Monday, August 13, 2018

First They Came For the Douche-Bags

Censorship has never been more hip. All the kids are doing it, all the cool ones anyway. Someone tweets something spicy and they go running to Big Brother to set things straight. And why not? The adults are doing it too, or at least the people who call themselves adults in the legacy media do. After centuries of covering civil wars, Red Scares, and Nixonian scandals, our gilded Fourth Estate has rendered themselves to the status of a bunch of snot-nosed, apple snitching kids crying foul whenever some pedestrian steps on their feelings or questions their inalienable right to zeitgeist supremacy. I speak of coarse of the latest Stalinist purges being undertaken on social media juggernauts like Facebook and Twitter in the name of protecting our precious bodily fluids from a dastardly Slavic midterm conspiracy that everyone is apparently too terrified to prove exists.

So far the victims of this purge have mostly been douche-bags like that rambling boil with teeth, Alex Jones. But that's how it starts and we've already gotten a taste of how it ends. After verbally spanking one too many corporate news jackass (some chickenshit stringer from the New York Times), State Department whistle-blower and fifth degree black belt smart-ass, Peter Van Buren was given the Twitter death penalty and permanently removed from the sites recorded history, just as easy as clipping Yezhov from a photograph. In a rampant spree of crypto-fascist overkill a couple of other fine upstanding civil libertarians, Scott Horton who still refuses to publish me at antiwar.com (not that I'm pissed about it!) and Daniel McAdams of the Ron Paul Institute, where slapped in the purgatory penalty box just for coming to the poor bastards defense.

This all suites the virtue signalling martyrs of the "free" press just fine. Guys like Peter have devoted their lives to debunking their bullshit. At the time of his expulsion Peter was crashing the pity party being thrown by those self-fellating imbeciles in the wake of our techno-Tourette's stricken president's latest tweet lashing the mainstream media as the "enemy of the people" (Stalin's wraith seems to be quite active these days). Peter was not-so-politely reminding these perpetual victims that our dear leader made one accurate point- that you motherfuckers start wars with your propaganda. The righteous indignation of these very war-whores, caught with their hand in the hypocrisy jar, was almost laughably absurd. As was their total stone-blindness to the fact that this kind of obnoxiously clueless behavior is precisely what allows morons like Donald Trump and Alex Jones to prosper from its blowback. I'd probably still be fucking laughing if a hadn't read 1984 in 8th grade.

This kind of shit is fucking dangerous to democracy. I really feel like I shouldn't have to say that but apparently I do. The coy excuse that behemoths like Twitter and Facebook are private companies falls flat when you consider what this really means. The fact that those companies are private corporations (though they're not above corporate welfare) who answer to the bottom line above all else only proves that this kind of knee-jerk fascism sells. In fact, by all appearances, it seems to be a hit with the same #Resistance that pretends to be the last line of defense in the fight for liberal democracy (whatever the hell that means anymore). If these yuppie lumpenproletariats truly gave two fucks about democracy they would be protesting the silencing of dissident voices on both the left and the right by their favorite vehicle for "free speech".

I also shouldn't have to tell people that the First Amendment doesn't protect the speech you like, it protects the speech you hate. It's so damn cliche that I feel like I'm guest starring on a very special episode of Different Strokes, but it's true. Alex Jones may be a colossal flapping anus but is he really that much more hysterical than Rachel Maddow or Sean Hannity? At least his nonsense is mildly amusing and quite possibly avante garde performance art ala Andrew Dice Clay. Reptilian sodomites make for much more interesting boogeymen than yet another Red Scare. One of my childhood heroes Marilyn Manson once mused that you can't sedate the things you hate, but in today's day and age a transgressive artist like Manson or Abbie Hoffman ("The only dope worth shooting is Nixon") or Lenny Bruce (no stranger to the N-word) wouldn't last three seconds without being corralled into Google reservations. When did our once rebellious youth become so goddamn domesticated. Democracy is supposed to be messy, hell, it's supposed to be downright upsetting, anything but "safe". Just ask a marginalized person like myself about it. If I can handle having alt-right jar-heads threaten to rape me for being non-binary than I think you cissy Whole Foods honkies can handle cohabitating with a few libertarians with inconvenient truths to tell. If you're having trouble growing a pair you can have mine. God knows I don't need em.

Jello Biafra, another childhood hero of mine, once said, "Don't hate the media, become the media." The internet has made this anarchist dream a fantastic reality. The World Wide Web didn't invent fake news, it gave we the people the opportunity to correct it. Now the original fake newsters in the Fourth Estate are biting back against the medium that has rendered their propaganda obsolete. They paternalistically pretend that their overt flirtations with fascism protect people like me. But people like me were invisible until social media gave us the opportunity to be seen. If they think I'm going to be silent while they clip my wings and use me as a bullet proof vest for their tyranny then they clearly don't know who they're fucking with.

So this ones for the douche-bags, dearest motherfuckers. If we let them be silenced then god knows who's next. Big Brother can pucker up and kiss my tranny ass.



Peace, Love, & Liberty- CH



This post is dedicated in loving memory to my friend, Lisa Calderwood, another bitch who never learned her place, and Richard Russell, a fellow broken creature who went out in a blaze of glory. This blog will always champion the outcasts that the fake news vilifies and ignores. Godspeed and dos vedanya, comrades. You are not forgotten.



