They have us surrounded, if not outnumbered.
Big Bird's nose fell off too. His handlers never could put their foot down about his paint huffing and blowing lines of bathroom cleaner.
And Bert & Ernie?
Well, let's just say we don't want the kids getting the wrong message, right?
Just the kids? I mean Bert was a freak, we all knew that. Purtanical guilt written all OVER him. No one ever took off "Penitent Pillgrim"'s hood at the club, but I mean, with a head shaped like that it ws no secret.
Ernie though, he was a good egg. He clued in eventually, he just couldn't get it RIGHT. You come home, and your orange roomate has bought a sex swing, gallon of lard, an 30 lbs of assorted root veg, you're shocked no matter what you're into.
Veggie monster gettign into it didn't help either. Legitamate missunderstanding there. Must have been sad, Ernie all well meaning, and his grand reveal is sullied by a broken, obsessed eating dissorder incarnate slathering down everything.
They had to hush them all up and shuffle them off. None of them were working together ever again.
Except for Veggie, they jsut beat him with pipes, threw a bag of shredded carrot in his face, locked him in a closet and told him to pull his shit together.
Oscar didn’t see it coming.
Of all them, he was the only one who was REAL about things. I have to say, he was the best of them too. Asshole, sure, he was a GROUCH for fucksake. No drugs, no women, no kinks that got into everyone else’s shit though. Oscar was just happy being Oscar, doing his thing and dispensing his caustic wisdom to anyone who stood in his airspace for too long. He was the counterpoint, the voice of reason, and the agitator all in one. Once they dumped his ass on the bus though, they’d just sent their thanatos away. Things went on after, sure, but sticky gummy sweet. Nothing to provide the counterpoint that made it all WORK.
They missed that though. They only saw the lawyers hemming and hawing, the angry letters from soccer moms who’ve never SEEN a trashcan in their suburban sheltered lives. Jim defended him to his death, but once he was gone Oscar just didn’t have the patience to network and keep above the office politik. The office politik didn’t see Oscar’s whole front was his way of showing how much he cared.
Then the executive produce slipped him a bottle of Jack D at the season wrap party. Oscar had been off the sauce for years. No AA or anything, he just decided to stop, and stopped. The stuff must’ve hit him like a freight train.
After he was out for an hour, they told Bruno to haul his can onto the next bus out of town. He refused of course, Oscar was his buddy. Then they shoved $3k in his pocket, and told him to find a bus for the can, or find another job. What else could Bruno do? His wife with the cancer and all.
Oh he cried the whole way, his tears making the cleanest streaks on Oscar’s can.
But what are we to do without the reality check that Oscar and his friends imposed on society? The gift they had for gently preparing children for the harsh realities of life wasn't passed on to anyone. Our children are coddled from birth to age 18, with nothing but unicorns and rainbows, and the assurance that they are just as good as the next guy, by virtue of being the special people they are.
By age 22, of course, they've been blown to cat meat in the Green Zone, if they're lucky. If not, you'll see them staring blankly across the Arby's counter at you as you place your order, lost in the thoughts of how badly life has fucked them because they were never really prepared for the way things actually work. They were a special flower for their whole childhood, and now they can use that specialness to get your damn order right when you ask them for extra Horsey Sauce™.
And the same parents that demanded urban renewal on Sesame Street will spend their whole lives wondering what went wrong with their children, as they gaze down their perfect, trash can-free streets.
Dok - A bit derailed from the original ABotD, but a chapter on the fall of Children's Tv may not be out of place. Your call how we organize it.
Khara - :mittens: you need to do more.
.....
Wait.
They SERIOUSLY turned Cookie Monster into VEGGIE MONSTER? :x :x :x :x :x :x :x :x :x :x
Ever get that feeling where you just want to do something epic? I have had this recurring fantasy for a couple weeks now, probably because I’ve been listening to a lot of Dragonforce.
It’s a classic Dragon Death scenario. I open my front door, and lo and behold there’s a big arse dragon outside. Now this dragon is menacing some damsels, as dragons are wont to do, and me being the wannabe hero that I am, I feel obliged to kill the hell out of the thing. Luckily for me and for my fantasy, I have a sword handy (not a phallic symbol, Freud), and I go off to slay the beast. Now depending on my mood, this whole incident ends with me either killing the dragon as planned, or making it into my steed. Either way, I win forever.
I figure a lot of people have fantasies like this, where they get to pull off the amazing feats that real life cheats us out of. And really, we are being cheated. The world as we know it is a hopelessly banal place. There are no epic adventures, there are no dark villains to slay (except for the occasional dictator and Dick Cheney), and it’s a shame. Even the Ages of Adventure really weren’t what they should have been. The Crusades weren’t really a Holy Crusade, it was a bunch of greedy shmucks and religious fanatics who killed each other for a couple years. Admittedly, it was a public service, but it wasn’t true Adventure. The Discovery of the New World just gave the bastards in the Old World more room to be shmucks and led to the shattering of native civilization.
The worst part of all this is that we don’t even worry about the lack of adventure and fantasy in our world. We just accept that it’s “a fact of life” and go on. To be frank, screw that. Just because things aren’t one way doesn’t mean that they can’t be changed. Why should we have to settle for a world without true adventure, where most people never live to see their dreams become reality? It’s time we took advantage of the things we have at our disposal and used it to bring some fantasy into the world.
Huh. I didn’t really mean for this post to turn into a sermon. Oh well, if you weren’t interested you probably wouldn’t be reading this. It just bothers me, realizing that all of the worlds and glories that I can create cannot come to real life. Humanity has been stuck with a world that can’t measure up to it’s dreams. I guess that’s just another thing I’m going to have to work on.
Since this has turned into a sermon, I figure I should come up with a moral. How about this: If the world sucks, change it. Just because it “has always been like that” doesn’t mean that it can’t and shouldn’t change. So go out and fix the damn world.
Today's just another day, part of the bittersweet monotony of summer vacation. The sun is out, the birds are singing, and the idiot hordes are congregating at our local pool. Now, usually I'm a fairly mellow individual, but today I feel like I'm losing my mind. All of the shit I do and plan to do, the writing, the planning of my reality hack, all of it doesn't make any sense. I don't know why I'm doing any of this. lol I'm moving back and forth between depression and psychotic glee. It's one of those days where I want to watch the whole fucking planet burn, just so I can piss all over the ashes. And right now, I feel like I'm going to freak out, have a little "episode" and set fire to the house. I joined this forum to try and find some like minded individuals who want to try and MindFuck the world back on course, but that really doesn't make any sense. The world is already MindFucked you see. We have what, 2 billion people, going to work every day, coming home, and the next day repeating it. And why? To pay for children's college funds? Just paying for a brainwash of your kids by an alien system. What real purpose is there to all of this? Tell me what the hell is the purpose? You work for fifty good years, for things that are going to die with you. Most of our lives spent acquiring things that last twenty/thirty years. The best part is that within twenty minutes, I'll have recovered the illusion, and I'll just think that all of this was a result of boredom and caffeine. THat's why I'm writing this, so that my crazy can be recorded before I forget it. So, one last question before I give up; What's your fucking purpose?
Or Kill me.
That's one of the big things you notice when you get older. The Establishment looks just like you. The Man is a middle-aged fat man that looks vaguely like one of your uncles. Right now, the man has long hair. (Specifically, that weird look where he's bald on top with a long pony tail in the back.) In twenty years, The Man will have tattoos all up and down His arms. That's the strangest thing to learn: The Man is just a man. The world isn't ruled by a powerful cabal of Illuminated Ones or alien Reptiloids. This planet is ruled by a bunch of dumb stinking apes.
