Monday, August 22, 2016

Ryan Lochte is Totes a Transvestite.

(At times like these, it may be revealing to ask ourselves why the hue and cry over this Ugly American Narrative of the bumptious second-fiddle social media monster of US water sports vandalizing a gas station, and lying and spazzing about it in what is now and recently and suspiciously customary imperial racist policy for tourists, et al. Why has this become arguably the most important story of the big grand story of the International Olympics? But let’s not speak any more of athletes.)

I'm almost glad that the great majority of people atop the hierarchical nation-state heap---that is, us, (we stupidly and unimaginatively continue to call this bloc "The West" when in fact the distribution of capital/power along super- and inter-national lines is arranged in purely elite, internal class ratios, and so therefore the more important story is one of elite, pan-global, arguably filial-genetic factionalism and not ethnocentric/national power blocs, if i am making myself clear, let us hope. There are some very awful plutocrats and oligarchs in China, India, Africa, and Thailand, it is well-documented. Unbounded capital/power is sovereign) I say, i'm almost glad so damn many of us are hopelessly asleep and incapable of being roused by anything other than sports spectacles, social, commercial and spiritual onanism, and meaningless sex with other mostly brainless bodies. If folks began doing some greasy thinking, studying and dialoguing, peering into the present as well as the past and themselves, there might be a pandemic of hopelessness or mean spiritedness that makes this "developed world" of narcissist zombies trapped in puberty somehow preferable.

Mention should be made of my stern opinion that criticizing wealthy and privileged humans for their political and intellectual nescience/ignorance/laziness is not exactly unfair just because, as is often crowed in their defense against these awful attacks from my Negative Nancy kind, a fair or even lion's share of their energies are consumed by making a living and loving their families and enjoying their lives. Because fuck all that petty and incorrect calculus: we are amazing creatures and there is plenty of time in our lives to develop greater, more altruistic, more creative, more curious angels in our better nature. So then, fuck off with your narrow, self-justifying rubbish view of this salty criticism and angst, if such is your way of seeing these sentences. Never return unless you’ve been made more corrigible, more agreeable to my way of seeing the world, probably once your kids have moved out. 

When i go about in public, and especially among the college student hive i'm forever attached to, my main impressions are of two things: Fear, and Sensualism. The (existential) fear, which is too broad in its origins and strangely delicious to discuss here today, manifests as insecurity, the furtive avoidance of eye contact and of observing sundry acts of basic social decorum. Also it manifests as a confusing, plummeting level of individuality in dress and physical modes, with most everyone unrecognizable in class, personality, and purpose, as a result. There is only slightly more variation in fashion among these youths than is found among fraternity men. There’s either a pallid pragmatism of uniform-looking dress or a straining towards what we can sadly, dully describe as edgy hipsterim. Lots of tattoos, yoga pants, T-shirts and athletic apparel. Men traffic in more accessories than is very seemly, becoming more preoccupied with aesthetics as the fierce competition demands, and indeed are being accused of having more effeminate qualities, legitimately or not. There is a lot going on here, i suppose, some of it seemingly contradictory, and i sense i’m able to explain this all with greater nuance or insight, but i don’t wanna. The other main impression i get, of distracted, unintellectual sensualism needn't be commented on, and the idea that it would need to be explained or proven makes me queasy and irritable. The visible results of these two psychological traumas or states seem to overlap here and there. I can't safely say whether the lads in hot pants that yet sag affectedly around their asses are trying to be sexy...or meekly hip and in conformity with current style, only. Either way, it's regrettable and childish dandy-ism and even a conscious breach of the social contract, like every well-shaped young female scholar sashaying to class in leotards and thinking this does not harm societal productivity, or even maybe offend people or basic moral or just academic notions. Anything to be comfortable, or hip, but never one to the exclusion of the other. Nobody is wearing onesies or overalls, which are practical and comfy. Still i wouldn't be surprised to see adult toddler couture coming soon.

