals with the proper drive and access to power amass vast fortunes (in the U.S., less than two percent of the population owns over half of all wealth) while millions of American children live in poverty and suffering. Our quasi-democratic system is failing to a large extent due to the greed-fueled efforts of lobbyists, who siphon government capacity away from efforts aimed at promoting the general Welfare, diverting them instead into schemes and systems designed solely to feed the money-hunger of the richest corporations.
We as a nation have devised and implemented socialist endeavors in the past, endeavors that have vastly improved the nation as a whole. Our highway system (an idea pioneered by the National Socialists in Germany in the 1930s) brings us together while tearing us apart. Our public libraries enrich the minds of young and old alike, giving us access to an unimaginable volume of data. Our public lands, located on mountain, hill, or plain, provide relief from our busy lives and allow us to retire to natural settings without paying exorbitant fees.
None of these three features of modern life would exist without the far-reaching gaze of the socialist. Under a purely capitalist regime, freeways would be tollways, libraries would be pay-by-the-page, and pristine mountain ranges would fall before the miner's pick.
In the Constitution of the United States and the Declaration of Independence alike, references are made to the people as We, to the defense as common, and to the Welfare as general, not specifically this person or that, one ethnic group or another, but to the citizenry as a whole. On the back of every dollar bill stands a bald eagle, his talons gripping the symbols of war and peace, his beak holding a banner that claims, E PLURIBUS UNUM. Translated, this Latin phrase means, Out of many, one.
Out of many people, one nation. Out of many dreams, one shining goal. (I would at this point like to depart on a tangent about the lack of freedom the American citizen has to do to himself as he sees best fit without harming others in the privacy of his own home, but that must wait for another time.)
If there has ever been a better slogan for a nation seeking the most noble aspirations of the fantasy of communism, I would like to hear it.
The Communist Manifesto, written by Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels a hundred and sixty odd years ago, is a simple document and a short read. In paperback form, the document runs to no longer than 25 pages. The objectives of socialism are very neatly and succinctly enumerated; they are explained in reasonable and understandable form. This is what makes them deadly, for it makes them accessible to the middling classes, to those with little education, to those toiling away their whole lives in honest labor only to see their ability to retire evaporate when the stock market wobbles.
We need socialism in America; it is our common destiny. The systems of commerce and government, as they have developed over the past century, have failed to provide the utmost for the common defense and to the fullest extent promote the general Welfare. Capitalism is not geared towards the betterment of the many, but toward the elevation of a few over all others. A more perfect Union will not be formed on television and cheap food, i.e. the new bread and circuses, alone.
We must reconsider the focus of our political leadership, and judge as a nation whether our government has become destructive of our Rights to Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness. Considering the monumental improvements to our collective wellbeing achieved by those brave leaders forging a socialist path in the peaceful period between the Great Wars, what unthinkable things could we accomplish together, as citizens united, a single nation of many millions of parts?
Remember - the socialist Utopia envisioned by Marx and Engels only arises from the ashes of full-blown capitalism. Perhaps we don't have to wait much longer.
If you are not convinced, at least debate. If you are still in the dark, read the Manifesto.
Ultima Ratio Regum.
X
29 June 2010
flying squirrels et al.
The stained coffee mug reads, in German: I am the master of the house. Four days of drippings streak its side, evidence of my laziness and unwillingness to spend forty-five seconds each day washing the dishes.
Who is now the master of the house? Certainly not I; a transient I am, here to sit out the terms of my punishment, my mood oscillating between abject woe and patient indifference, too often lured to the TV for a good numbing of the mind. At work at night, my thoughts run wild, the painful images of past loss recycling until I am reduced to tears. At day, during my few hours of leisure, I rebuild my confidence and make the small steps needed to keep this house and my life up and running.
After thirty years of painstaking neglect, the saying may be true about the house, but no one is master of the five other acres of this property. Thick vines run between the treecrowns, building wide epiphytic networks that will eventually pull the host to the ground. The underbrush is thick with thorny and poisonous brush that rends the flesh and causes it to itch. The stream is lost in places to overhanging masses of bamboo and other opportunistic weeds that make empty spaces their home.
A thousand shades of green explode in the sudden sunlight while a million droplets descend through layers of leaves, their passage a wild staccato in a cloudburst's sullen wake. I approach an ancient weathered tree and knock thrice to check its soundness and with a frantic scramble out pops a flying squirrel who climbs ten feet and then stops, flaps of gliding skin loose about his sides, his wide flat tail shuddering slightly in time with his thundering heart. I merge quietly back onto the path and move along the top of the northern ridge, slowing at the sound of furious scolding up ahead, hoping to see the mother owl, and yes, there she is, her wide shadow the only evidence of her passage, and I turn just in time to see her flap into the eaves of a massive oak, harassed as she flies by a handful of smaller, seed-eating birds I recognize from their winter begging.
No, I am not the master of this house, of this land. The beasts are the masters here, living out their lives in this postage stamp of natural bounty, safe from harm by all but each other.
Ultima Ratio Regum.
JP
Who is now the master of the house? Certainly not I; a transient I am, here to sit out the terms of my punishment, my mood oscillating between abject woe and patient indifference, too often lured to the TV for a good numbing of the mind. At work at night, my thoughts run wild, the painful images of past loss recycling until I am reduced to tears. At day, during my few hours of leisure, I rebuild my confidence and make the small steps needed to keep this house and my life up and running.
After thirty years of painstaking neglect, the saying may be true about the house, but no one is master of the five other acres of this property. Thick vines run between the treecrowns, building wide epiphytic networks that will eventually pull the host to the ground. The underbrush is thick with thorny and poisonous brush that rends the flesh and causes it to itch. The stream is lost in places to overhanging masses of bamboo and other opportunistic weeds that make empty spaces their home.
A thousand shades of green explode in the sudden sunlight while a million droplets descend through layers of leaves, their passage a wild staccato in a cloudburst's sullen wake. I approach an ancient weathered tree and knock thrice to check its soundness and with a frantic scramble out pops a flying squirrel who climbs ten feet and then stops, flaps of gliding skin loose about his sides, his wide flat tail shuddering slightly in time with his thundering heart. I merge quietly back onto the path and move along the top of the northern ridge, slowing at the sound of furious scolding up ahead, hoping to see the mother owl, and yes, there she is, her wide shadow the only evidence of her passage, and I turn just in time to see her flap into the eaves of a massive oak, harassed as she flies by a handful of smaller, seed-eating birds I recognize from their winter begging.
No, I am not the master of this house, of this land. The beasts are the masters here, living out their lives in this postage stamp of natural bounty, safe from harm by all but each other.
Ultima Ratio Regum.
JP
21 June 2010
for heroes a palpable need
Throughout history, heroes have emerged from the ranks of average men to change the situation of all for the better. They are often unwittingly thrust into their elevated positions, intitially reluctant to bear the responsibility at hand. The hero sees the change that is needed in the world, and although it might yet be an evil that is bearable, she rebels against the status quo and puts herself at the ultimate risk, the loss of liberty, in order to become the change she seeks to make in the lives of others. After living and working among these simple minded people, and observing their ways, I find them too deeply entrenched in their petty, predictable, utterly mundane routines to even entertain the hope that they might one day live better or more fulfilling lives, let alone take upon themselves the responsibility for making that better life a reality.
Shall I, as they apparently have, abandon all hope that the way things are is not how they must by default be? Far better to insulate myself from their ignorance and small-mindedness, and to keep within my breat the fire burning that will light my way along this dark and torturous path to a future of bright and shining toil, that place where the full breadth of my faculties find expression, not in service to another, but to the benefit of mankind.
The greatest challenge I see is how to stir up these masses of working poor, these people who likely fill the forgotten pockets of America's exurban landscape from one coast to the other, and to convince them that the future lies not in service to others, but in the decisions they themselves make daily, and in their hidden and untapped abilities, whose expression could lift them from the daily useless toil in pursuit of cheap and simple goals and redirect their efforts to the discovery and propagation of Happiness.
26 April 2010
mine furor
Mine furor has gripped America.
It is the topic of conversation from the Shenandoah to the Rocky Mountains. Buried in years past under a mountain of disinterest, mine furor surfaces when we least suspect, spreading heartbreak and woe throughout our collective consciousness.
There is only one sure way to combat mine furor's iron grip - total war on the forces of greed and indifference. We cannot afford to ignore our coal-black brothers any longer, toiling as they do in places unknown, in conditions unimaginable.
Join today - your country needs you.
Ultima Ratio Regum.
X
It is the topic of conversation from the Shenandoah to the Rocky Mountains. Buried in years past under a mountain of disinterest, mine furor surfaces when we least suspect, spreading heartbreak and woe throughout our collective consciousness.
There is only one sure way to combat mine furor's iron grip - total war on the forces of greed and indifference. We cannot afford to ignore our coal-black brothers any longer, toiling as they do in places unknown, in conditions unimaginable.
Join today - your country needs you.
Ultima Ratio Regum.
X
16 April 2010
Reline your stomach today with Relinerize!
ARE you tired of relying on your body to renew your stomach lining every week?
Studies have shown that the body often takes too long to reline the stomach, which, due to the constant presence of acidic digestive fluids crucial to the digestive process, is in a perpetual death spiral of destruction and rejuvenation. Relinerize adheres to the stomach wall and expands quickly to cover the entire organ with a thick coat of cells ten times the width of the average stomach wall.
"The thickness of a Relinerized (TM) stomach wall is the key to the product's success," Mary Yardmoth, lead researcher on the Relinerize developmental team, said. "With our new product, the speed of degradation to the stomach wall is slowed dramatically. An additional benefit of the Relinerized stomach's reduced capacity is marked but healthy weight loss similar but far superior to the invasive practice of stomach stapling."
Bioregenetics International announced last week from its headquarters in Bangor, Maine, a revolutionary new way to ensure that the human stomach remains properly lined.
"People are fed up with the inconvenience of natural stomach lining regeneration," Dr. Thornton Churlish, director of product development at Bioregenetics, said. "Our product provides them with a feasible alternative to the weekly hassle of standard regeneration."
The new product, named Relinerize (TM), is a half pound of stomach lining starter cells that, once swallowed whole, lines your stomach with a more robust covering than usual, saving your body effort and reducing wasteful energy consumption. Clinical trials on Rhesus primates have shown a remarkable reduction in energy usage due to constant regeneration and a reduced dependency on shellfish as a major dietary supplement. Relinerize, which must only be taken once every three months, completely eliminates the natural process of stomach lining rejuvenation, a process that occurs regularly in most healthy people.
"People are fed up with the inconvenience of natural stomach lining regeneration," Dr. Thornton Churlish, director of product development at Bioregenetics, said. "Our product provides them with a feasible alternative to the weekly hassle of standard regeneration."
The new product, named Relinerize (TM), is a half pound of stomach lining starter cells that, once swallowed whole, lines your stomach with a more robust covering than usual, saving your body effort and reducing wasteful energy consumption. Clinical trials on Rhesus primates have shown a remarkable reduction in energy usage due to constant regeneration and a reduced dependency on shellfish as a major dietary supplement. Relinerize, which must only be taken once every three months, completely eliminates the natural process of stomach lining rejuvenation, a process that occurs regularly in most healthy people.
Studies have shown that the body often takes too long to reline the stomach, which, due to the constant presence of acidic digestive fluids crucial to the digestive process, is in a perpetual death spiral of destruction and rejuvenation. Relinerize adheres to the stomach wall and expands quickly to cover the entire organ with a thick coat of cells ten times the width of the average stomach wall.
"The thickness of a Relinerized (TM) stomach wall is the key to the product's success," Mary Yardmoth, lead researcher on the Relinerize developmental team, said. "With our new product, the speed of degradation to the stomach wall is slowed dramatically. An additional benefit of the Relinerized stomach's reduced capacity is marked but healthy weight loss similar but far superior to the invasive practice of stomach stapling."
While Bioregenetics says that the ingestible version of Relinerize is easy to swallow, they have hinted at the development of a new, implantable, capsulized miniature biofactory that functions much like implantable birth control devices. "We understand that most consumers are willing and able to dry-swallow a half pound of gelatinous membrane," Churlish noted, "but there is a small segment of the population that would rather have a miniature cellular production factory sewn onto the outside of their stomach pouch."