And The Machine isn't even a machine. The Machine is us. We are the Machine. Every single one of us is a slightly off balanced cog in The Machine. There's no way to get out of it. Eventually we will all end up ground down by the normal wear and tear of everyday use. And the worst part is that there is no way to destroy the Machine. It will just replicate itself with even more broken-down people. There is no escape, make your time.
Rebar Man
In the woods of Maine there stands an old farmhouse. It's near a lake and has long been abandoned.
The windows are shattered.
The shingles are shredded.
The paint and wallpaper are peeling from the walls.
Piles of old garbage and broken furnishings litter the interior. And on the second floor, up a creaky old set of stairs, there once sat a man made of wire on a plain wooden table gouged and worn from the years.
The wire man knew a family once. He knew the people who placed him on that table and the man who created him. He knew the fresh strong feeling of the new rebar wire that made him.
Then one day there was a fire. His family was away and the farmhouse still stood, but they never returned.
The Rebar Man waited for a long time. A year went by and nobody came. People began to explore the old farmhouse. They were kids who were curious and young adults who were bored. To many of them the Rebar Man went unnoticed. Some few picked him up, some fewer spoke slow words he did not know, and all set him back on his table when they left. These were the greatest moments of his existence.
While he waited, and he always waited, he looked down the hallway to the window outside. He would see snow and rain, he would see the leaves changing colors and the cars passing by. But his favorite times were when he saw sunlight.
Time moves slowly for the man made of wire. One day, five years after the fire, a rock was thrown through the window. It took him two months to be surprised and to know the glass lay broken. That was the day he decided to reach the sunlight.
He was made to stand, it would seem, but not to walk. For one month did he step forward, for one second did he fall, and for some time longer did he realize it. But the window was closer.
Two years it took the Rebar Man to fall from the table and two months to right himself from his back. But the window was closer.
Again and again he saw the snow and rain, the leaves changing colors and cars passing by. Again and again he felt when the air went moist, when something began happening to his wire. He slowly rusted. But the window was closer.
Patches of orange-brown flakes were about him after three years. He was halfway to the window. A small group of people came to the house and searched its rotting shell. They stomped on decrepit floor boards and gazed upon fire wrecked fixtures. They took to the stairs and stood before the window. They stepped on the Rebar Man's right arm and leg, dragging him a little before realizing it. They left. His right side was crushed and moved poorly. And the window was further away.
Five years passed. He felt the tremors of visitors cautiously looking about before leaving the old house. Few came near him, none disturbed him. He was covered in rust. But the window was closer.
The rust grew thick. His movements became slower. From his hand first touching the light cast from the window til his body rested entirely within it four months passed. He rolled onto his back with some time and gazed up. The window was there. But it rained on him.
The next day he felt little. He was rusted and bent oddly. He cracked and broke in places. But the sun shone that day and he basked in its light.
Then the man made of wire knew no more.
The Jar Was Empty
By Dimo, TTLC
They set you up, you know. The Big Man in Charge, he couldn't cut it, so he made you a scapegoat. Sure, it was presented as a gift, but who gives gifts like this without an ulterior motive?
"Don't press the shiny, alluring red button, Lil' miss." Yeah, we all know how that always ends up. Yes, they set you up, threw you right under the bus. Someone needed to take the fall, and you better believe it wasn't going to be the Big Man in Charge. He needed to stick around. Who else was qualified for the continuous distribution of Hellfire and Damnation? I mean really qualified.
So you pressed the big red button. You opened the jar. Now, they say you released these terrible things to plague humanity. They took advantage of your natural inquisitiveness, made not only a scape goat of Woman, but of all of us that share that same natural curiosity. "What makes this work?" "Why does this happen?" Don't ask now. The Big Man in Charge won't answer. Not only does he not want you to know, but he's not all that sure himself.
There's good news to be had here, however. I'll let you in on a little secret.
The jar was empty.
Those terrible, terrible plagues that you, supposedly, let loose on mankind were already there. They were never in the jar in the first place. They just wanted you to believe that, so you would take responsibility for what they have done.
No, the jar was empty. (except for maybe a couple of those springy snake things that hide in a can of peanuts on occasion). Completely empty. Not only were all those baddies not in there, but hope itself was absent as well. Don't worry, though. Hope was never what The Big Man in Charge chalked it up to be. Hope is what keeps people from actually doing something about it. "I hope, someday, to achieve" can now change to "I will achieve." "We must keep hope alive for a better future" changes to "We can create a better future." Hope is a nice, warm pillow that can only help you while you're lying down and defensless. But it's OK now, because now we know that the jar was empty.
When I was young, chronologically speaking, I used to consider myself a catholic. My parents were catholics, as was most of the rest of my family (not to mention that those of my family that were not catholics were talked about unfavoably while they weren't around) and, so far as I knew, so was the rest of the world. It seemed to make sense. At the time. However, fact and history painted a much different picture, so, as far as I could deduce, there was only one logical step to take. And, while I still had things similar to faith and spirituality within me, I left the church.
For a time, I considered myself a punker, and by extention, a musician, a real rebel's rebel. Over time, I started more than a few bands, and proceeded to turn my school into a zoo of howling lunatics. While punk asked a lot of questions, it offered little in the way of answers. Punk, itself, is paradoxical, it exists through non-existence, and furthermore, was treated as a pop-culture fashion, and was stripped of most, if not all, validity. So, while I may retain a rebellious streak and play in a punk-style band, I left the scene.
For another moment in time, I considered myself smart. Could you blame me with so many cabbages walking about disguised as people? It's an easy thing to do when you deny that there are some truly intelligent people on this planet, which I did. But, considering myself smart, I had no other options but to recognize and accept my own sheer average-ness. Now, still concerned with seeking knowledge, I left that false comfort behind.
At other times, I had considered myself either "single" or "taken," choosing to be either in a relationship or not. Only to come to realize that I am not alone, and I do not belong to anyone. So, while I cherish and enjoy the relationships I have with friends, I could no longer be bothered by the "status" of said relationships.
Just recently, I considered myself a Discordian. A "really real" Discordian. The humor, the subversivity, the pseudo-religious attributes harmonized with many things from my past. It got me off of my ass and taught me how to be active in what I beleive. It taught me that new ideas and technology were not things to be shunned. But, just like my first delusion, if it's taken too seriously, it starts to become things that it was never intended to be. So, while I still love a good posterGASM, (un)friendly debate and the introduction of new ideas, I cannot truly say that that is what I am, the whole of my being.
So, here I am, emptying my head. And it could be said that I'm not really, fully, anything anymore.
And I like it.
The Iconoclast’s Manifesto
We reserve the right to hold heretical viewpoints that you find abominable. We hold true that anyone who feels justified in attacking an individual because they have an unpopular opinion can fuck off and die.
We identify ourselves by our willingness to challenge the accepted dogma, theory, doctrine, or paradigm regardless of the consequences to our social status. We acknowledge that the positions we take may result in our being subjected to more intolerance than conventional wisdom would suggest is wise, but we find ourselves refuting conventional wisdom remarkably often.
While we generally try to take positions that are based on reasoned arguments, empirical evidence, historical precedents, or any combination thereof, we reserve the right to play devil’s advocate just to piss you off and destroy any notion you might have that your ideas are universally applicable.