Yes, I'm almost glad...Because what would happen if these hyper-sexed future captains of poo-pantsed industry were to get hold of difficult and uncompromising information? Information about the hidden hands which disproportionately affect human destiny, or the sometimes difficult to comprehend proofs of human evil enshrined in The Casual Motherfucking, God-Damned Way Things Are? Perhaps they would simply not be able to comprehend it. And we’ll likely never know. Where this nonsense construction known as The West rather badly fucked up was in posturing that usurious monetary policy and the right to show your yolo ass at any time in public were natural, desirable expressions of human freedom, or would not create global trouble or spiritual voids. Using nukes excessively on Japan, invading and butchering Vietnam for corporate kickbacks and to consolidate control of opium centers, and creating AIDS to cull undesirable human communities were also extremely suspect decisions that we will fuck to forget. I mean live to regret.

I'm almost glad for smart phones. Though they're like easily operated nuclear weapons in the hands of blind babies, blandly, metaphorically speaking.  

P.S. William Shakespeare, the actual author, never existed and anyone who thinks he did is either a foolish moron or unburdened by even basic amounts of inquiry and research into the very, very important Elizabethan/British Empire/Anglo-linguistic subject of "the great bard." He's more of a psychological operation, or a golem, or a tulpa, than a man. Or maybe you feel that one 17th century fellow, alone, coined hundreds of words that are still in use today, with many of them quite clunky and impractical. Maybe you also feel that an illiterate man can write The Shakespeare canon, tickety boo.

 P.S.S. I’ve revised my opinions on the following, for the record: There are no huge underwater cities off of Southern India, nor inexplicable temple complexes submerged off of Japan, worth excavating or understanding. The looting of the Baghdad treasures of mysterious ancient history were spontaneous, and unconnected to clandestine state activity. The comprehensive, well-organized thefts were not consciously allowed by the invading power and its clever sponsors, despite their reputation for insane greed and suppressing knowledge of Mesopotamian prehistory and its semi-secret occult marvels. Freemasonry and the fact of a Jesuit Pope talking about baptizing aliens are subjects just as worthless to know of and consider. All of the crop circles are hoaxes, and tribes or races of giants never existed. There are no legitimate questions as to the verifiable authenticity of the first moon voyage in 1969. None a’tall. Darwinism and Smithsonian outfits are, combined, God. The Kennedy men were simply expert at angering particularly effective types of lone nut, or weren't such great pilots. Paul Wellstone had an innocent aero-plane accident. Trump is as real as Obama's birth certificate. Objective, absolute truth is an antiquated and quaint pre-modern conceit. Shame on you and your arrogant toddler’s mind to think otherwise, or to disagree with any of the preceding ideas. You should hang your incompetent head and have more faith in the professional classes and their degrees and fine salaries. 

Nein-11. 

Don’t you get smart, bub. All you are permitted is a series of endless and unresolved "questions," because they are the signal and seal of a mature, realistic, empiricist western scientific mind that needs to get to bed on time because of work in the morning. The truth is relative because of the inherent dignity and multiplicity of human viewpoints. No hard answers or basic physics for you. Your ass looks amazing in that sausage skin number.

Tuesday, August 9, 2016

For St. Nich.

I know a man
named Nick
who deserves a simple poem written for him and
it goes like this.
The big blue empyrean,
the canopy of dreams overhead,
the canvas on which all
human wonder and distraction and hope
is colored by clouds
and their silvery mad groping intestines
of silver, blue, and those values in between, which we labor to annunciate and label,
this is our blessing and our redemption.
Always there for us.

As bold glorious monkeys, it is our birthright.
i know Nick and i
in our separate, distant
unanthropological ways
do gaze up at it,
our heads inclined towards theoretical happiness
and proofs contrary to heavy concrete life down here,
we give thanks and
for the spectacle and substance of it,
shower generosities
and good will upon others.
It's for the relaxed godliness of the unknown and unknowable sky
that we behave as we do,
with sincerity, and sass, and kindness.
With an effort to reach the mystery of us and
gentle readers everywhere.
Meanwhile my coworker
directs an infinite series of digital,
miniature tanks and canons, against other well-mean
Ing citizens, amen.
The mobile wargame of life.
Thank you, Nich.