Relinerize is shipped via special overnight delivery in a sleek foam container marked BIO-HAZARD in bold red lettering, making it easy to spot. The product must be ingested immediately to guarantee the highest rate of success. "We want to stress the importance of immediate consumption," Yardmoth said; "you can't just leave your shipment of Relinerize to bake in the hot sun out in your mailbox."
For further information, and to order your free sample of Relinerize, e-mail relinerizeinfo@bioregenetics.net
14 April 2010
a profundity of beasts
My late father had a vision for the six and a half acres of land here in south-central Pennsylvania - to make it a safe haven for all sorts of flying and crawling and bounding beasts. While the township will not allow the front of the property to become wild, the rear of the property, which receives but minimal mowing, is slowly fulfilling his dream.
Over the past months, I have been witness to a wide variety of beasts moving through or living on our land. The most recent and exciting addition is a Barred Owl, or hoot owl, who has made her nest somewhere on the northern slope of this small valley. She is a fine bird, wide in wing and broad in head, who, I suspect, due to the fact that she is hunting during the day, is raising a brood of chicks in one of the many rotting trees. Hopefully the large, snow-white feral cat that lives in the barn does not try to raid her nest or otherwise scare her off.
I found the owl just yesterday fishing in the stream in broad daylight. Startled by my appearance, she flew silently to an adjacent sapling, where she eyed me with bland curiosity as I attempted to pole-vault over the stream and proceeded to fall ten feet into the gravel stream bed. Aside from a few cuts on my right elbow, I am unharmed.
Last week, while walking to the barn to fire up the Kubota tractor for a bit of mowing, I discovered a large snapping turtle sunning in the grass near the culvert. Wholly indifferent to my presence, the turtle, a fine specimen with a foot-long shell wainscoted by dried algae, moved not an inch when the tractor lumbered past five feet from its head. I was shocked to hear of the annual local tradition of making turtle soup out of these splendid creatures, and will be vigilant for anyone attempting to capture this snapper on our land.
Last year, I startled a large whooping crane fishing in the culvert's spill area, a pool not five feet wide and two deep. the bird rose on its grey and white wings, flying east toward Codorus Park, her long spindly legs tucked deep into her belly. In the same spot, the rushing current escaping the culvert, I found last week a pair of mating Mallard ducks who flew a dozen yards downstream, their wings clipping the overhanging bushes as they planed in for a landing in the shallow stream.
A woodpecker has been dismantling the rotting maple near the lane, eying me suspiciously when I walk out onto the front porch to see what all the knocking was about. Since her departure for trees unknown, finches have taken over the nesting hole she bored into the soft wood. Robins hop across the broad front lawn, pecking at the soil and throwing down the bugs and worms they find there. Brilliant cardinals flash bright red in the trees. A murder of crows, perhaps ten in number, harass the striped-tailed hawks and other birds of prey that circle the valley in search of food, pecking in flight at their feet.
Either the crows have moved on, or they do not mind the presence of the massive buzzard that wheels in the valley's updrafts, so large that when it passes overhead I mistake its shadow for a passing airplane.
These and many other, smaller, but no less worthy beasts live or eat in this valley. As I discover them, I will here mark their passage.
Ultima Ratio Regum. JP
Over the past months, I have been witness to a wide variety of beasts moving through or living on our land. The most recent and exciting addition is a Barred Owl, or hoot owl, who has made her nest somewhere on the northern slope of this small valley. She is a fine bird, wide in wing and broad in head, who, I suspect, due to the fact that she is hunting during the day, is raising a brood of chicks in one of the many rotting trees. Hopefully the large, snow-white feral cat that lives in the barn does not try to raid her nest or otherwise scare her off.
I found the owl just yesterday fishing in the stream in broad daylight. Startled by my appearance, she flew silently to an adjacent sapling, where she eyed me with bland curiosity as I attempted to pole-vault over the stream and proceeded to fall ten feet into the gravel stream bed. Aside from a few cuts on my right elbow, I am unharmed.
Last week, while walking to the barn to fire up the Kubota tractor for a bit of mowing, I discovered a large snapping turtle sunning in the grass near the culvert. Wholly indifferent to my presence, the turtle, a fine specimen with a foot-long shell wainscoted by dried algae, moved not an inch when the tractor lumbered past five feet from its head. I was shocked to hear of the annual local tradition of making turtle soup out of these splendid creatures, and will be vigilant for anyone attempting to capture this snapper on our land.
Last year, I startled a large whooping crane fishing in the culvert's spill area, a pool not five feet wide and two deep. the bird rose on its grey and white wings, flying east toward Codorus Park, her long spindly legs tucked deep into her belly. In the same spot, the rushing current escaping the culvert, I found last week a pair of mating Mallard ducks who flew a dozen yards downstream, their wings clipping the overhanging bushes as they planed in for a landing in the shallow stream.
A woodpecker has been dismantling the rotting maple near the lane, eying me suspiciously when I walk out onto the front porch to see what all the knocking was about. Since her departure for trees unknown, finches have taken over the nesting hole she bored into the soft wood. Robins hop across the broad front lawn, pecking at the soil and throwing down the bugs and worms they find there. Brilliant cardinals flash bright red in the trees. A murder of crows, perhaps ten in number, harass the striped-tailed hawks and other birds of prey that circle the valley in search of food, pecking in flight at their feet.
Either the crows have moved on, or they do not mind the presence of the massive buzzard that wheels in the valley's updrafts, so large that when it passes overhead I mistake its shadow for a passing airplane.
These and many other, smaller, but no less worthy beasts live or eat in this valley. As I discover them, I will here mark their passage.
Ultima Ratio Regum. JP
09 April 2010
easter airport cluster-fuck
It is the Thursday evening before Easter, two thousand and ten, and terminal one at San Diego airport is in chaos.
Three lanes lead past the terminal, bisected by a pedestrian crosswalk. As soon as this light turns red, arriving travelers bolt from the curb into the arms of their friends, where they hug, kiss, and eventually start loading their bags into too small trunks. Invariably, the light turns green again before the greeting and loading rituals are completed, and traffic remains halted rather than flowing.
In the waning light, passengers throng to the edge of the sidewalk, craning their necks to try and see over others craning their necks for a glimpse of the person coming to pick them up. Once positive contact is made, the motorized loved-one parks her car any way possible, in any proximity to the curb, shifts into park, and exits her vehicle for the welcoming ceremony.
There are only three security officers on duty. They patrol the hundreds of feet of curb as best they can, flashing their flashlights at drivers who have waited too long and hurrying along those inept at loading luggage. The officers might as well be herding cats. Cars stop in any and every lane to load passengers, blocking traffic behind them for minutes at a time. Vehicles cut sharply toward the curb, forcing those kind enough to let them into one lane to wait until someone in the next lane is kind enough to let them into that one, too. Unlike other, larger airports, the arriving and departing passengers share the same curb at Lindbergh Field; those travelers with little time to spare tussle with those recently freed from their cramped seats who are enjoying a leisurely, leg-stretching stroll.
I hate driving into airports to pick up arriving friends; there are few things I loathe more than entering a confined airport loop closely monitored by a cash-strapped police force. A close second in my pantheon of loathing, however, is people who turn into self-centered assholes the moment they see a loved one. You can almost see their vision tunneling, their hearing blocking out any frustrated honking, their skin flushing and their hearts fluttering. Without a moment's hesitation or the slightest concern for the needs of the vehicles behind them, they stop their car in the middle of traffic to hug, kiss, and chat with whomever they are collecting. Doing your hugging and kissing and chatting in the comfort of your own home, or at the next gas station, is not nearly as romantic or special as doing it in front of a packed airport, but it is far easier on the people who are sitting in traffic for the sole reason of physically picking up their peeps.
So, next time, consider leaving your ride in short term parking - you will have all the time in the world to say your hellos without fear of someone getting run over. You will not stoke the wrath of everyone around you with your obliviousness to how much of everyone's time you are wasting. And you won't have someone shining a flashlight in your eyes and yelling at you to move along.
In short, never abandon common courtesy, even if you haven't seen Granny in months.
Ultima Ratio Regum.
X
Three lanes lead past the terminal, bisected by a pedestrian crosswalk. As soon as this light turns red, arriving travelers bolt from the curb into the arms of their friends, where they hug, kiss, and eventually start loading their bags into too small trunks. Invariably, the light turns green again before the greeting and loading rituals are completed, and traffic remains halted rather than flowing.
In the waning light, passengers throng to the edge of the sidewalk, craning their necks to try and see over others craning their necks for a glimpse of the person coming to pick them up. Once positive contact is made, the motorized loved-one parks her car any way possible, in any proximity to the curb, shifts into park, and exits her vehicle for the welcoming ceremony.
There are only three security officers on duty. They patrol the hundreds of feet of curb as best they can, flashing their flashlights at drivers who have waited too long and hurrying along those inept at loading luggage. The officers might as well be herding cats. Cars stop in any and every lane to load passengers, blocking traffic behind them for minutes at a time. Vehicles cut sharply toward the curb, forcing those kind enough to let them into one lane to wait until someone in the next lane is kind enough to let them into that one, too. Unlike other, larger airports, the arriving and departing passengers share the same curb at Lindbergh Field; those travelers with little time to spare tussle with those recently freed from their cramped seats who are enjoying a leisurely, leg-stretching stroll.
I hate driving into airports to pick up arriving friends; there are few things I loathe more than entering a confined airport loop closely monitored by a cash-strapped police force. A close second in my pantheon of loathing, however, is people who turn into self-centered assholes the moment they see a loved one. You can almost see their vision tunneling, their hearing blocking out any frustrated honking, their skin flushing and their hearts fluttering. Without a moment's hesitation or the slightest concern for the needs of the vehicles behind them, they stop their car in the middle of traffic to hug, kiss, and chat with whomever they are collecting. Doing your hugging and kissing and chatting in the comfort of your own home, or at the next gas station, is not nearly as romantic or special as doing it in front of a packed airport, but it is far easier on the people who are sitting in traffic for the sole reason of physically picking up their peeps.
So, next time, consider leaving your ride in short term parking - you will have all the time in the world to say your hellos without fear of someone getting run over. You will not stoke the wrath of everyone around you with your obliviousness to how much of everyone's time you are wasting. And you won't have someone shining a flashlight in your eyes and yelling at you to move along.
In short, never abandon common courtesy, even if you haven't seen Granny in months.
Ultima Ratio Regum.
X
13 March 2010
poem - ranting and praying
HARSH voices arise, with terrible cries,
Of wasteful and communist leanings.
Loud do they shout, of reasons devout,
To mandate their Christ-i-an teachings.
They rant and they pray, to keep far at bay,
The chaos of true Libertie;
We Rationals hope, they'll renounce the Pope,
And abandon insanity.
Ultima Ratio Regum.
X
Of wasteful and communist leanings.
Loud do they shout, of reasons devout,
To mandate their Christ-i-an teachings.
They rant and they pray, to keep far at bay,
The chaos of true Libertie;
We Rationals hope, they'll renounce the Pope,
And abandon insanity.
Ultima Ratio Regum.
X
12 March 2010
a mess of liberty
LIBERTY is a messy ordeal.
A liberty-crazed citizen would pursue her pleasure regardless of what that pleasure may be. If she were given freedom of will, she would likely decide to speak her mind without censorship, consume whatever drugs she wished (in the privacy of her own home), or have whatever kind of sex she desired with whichever consenting adult she chose.
This cannot happen.
Americans cannot be granted liberty.
Worker productivity would shrink to zero, happiness levels would rise, and the Truth and Righteousness afforded solely to the true followers of Yahweh, the One and Only True God, would be threatened.
Vile philanderer President William J. Clinton, in a rare stroke of wisdom, signed the Defense of Marriage Act into law in 1996 (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Defense_of_Marriage_Act), thus upholding the longstanding institution of marriage culled from our Bronze-Age text, the Bible.
Our supreme leader George W. Bush showed his willingness to fight the threat of liberty in his efforts to constitutionally ban same sex marriage (http://www.cnn.com/2003/ALLPOLITICS/07/30/bush.gay.marriage/).
We thank you, Premier Bush, for your courage.
We condemn the slime-ball socialists and perverted progressives for derailing this momentous and vital piece of legislation.