We acknowledge that the original use of the term iconoclast specifically refers to the destruction of religious icons, but we may choose to attack cherished beliefs relating to anything, including but not limited to politics, art, religion, philosophy, and identity.
We reserve the right to change or violate the terms of this manifesto as the individual iconoclast deems fit.
We reserve rights, period.
BIP in unrhymed verse
Do you know where you are?
These four walls, this ceiling, this floor?
This is your life. This is your cell.
Welcome to your Black Iron Prison.
Don’t panic, you’re not here to be punished.
You were born here.
This is your cell. This is your life. This is all you know.
Beneath you, you can see the floor made by your parents and teachers.
To your left and right, society, media, and your peers make two walls.
Above you, there is a ceiling just barely too high to touch: these are your dreams.
Behind you, the darkest shadows are cast on the third wall, the wall made by your fears.
The light shines through the bars in front of you, through the fourth wall.
But this wall is not a wall. The bars are different, somehow.
These six sides hold you in, safe within a tiny cell of truth.
Take hold of the bars; feel the cold, Black Iron.
What are these bars? Why are they different from the other five sides?
You made these bars.
The light shines through them, but still they hold you in as surely as a solid wall.
They are your beliefs, your thoughts, your identity.
Every time you tell yourself, “I am this, I am that, I am not these other things,” you create
another bar.
The stronger your beliefs, the stronger the bars become.
You can break some of those bars, if you choose.
If you are not afraid.
Or you can build more bars, making them thicker and closer together.
It doesn’t matter which beliefs make the bars; they all block the light.
Missing: One Child Prophet and a Wise Tiger
You know who I miss the most? Calvin. I grew up with Calvin; he was always six years old but he was always older than me. He was a child sage, and I didn't always understand him but we had lots of fun together, Calvin, Hobbes, and I. He knew from the very beginning that school was there to beat his mind into shape, and he rebelled not only by outright refusal to be contained, but by shaping parts of his mind before those parts could be squeezed into public school molds. He knew, like all children know, what it means to have a good time, but he knew it consciously at such a young age. What's more, he laughed in the face of anyone who tried to tell him differently, right before dropping a water balloon on their head. Calvin knew the TV was there to satisfy the sweet tooth of the mind, and he let it work its glittering magic on him every once in a while, but it never really got to him. Partly, this was because he knew what exactly it was doing, and partly because of Hobbes.
I miss Hobbes too. Hobbes knew what fun was just as well as Calvin did; sometimes he knew it better. He was a voice of reason, but never too much reason. Just enough to keep Calvin from riding that wagon over too high of a cliff, just enough to make sure that chucking water balloons and snowballs was always more fun than the TV. Hobbes was there to put a jolt of Life back into Calvin's existence at the end of the daily public school slog.
But Calvin's gone now. I don't know where he went or what he does now, but I think he may have grown up. He probably didn't mean for it to happen; it probably snuck up on him when he wasn't looking. Once he grew up, he stopped really being Calvin, you know? And the worst part is, growing up was the only thing Hobbes couldn't save him from. Without the real Calvin, Hobbes is just a stuffed tiger, and without the real Hobbes, Calvin can't be the real Calvin we all knew. It took both of them to survive in this world, and if we had them here today they'd know how to deal with the ever-growing weirdness and sickness of our society and they'd show us all how it's done.
But one cannot exist without the other, and now they're both gone. Maybe if we could find them they'd tell us how to find Curly.
I sure do miss them.
The Worms and Their Little Blue Pills
There are worms in my brain. I don't know when exactly they got in there, but they've been there for quite some time now. My thoughts flow through the tunnels the worms have burrowed through my gray matter, and they themselves sometimes carry my thoughts around. But these worms are not very efficient for my purposes, partly because they squirm around randomly and partly because they have no goal in mind towards which to work efficiently.
Of course they have nothing in mind, they're worms, damn it! They are what's in my mind; pay attention to the metaphor!
Anyway, the workings of the worms are not conducive to getting things done. Trying to direct them so that my thoughts flow smoothly and directly towards a certain goal is like, well, it's like trying to herd a bunch of damn worms. They don't pay attention to anything but wriggling and burrowing. But that's what the pills are for, these little blue pills.
The pills do something I've never been able to do: they force the worms to line up in neat little rows and march in time to the tune of whatever goals I set. How worms can be made to march without feet I don't know, but they're marching all right. In spit-shined jackboots, no less. With the pills controlling the worms, I become a machine. A powerful, efficient machine that runs smoothly as a dream on lubricated bearings. The pounding march of the worms makes sure the trains of my thought all run on time, and the jackboots stamp out errant or unwanted thoughts with hardly a sound. For a few hours, everything runs better than ever before, better than it should. For a few hours, I am effective. Then the pills wear off.
When the pills start to wear off, I can't keep the worms in line anymore. But the damning thing is that they keep on marching around in jackboots. With no more rhyme or reason guiding them they stomp all around my brain, trampling everything and my trains of thought go flying off the tracks. I become the machine with half of its bearings taken out, rattling and screeching, performing its tasks with grinding, noisy hesitancy. Everything inside and outside my head becomes a disordered mess and I know that at any moment I might truly begin to laugh and laugh and laugh until I realize I'm screaming.
Finally, the jackbooted feet the worms never had in the first place wear off and they go back to wriggling and burrowing. I am no longer the machine, and I can rest until I need to be effective again.
You need to get a good job. You need a good job so you can afford that new TV. The one with the 150" screen, and the surround sound that will make your ears bleed. You need that TV so you can forget how shit your job is. And your job is shit, but you can't quit it, otherwise they might repossess your TV. Then what will distract you from how shit your job is?
I wish I was immune to this cycle but, alas, I am not. Last time I checked I was about ten grand in debt. I've never owned a credit card, never got a mortgage, never bought a car, but I'm still in debt.
Why? Well, I'd like to think it was because I am learning all of this neat stuff, and I am, but that's not the reason. If I just wanted to learn something I could do it for free. No, the reason I am in debt is to get a little piece of paper. A special piece of paper which says that I get to earn a slightly better wage. So I can get a slightly bigger TV, and go somewhere slightly further away on my annual two week vacation.
But once you have that nice piece of paper, and a good job, it''s not over, there are still things to learn. For example, you need to learn to like the taste of arse, because you are going to be kissing a lot of it. You need to kiss arse because if you kiss arse you will get a promotion. And if you get a promotion you can buy an even bigger TV. You'll need that bigger TV to relieve the stress of having to get a promotion.
But that's not all you get, promotions bring other benefits too. If you get a promotion you may get to move up a floor, and you definitely want to move up a floor. Not because the views are nicer (though that is what they will tell you) but because a higher floor means you are further from the ground. It means you have further to fall when you are tired of your job and want to retire.
SPLAT!
From the Om Nom Nomicon (http://www.principiadiscordia.com/cramulus/index.php?title=Omnomnomicon#I._The_Spagan_Text)
I. The Spagan Text
Hearken, and Remember!
In the Name of ST. GULIK, Remember!
In the Name of CASH MONEY, Remember!
In the Name of RICHARD NIXON, Remember!
When on High the Heavens had not been named,
The Earth had not been named,
And Naught existed but the Seas of FAIL,
The Original Gangsta,
And FAT BLACK WOMAN, the Original Gangsta
Who bore them all,
From the Om Nom Nomicon (http://www.principiadiscordia.com/cramulus/index.php?title=Omnomnomicon#I._The_Spagan_Text)
I. The Spagan Text
Hearken, and Remember!