The American people must be protected from themselves. The homosexuals cannot be allowed to marry, for it would bring shame to the hallowed and flawless institution of heterosexual marriage. These people, who are obviously confused and not of right minds, are not entitled to the rights enjoyed by others, because their views are obviously wrong and they are obviously criminally insane.
This whole business of same sex marriage could be stamped out quite easily.
First, announce that same sex marriage is legal.
Second, record the names and physical addresses of all people applying for same sex marriage licenses.
Third, remove the applicants from their stated physical addresses to holding facilities.
Fourth, reform said individuals through chemical, electrical, or biological means into Yahweh-fearing heterosexuals, or, failing that, work them to death in slave camps (i.e. holding facilities).
This is the ONLY way to eradicate homosexuality. Giving these people the same rights as heterosexuals is dangerous to the fabric of our society.
Imagine the chaos.
Imagine the consequences.
Think of the children.
Keep America Christian.
Bridgette C. Weatherbottom
(note: This post is satirical, and it in no way represents the author's views. The only morally proper thing to do is to let everyone in America do whatever they want to whomever they want, as long as all parties are consenting and no one gets hurt, unless they want to get hurt.)
A liberty-crazed citizen would pursue her pleasure regardless of what that pleasure may be. If she were given freedom of will, she would likely decide to speak her mind without censorship, consume whatever drugs she wished (in the privacy of her own home), or have whatever kind of sex she desired with whichever consenting adult she chose.
This cannot happen.
Americans cannot be granted liberty.
Worker productivity would shrink to zero, happiness levels would rise, and the Truth and Righteousness afforded solely to the true followers of Yahweh, the One and Only True God, would be threatened.
Vile philanderer President William J. Clinton, in a rare stroke of wisdom, signed the Defense of Marriage Act into law in 1996 (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Defense_of_Marriage_Act), thus upholding the longstanding institution of marriage culled from our Bronze-Age text, the Bible.
Our supreme leader George W. Bush showed his willingness to fight the threat of liberty in his efforts to constitutionally ban same sex marriage (http://www.cnn.com/2003/ALLPOLITICS/07/30/bush.gay.marriage/).
We thank you, Premier Bush, for your courage.
We condemn the slime-ball socialists and perverted progressives for derailing this momentous and vital piece of legislation.
The American people must be protected from themselves. The homosexuals cannot be allowed to marry, for it would bring shame to the hallowed and flawless institution of heterosexual marriage. These people, who are obviously confused and not of right minds, are not entitled to the rights enjoyed by others, because their views are obviously wrong and they are obviously criminally insane.
This whole business of same sex marriage could be stamped out quite easily.
First, announce that same sex marriage is legal.
Second, record the names and physical addresses of all people applying for same sex marriage licenses.
Third, remove the applicants from their stated physical addresses to holding facilities.
Fourth, reform said individuals through chemical, electrical, or biological means into Yahweh-fearing heterosexuals, or, failing that, work them to death in slave camps (i.e. holding facilities).
This is the ONLY way to eradicate homosexuality. Giving these people the same rights as heterosexuals is dangerous to the fabric of our society.
Imagine the chaos.
Imagine the consequences.
Think of the children.
Keep America Christian.
Bridgette C. Weatherbottom
(note: This post is satirical, and it in no way represents the author's views. The only morally proper thing to do is to let everyone in America do whatever they want to whomever they want, as long as all parties are consenting and no one gets hurt, unless they want to get hurt.)
05 March 2010
no American theocracy
THE United States of America were not built on a Christian tradition. Our country was not founded as a Christian nation.
For those who are still confused on this point, please refer to the Treaty of Tripoli from 1796. The Treaty, supported by founding father John Adams, was ratified by nearly every elected Senator.
Article 11 of the treaty states:
"... the Government of the United States of America is not, in any sense, founded on the Christian religion..." (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Treaty_of_Tripoli#Article_11)
The entire treaty, including article 11, was distributed via newspaper to the American people.
There was no public dissent. No angry voices arose to challenge the statement of non-Christianity. The people at the time, active participants in the founding of our nation, in no way disagreed with the statement.
And yet, today, a movement is growing to declare America a Christian nation. The leaders of this movement claim that the founding fathers built our young nation on the notions of Christianity.
There is little if any evidence for this argument. Far more evidence exists that the men who crafted the constitution, most notably Thomas Jefferson and John Adams, had atheistic leanings and were well informed of the dangers of a state religion.
An official Christianization of America would be devastating to our way of life. Instead of officers of the law enforcing legal standards, we would have religious officers persecuting those they deem unholy or sacrilegious. Instead of freedom of thought and freedom of religion, our thoughts and beliefs would be restricted.
Little good comes from a state religion.
Theocratic government in America is not a valid option - look at the theocracies in the Middle East, and imagine the suffering it would cause in our country.
Under a Christian theocracy, a man in America would be obligated to murder his new wife if, on their wedding night, he discovered she wasn't a virgin (Deuteronomy 22:13-21). He would be obligated to kill his children if they were disobedient (Leviticus 20:9). It would be his Yaweh-mandated duty to kill homosexuals suspected of buggering each other (Leviticus 20:13).
Americans should be allowed to believe in whatever religion they choose. I, for example, believe in Allah, Odin, Athena, the Flying Spaghetti Monster, Mercury, the Earth-Mother, and the pile of dog shit I saw on the street the other day.
Under a Christian theocracy, I would be killed if anyone even suspected my non-Christian beliefs.
If a Christian wants to believe that women are the servants of men, or that humans were made from clay, that is her preference.
It should not be the law of the land.
The American government cannot take sides in this issue; it must remain neutral and aloof.
Diversity is what makes America special. It keeps us alive, young, and vibrant. We cannot afford to close our minds to the bounty of human inventiveness and imagination.
Keep religion out of government, and keep America free.
Ultima Ratio Regum.
JP
28 February 2010
Stop Desecrating Our Flag
I was reading an article in Time magazine about the alarming rise of the fringe group calling itself the Tea Party. The article outlined this group's ambitions, the many and varied facets of its many and various subgroups, and the danger it poses to the American political system.
The Tea Baggers must be allowed to speak - it is their constitutional right.
They cannot, however, be allowed to desecrate the Standard of the United States.
In nearly every picture accompanying the article, Tea Baggers were shown wearing portions of the American flag affixed to or otherwise adorning their bodies.
Such displays are violations of the U.S. Code.
"No part of the flag should ever be used as a costume or athletic uniform. However, a flag patch may be affixed to the uniform of military personnel, firemen, policemen, and members of patriotic organizations. The flag represents a living country and is itself considered a living thing. Therefore, the lapel flag pin being a replica, should be worn on the left lapel near the heart." U.S. Code, Section 8, Subsection J, Respect for flag
(http://www.law.cornell.edu/uscode/html/uscode04/usc_sec_04_00000008----000-.html)
In their zeal to profess patriotism, many Americans don similar costumes. The Tea Baggers are not the only segment of the population abusing the flag in this manner - we see similar abuses every single day perpetrated by all groups of the population.
This type of display is an offense to our nation.
This type of display is against the law.
This type of display is more egregious than the burning of an American flag for purposes other than proper disposal.
Instead of proving patriotism, a section 8 violator demonstrates unforgivable ignorance. His desire to show love for his country is unlawful and insulting. He might just as well break wind on the Constitution.
So next time you spot a section 8 violator, remind him of the severity of his offense, and ask him to remove the offensive material. It is your patriotic duty. It is vital to our nation.
Our flag stands for more than the soil we tread or the votes we cast. It is not a hat to wear or a job to keep our bellies full. It is not a whimsical decoration or a sequined gown.
Our flag stands for Security and Happiness, for the precious ideals set forth in the Declaration of Independence.
It embodies a desire for liberty from tyranny and oppression. It represents a sacred and immutable Dream we all share.
Our flag flies over the bodies of our dead.
It projects the values of our nation.
We must treat it with the respect it deserves.
The desecration of our common symbol cannot continue. It must end.
Ultima Ratio Regum
JP
The Tea Baggers must be allowed to speak - it is their constitutional right.
They cannot, however, be allowed to desecrate the Standard of the United States.
In nearly every picture accompanying the article, Tea Baggers were shown wearing portions of the American flag affixed to or otherwise adorning their bodies.
Such displays are violations of the U.S. Code.
"No part of the flag should ever be used as a costume or athletic uniform. However, a flag patch may be affixed to the uniform of military personnel, firemen, policemen, and members of patriotic organizations. The flag represents a living country and is itself considered a living thing. Therefore, the lapel flag pin being a replica, should be worn on the left lapel near the heart." U.S. Code, Section 8, Subsection J, Respect for flag
(http://www.law.cornell.edu/uscode/html/uscode04/usc_sec_04_00000008----000-.html)
In their zeal to profess patriotism, many Americans don similar costumes. The Tea Baggers are not the only segment of the population abusing the flag in this manner - we see similar abuses every single day perpetrated by all groups of the population.
This type of display is an offense to our nation.
This type of display is against the law.
This type of display is more egregious than the burning of an American flag for purposes other than proper disposal.
Instead of proving patriotism, a section 8 violator demonstrates unforgivable ignorance. His desire to show love for his country is unlawful and insulting. He might just as well break wind on the Constitution.
So next time you spot a section 8 violator, remind him of the severity of his offense, and ask him to remove the offensive material. It is your patriotic duty. It is vital to our nation.
Our flag stands for more than the soil we tread or the votes we cast. It is not a hat to wear or a job to keep our bellies full. It is not a whimsical decoration or a sequined gown.
Our flag stands for Security and Happiness, for the precious ideals set forth in the Declaration of Independence.
It embodies a desire for liberty from tyranny and oppression. It represents a sacred and immutable Dream we all share.
Our flag flies over the bodies of our dead.
It projects the values of our nation.
We must treat it with the respect it deserves.
The desecration of our common symbol cannot continue. It must end.
Ultima Ratio Regum
JP
27 February 2010
demon literacy
Our quasi-democracy faces many dangers, but none as evil as literacy.
A woman who can read is likely to read.
Once she is hooked, it is nearly impossible for her to stop.
She will read books by foreign authors. She will read books about different styles of government. She will learn about cultures from around the world that make the contents of her mind a threat to humanity.
Fortunately, we have burnt the majority of such books in our weekly bonfires.
If you know of someone in possession of books not approved by the U.S. Censorship Bureau, please notify that Bureau immediately.
For bonfire locations in your community, call your local censor.
Ideas spread faster than AIDS, and are twice as deadly.
In an ideal democracy, the population is comprised of illiterate peasants with a minimum of education.
They should be taught how to dress themselves, when to brush their teeth, and how to operate simple machinery, but there is no room for mathematical theory or philosophical discussion.
The population in this ideal democracy is informed about the world at large by the central government. The population receives instructions on what to do and when to do it via state-run television and radio.
This is the way things were in America before the commie liberals took power, and this is the way things will be again.
Do not give up hope. It is now only a matter of time.
Examples of the dangers facing the ideal democracy can be found in documents such as the Communist Manifesto, the Declaration of Independence, and the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy.
These vile rags promulgate the supposed rights of the individual to freedom, self-determination, equality, and a level of silliness that is undemocratic and unsustainable.
Anyone who reads such unwholesome material will immediately cease in his labors, found a worker's commune, and don a fancy party hat.
Imagine the profit losses. Imagine the debauchery. Imagine a world where the people have a say in government.
You should be as worried about literacy as we are.
If you are not, please notify the National Agency for Reeducation and Entertainment (NARE), and they will send round a lorry to pick you up. If you know anyone who shows signs of reading banned material - excessive questioning, intelligent banter, evidence of recent party-hat wearing - notify NARE immediately.
Together, we can return to national illiteracy. Together, we can stamp out zealot intellectualism.
Together, we are strong.
Remember your censor, and keep those fires burning.
Compassionately,
Bridgette C. Weatherbottom
A woman who can read is likely to read.
Once she is hooked, it is nearly impossible for her to stop.
She will read books by foreign authors. She will read books about different styles of government. She will learn about cultures from around the world that make the contents of her mind a threat to humanity.
Fortunately, we have burnt the majority of such books in our weekly bonfires.
If you know of someone in possession of books not approved by the U.S. Censorship Bureau, please notify that Bureau immediately.
For bonfire locations in your community, call your local censor.
Ideas spread faster than AIDS, and are twice as deadly.
In an ideal democracy, the population is comprised of illiterate peasants with a minimum of education.
They should be taught how to dress themselves, when to brush their teeth, and how to operate simple machinery, but there is no room for mathematical theory or philosophical discussion.
The population in this ideal democracy is informed about the world at large by the central government. The population receives instructions on what to do and when to do it via state-run television and radio.
This is the way things were in America before the commie liberals took power, and this is the way things will be again.
Do not give up hope. It is now only a matter of time.
Examples of the dangers facing the ideal democracy can be found in documents such as the Communist Manifesto, the Declaration of Independence, and the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy.
These vile rags promulgate the supposed rights of the individual to freedom, self-determination, equality, and a level of silliness that is undemocratic and unsustainable.
Anyone who reads such unwholesome material will immediately cease in his labors, found a worker's commune, and don a fancy party hat.
Imagine the profit losses. Imagine the debauchery. Imagine a world where the people have a say in government.
You should be as worried about literacy as we are.
If you are not, please notify the National Agency for Reeducation and Entertainment (NARE), and they will send round a lorry to pick you up. If you know anyone who shows signs of reading banned material - excessive questioning, intelligent banter, evidence of recent party-hat wearing - notify NARE immediately.
Together, we can return to national illiteracy. Together, we can stamp out zealot intellectualism.
Together, we are strong.
Remember your censor, and keep those fires burning.
Compassionately,
Bridgette C. Weatherbottom
26 February 2010
how to buy love
You can't buy love.
Many misguided individuals repeat this phrase, denying themselves love for any number of reasons.
I'm too ugly, they say, or I'm just not a nice person.
Nonsense.
You'll thank me eventually.
Many misguided individuals repeat this phrase, denying themselves love for any number of reasons.
I'm too ugly, they say, or I'm just not a nice person.
Nonsense.
It's true, you can't actually exchange money for love at the brokerage next to the Friendly's on Locust Street. But you can buy nice clothes for someone, take them on fancy cruises, pay for their haircuts, support their hobbies, and put food in their bellies. And if you're cruising and feeding and supporting them, and you are there with them while these things are happening, that person will love you.
It's human nature.
Now, they might just love you on that day, or for the week after you bought them a new sweater, and they might just love you physically with their hands or their mouth, but they're still loving you.
Suck it up. Learn to love yourself, and the rest will fall into place
But don't waste your efforts on someone who knows how terrible you are - spend it on a child.
Impregnate somebody, adopt, or buy the child. Human trafficking is bigger business that drug trafficking these days, so it shouldn't be too hard to pick up a cute little tyke at one of the crack dens you frequent.
Don't be afraid to ask. You'd be surprised.
A child will love you no matter what you do.
You can say terrible things to it and call it racist names - it will love you.
You can abandon it in Wichita, and when the police return it to you, it will still love you.
You can feed it junk food until it gets fat and has diabetes, but it will still love you.
It doesn't have a choice.
But seriously. All you need is some sort of plan and a bit of disposable income, and you can buy someone's love. They might leave once they figure out that you're a cunning, deceitful fake, but there are plenty of fish in the sea, my friend. And what's the difference between fake love and real love, anyway?
As long as people are being born, you will have a fresh batch of people whose love you can buy once they come of legal age, every few months. And if you impregnate one or two of them along the way, or get pregnant by this or that person, then you'll have a child to love you, and you won't have to spend so damn much money.
There is no consensus on what constitutes love. Priests say one thing, scholars say another, and drunks say something else entirely. There is no way to explain love, no way to share the extent of the chemical reaction in your brain that occurs when it hits, so why not just keep things simple.
Lower your standards, don't get your hopes up, and start loving yourself.
Lower your standards, don't get your hopes up, and start loving yourself.
You'll thank me eventually.
X
25 February 2010
hope floats - commies don't
LOCK your windows, and close your doors - there are commies about!
Commies, short for the communist or socialist scum who are infiltrating American society, are evil and should be killed on sight.
As the headline suggests, a dead commie thrown into a river will not float - his body is made of a fibrous material similar to asbestos. Remove the dead commie from the water as soon as possible. His body will quickly rot and pose a hazard to shipping lanes.
As of press time we have not been able to catch a live commie to dissect his body in its living state.
We know enough not to let him live.
We kill the commie before the commie can kill us.
Wily and suspicious by nature, the commie can be lured into a trap only if it is properly camouflaged. He will trash wildly once captured, so have your killing implement at the ready. Preferred bait is mechanically-separated meat product with a high sodium content mixed with stale gingersnaps.
Remove the head of the dead commie as soon as you can. He might be faking death, and there is nothing worse than a wounded, half-dead commie spreading chaos behind your defensive lines.
Wounding the commie will only enrage him - he will still be largely combat effective.
AIM FOR THE HEAD.
Shooting off a leg will only slow the commie; it will not stop him.
Immolating the vile scum will only enrage him. He will charge your position and do everything in his power to burn it down.
Think of your loved ones.
Think of the children.
Do not hesitate.
Avoid public libraries, public transportation, and public universities - these are all socialist institutions funded by taxpayer dollars that provide services to all Americans equally. They are crucial to the socialist ideal, and must be avoided.
Commies have been known to participate in local elections, where they support valuable services such as police and firefighters. Furthermore, the commie will, on the local or national level, support programs that provide assistance to the poor, the disabled, and the elderly.
Anyone who votes for such programs is a commie.
Do not trust.
The Commie uses public roads. Interstate and intrastate highway systems would not exist without taxpayer support. They are socialist services that are dangerous to the American way. Switch to privately funded road systems whenever possible.
Every step toward communism is a step away from the American Way of Life. We must band together to stamp out the aforementioned socialist institutions. We must close our schools, tear up our roads, disband our emergency services, and burn down our libraries.
Only then will we be free of communism and its bastard cousin, socialism.
Only then can America flourish.
Know your commie. He may seem peaceful and well educated, but he is likely an atheist and a believer in sacrifice for the common good.
Fear the commie - you life may depend on it.
Ultima Ratio Regum
X
Commies, short for the communist or socialist scum who are infiltrating American society, are evil and should be killed on sight.
As the headline suggests, a dead commie thrown into a river will not float - his body is made of a fibrous material similar to asbestos. Remove the dead commie from the water as soon as possible. His body will quickly rot and pose a hazard to shipping lanes.
As of press time we have not been able to catch a live commie to dissect his body in its living state.
We know enough not to let him live.
We kill the commie before the commie can kill us.
Wily and suspicious by nature, the commie can be lured into a trap only if it is properly camouflaged. He will trash wildly once captured, so have your killing implement at the ready. Preferred bait is mechanically-separated meat product with a high sodium content mixed with stale gingersnaps.
Remove the head of the dead commie as soon as you can. He might be faking death, and there is nothing worse than a wounded, half-dead commie spreading chaos behind your defensive lines.
Wounding the commie will only enrage him - he will still be largely combat effective.
AIM FOR THE HEAD.
Shooting off a leg will only slow the commie; it will not stop him.
Immolating the vile scum will only enrage him. He will charge your position and do everything in his power to burn it down.
Think of your loved ones.
Think of the children.
Do not hesitate.
Avoid public libraries, public transportation, and public universities - these are all socialist institutions funded by taxpayer dollars that provide services to all Americans equally. They are crucial to the socialist ideal, and must be avoided.
Commies have been known to participate in local elections, where they support valuable services such as police and firefighters. Furthermore, the commie will, on the local or national level, support programs that provide assistance to the poor, the disabled, and the elderly.
Anyone who votes for such programs is a commie.
Do not trust.
The Commie uses public roads. Interstate and intrastate highway systems would not exist without taxpayer support. They are socialist services that are dangerous to the American way. Switch to privately funded road systems whenever possible.
Every step toward communism is a step away from the American Way of Life. We must band together to stamp out the aforementioned socialist institutions. We must close our schools, tear up our roads, disband our emergency services, and burn down our libraries.
Only then will we be free of communism and its bastard cousin, socialism.
Only then can America flourish.
Know your commie. He may seem peaceful and well educated, but he is likely an atheist and a believer in sacrifice for the common good.
Fear the commie - you life may depend on it.
Ultima Ratio Regum
X
20 February 2010
man-shit
one of the best things about my current location is the amount of man-shit to be done.
i haul two hundred plus pound logs down the valley on my shoulders or by dragging.
i use chainsaws and axes.
i ride a tractor.
i climb onto the roof to check the chimney for creosote buildup.
but a man has many needs, desires and urges that cannot be met with such brutish and manly activities. where are the ladies i was promised (i have the flier that guarantees a minimum of three ladies per month)? where is the utopia that was so often spoken of out West?
the roads here are not laced with platinum, and the streams run water, not milk or honey. can i expect the fabulous plunder and hordes of complacent slave women i was promised? should i wait for the others to arrive to begin the spree of raping and pillaging?
no word has come. i cannot track their progress. are they stuck in the great divide, toiling among the defiles with their packmules laden with provisions? have they crossed the plains, hounded no doubt by the packs of red indians i encountered along the way?
oh if only word would come, or the shipment of slave girls would arrive. then at least i could wile away the days in peace and contentment, siring bastard children and sleeping until noon.
please send word. time grows short.
X
i haul two hundred plus pound logs down the valley on my shoulders or by dragging.
i use chainsaws and axes.
i ride a tractor.
i climb onto the roof to check the chimney for creosote buildup.
but a man has many needs, desires and urges that cannot be met with such brutish and manly activities. where are the ladies i was promised (i have the flier that guarantees a minimum of three ladies per month)? where is the utopia that was so often spoken of out West?
the roads here are not laced with platinum, and the streams run water, not milk or honey. can i expect the fabulous plunder and hordes of complacent slave women i was promised? should i wait for the others to arrive to begin the spree of raping and pillaging?
no word has come. i cannot track their progress. are they stuck in the great divide, toiling among the defiles with their packmules laden with provisions? have they crossed the plains, hounded no doubt by the packs of red indians i encountered along the way?
oh if only word would come, or the shipment of slave girls would arrive. then at least i could wile away the days in peace and contentment, siring bastard children and sleeping until noon.
please send word. time grows short.
X
01 February 2010
the high cost of boasting
Boasting of my abilities or accomplishments must stop. For some people I know, boasting has a positive affect, boosting their motivation to achieve.
For me, boasting has a decidedly negative affect. If I boast about quitting smoking, I will start smoking within a few days. If I boast about the progress I am making with my writing, I will stop writing. It will take me days of internal adjustment to get myself back in the right mindset to want to write.
For me, boasting tricks my mind into thinking I am doing more than I am. I slack off and think I am making progress when in reality I am getting nothing done.
Lao Tzu gets it right in #24 of the Tao when he says, 'One who displays himself does not shine. One who justifies himself has no glory. One who boasts of his own ability has no merit.'
American society accommodates a large amount of boasting. It is expected of us. We parade our success in from of cameras and in blogs.
I would like to break from this unhealthy tradition. My actions shall speak for me.
ultima ratio regum.
X
For me, boasting has a decidedly negative affect. If I boast about quitting smoking, I will start smoking within a few days. If I boast about the progress I am making with my writing, I will stop writing. It will take me days of internal adjustment to get myself back in the right mindset to want to write.
For me, boasting tricks my mind into thinking I am doing more than I am. I slack off and think I am making progress when in reality I am getting nothing done.
Lao Tzu gets it right in #24 of the Tao when he says, 'One who displays himself does not shine. One who justifies himself has no glory. One who boasts of his own ability has no merit.'
American society accommodates a large amount of boasting. It is expected of us. We parade our success in from of cameras and in blogs.
I would like to break from this unhealthy tradition. My actions shall speak for me.
ultima ratio regum.
X
28 January 2010
BMG book recall
The Bertlesman Group (BMG) issued a recall today of approximately 1000,000 books.
As of press-time, our agency has received unsubstantiated reports of books bursting into flames when placed next to caustic household objects, such as bleach and ammonia.
At a press conference this evening, the VP of marketing for BMG, Samuel Chryst, approached the subject with caution, urging customers not to overreact.
"It seems as if there is a chemical reaction occurring when the books are exposed to bi- trimethyl - godammit, I'm not a chemist. Please, just don't store any books printed in the last two months in your fucking chemical closets," Chryst said. He then immediately asked an aide, "do people even have chemical closets anymore? What kind of idiot stores books in a closet, anyway?"