In the Name of ST. GULIK, Remember!
In the Name of CASH MONEY, Remember!
In the Name of RICHARD NIXON, Remember!
When on High the Heavens had not been named,
The Earth had not been named,
And Naught existed but the Seas of FAIL,
The Original Gangsta,
And FAT BLACK WOMAN, the Original Gangsta
Who bore them all,
I just saw this and it cheered up a blah afternoon. :mittens:
Love the riffing off of the Simon Necronomicon.
Goddamn. I was waiting for this one since Friday, when we were talking about it. Totally worth it.
A CALL
This is for all of you out there who have shit going on, in your life, and can't deal. Can't vent. Can't defend yourself from.
There are times when you must be seen, heard, felt. And even the most apathetic or the most cynical of us do it. There are times when you must stick your head over the trench wall and see others toiling away, and take comfort from the fact that you are not alone.
So I am here. I am listening.
Some of us take up the pen, the sword, the megaphone, and turn negativity into a positive. Some of us create temporary monuments out of the shrapnel that rains on us.This is why: if we do not shit our hate, we will die.
Your tasks are your own, what you do, you must do alone, but what is done, will be seen.
The best will be remembered and emulated and refined, it is true, but the best will fade as fast as the worst.
There is nothing permanant. In the space of a life time, we build many monuments, and we tear many down.
There is respite, though. There is a moment of hiding in a shell crater as you run across no-mans-land, sharing a knowing glance with another refugee, leaving your mark, before you jump up again, and run to the next bit of scant cover.
There is that assurance that what we do will have meaning, for a fleeting time perhaps, but not an empty gesture.
Setting: A large airy room, all in marble and gold. There is an open area in the middle of the room, with large "steps" set around it in concentric circles. Set into niches in the walls are statues of George W. Bush, Bill Clinton, George H. W. Bush, every President since Nixon, every Prime Minister since Atlee.
There are a lot of aging men and woman, dressed in bed sheets sitting on the steps talking quietly amongst them selves, and one standing in the middle of the floor, preparing to speak...
"Distinguished friends! We are here to today to discuss diverse matters of interest to our interests as representatives of ourselves and eachother! Let us proceed firstly with the matter of our next Emperor."
He pauses and regally surveys the the seated councillors. He points to one.
"Copious Taser, you may speak first."
The indicated man stands up, smooths off his bed sheet and proceeds to the floor.
"Friends! The Emperor (may he reign forever!) is due to step back from the throne in a few short months. The People, hardly oppressed by his benevolent policies, have decided that this is a good time to consider our politics, and hold them under SCRUTINY! I have spoken with some of you about this, and have decided that we needs must divert their attention to other matters of smaller import, such as the prospective candidates genitalia, or mayhaps the colour of their skin!"
The seated men and women nod sagely, some mutter supportive sounding words. There is a small grunt as one of them in the back row is introduced to anothers knife. He slumps over, but no one thinks it out of the ordinary, as several others are similarly slumped over in slumber.
"Some others are making scenes in public, and ignoring our pleas for them to focus on what we tell them to. Our loyal citizens are having their freedoms protected by our actions to keep these rebellious scalliwags in order."
He pauses for a moment, seemingly trying to regain some of his composure which has obviously been upset by the mere thought of having to deal with public unrest, here! In the Land of the Free!
"We are now arranging to have the two most likely candidates to assume the Imperial Mantle to be as popular as the other in the plebians eyes, the better to distract them from our essential work. My friends, we are close to getting past this period of unrest, and getting back to more years of stability and freedom to do as we wish."
There is polite applause as he bows to the assembled elders and makes his way back to his seat. The Speaker steps back to the floor and draws breath to speak again. He pauses when Copious Taser sits back down on a tack and yelps. A few of the men and women near him giggle behind their hands.
"I thank my friend Copious Taser for his words. It is true that these are unsettling times, but we are almost through them. We must remain united and strong within these walls, fractious though we may be out-with. I call my friend Pluribus Unum to the floor, he has requested a chance to speak before you today."
Pluribus Unum stands up, steps over several sleeping and "sleeping" elders, wipes his sandals of blood on one of their bed sheets, and makes his way towards the centre of the floor.
"Fellow councillors! I bring to you happy news today! I, with some diverse help from some among you, have been working on our "doublethink" policy. Yes, we were worried to begin with that this frankly Orwellian idea would be too obvious to the people, too likely to forment unrest rather than quell it, but we were wrong! The people have been weaned on television since birth now and have no idea who old George was, let alone read his books. We now have implanted the idea that only protests held in cages are valid with our "Freedom Cage", and have now so closely aligned "Freedom" with "Security". Through logical progression, we can now enforce "Security" with "Cage", and then we will have them, if you excuse me, by the balls."
Again there is quiet acknowledgement of this small feat. And a small strangled yelp as The Speaker is 'removed' in the traditional and time honoured way.
"When next we meet, there will be a new Emperor. I expect we will back our assigned candidates, and have a nice and close "election". Remember to tell your candidate to keep his trap shut! One small slip now will blow everything to hell, and we don't want that, do we? I thank you, my friends, for your time."
He moves back to his seat, and The Speaker, a woman now walks back to the floor.
"Lastly, we shall hear from our "underground" man, our representative amongst the people. He hasn't much time to speak to us today, or his lack of presence will be noted. Let us listen!"
A previously unseen man steps out from behind a pillar, he is wearing a bedsheet like the others, but it is also pulled up over his head, hiding his features.
"Ladies and Gentlemen, hear me! My work amongst the people goes according to our plan. I have guided the most rebellious of them in directions that we believe are fruitless. Amongst some, I have encouraged parroting of old catch phrases and jokes and the taking of illicit substances. Amongst others, acts of petty vandalism and the creation of what they term "meme-bombs". As we..."
There was a small murmer of dissent and unease, but also some of support for the mystery man.
"As we already suspected, many of the latter ARE dangerous. It is well that we caught them when we did. We are feeding them all with small portions of the truth, to keep their need to know sated, but as planned they do not know the whole of it, as much as they want to. My latest report, regarding the adaptation of the "three man con" has been dispatched to this esteemed council. What you will read concerns the removal of the third participant from our Three Man Con policy, the third participant of course being the person being conned. My work continues, and my updates will also. Thank for your time, friends"
He turned, somewhat melodramatically, and stalked towards the door.
As he neared it, some of those closest to him may have heard him whisper to himself.
"Fucking dupes. Stupid, blind, ignorant dupes."
But they wouldn't have known who he was talking about.
We are the Anti Colony.
We are those who have not met ourselves.
We are all the coolest things you've never heard of.
Understanding that we are everything, and nothing, it is inevitable, perhaps, that we play with fire to build our self congratulatory monuments.
We are the winners.
We are the faceless avatars of our age.
We are worthy of no pity or thanks, but only because (and when) WE say so.
Glory in the fight, fellow ghosts of the internets, because it IS a fight, even scrawling your name in the mud with a stick is a victory.
We are the nameless celebrity.
We are wielders of the cyanide pen.
We shit all over your roses, becuase it helps US grow.
And now?
Now we wait for something to happen, or cause things to happen, or sit in imbecilic bliss.
We really ARE the dogs bollocks.
We have mad skillz.
We hate you.
We play meme-poker while the world unexpectedly DOESN'T implode under it's own stupidity.
Underneath every one of us is a chair, we made it our bitch, but it also made us our bitch. Meanwhile, we disbelieve in the Gods, the Government and the mail-man. Sometimes we don't even believe in ourselves anymore, so far has our search for troof and lulz gone.