The books appear to be contaminated with an substance that ignites when placed in an enclosed area alongside common cleaning materials and then exposed to sunlight.
"I was reading the newest edition of 'Going Rogue', sitting in my sunroom, when I started smelling smoke. I thought the roast was burning, but it was the book smoldering in my lap," 80 year old Margaret Vills said. Vills claims that the book kept burning even after she doused it with the garden hose.
It is unclear how this recall will affect the company's sagging sales. A rise in internet viewership and the arrival of electronic books, or e-books, on the scene is crippling BMG's ability to compete in an over-saturated market. To further complicate the matter, the US Postal Service (USPS) issued a statement warning customers not to return the books by mail due to their hazardous nature.
"I don't want want these things starting fires in our sorting facilities," an anonymous USPS employee said late Wednesday. "We have enough problem with idiots bringing fucking guns in here."
Preliminary reports show that all books printed by BMG or its subsidiaries since December of 2009 are contaminated.
A call to the Department of Homeland Security (DHS) to inquire if the contamination was possibly a terrorist plot went unanswered.
"All I wanted to do was learn how to program my new Mac," Delaware resident Jason M. said. "But my 'Idiot's Guide to Macs' just burned my house down. Now I need a new Mac and a new house. Somebody's gonna fucking pay for this."
As of press-time, our agency has received unsubstantiated reports of books bursting into flames when placed next to caustic household objects, such as bleach and ammonia.
At a press conference this evening, the VP of marketing for BMG, Samuel Chryst, approached the subject with caution, urging customers not to overreact.
"It seems as if there is a chemical reaction occurring when the books are exposed to bi- trimethyl - godammit, I'm not a chemist. Please, just don't store any books printed in the last two months in your fucking chemical closets," Chryst said. He then immediately asked an aide, "do people even have chemical closets anymore? What kind of idiot stores books in a closet, anyway?"
The books appear to be contaminated with an substance that ignites when placed in an enclosed area alongside common cleaning materials and then exposed to sunlight.
"I was reading the newest edition of 'Going Rogue', sitting in my sunroom, when I started smelling smoke. I thought the roast was burning, but it was the book smoldering in my lap," 80 year old Margaret Vills said. Vills claims that the book kept burning even after she doused it with the garden hose.
It is unclear how this recall will affect the company's sagging sales. A rise in internet viewership and the arrival of electronic books, or e-books, on the scene is crippling BMG's ability to compete in an over-saturated market. To further complicate the matter, the US Postal Service (USPS) issued a statement warning customers not to return the books by mail due to their hazardous nature.
"I don't want want these things starting fires in our sorting facilities," an anonymous USPS employee said late Wednesday. "We have enough problem with idiots bringing fucking guns in here."
Preliminary reports show that all books printed by BMG or its subsidiaries since December of 2009 are contaminated.
A call to the Department of Homeland Security (DHS) to inquire if the contamination was possibly a terrorist plot went unanswered.
"All I wanted to do was learn how to program my new Mac," Delaware resident Jason M. said. "But my 'Idiot's Guide to Macs' just burned my house down. Now I need a new Mac and a new house. Somebody's gonna fucking pay for this."
23 January 2010
on specialization
Specialization, in a profession, field of research, field of study, or in a blog such as this one, seems to be the name of the game. Some bloggers write about something with which they have frequent contact, like whale watching. Others blog about their illness, their children, or clever ways to make money. Family blogs allow widely dispersed kinsmen to stay in touch.
My blog, LieSmith, is a vehicle for me to express my feelings. I can attempt to be witty or insightful here. I post portions of my book that wallow in the aether, seen and read by none. Is it because I am a scatter-brain? Is it because I do not yet see the need to maintain separate blogs on different subjects?
Perhaps once by book takes off, I will have a blog to connect with readers, another to express my feelings, and another to write about random stuff, such as this post, that pops into my head at midnight on a Friday in January.
In order to make more money in your profession, you obtain education that allows you to fill an niche in the market. As a researcher, you choose one area of study and immerse yourself in the minutiae of that particular field.
Is this trend toward specialization necessary because there are so many more people on the planet? Are there so few jobs to go around that you have to focus on one area and become its master? Arguably, the great polymaths of the past were self-made men who exhibited boundless drive and curiosity. Gone are the days of Ben Franklin, publisher, inventor, statesman, humorist. We are hard pressed to find today a Newton, or a Socrates. Would Charles Darwin, a man of myriad talents besides naturalism, be able to combine his various interests into the seminal novel that founded the theory of Evolution? Or would he have focused in on one area, for example ornithology, and ignored all the things that crawl and swim?
Is specialization a bad thing? A technician with many years of experience making electronic displays will, when faced with the challenges of making a new idea work, know the fundamentals of the field and be able to skip a lot of blind groping. A researcher will know how certain chemicals react with certain materials, and will be able to complete her project more efficiently.
The goods we use and the lives we live are made cheaper and better because of specialization. But are we losing today's great minds to the demands of shrinking margins?
Perhaps the time of the generalist has passed.
Perhaps we can find ways to expand our expertise in more ways than one.
Let a million flowers bloom (without, of course, the subsequent executions).
Ultima Ratio Regum.
JP
My blog, LieSmith, is a vehicle for me to express my feelings. I can attempt to be witty or insightful here. I post portions of my book that wallow in the aether, seen and read by none. Is it because I am a scatter-brain? Is it because I do not yet see the need to maintain separate blogs on different subjects?
Perhaps once by book takes off, I will have a blog to connect with readers, another to express my feelings, and another to write about random stuff, such as this post, that pops into my head at midnight on a Friday in January.
In order to make more money in your profession, you obtain education that allows you to fill an niche in the market. As a researcher, you choose one area of study and immerse yourself in the minutiae of that particular field.
Is this trend toward specialization necessary because there are so many more people on the planet? Are there so few jobs to go around that you have to focus on one area and become its master? Arguably, the great polymaths of the past were self-made men who exhibited boundless drive and curiosity. Gone are the days of Ben Franklin, publisher, inventor, statesman, humorist. We are hard pressed to find today a Newton, or a Socrates. Would Charles Darwin, a man of myriad talents besides naturalism, be able to combine his various interests into the seminal novel that founded the theory of Evolution? Or would he have focused in on one area, for example ornithology, and ignored all the things that crawl and swim?
Is specialization a bad thing? A technician with many years of experience making electronic displays will, when faced with the challenges of making a new idea work, know the fundamentals of the field and be able to skip a lot of blind groping. A researcher will know how certain chemicals react with certain materials, and will be able to complete her project more efficiently.
The goods we use and the lives we live are made cheaper and better because of specialization. But are we losing today's great minds to the demands of shrinking margins?
Perhaps the time of the generalist has passed.
Perhaps we can find ways to expand our expertise in more ways than one.
Let a million flowers bloom (without, of course, the subsequent executions).
Ultima Ratio Regum.
JP
21 January 2010
an iron beast in my home
There is a beast in my home. It fumes, sputters, creaks and groans. Vapor rises from the plate atop its head, and it has an insatiable appetite for dried plants. Its surface is too hot to touch, and it requires daily cleaning.
This beast, if you have figured it out (and I hope you have, since I am not very good at being subtle), is a wood burning stove.
After researching the telltale signs of creosote buildup, and climbing up onto the roof a half dozen times and shoving my head inside the chimney, I have fired up the faithful old beast. The house used to be warmed (briefly and inefficiently) by forced heated air. After watching the oil level in the big steel drum in the basement fall steadily, and, rather than spend money on buying more fuel, I risked the chance of a chimney fire and fired up the beast.
The tally of mummified animals at the base of the chimney - four. One partially decomposed rat and three fully decomposed blackbirds. The byproduct of their decomposition had piled up to a stately six inches, a soft, fluffy material resembling insulation. For lack of a proper place to store this curious and painfully slow experiment in mummification, I have placed it in the wastebasket.
For anyone seeking a warm, crackling hearth and pleasant companionship (I will be away for the next few days but some very nice people are stopping by later), do feel free to pay a visit.
from the Bamboo Bowl,
many affectionate greetings. JP
This beast, if you have figured it out (and I hope you have, since I am not very good at being subtle), is a wood burning stove.
After researching the telltale signs of creosote buildup, and climbing up onto the roof a half dozen times and shoving my head inside the chimney, I have fired up the faithful old beast. The house used to be warmed (briefly and inefficiently) by forced heated air. After watching the oil level in the big steel drum in the basement fall steadily, and, rather than spend money on buying more fuel, I risked the chance of a chimney fire and fired up the beast.
The tally of mummified animals at the base of the chimney - four. One partially decomposed rat and three fully decomposed blackbirds. The byproduct of their decomposition had piled up to a stately six inches, a soft, fluffy material resembling insulation. For lack of a proper place to store this curious and painfully slow experiment in mummification, I have placed it in the wastebasket.
For anyone seeking a warm, crackling hearth and pleasant companionship (I will be away for the next few days but some very nice people are stopping by later), do feel free to pay a visit.
from the Bamboo Bowl,
many affectionate greetings. JP
13 January 2010
The Cat That Does Not Laugh
Memory is a terrific function. Memory has at once the power to preserve and to torment. I remember with accuracy one night in Germany when I was watching TV alone but for the cat. I can still feel the room‘s temperature (toasty warm). I can still see the time of day (magic hour, just after sunset). My breath catches when I remember my eyes flashing in the reflection in glass of the balcony door (a combination of internal lighting, external darkness). In my memory, something funny happens on TV. I laugh and turn to see if the other person in the room is laughing too. There is nobody else in the room, just the cat. The cat looks at me and closes his eyes and starts purring. I can still now feel the disappointment that no one was there to share the humor, and that the cat didn’t laugh.
My father laughed when I told him this story, aptly titled The Cat That Didn’t Laugh. He died recently, of unknown causes. His death was sudden, but not a complete surprise; he had been engaging in unhealthy activities all his life. He smoked. He drank. He worried constantly. He worried so much it would wake him up at night. Worry became obsession, and other people began to notice. One day about a year ago, he announced to me that he was replacing worry with concern. His vague explanation was that he read in a magazine that worrying could kill you, so he reasoned that being merely concerned would prolong his life. I remember the twinkle in his eye that told me he was joking. I remember his wide eyes and grasping hands when he needed a cigarette (I rolled them to cut costs and control consumption). He reminded me of Gollum obsessing over the Ring, that one thing that would forever hold him in its sway.
The memories I bear of my father are so strong that sometimes I think he is still alive, and that I can ask him things. Has the chimney been swept in the past decade? Dad will know. How old is the pump that draws water from the well? Dad will know – I will call him right now. I am slightly shocked every time I catch my mind filling in the blanks with “Dad will know.” He probably would have known if he had not smoked, drank, and worried himself into an early grave. My hand reaches on impulse for my phone when I want to talk to someone about life’s difficulties.
I very soon remember that Dad is dead. He cannot return my calls. His ashes are in a box deep underground. There is no one around to share in my laughter, my joy. I cast about for him but he is gone, forever.
Dad is now the cat that does not laugh.
Requiescat in pace, GHWR.
My father laughed when I told him this story, aptly titled The Cat That Didn’t Laugh. He died recently, of unknown causes. His death was sudden, but not a complete surprise; he had been engaging in unhealthy activities all his life. He smoked. He drank. He worried constantly. He worried so much it would wake him up at night. Worry became obsession, and other people began to notice. One day about a year ago, he announced to me that he was replacing worry with concern. His vague explanation was that he read in a magazine that worrying could kill you, so he reasoned that being merely concerned would prolong his life. I remember the twinkle in his eye that told me he was joking. I remember his wide eyes and grasping hands when he needed a cigarette (I rolled them to cut costs and control consumption). He reminded me of Gollum obsessing over the Ring, that one thing that would forever hold him in its sway.
The memories I bear of my father are so strong that sometimes I think he is still alive, and that I can ask him things. Has the chimney been swept in the past decade? Dad will know. How old is the pump that draws water from the well? Dad will know – I will call him right now. I am slightly shocked every time I catch my mind filling in the blanks with “Dad will know.” He probably would have known if he had not smoked, drank, and worried himself into an early grave. My hand reaches on impulse for my phone when I want to talk to someone about life’s difficulties.
I very soon remember that Dad is dead. He cannot return my calls. His ashes are in a box deep underground. There is no one around to share in my laughter, my joy. I cast about for him but he is gone, forever.
Dad is now the cat that does not laugh.
Requiescat in pace, GHWR.
31 December 2009
being nice can kill you dead
a new study indicates that containing your feelings after an argument can lead to an early death. to sum up: the nicer and more accommodating you are, the more you are tolerated in the short run, but the more you damage yourself in the long run. I will hazard that a number of factors have led to an increase in niceness, and thereby premature death, in our society, but the most damaging of those factors is the Political Correctness (PC) movement that started in the late nineteen eighties.
I cannot provide hard data to directly back this up, but it would be reasonable to assume that PC has led to increases in lying and dying in this country, as people resort to PC standards rather than expose their true feelings. I am convinced it has also led to more men being pussy-whipped and to men dying younger (for, if my hazy memory of the summary of the study is correct, men are more likely to swallow their true feelings during a fight, especially in the corporate world). recently, following the maxims of Brutal Honesty and other philosophies that trounce PC and champion Truth, I have experimented with freely telling the people around me what I really think, not what I think they think I think they think I should be thinking.
the result? after an initial shock, people tended to more directly address my concerns, they spoke to me as an actual, unique person, and they seemed to have more respect for what I had to say, even if, like most things that escape my lips, what I was saying was churlish balderdash.
niceness is a sickness. too much niceness, like too much sugar, can kill you. I hereby motion to designate one day out of the year, preferably in winter when everyone is cranky anyway, as Angry Day, Trouble Time, or Day of the Flagrant Asshole. the name has to be catchy and, especially, marketable, so that marketers can market the crap out of not being nice and convince a million people to pin a frowny-face on their lapels. just look at AIDS awareness day, or autism awareness day. the people making the stop-AIDS t-shirts and teddy bears with tiny stop-autism t-shirts on them are making big, big money. there are nationalized events, 5k's, telethons and sit-ins (well, no sit-ins, but you get the point). sickness is business, baby.
it is important that we study the negative effects of niceness, and encourage Americans to be less nice going forward. join me, John Paul Roggenkamp, in my quest to spread awareness of the dangers of Mandated Societal Niceness. together, we can repeal the negative effects of Political Correctness. together, we can transform America back into the honest, dreadful, hard-scrabble, speak-your-mind-freely place it once was.
do your part; make the effort to be not-nice to someone today. once you get started, it's hard to stop. it wasn't so long ago that people dueled to the death over words. hey, at the least we would have fewer idiots to have to listen to.
virtuously,
JP
p.s. I'm not a doctor, but you're just going to have to trust me.
I cannot provide hard data to directly back this up, but it would be reasonable to assume that PC has led to increases in lying and dying in this country, as people resort to PC standards rather than expose their true feelings. I am convinced it has also led to more men being pussy-whipped and to men dying younger (for, if my hazy memory of the summary of the study is correct, men are more likely to swallow their true feelings during a fight, especially in the corporate world). recently, following the maxims of Brutal Honesty and other philosophies that trounce PC and champion Truth, I have experimented with freely telling the people around me what I really think, not what I think they think I think they think I should be thinking.
the result? after an initial shock, people tended to more directly address my concerns, they spoke to me as an actual, unique person, and they seemed to have more respect for what I had to say, even if, like most things that escape my lips, what I was saying was churlish balderdash.
niceness is a sickness. too much niceness, like too much sugar, can kill you. I hereby motion to designate one day out of the year, preferably in winter when everyone is cranky anyway, as Angry Day, Trouble Time, or Day of the Flagrant Asshole. the name has to be catchy and, especially, marketable, so that marketers can market the crap out of not being nice and convince a million people to pin a frowny-face on their lapels. just look at AIDS awareness day, or autism awareness day. the people making the stop-AIDS t-shirts and teddy bears with tiny stop-autism t-shirts on them are making big, big money. there are nationalized events, 5k's, telethons and sit-ins (well, no sit-ins, but you get the point). sickness is business, baby.
it is important that we study the negative effects of niceness, and encourage Americans to be less nice going forward. join me, John Paul Roggenkamp, in my quest to spread awareness of the dangers of Mandated Societal Niceness. together, we can repeal the negative effects of Political Correctness. together, we can transform America back into the honest, dreadful, hard-scrabble, speak-your-mind-freely place it once was.
do your part; make the effort to be not-nice to someone today. once you get started, it's hard to stop. it wasn't so long ago that people dueled to the death over words. hey, at the least we would have fewer idiots to have to listen to.
virtuously,
JP
p.s. I'm not a doctor, but you're just going to have to trust me.
26 December 2009
late december
I trudge through the melting snow. birds scold and scatter, flying low to the ground. cardinals, chickadees, and sparrows. they do not trust me, although I fill the container that keeps them alive. they are right not to trust me, for I am man, and man kills. the dead willows are pretty where they lie, felled, by the stream. the blisters on my palms from working the dull ax have become scars.
the tractor won't start. i tried to buy a battery charger but the walmart was, strangely, closed. capitalism should not rest on pagan-inspired holidays. we have electric lights now and need not fear the sun disappearing. the miraculous life of Jesus matches exactly a previous story written by the ancient Egyptians. the hero in that story was called Osiris. his mother was a virgin. he died and rose from the dead three days later. he died to save others and pissed excellence just like old Hey Zeus. don't tell the fundies, though, for they might pull a jihad and stone you to death or curse your seed ad infinitum. beware: any type of fundamentalism, religious or otherwise, is dangerous to society. DO NOT TRUST.
some honey locusts up the stream need cutting. I will give them a taste of the ax when the snow melts and the ground firms up a bit. curse this warm weather. it should be cold continuously, not eight degrees one morning and twenty five the next. all you tens of thousands reading this had better not follow any of this advice. do not believe anything I say. these words are for madmen and for those who generally seek questions, not answers. go see a holy man for answers. do not cry though when you realize you have been duped. do not cry when all your money is gone and the holy man splashes puddlewater onto you as he is driving by in his new sportscar. that was your fault. for trusting him.
I hope I someday have the foresight to teach my kids that they will be betrayed and left in the lurch by those closest to them. complete and total self-reliance is the only sane way to approach life. friends and family are good. they will betray you. they will not come to your aid. they will abandon you and take all your joy as soon as it is convenient for them. they will die on you and leave you in the lurch. this is normal. this is to be expected. therefore, do not trust that anyone will do anything for you, ever.
**BUT**
you must always be there for them. you must never stop giving. never expect thanks, or gratitude. always be reliable. always think ahead and be ready for someone's request before they make it. this will impress them. this will lead to friends. but friends will leave you. or die on you. or make sex to your girlfriend. so just don't trust them. in fact, don't even trust yourself. remain suspicious of your own urges. doubt your own intentions. this is healthy. this slows you down, gives you time to think about what you truly want.
happy holly jolly. JP from Ödenburg, PA, out
the tractor won't start. i tried to buy a battery charger but the walmart was, strangely, closed. capitalism should not rest on pagan-inspired holidays. we have electric lights now and need not fear the sun disappearing. the miraculous life of Jesus matches exactly a previous story written by the ancient Egyptians. the hero in that story was called Osiris. his mother was a virgin. he died and rose from the dead three days later. he died to save others and pissed excellence just like old Hey Zeus. don't tell the fundies, though, for they might pull a jihad and stone you to death or curse your seed ad infinitum. beware: any type of fundamentalism, religious or otherwise, is dangerous to society. DO NOT TRUST.
some honey locusts up the stream need cutting. I will give them a taste of the ax when the snow melts and the ground firms up a bit. curse this warm weather. it should be cold continuously, not eight degrees one morning and twenty five the next. all you tens of thousands reading this had better not follow any of this advice. do not believe anything I say. these words are for madmen and for those who generally seek questions, not answers. go see a holy man for answers. do not cry though when you realize you have been duped. do not cry when all your money is gone and the holy man splashes puddlewater onto you as he is driving by in his new sportscar. that was your fault. for trusting him.
I hope I someday have the foresight to teach my kids that they will be betrayed and left in the lurch by those closest to them. complete and total self-reliance is the only sane way to approach life. friends and family are good. they will betray you. they will not come to your aid. they will abandon you and take all your joy as soon as it is convenient for them. they will die on you and leave you in the lurch. this is normal. this is to be expected. therefore, do not trust that anyone will do anything for you, ever.
**BUT**
you must always be there for them. you must never stop giving. never expect thanks, or gratitude. always be reliable. always think ahead and be ready for someone's request before they make it. this will impress them. this will lead to friends. but friends will leave you. or die on you. or make sex to your girlfriend. so just don't trust them. in fact, don't even trust yourself. remain suspicious of your own urges. doubt your own intentions. this is healthy. this slows you down, gives you time to think about what you truly want.
happy holly jolly. JP from Ödenburg, PA, out
24 December 2009
Governor-elect Blithe - a short story
The newspaper hits the hardwood flooring a moment before the coffee mug. The handsome ceramic shatters, spattering the front page headline with freshly ground Arabica.
"Governor found with mistress bound"
A grainy but unmistakable photo shows Governor-elect Ryan Blithe in a swank hotel room giving a handcuffed young woman a taste of the lash. The article states that campaign funds were used to rent the hotel room. Furthermore, in an interview, the young woman claims that "this was not the first time, not at all," and that "Ryan has always had unusual... tastes."
Governor-elect Blithe tears at the paper, reducing it to limp, stained shreds. Bits of paper get caught in his snow-white bathrobe, staining it. He slumps against the kitchen's marble countertop, his eyes wide as he peers through the wooden blinds for movement in the yard. Who knows where those bastards might be hinding, he thinks. He sinks to the floor and runs a large, soft hand through his greying hair. He slowly removes his finely wrought reading glasses.
"Honey, I'm going to jump in the shower. Could you leave me some coffee?" his wife calls from the top of the stairs. Panic grips him as he lurches to his feet. He shuffles down the hallway, past tastefully framed snapshots of his life, faded gap-toothed smiles, a sun-drenched sandy beach, his first law firm. A snow-white slipper lies abandoned on the kitchen floor, soaking up cold coffee.
The study is cold. The dark wood paneling seems to suck the heat from the air. An orderly stack of pamphlets and folded posters teeters on the desk. "For your files," a note stuck to the top reads. Also on the desk is a bible, opened to Corinthians. The book slams shut and falls to the floor. Re-opening, the pages settle on Leviticus. The stack of papers flies against the wall, fluttering to the floor to pile in chaos. Ryan Blithe glances at the topmost flyer. A full color picture of his face grins back above the headline,
"Vote Blithe - Vote Community - Vote Family"
Pipes stop humming and a door opens upstairs. "Are you all right down there, dear?" Ryan smacks his large, soft hand over his mouth to muffle a whine. "What was that, dear?" his wife asks. "Nothing, Julie, nothing," Ryan yells after a moment. He falls back into the large leather office chair. I'm finished, he thinks. The is the end. She won't forgive me again. Not after Charleston.
The election. Campaign funds. Hotel room. Vote Family. Handcuffs.
The rear screen door slams shut behind him. The combination lock on the shed, normally stubborn, opens on the first try. A stubbed toe does not register as pain, but as annoyance. The cylinder is oiled, its action smooth. All six chambers are loaded. He removes a package, a fancy beige jacket for his wife, from a shop stool and puts it on the workbench behind him.
The heavy gun barks, spattering the new beige jacket with freshly spilled lifeblood.
"Governor found with mistress bound"
A grainy but unmistakable photo shows Governor-elect Ryan Blithe in a swank hotel room giving a handcuffed young woman a taste of the lash. The article states that campaign funds were used to rent the hotel room. Furthermore, in an interview, the young woman claims that "this was not the first time, not at all," and that "Ryan has always had unusual... tastes."
Governor-elect Blithe tears at the paper, reducing it to limp, stained shreds. Bits of paper get caught in his snow-white bathrobe, staining it. He slumps against the kitchen's marble countertop, his eyes wide as he peers through the wooden blinds for movement in the yard. Who knows where those bastards might be hinding, he thinks. He sinks to the floor and runs a large, soft hand through his greying hair. He slowly removes his finely wrought reading glasses.