Questions? No longer do we ask them, meaningless as the answers, nay, the words, have become. We merely make statements proceeded by the polite"?"
FUCK you? Hell Yeah!
O.K. lets roll the dice, see who plays first, and write some pithy poetry. We have so much anger going to waste, lets document it, pigeon hole it, lay it down for posterity. These are the days we truly are alive, and we should really leave something for the poor, dead, kids of tomorrow. Maybe not.
And when all is really said and done, all i really wanted to say is "Fuck me, I want a beer!!" So how the fuck did I get here?
Things to do before you die.
~Take out that damned jackboot from your ass. It's not cool, it's not funny and it's like a genetic disease in that you'll end up passing it onto generations of your descendents.
~Learn to question EVERYthing. Occasionally, people tell you lies. Even people who sound perfectly reasonable and sane. The softer they speak, the more polite they are, the bigger the lie they can be hiding from you.
~Stop waving the flag/passport/skin colour and calling it "Patriotism". That shit just isn't funny anymore when the Government is already doing the same thing. Patriotism isn't about being a better citizen, it's about demanding a better country.
~Take a crash course in bullshitting. It's the "in" thing these days. You might as well learn to be better at it than your Priest, Bank Manager and President.
~Take time off and have a little fun. It's what they don't want you to do, right? When people say "Oh, telling someone not do something is like inviting them to go ahead and do it", they could well have a point when it comes to this. Do you REALLY want to be stuck in that cube all day when the sun is out?
~Swim with dolphins. Nothing like having a wet slimy horny motherfucker wrapping it's prehensile penis round your leg to realise that these lists are all bullshit, and you really need to make up your own damn lists.
Your possessions no longer interest me, neither does your fragile mental state. Your intellect has become stale and useless, wallpaper in the cage you call your life, a mere link in the chains you are to make yourself. Forced to do so by yourself.
Your friends/family/pets/rulers/employers are meaningless constructs until you accept the grim reality of this situation. Perhaps they are meaningless until they accept the reality of their very own imprisionment.
Go on, make a checklist of what you need to survive. Done? Good.
Besides food, warmth, shelter, what, if taken away, would actually kill you?
Discard as appropriate.
Now break down whats left. Do you really need your takeaway pizza every weekend? Would you really be a lesser person if you had a one bedroom housing cube in the shadowy part of the big city?
Discard as appropriate.
Now you have pressed the reset button. Feel free to add to your list again, but this time its not what you need to survive, its what you need to live.
Add your favourite art, scenic views and witticisms. Most of all, I suggest the quiet dignity of a free human. But thats only me, you are now in total editorial control.
Done? Good.
Now look around you. Does anything seem different? Do you really like that McBurgerHut down the road, the one you've been hanging around, inside and out, since you were able enough to say "I want!!" and point? Does the preacherman seem more, or less, creepy? Something never sat quite right with his fantastical tales of eternal paradise, if only you were "good" in this life. A life which, to the best of MY knowledge, is the only one you are guaranteeed to have?
Do you have any questions you have to have the answers to, answers that you know only you can find?
Good. Join the club.
This is a chainmail letter, you must now invent a way to mail it to yourself five years ago...
P.S. Have more fun, I can tell you it wasn't a barrel of laughs the first time around.
art submission:
http://cramul.us/2010/09/flying-ass-ghost-dance/
attribute to Cramulus
license:
Public Domain
whoops. put this in the wrong spot:art submission:
http://cramul.us/2010/09/flying-ass-ghost-dance/
attribute to Cramulus
license:
Public Domain
you may also have:
http://cramul.us/2010/09/the-tales-of-mr-oliver-tuppence/
and, if you'd like it, http://cramul.us/2010/09/gorillas-in-the-midst/
license: Copyright, all rights reserved
ALL submissions will be treated as Copyright, all rights reserved, used by permission. This removes any chance of horrible fucking messes later.
ALL submissions will be treated as Copyright, all rights reserved, used by permission. This removes any chance of horrible fucking messes later.
but much of my art has already been released into the public domain. With most of my visual art, I am not interested in protecting it via copyright.
I'm sorry but I have to insist that the public domain stuff stays in the public domain. One of the primary reasons I make visual art is to create stuff FOR the public domain. Feel free to print it, but you can't copyright it.
likewise, you may use any of this stuff, (a lot of the B&W art will probably be up your alley) but it has to bear a creative commons license: http://cramul.us/2010/09/juxtapositions/
Friday night. No, let's start at the beginning. Friday AFTERNOON, when the "good Dok" came over to "help" me with my Pickles running away.
He had made this horrible contraption of a harness. There were so many hooks and electrode-y bits that it frightened me before he even put it on Pickles. As he was strapping the little guy in, he was explaining to me what the various parts do, and how the thing worked. I can't even remember it now, because it was all science-y shit, and I was never really good with electrical circuits anyway, and I think I may have blocked it for my own personal peace of mind, but I really could not, in the end, let his experiment continue. And that's what it was, just an experiment. Well guess what, Roger. Puppies and science DO NOT MIX.
Later that evening, Roger dropped me off at Nurse Mayhem's house. He left a short while after that, saying he had an errand to run. He returned after an hour or so, and he had a midget with him. And the midget was wearing the harness. And I snapped a bit.
By the way, sorry about that. I, uh, I don't think I've ever gone off on anyone so hard, let alone with an inch thick piece of dowel rod. Sorry.
And as a side note, I'd like to just mention to everyone that it is never ever ever appropriate to call a police officer "Daddy", especially if you are bald and weigh like 230 pounds. And I don't want to talk about it. I really, really, really don't.
And then, earlier tonight, we went to this bar. It was either the bar or the desert, and I didn't think I'd be able to handle that kind of "fun". It was called the Venture Inn or something like that, maybe the Ventura Inn. Now, I've only ever heard the Meatrack described, never been there myself, but this place was so much worse than anything that place could have to offer. The warped wood flooring was sticky, enough that I had trouble picking up my feet when I walked, and I had to walk carefully to avoid tripping over the boards that had bent so much out of shape that they were a full half inch out of alignment. There was a picture there, and I'm not really sure what was going on in it, but it seemed to be some old guy either fucking or getting sucked off by a lion. I'm not sure what that had to do with anything.
(Did I mention that this is a gay bar for old people? This is a gay bar for old people. And not Roger old [no offense, I'm serious], no, I'm talking sixties and seventies and up.)
The walls were stained with god knows what, and smelled of ancient nicotine. I guess the place has been around since before it was illegal to smoke inside. The didn't have glasses, just filthy mason jars, out of which most of the group chugged down their various alcohols.
Roger didn't drink, just gave off this vibe of hate, and kept telling us how much he hated everyone. I didn't either, because frankly I'm terrified of the thought of becoming incapacitated in any way around these people.
Who are these people? Well, there's Nurse Mayhem, and Roger, and Evil Roomie, and Kaz, and even Maria (I have never seen her get so fuckered up, and given the condition of everyone, Roger ended up being the voice of reason. I sincerely believe it's a sign of the end times). The dirty boys from Grant Road met us there. I really can't believe such a horribly menacing, disgustingly perverse group of people actually exists, but I guess that's just because I'm a bit naiive, and deep down I believe that most people are basically good. I realized tonight I have a lot of growing up to do.
Now, you may be itching to ask me, why do I hang out with these people, if I have such a horrible time? Well, I suppose it's because as horrible as they act, as much as they scare me, they never beat me down with horrible shit, or at least its never personal, and if I do end up cringing in horror, it's an accident (i hope) or a joke (I think). I guess, for this reason, I still consider these people some of the best friends I've ever had, even as I sit here and Thousand Mile Stare at my computer screen in shock and horror.
Why do I keep doing this to myself?
So last night, the Dok, Maria, Nurse Mayhem, the rest of the coffee night crew and I went out to a bar. It was a normal bar this time, no corpses like the last one, so I had hopes of the night at least approaching normal. We were there about an hour, just chilling and drinking, when this Mexican wedding party comes in. They were a bit rowdy, but it was in a happy way. But apparently, some of the other patrons that were already there knew someone from the party, and started up a ruckus. Eventually, someone pushed someone else, and one of their freinds pushed back to get even, and it turned into an all out brawl. I'm talking like people were throwing their beer bottles, there were bull rushes going on, people were reaching behind the bar to get at more (and bigger) bottles to use as weapons, the whole shebang. The sounds of glass shattering, people yelling and screaming in rage and pain and hate, and the Dok's laughter boomed in my ears as I dove under a table to get out of the way (I accidently caught one guy's foot as I dove under and he hit his chin on the table and got knocked out, I really shouldn't wear my stawmpin boots cuz they're so big).
As I watched the scene in a strange mix of terror and... badfun?... I saw the rest of the coffee night crew side with the wedding party. Maria and Nurse Mayhem were back to back the entire time. Maria had a broken glass bottle in one hand, and Mayhem had a barstool. Dok apparently couldn't stop laughing, even when (or more likely because) he was thwacking people in the head with some guy's shoe he had got from somewhere. Von Melee was doing okay for a while, he definitely got some good licks in, but someone punched him right where Mayhem had got him a few weeks ago, and he was done. I spotted Evil Roomie once, riding the back of some poor vato, yanking his hair and shouting "Giddy up!" and giggling madly. I have no idea what Mork had been doing, but it was more than likely something sinister.
When things looked to be calming down, I darted out from under my table and ran out the back door. The rest of the group was already there, laughing their asses off, and they had made it out with the bride and groom. They said we were welcome to any of their family functions, and then made off into the night.
It was interesting, anyway.
I'm sorry but I have to insist that the public domain stuff stays in the public domain. One of the primary reasons I make visual art is to create stuff FOR the public domain. Feel free to print it, but you can't copyright it.
likewise, you may use any of this stuff, (a lot of the B&W art will probably be up your alley) but it has to bear a creative commons license: http://cramul.us/2010/09/juxtapositions/
I'm not copyrighting it. I'm using it by permission. I am TREATING it as copyrighted by the authors. At some point, I will be asking people how they want the credits attributed and protected, and that will appear in the contents page(s).
No TIME!
-High score-
Work/Study – Year end review. Gotta keep going.
A third of the team was laid off—
--"Performance related," they said--
Workload increased
(no bonuses)
BUT THERE'S FREE COFFEE IN THE BREAK ROOM.
Just got word they're recording to the minute
When we log on to the computer.
'metrics' they call it.
but we all know
our paychecks
are linked to the clock.
Joe's kid got sick yesterday.
Coughing up blood.
He just sat there at home, wiping dark red phlegm
from his bottom lip
until Joe's shift ended.
We're there to make a better life for ourselves
sitting in the office abattoir
waiting at the paper trough
trying to avoid Upper Management's electric prodding
and clenching our bowels,
waiting for the mandatory bathroom break.
This is why we went to college, after all.
To earn those tickets.
To get the high score.
To pay off the debts
We accrued getting the education
We needed to pay off our debts.
I think they're putting something in my cereal.
In the morning, my mouth is filled with sweetness,
and then – nothing – and I find myself on the bus – and then
- nothing, and I find myself staring at the retina-burning monitor –
-and then-
-nothing-
-and then-
-home again, watching TV – and then –
…and then…
…and then…
…and then…
The Dog Story
Nothing can quite channel the essence of human stupidity like a poorly trained young dog, or the antics of a monkey. Well, maybe not the monkey. Even when apes are howling around acting foolish, big stupid toothy grins, it’s a dominance game. The smile? “Look at what I will fucking bite you with, fuckass.” Maybe not the dogs either, but it reminds me of Boomer and Carl. Boomer was the dog, Carl was the boy. Neither was shaggy (I’m just setting that out right now.)
As mentioned, Boomer was not the best trained. Hauling around barking, grabbing things, peeing, generally embodying the traits in dogs that make me cringe. Carl, the boy, and very much the dog’s boy, wasn’t exactly a hand in correcting this.
“OOhhh! Boomer!”, he’d always cry when the dog did something idiotic. It came out half amused, half helpless exclamation. That was the age he was at, and it was just dawning on him the distinction between the momentary spark of fun, and keeping things un – fucked in the long term. Why would anyone want to do that? Simple, to my reasoning. Un – fucked things are nice. There’s no standard to them, just decide the level of organization vs. clutter, cleanliness, and decoration you want in a place, then keep it up. Clean the filth when filth happens. An untrained dog is a great way to make you appreciate the effort un – fucking takes.
Not the dog’s fault, he wasn’t trained any better. Not the boy’s fault, he wasn’t either, but he was learning it.
and also, submitting The Showdown: http://www.scribd.com/doc/26944637/The-Showdown
in the next few days, I'll have a copy on my blog which is easier to C&P from
I have seen your smile. I've seen it before on many faces and in many places.
It's the kind of smile that involves mostly teeth. The lips, usually more given to a plump and fleshy arch, resemble a rictus. Hold firm, that you do not allow movement to cause irreprable damage to your facade.
It's the kind of smile that never truly reaches the eyes, at least not in the unconscious sense of muscles arranging themselves like so many eels over the orb of hardened and largely dead bone we entrust the day to day safety of our brains to. No. If it reaches the eyes, it's by more malevolent and rationalised ways.
It's that kind of expression you will see on the hedge fund manager's secretary as her boss opens the window, 24 floors up, and prepares himself for the final crash. And she wills the bastard tyrant on with a will bordering on the physical. It's the kind of shit Goya used to paint on his walls, but seen from the other side.
People will see it and hurry by. They will take the superficial politeness and avoid looking deeper. There are things, Sally-Me-Lass, things under that rippled surface that man was not supposed to have knowledge of. And sure, you can hold that smile for a day. For a week. For a month. But it will end. Something will crack it, and the sheer horror of the collapse will unleash something terrible and dark from behind your brain cage. From behind even your brain. From somewhere so deep that imagination is enough to cause you vertigo.
The witnesses will talk e'ermore about the laughter, Sally-Me-Lass. And they will shudder as they contemplate the depths from which it rose. They'll buy a ticket to anywhere. Perhaps to Tucson...
You think that's gravity, do you? No son, that's the world sucking so hard that you're stuck to it like that bit of paper that clogs up the pointy end of your vacuum cleaner. This world is just so much busting your back cleaning a filthy manky house, top to bottom, just to find some fat ass parked in front of the television watching "How Clean Is Your House?" or "Grimefighters". They turn to you and say "See? It could be worse, right!" and you know as soon as your back is turned you're going to have to clean the god damn place again.
And then again. Forever.