"Honey, I'm going to jump in the shower. Could you leave me some coffee?" his wife calls from the top of the stairs. Panic grips him as he lurches to his feet. He shuffles down the hallway, past tastefully framed snapshots of his life, faded gap-toothed smiles, a sun-drenched sandy beach, his first law firm. A snow-white slipper lies abandoned on the kitchen floor, soaking up cold coffee.
The study is cold. The dark wood paneling seems to suck the heat from the air. An orderly stack of pamphlets and folded posters teeters on the desk. "For your files," a note stuck to the top reads. Also on the desk is a bible, opened to Corinthians. The book slams shut and falls to the floor. Re-opening, the pages settle on Leviticus. The stack of papers flies against the wall, fluttering to the floor to pile in chaos. Ryan Blithe glances at the topmost flyer. A full color picture of his face grins back above the headline,
"Vote Blithe - Vote Community - Vote Family"
Pipes stop humming and a door opens upstairs. "Are you all right down there, dear?" Ryan smacks his large, soft hand over his mouth to muffle a whine. "What was that, dear?" his wife asks. "Nothing, Julie, nothing," Ryan yells after a moment. He falls back into the large leather office chair. I'm finished, he thinks. The is the end. She won't forgive me again. Not after Charleston.
The election. Campaign funds. Hotel room. Vote Family. Handcuffs.
The rear screen door slams shut behind him. The combination lock on the shed, normally stubborn, opens on the first try. A stubbed toe does not register as pain, but as annoyance. The cylinder is oiled, its action smooth. All six chambers are loaded. He removes a package, a fancy beige jacket for his wife, from a shop stool and puts it on the workbench behind him.
The heavy gun barks, spattering the new beige jacket with freshly spilled lifeblood.
15 December 2009
the folly of trying
I have noticed a recurring theme in movies especially but also in books with an American protagonist. The theme is as follows: a person has a dream and doesn't want to follow it or doesn't know what that dream is and but someone close to him convinces him to follow that dream at all cost regardless of the consequences or the validity of that dream whence the person follows his dream and everything comes up daisies. If only this scenario were more realistic. In 99.99999% of the cases in which someone actually tries to follow their dream, that person runs face first into the Reality Wall, realizes that society at large does not give a fuck about their dream, understands that they will not be able to eat or otherwise sustain themselves on their current path, and gives up. they wash out and go back home to shitsville and Nobody gives a fuck about the fact that they even tried because even if they did try they were not good enough or lucky enough or well connected enough to succeed.
I am currently trying something that will more than likely fail, unless there is some serious mojo in my future. I have failed at this many times in the past, mostly because i have not even tried to do it, and i mean really doing it while saying fuckall to the critics and to the world. I have failed before I even started because I am as scared of success as I am failure, consequence of an alcohol father in my youth and an escapist adolescence, which I am now trying Really Hard not to use as an excuse to let myself off the hook. a word to the wise: don't have kids if you're a druggie (and I'm talking ANY drug here, including and especially booze), and don't marry druggies and have kids. the repercussions are vast and never ending and you'll have a kid who Wants to do something revolutionary with his life but who is so afraid of his own Potential that he runs around in circles like a chicken with his head cut off trying to finish a short little novel. Then why am I still doing it? Because I am sick and tired of being a fucking failure, not in the eyes of others, but in the ever-present, all-seeing eye that sees everything I do and gives me no rest if I'm slacking - i.e. my undying inner virtue, my soul, the dozens of facets, the snippets of personality that collectively make me who I am.
The media rarely portraits the actual series of events in the lives of the majority of the American population (i.e. the people living in the boonies or in Flyover country or anywhere that is not a major metropolitan area): 1) you are born. 2) you go to school. 3) if you are lucky, you have smarts or are beautiful or someone recognizes a talent in you and fosters that talent [if none of these apply to you, you are Fucked - skip to step 6]. 4) you leave the boonies to pursue a career involving smarts, beauty or your talent in a major metropolitan area. 5) you spend your life doing what you are simultaneously good and and love to do 6) you die, or wash out and move back to the boonies, which are basically the same thing.
Remember Icarus, and keep on dreaming, kids.
X
I am currently trying something that will more than likely fail, unless there is some serious mojo in my future. I have failed at this many times in the past, mostly because i have not even tried to do it, and i mean really doing it while saying fuckall to the critics and to the world. I have failed before I even started because I am as scared of success as I am failure, consequence of an alcohol father in my youth and an escapist adolescence, which I am now trying Really Hard not to use as an excuse to let myself off the hook. a word to the wise: don't have kids if you're a druggie (and I'm talking ANY drug here, including and especially booze), and don't marry druggies and have kids. the repercussions are vast and never ending and you'll have a kid who Wants to do something revolutionary with his life but who is so afraid of his own Potential that he runs around in circles like a chicken with his head cut off trying to finish a short little novel. Then why am I still doing it? Because I am sick and tired of being a fucking failure, not in the eyes of others, but in the ever-present, all-seeing eye that sees everything I do and gives me no rest if I'm slacking - i.e. my undying inner virtue, my soul, the dozens of facets, the snippets of personality that collectively make me who I am.
The media rarely portraits the actual series of events in the lives of the majority of the American population (i.e. the people living in the boonies or in Flyover country or anywhere that is not a major metropolitan area): 1) you are born. 2) you go to school. 3) if you are lucky, you have smarts or are beautiful or someone recognizes a talent in you and fosters that talent [if none of these apply to you, you are Fucked - skip to step 6]. 4) you leave the boonies to pursue a career involving smarts, beauty or your talent in a major metropolitan area. 5) you spend your life doing what you are simultaneously good and and love to do 6) you die, or wash out and move back to the boonies, which are basically the same thing.
Remember Icarus, and keep on dreaming, kids.
X
13 December 2009
east coast drivers
someone once said about driving in Los Angeles: either you're the bitch, or you're the bitch's bitch. this statement sums up a lot of what Basin driving is all about - the inches-to-spare merging, multiple-lane changing, drive-it-like-you-stole-it, take what's yours and defend it at all cost mentality that makes driving in the city of Angels so much damn fun. the slightest hesitation is ruthlessly exploited. not only are you maintaining your own vehicle's velocity and vector, but you're watching the five people around you to make sure they don't get too close or decide they suddenly need to take over your lane to save themselves from a threat you can't even see. there is so much stimulation on the road that you don't have time to get bored, unless you're stuck in the nerve-grating monotony of motionless traffic. there are so many crazies and power-hungry wannabes, and your time is so important, that unless you actually get in an accident with someone, the last thing you want to do is chase someone down and get in his face about cutting you off or not letting you merge. in LA, you just might get shot. in LA, people know that it's just not worth it.
Pennsylvania, however, is a totally different animal. true to my training in LA, I merge when I feel like it, take what's mine, exert my right of way to the fullest, and forget about the transgressions of others almost before they happen. But I was recently tail-gated for miles coming out of Harrisburg by an irate grandmother who shook her fist at me and drove menacingly close to my bumper, all because I merged in front of her legally in order to jump the line onto the freeway. not a few days ago I was confronted by a young man in Adams County who was furious with the fact that I didn't give up my right of way in a roundabout. I saw him waving and motioning to me in the rearview, and, thinking he might have hit my bumper, I pulled over. he started complaining that he had been waiting to get into the traffic circle and that it had been his turn to drive, not mine. after I explained the rules of right of way to him, he said he wanted to fight me because I had cut him off and hadn't apologized for it. I explained to him that unless there was some sort of contact between our vehicles, I was going to leave, upon which he started calling me many nasty names, all the while shaking like a leaf. I pointed this out to him and he took it as a challenge. when I told him that his words meant nothing to me and that he could kindly go fuck himself, he responded, "no, I want you to fuck me. I'm not going to fuck myself, I want you to fuck me." I pointed out that I was not gay, at which point his face lit up and he sputtered, "but you look like a fag, you fucking homo. Let's fucking do this. I will fuck you up so bad."
I laughed at him and apologized for refusing him the chance to get fucked by me, upon which he said, "I would so love to break you right now, I would beat the shit out of you." I looked at him and wondered why he hadn't thrown the first punch already, and then it all became clear. He was waiting for ME to start the fight. I had already conquered him in the roundabout, I had no fear of him, I was not shaking in the slightest, I had been polite and rational. My thoughts went back to dozens of arguments I have witnessed that could have been Fights but were instead just Long Talks in which the two parties eventually kissed and made up. After hanging out with the Cali Grunts, I know a thing or two about fights, and if the Other Guy doesn't swing after the third or forth verbal exchange, then you either turn and walk away or hit him as hard as you can, without the slightest warning, in the face. I was analyzing the angles when, thankfully, the guy from the Uhaul place came out and asked us what was going on, to which I responded, "I'm really not sure. This guy wants to fight me about something." The Uhaul guy said we had to leave, so I jumped in my car and drove for the exit, only to find the young man blocking my way. I let the car idle and stared at him as one would stare at a minor inconvenience, like a homeless person taking his time crossing the street, or a three-legged dog stumbling blindly into the road, until he moved out of the way. He threw out his arms as if to say, "I'm right here, let's fucking go." I rolled down my window and said very calmly, "go get laid, dude."
So I made this guy my bitch in the roundabout and his method of dealing with it was to call me all sorts of names and NOT swing on me. to anyone from LA traveling in the country who might just read this (although i doubt if anyone at ALL reads this besides ME when i'm making corrections) do not change your driving habits, just know that people here will not know how to handle your behavior. also, never stop for any reason other that a) you think you hit someone or something, or b) there is a mechanical issue with your car. Basically, stay in LA at all cost. Sincerely, homesick for the terrible majesty of el Pueblo de Nuestra Seniora, JP
Pennsylvania, however, is a totally different animal. true to my training in LA, I merge when I feel like it, take what's mine, exert my right of way to the fullest, and forget about the transgressions of others almost before they happen. But I was recently tail-gated for miles coming out of Harrisburg by an irate grandmother who shook her fist at me and drove menacingly close to my bumper, all because I merged in front of her legally in order to jump the line onto the freeway. not a few days ago I was confronted by a young man in Adams County who was furious with the fact that I didn't give up my right of way in a roundabout. I saw him waving and motioning to me in the rearview, and, thinking he might have hit my bumper, I pulled over. he started complaining that he had been waiting to get into the traffic circle and that it had been his turn to drive, not mine. after I explained the rules of right of way to him, he said he wanted to fight me because I had cut him off and hadn't apologized for it. I explained to him that unless there was some sort of contact between our vehicles, I was going to leave, upon which he started calling me many nasty names, all the while shaking like a leaf. I pointed this out to him and he took it as a challenge. when I told him that his words meant nothing to me and that he could kindly go fuck himself, he responded, "no, I want you to fuck me. I'm not going to fuck myself, I want you to fuck me." I pointed out that I was not gay, at which point his face lit up and he sputtered, "but you look like a fag, you fucking homo. Let's fucking do this. I will fuck you up so bad."
I laughed at him and apologized for refusing him the chance to get fucked by me, upon which he said, "I would so love to break you right now, I would beat the shit out of you." I looked at him and wondered why he hadn't thrown the first punch already, and then it all became clear. He was waiting for ME to start the fight. I had already conquered him in the roundabout, I had no fear of him, I was not shaking in the slightest, I had been polite and rational. My thoughts went back to dozens of arguments I have witnessed that could have been Fights but were instead just Long Talks in which the two parties eventually kissed and made up. After hanging out with the Cali Grunts, I know a thing or two about fights, and if the Other Guy doesn't swing after the third or forth verbal exchange, then you either turn and walk away or hit him as hard as you can, without the slightest warning, in the face. I was analyzing the angles when, thankfully, the guy from the Uhaul place came out and asked us what was going on, to which I responded, "I'm really not sure. This guy wants to fight me about something." The Uhaul guy said we had to leave, so I jumped in my car and drove for the exit, only to find the young man blocking my way. I let the car idle and stared at him as one would stare at a minor inconvenience, like a homeless person taking his time crossing the street, or a three-legged dog stumbling blindly into the road, until he moved out of the way. He threw out his arms as if to say, "I'm right here, let's fucking go." I rolled down my window and said very calmly, "go get laid, dude."
So I made this guy my bitch in the roundabout and his method of dealing with it was to call me all sorts of names and NOT swing on me. to anyone from LA traveling in the country who might just read this (although i doubt if anyone at ALL reads this besides ME when i'm making corrections) do not change your driving habits, just know that people here will not know how to handle your behavior. also, never stop for any reason other that a) you think you hit someone or something, or b) there is a mechanical issue with your car. Basically, stay in LA at all cost. Sincerely, homesick for the terrible majesty of el Pueblo de Nuestra Seniora, JP
04 December 2009
yurt
i really want to burn all the shit i don't need and bulldoze the house and set up a yurt on a platform in the back near the bamboo and have small fires in a small woodstove that vent out the top of the yurt into the night sky and for electricity set up a waterwheel over the stream that will charge a battery that i can use during the nighttime. of course bathing would kind of be a problem in the wintertime but only if you're really concerned about hygienic cleanliness bc you'd have to boil the water over the small woodstove that vents out the top of the yurt and then probably bathe outside so as not to soil the floor of the yurt which would be probably some soft bear skin or other animal hide making it necessary for you to remove your shoes before entering the yurt. it's depressing going through the boxes and finding thousands of pictures from the nineties when everyone in the family was skinny and healthy and alive and making facial gestures and not cooling their cinder heels in tiny boxes six feet under the ground on long island.
fucking shit i'm really missing my dad right now if only because i want to show him that i'm not a failure and that i do love him and that at some point my life will be on track but probably not the track he would have wanted but a track of my own choosing and one that will bring happiness to me and those i choose to have in my life. it just sucks that he smoked all his life and it was cut short and i'm selfish for wanting him to be alive but i loved him as much as i hated him and being in this house with all these memories emerging from boxes is not easy but i really don't have any other choice although i do believe i will be heading back to LA sooner rather than later if for nothing else than to visit friends and people with whom i want to become better acquainted. but i've made the first step really and as Lao Tzu says the journey of a thousand miles starts from where your feet stand and now that i am again working on my book and figuring out how to turn into reality all the changes i have been working out in my head it's a very relieving and very terrifying experience.
and i can't help but think that i killed Dad by asking him for money because the next day he died and i keep thinking it was because i broke his heart by being a failure and not being able to support myself financially and by me asking for money it took his last shred of will to live away and when thados came knocking he just didn't have the stuffing left to tell him to go fuck himself for at least a little while longer. and it's very selfish of me to think these things for i hope they're not true but no one will ever know and such thoughts are counterproductive but they're helping me cry and that's good because i need it right now what with being all alone and quitting smoking and not having a car and not being in great shape and being unwilling to set in stone a plan for my future. i've started talking to myself again but that's better than not talking at all and sulking or something and i keep laughing out loud about stories that i've heard recently or remember suddenly especially Kevin's story about calling the guy Frodo and telling him to go find his ring after the guy got all tough and punched him in the sternum when he was really trying to punch him in the throat. and to top it all off that being the Second fight Kevin was in that night and he being with the married lady who thinks Kev has downssyndrome who ditched her child and family to meet up with him for thanksgiving.
fucking classic, stuff of legends, the stuff that the average man's bad dreams are made of but it only makes me laugh because Kev is such a nice guy and he's so irreverent and he would give you the shirt off his back unless you fuck with him in which case he will fucking break you. that's Cali Grunt mentality right there - kind 'till you cross us, can't ever boss us around, pound for pound can't out-floss us, mind ur biz not ours hoss, plus this rhyme just crashed into the ground. wish i'd have had that one spit in time for T's show at the Cabana tonight, oh well i'm feeling better for getting that terrible rap down and for talking about my feelings towards Dad and all that so i'm going to do some pushups (maxing 300 today) so bigup yourself, respect. X
fucking shit i'm really missing my dad right now if only because i want to show him that i'm not a failure and that i do love him and that at some point my life will be on track but probably not the track he would have wanted but a track of my own choosing and one that will bring happiness to me and those i choose to have in my life. it just sucks that he smoked all his life and it was cut short and i'm selfish for wanting him to be alive but i loved him as much as i hated him and being in this house with all these memories emerging from boxes is not easy but i really don't have any other choice although i do believe i will be heading back to LA sooner rather than later if for nothing else than to visit friends and people with whom i want to become better acquainted. but i've made the first step really and as Lao Tzu says the journey of a thousand miles starts from where your feet stand and now that i am again working on my book and figuring out how to turn into reality all the changes i have been working out in my head it's a very relieving and very terrifying experience.
and i can't help but think that i killed Dad by asking him for money because the next day he died and i keep thinking it was because i broke his heart by being a failure and not being able to support myself financially and by me asking for money it took his last shred of will to live away and when thados came knocking he just didn't have the stuffing left to tell him to go fuck himself for at least a little while longer. and it's very selfish of me to think these things for i hope they're not true but no one will ever know and such thoughts are counterproductive but they're helping me cry and that's good because i need it right now what with being all alone and quitting smoking and not having a car and not being in great shape and being unwilling to set in stone a plan for my future. i've started talking to myself again but that's better than not talking at all and sulking or something and i keep laughing out loud about stories that i've heard recently or remember suddenly especially Kevin's story about calling the guy Frodo and telling him to go find his ring after the guy got all tough and punched him in the sternum when he was really trying to punch him in the throat. and to top it all off that being the Second fight Kevin was in that night and he being with the married lady who thinks Kev has downssyndrome who ditched her child and family to meet up with him for thanksgiving.
fucking classic, stuff of legends, the stuff that the average man's bad dreams are made of but it only makes me laugh because Kev is such a nice guy and he's so irreverent and he would give you the shirt off his back unless you fuck with him in which case he will fucking break you. that's Cali Grunt mentality right there - kind 'till you cross us, can't ever boss us around, pound for pound can't out-floss us, mind ur biz not ours hoss, plus this rhyme just crashed into the ground. wish i'd have had that one spit in time for T's show at the Cabana tonight, oh well i'm feeling better for getting that terrible rap down and for talking about my feelings towards Dad and all that so i'm going to do some pushups (maxing 300 today) so bigup yourself, respect. X
02 December 2009
the drug dealing state of Pennsylvania
The state of Pennsylvania is one of the highest volume drug dealers in the world. the state moves so much booze and beer and wine and the sale of these items generates so much money that you have to wonder why they don't branch out and start selling other drugs too. a drug is any substance that causes addiction, habituation, or a marked change in consciousness, according to Messieurs Merriam and Webster (m-w.com), yet so many people who use alcohol do not consider the substance to be a drug. i always remind people of this and they will fight tooth and nail and get really mad because i call them drug users and make toasts to drugs and how wonderful drugs are and they leave the room and shun me for the rest of the night. this argument is going nowhere but i am fomenting plans to bring a motion before the PA state assembly to change the name "Wine and Spirits Shoppe" to what it should be called, something like "Ye Olde Drug Den" or "Drinkable Drug Shoppe" or "Legal, Addictive, Poisonous Drug Shoppe." Just so people know what they are getting into and so they will maybe just maybe think twice before demonizing users of other substances and look at themselves and go "oh yeah i'm doing drugs right now too *sip* maybe i should just shut the fuck up and soak my head a bit more" but of course no one ever does that because it's so much more fun to poke fun at and criticize others than it is to actually get one's own fat ass in motion and stop all the bad things that society lets you do (and some of the things it doesn't let you do, like sexually pleasure your spouse in whatever hole you see fit in the privacy of your own home).
blah blah a nation of big old hypocrites claiming to love freedom but not granting it, spouting liberty at the same time that legislatures restrict their citizens' ability to act as they see best fit to act. this country can do better. America can do better. every day that this hypocracy continues is a victory for the fatheads at the top, the people pulling the strings and doing as they please, immune from their own laws, laughing at the struggling teeming writhing masses who could in a week retake the country for their own. the hard part is setting up a government that keeps the power out of the hands of the few, like our federal system was set up initially, and prohibiting the alteration of this system by powerful individuals (such as has occurred with our current shift to a strong executive). dear god this kind of writing could get me in trouble. X
blah blah a nation of big old hypocrites claiming to love freedom but not granting it, spouting liberty at the same time that legislatures restrict their citizens' ability to act as they see best fit to act. this country can do better. America can do better. every day that this hypocracy continues is a victory for the fatheads at the top, the people pulling the strings and doing as they please, immune from their own laws, laughing at the struggling teeming writhing masses who could in a week retake the country for their own. the hard part is setting up a government that keeps the power out of the hands of the few, like our federal system was set up initially, and prohibiting the alteration of this system by powerful individuals (such as has occurred with our current shift to a strong executive). dear god this kind of writing could get me in trouble. X
01 December 2009
immersion
i immerse myself in the minutiae of this place so that i don't climb the walls and eat the stuffing out of the chairs. this is not a mechanism for me to flee from the pressures of the brain or the lurking darkness of worry, rather it is a coping mechanism for the somewhat involuntary nature of my current situation. those motherfucking bastards. expletive expletive so expletive stupid shit at some point this blog had to go clean and now that it's fueled solely by the methane coming off of the garbage heap out back (it's a big heap) this motherfucker is GREEN. jk the garbage heap is in front of the house. holy god none of this is true but i just convinced myself for a second there that is WAS true and i was designing a duct system to convey the methane gases into a turbine on the other side of the house that would create energy. i need a car if for no other reason than that i want to go to the goodwill and pick up materials for making my bamboo lighting fixtures but in Reality i probably have all the necessary shit here but it's probably buried somewhere under twenty
year's worth of accumulated junk.
seriously, for anyone reading, do yourself the favor and throw half your shit out (or sell it if you have nice shit), wait a week, comb through it again, and repeat the process until you can fit your possessions into bags that can be carried with relative ease on your person. i'd say about eighty five percent of the shit people have they never use let alone look at or admire so why the fuck do you keep it? with the old daddygrins now died and buried and me going through his accumulated tons of shit i'm finding just ridiculous shit like napkins from an ocean liner cruise in the late fifties and who the fuck cares about that shit? and then i go through my boxes of shit i sent back for LA and i'm finding pictures from the late nineties of girlfriends long since gone and married to others and why the fuck do i keep this shit other than perhaps vanity or a sense of longing for the past? the past cannot easily be accessed from the present, just as the future can be shaped from the here and now but ONLY if you're pure and honest about it and you don't really try but just kind of try and then only if you're not really paying attention and don't really care even though you have to care a great deal. it's very tricky and very difficult and it's good that it is because otherwise you'd have motherfuckers making themselves rich or giving themselves Ford broncos or something fucktarded like that.
it's so hard not to ramble because i'm here all by myself and the walls don't speak and the cats are all dead or stolen and dad's fucking dead too and the sibs have lives of their own and i am hiding out here like a bandit but all good things come to those who keep their eyes and ears open and i think i'm getting close to a breakthrough with the book but i can't push it because it's a very subtle thing but soon soon soon i will have it and then sky's the limit. ultima ratio regum. X
year's worth of accumulated junk.
seriously, for anyone reading, do yourself the favor and throw half your shit out (or sell it if you have nice shit), wait a week, comb through it again, and repeat the process until you can fit your possessions into bags that can be carried with relative ease on your person. i'd say about eighty five percent of the shit people have they never use let alone look at or admire so why the fuck do you keep it? with the old daddygrins now died and buried and me going through his accumulated tons of shit i'm finding just ridiculous shit like napkins from an ocean liner cruise in the late fifties and who the fuck cares about that shit? and then i go through my boxes of shit i sent back for LA and i'm finding pictures from the late nineties of girlfriends long since gone and married to others and why the fuck do i keep this shit other than perhaps vanity or a sense of longing for the past? the past cannot easily be accessed from the present, just as the future can be shaped from the here and now but ONLY if you're pure and honest about it and you don't really try but just kind of try and then only if you're not really paying attention and don't really care even though you have to care a great deal. it's very tricky and very difficult and it's good that it is because otherwise you'd have motherfuckers making themselves rich or giving themselves Ford broncos or something fucktarded like that.
it's so hard not to ramble because i'm here all by myself and the walls don't speak and the cats are all dead or stolen and dad's fucking dead too and the sibs have lives of their own and i am hiding out here like a bandit but all good things come to those who keep their eyes and ears open and i think i'm getting close to a breakthrough with the book but i can't push it because it's a very subtle thing but soon soon soon i will have it and then sky's the limit. ultima ratio regum. X
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