Except it won't be forever. It'll just feel like it. No son, it's more like 80 years, give or take a few. In that time you'll be born, grow up, grow up some more, grow up some more (it takes a while, you just never notice how long it REALLY takes), do some menial factory schooling where you learn what it takes to "get by" in this world from school yard bullies to classroom bullies to bullies who you MUST tack a Mr. or Mrs. to the front of their name, then you go out and get yourself some menial factory job (possibly in a menial factory, but just as possible are Graphic Designer, Insurance Salesman or Postal Delivery Operative. All this and MORE could be yours for just 200 hours a month!) and then you stop working. And then you die. I mean, it could be worse, right? This is the plan people! Stick to the god damn plan!
Ah yes, the plan.
Now some would have you believe you are an oppressed minority. Some would have you believe you are the silent majority. They'd sell you your own dreams back to you to make a buck and make a name for themselves and all that Hollywood crap. I know you know the type. I know you have never been suckered by them. NEVER. You're too smart for that shit, right? Okay, so sometimes you have to fall back onto ideology, but everyone does that so it can't be all that bad. And sometimes you HAVE to decide between two evils, but hey that's just how the world is! So we're left here with imperfect people running imperfect Governments presiding over imperfect nations and spreading their shit around so that everyone who doesn't matter can take a bite, but it could be worse, am I right? LEMME HEAR AN 'ALLELUIA!
Praise the motherfucking Lord, asshole. Praise him, or sooooo help you God.
Now, I have no beef with God. He ain't never done nothing to me, and as long as it stays that way, we're solid. I DO have a problem with his lunatics though. Fuckers all up in my face leaving mental graffiti with their spiritual spray paint. You know, the kind of assbag who has no problem telling a newly bereaved mother that her child is going to hell. But hey, they have their free speech too! Too fucking right they do, but so do you Son and I ain't never seen you tear a strip out of this self righteous prick. So they've never actually tried to come and intimidate, cajole, harass and brainwash you and yours. They've never tried to bring hell upon you to show you the error of your ways. No sir, that's always one country, one state, one county, one town, one street over. If it's happening to other people, it could be worse, right? I mean the fuckers, if they had their way, wouldn't even let you know about gravity. They'd have you believe a tiny angel was holding you down or some shit. They'd never let you believe it was the world sucking so hard.
And so I leave you with some thoughts:
Play as hard as you can, work as little as possible to make it happen.
People in positions of power, believe in their power. You don't always have to.
Idealism before Ideology. If you think the world can be a better place DO something about it. Don't consult the fucking manual.
When you have a choice between 50 flavours of shit sandwich, that's not freedom. That's 50 flavours of shit, and everyone will demand you take a bite. Pack your own sandwiches.
You will never be able to defy gravity (that's how much the world sucks). You can however defy your own expectations, but only if you're willing to face up to the illusions they really are.
I am so tired of the excuses the world is giving people today for what is really their own stupid bullshit. Adults are obese because fast food restaurants sell fattening food. Children are obese because of video games. Why are they no longer just plain fat and they sit on their asses too much. Instead of putting down that double quarter pounder and super size fries and walking around the block a time or two, they blame advertising and the world. Parents don’t make their kids go outside to play, they sit on their ass, eat cheetos and play the fucking game.
People are no longer retarded, they are challenged or special or we have come up with a myriad of names for their various diseases. Children are no longer mouthy little shits who need a good swat on the ass; they have ODD (oppositional defiance disorder). They tried to tell me my son had this, after being grounded for almost a year and getting a few harsh lessons in how to respect ones elders, he was miraculously cured.
Now we have everyone saying that the economy and the “bad” neighborhoods and the gangs are turning our youth into thugs or killers or whatever word they decide to use. My question is this, WHY THE FUCK are these kids out on the fucking street at 2 in the morning with guns to begin with? Where are these kid’s parents? Why didn’t they take some parental control?
This generation has done nothing but give excuses for things which used to be unacceptable. Things for which every effort was made to change them. Now we don’t make people change, we just give them a name for whatever fuck up thing they have ALLOWED themselves to become. I’m fat, it’s my fault. I know that krispy kremes make me fat, I still ate them. So instead of blaming anyone but myself, I stopped eating all the bullshit and lost a hundred pounds. Without Weight Watchers or Jenny Craig or any other bullshit. It’s called self control.
I live in the crappiest neighborhood in the inner city of St. Louis. My kid is not out on the streets at 2 am with a gun, because I took control of that as well.
It’s time we started making people take responsibility for their own fuck ups and quit giving them excuses or naming their issue and making it a disease, disorder or issue!
Until we do, when we wonder why the world is in such a shit fuck state, give it a week, they’ll come up with a name for that!
It really wasn’t that hard to figure out. It is one of those things that is so glaringly obvious you just keep on missing it until it smacks you upside the head.
What is this jewel of wisdom you ask…. It is very simple…..
Nothing will make them happy.
You know who they are. There is one or sometimes a few in every type of group you can possibly conceive. And because of them, there will never be a simple solution to anything. Why? Because there is always someone or some group which has to bitch just for the sake of bitching. Those who will find one point out of thousands to nitpick until the whole project gets the shitcan because the arguing has cost more than the actual results would have. And these people are everywhere. You all know one or two personally. You’ve all wanted to smack the shit out of them on more than on occasion
They say they want to be treated like everyone else. They don’t. It’s a lie. They only say that so they look like they are trying to be cooperative. They say that equality is essential. They just don’t mention that it isn’t essential for everyone.
So now we come to the issue of, how the hell do you deal with people like this? I have found a way that has been working for quite a while now. You repeat back to them what they say and make sure you add “Just to clarify” or something along those lines. For example, you present to the PTA a fundraising idea that could bring in a lot of money. Requires no effort on the school’s part. Just the selling of a few raffle tickets… Of course Mrs. Fuckerupper in the front row raises the first objection.
“I don’t think this will work, we’ve never done anything like this before. “
Your response would be…. “Let me clarify Mrs. Fuckerupper, because we’ve never done this before you don’t think this will work, and as a result of that thinking we should just shit can the whole raffle and not try and see how much we can raise. Knowing that other schools in the district have raised $$$ amount?”
See what I mean?
My grandpa used to say “Some people would bitch if they were hung with a new rope” It took me years to realize it didn’t mean they still should be hung no matter what kind of rope was used.
Hey Dok, frankly I don’t give a ……..
Let’s talk about the south and the “southern belle”. Many people see movies like “Fried Green Tomatoes” or “The Secret’s of the YaYa Sisterhood” and think that is what a modern southern belle is. They couldn’t be farther from the truth.
The south doesn’t want their daughters raised like Scarlett, they want Melanie. Sweet, gentile, compromising, forgiving, enabling, the very picture of southern grace and charm.
Grace and charm…… grace and charm…. sounds like cake ingredients doesn’t it? A pinch of grace and a dash of charm and stir. What are little girls made of? Sugar and spice and everything nice?
And this, these ideas, these archaic beliefs that women are fragile and unable to stand up for themselves, that women are stupid. Where do they come from? Well we all know where they originated, problem is few people realize just how much they are continued in the south. Yes even today.
They teach you that you know. In charm school. And yes it is called charm school. You start when you are in the first grade. The first things they teach you is how to sit, stand, walk, talk, what to do with your hands during any situation, how to shake hands, how never to cross your legs at the knee, but to tuck them to the side crossed at the ankles. Then they move into meals and tables, how to set a table for 1-12 courses, 5 to 500 people. What piece of cutlery goes with what food. When to have finger bowls and when not to. Menus and music for any size event. What to wear and when to wear it because no self respecting southern girl wears white shoes after labor day by god and won’t put on a pair again until Easter Sunday.
Then, starting around 4th grade, they start with the how to be stupid classes. Well not how to be stupid, just how to make everyone around you think you are. Well not everyone, just men. And they tell you it’s to keep the men happy. That way they can feel all big and macho taking care of the “little woman”. You learn how to avert your eyes and laugh a little when asked about something you know damn well how to do, but it’s a man’s job to do it. They teach you how to appear interested in what “the man” is interested in. They give you just enough information on a variety of topics to make you either dangerous or stupid. Then they show you how to turn it to stupid. You learn how to be touchy feely. How to lightly place your hand on the man’s arm or shoulder to keep his attention because men are physical beings you know. As for taking care of your man, well now why do you think we all still cook the way we do? Keep ‘em fat and happy!! (wink wink)
And so many women don’t know how to be strong, or that they are even allowed to be. They are scared and many are miserable and in miserable situations because they don’t have any idea what to do on their own. Mothers and friends will tell a woman with a cheating husband to be “more generous” in the bedroom. They will tell a woman who has been beaten by her spouse to avoid the things that set him off and to make the home a safe, quiet place for him to come home to. If they even hear about the abuse at all because in the south, what happens behind closed doors stays there. God help the person who breaks that sanctity.
I’m not in a position to talk. I didn’t leave the bullshit behind closed doors. My dirty laundry was all over for the world to see. They didn’t actually come and take away my “southern belle tiara” but they may as well have. Nobody and I mean absolutely nobody can do the “shunning” better than the south. Once that door is closed, Robert E. Lee back from the dead couldn’t open it. I’m like that divorced cousin everyone wants at their parties to liven up the party but doesn’t want to stay the night.
And then we come to today. I haven’t lived in the south for a couple of decades but I know they still offer these classes because if nothing else, southerners are serious about their roots and their traditions. There are still cotillions and sweet 16 balls. And because I get a letter every year letting me know that they are still holding a place for my daughter and it’s never too late to start.
But what have these idiotic ideas of how a woman should act, talk, walk, dress, speak affected the women of the south? Well actually it is not as bad as one might think. Why you ask? Because we learned the pretend to be stupid thing really well. Very few realize just how smart we are! And as for my generation, they won’t learn it from us! Because as long as you keep on thinking I’m stupid, I can keep on surprising you!
As for my daughter? Well I keep trying to convince a certain hero of mine to start her own version of “Charm School” that will teach my daughter to kick ass and take names and wear whatever fucking color of shoes she wants year round!
Banksy was the first artist I got really obsessivly into. I discovered him through Adbusters (culture jammers' magazine) which I was mad on at the time.
Banksy is often called a graffiti artist but it's more correct to call him part of the 'post-graffiti' movement. Where graffiti is a very specific method and style, post graffiti is a lot further reaching, including art made from wheatpaste posters, sculptures (Banksy's 'Murdered Phone Box' and 'Girl With McDonalds Balloon' are two famous examples) tiles (space invader being a prominent example), knitting, even plants.
The ideology of post graffiti is probably fairly close to graffiti; natuarlly all artists have a personal ideology, but generally there's some variation of 'reclaim/utilise public space'. Post Graffiti has becoem in some circles, a respected modern art form. Or at least, one worth spending large amounts of money on.
I'm curious about the next thing after post graffiti. There's one direction that's obvious; which is essentially the same aesthetic immitated in modern art, coming back into the gallery. But there's also a good deal of activity that seems largely related to the PG movement, both aestetically and ideologically.
Some of these include Street Theatre, Flash Mobs, Guerilla Gardening, LARPing, Whatever sf0 is, Parkour and activities such as 'Safari.'
These are all versions of reclaiming or utilising public space. They generally seek to present some kind of aestetically interesting spectacle.
But are they art?
There's no reason why not. Sticking a shark in a tank may be 'shocking' in some ways for a short while, but even more obvious attempts to troll the art community (remember 'Piss Christ'?) are failing to make long term buzz. 'Doing' as art however offers a genuine shake-up of artistic ideology.
When we're obsessed with the aesthetic more than the actual, activity itself is the artform.
Roger, I take it you're the editor for this project, yes? If you could let me know which ones of these made the cut (all of them is an acceptable answer) I can totally do the layout work for a pdf and a print version.
It'll probably be multiple booklets that'll need to be bound together. I normally hand-sew the binding on my things when they get to that size, but we can work out something else if that's not an attractive option for you. I figure sometime in the next week or so I'll start bugging you about any imagery you were hoping to include in the illustrations and whatnot.Roger, I take it you're the editor for this project, yes? If you could let me know which ones of these made the cut (all of them is an acceptable answer) I can totally do the layout work for a pdf and a print version.
All of 'em. If they don't fit, let me know and I'll get the chainsaw out.
Lo-res version.
(http://i15.photobucket.com/albums/a356/theonlyang/destructionofcommunication.jpg)
Hi-res.
http://kaousuu.net/images/destructionofcommunication.jpg
Words:
The Destruction of Communication.
Today I found out that a really good friend of mine, if not one of my best friends from high school, has died. Not just died, but killed himself for reasons unknown. This happened on June 22nd. Today’s date: July 8th.
No one called me. No one shot me an email or a text message. No. I found out, 2 weeks later, via Facebook, while I noticed another one of my friends wishing him a post-mortem happy birthday.
It’s finally happened, Jim. Humans have lost their drive to communicate normally thanks to good ol’ Web 2.0. Somehow, it was “assumed” that I knew because of Facebook, a website I will openly admit to checking frequently, but not religiously. I don’t have the time nor the energy to keep up with it, and I don’t have an occupation that allows me to sit on my ass, gaining my well-fed American™ secretary spread and surf the web for hours on end, no, I chose to work in a profession that allows me to have social interaction with other primates of my species, which seems to be turning into a forgotten art.
Why did we, as a [debatable] intelligent race, allow ourselves to become hidden behind twenty inches of liquid crystal and a keyboard, and assume that this is okay?
It’s NOT okay, Jim. It’s not. It’s costing me friendships; it’s costing me the value of a face-to-face or at least voice-to-voice conversation and physical confrontations. It’s costing me beautiful paper wedding invitations, newspapers and magazines.
The future may be here, Jim, but it’s not what I want.
Kaousuu/Angela Costello © 2010. Dedicated to the memory of Justin Vaughan, and the good times we had in honors and AP english in high school
161 with cram's links, no images. Started the first of the formatting today. Probably going to end up needing a whole lot more fonts to deal with all this insanity, but that's a good thing.
I'd like some feedback on organization, when you get the chance. I feel like there are a couple of sections this can be broken up into: Dead Gods, Dead Childhoods, Dead Animals, that kind of thing. Are there any groupings like that you wanted to put in there, or should I just do whatever and hope it comes out okay?
first illustration heavy page (almost) done, just looking for a hunched over office victim to throw in the bottom left. Took some liberties with the formatting, feedback appreciated.
http://img855.imageshack.us/img855/1692/supplicationpage.jpg
(there are, naturally, some illustration-light pages done, but those are boring and straightforward.)
first illustration heavy page (almost) done, just looking for a hunched over office victim to throw in the bottom left. Took some liberties with the formatting, feedback appreciated.
http://img855.imageshack.us/img855/1692/supplicationpage.jpg
(there are, naturally, some illustration-light pages done, but those are boring and straightforward.)
Are those tags supposed to show up?
Would you like the hunched over office victim to match the illustration/background image you're using?
Bump, for the Muppet stories.