Soundtrack; songs that influenced this post

* Cake and Sodomy by Marilyn Manson
* Holiday In Cambodia by Dead Kennedys
* Panic by the Smiths
* Raise Your Voice Joyce by Fucked Up
* Rape Me by Nirvana
* I Feel Free by Dilly Dally
* Why We Fight by the Decemberists
* Rat Fink by the Misfits
* My Monkey by Marilyn Manson
* See No Evil by Television

Monday, August 6, 2018

Call Me Nicky

Most of you know me as Comrade Hermit, muckraking shut-in extraordinaire, but my slave name, my name in the straight world, the one on my birth certificate, is Nicholas Adam Reid. Growing up, most people called me Nick and for the most part that was never really a problem. Being a fluid dyke like me is tricky because there are no Barbie dolls or frilly dresses to tip you off that I'm trans. For a long time even I didn't know. There were no people on TV that looked the way I felt so I just figured that I was a freak and that became my identity- Nick the Freak.

And in many respects I am a freak and I take great pride in that. I'm a Rothbardian-Freudo-Groucho-Marxist-Syndicalist with a library that includes everything from Che Guevara to Ernst Junger. I'm a sado-masochist power bottom with a fetish for quite literally everything. I'm a politically incorrect sex-positive transfeminist who loves nothing better than shouting theater in a crowded fire. I've never owned a cellphone. I'll never own a credit card. I hate social media with a passion leftists usually reserve for Kulaks. And I've never eaten a green vegetable. I also have an odd affection for gangsters, outlaws, serial killers, revolutionaries of every stripe, and histories misunderstood super-villains in general. I'm a freak alright. I live for the fringe. Society is just a classy word for totalitarianism and I wan't nothing to do with it. But my gender identity has nothing to do with my freakdom. I didn't choose to be a mostly female butch lesbian in a mountain man's body. Believe me, I've tried not to be. I've tried to be male. I've tried to be female. Both fit me like a leash. I am who I am and Nick just doesn't feel like an accurate label for that anymore.

Being Comrade Hermit has afforded me the freedom to express myself in ways that would have quite frankly terrified Nick. But it's also empowered me to evolve beyond Nick. It's been a slow gradual evolution that will probably last my entire life and part of the next. I've trimmed my trademark beard to a fine stubble, grown my hair out and dyed it aqua blue (the warmest color.) I'm still a slob who's naked without my sweats but I've taken to wearing oversize black t-shirts the length of Lisa Loeb cocktail dresses and I've introduced fluorescent blips of color to my goth-black canvas with nail polish and gaudy costume jewelry. Nick is still there but Nick is my past, my future is Nicky.

I first fell in love with the name Nicolette in grade school. I couldn't have been older than 8 when my Catholic school took in a 13 year old throw-away named Nicolette. She was unlike anything I had ever seen before. She swore, she smoked, she died her hair weird colors, and wore piercings in provocative places. She didn't take shit from anyone. They tried to tame her. They failed miserably and shipped her off to charm school. I never found out what became of her. I never even learned her last name. But she was my hero. A vibrant splash of neon chaos in a pleaded plaid universe.

But I'm not femme enough for Nicolette. The compromise of Nicky was inspired in part by two of my favorite characters played by two of my favorite actresses; Big Love's Nicki Grant played by Chloe Sevigny and Orange is the New Black's Nicky Nichols played by Natasha Lyonne. Both characters seem radically different on the surface, the first being a steely-eyed polygamist bitch and the second being a wisecracking jailhouse pussy-hound. But both struck me as decidedly unconventional feminist anti-heroes in decidedly un-feminist environments. The dichotomy felt like a perfect fit. So I've slowly began to inject myself into the universe as Nicky. At first I toyed with the idea of going by Nick &/Or Nicky and forcing people to say the whole goddamn thing like A Tribe Called Quest. I figured I might as well make my gender identity as confounding to everyone else as it is to me.

But the joke got old to me before it got annoying to anyone else. So I found myself going back to Nicky and the more I used it, the more I liked it. Nothing was more exciting to me than seeing the name Nicky Reid published on Counterpunch. So I've made a decision, Nicholas is dead, call me Nicky, shit, she's the cunt that killed him. I'm not a name Nazi, family and friends will probably continue to call me Nick and I can live with that. I'm also going to continue to run this blog as Comrade Hermit, my genderfuck nom de guerre. But when I take that lingerie costume off and go back to my regular old dikey self, I'm Nicky Reid, the Hunter Thompson to my Raul Duke.

That's my name, dearest motherfuckers, wear it the fuck out. This world needs a genderqueer Dr. Gonzo and I'm just the bitch for the job.



Peace, Love, & Empathy- Nicky/CH



Soundtrack; Songs that influenced this post.

* That's Not My Name by the Ting Tings
* Rebel Girl by Bikini Kill
* Call Me by Blondie
* Credit in the Straight World by Hole
* Can I Kick It? by A Tribe Called Quest
* Heads Will Roll by the Yeah Yeah Yeahs
* 4th of July by X
* List of Demands by Saul Williams
* Heat Wave by Snail Mail
* Saints by the Breeders

Monday, July 30, 2018

The Federal Government as Organized Crime

Quick hypothetical: Lets say me and a few of the burliest trans-girls I know show up at your doorstep and ask, scratch that, demand that you pitch in a chunk of your salary to pay for our bottom surgeries, making a halfway descent argument that it serves the communities interest to make us physically whole. Lets say you say no and me and the girls physically subdue you, tie you up, and hold you prisoner in your basement for a few weeks while we max out your credit cards and then cut you loose with a stern warning not to cross us again.

Now lets say me and the girls are running this racket up and down the eastern seaboard. How would you classify such an operation? A federal prosecutor might quite accurately describe this as organized crime.

Now lets say we were a different kind of T-girl and we showed up at your door with a badge, demanding that you hand over your hard earned money to pay for far more ambiguous projects than the state of our genitalia. Projects that allegedly serve our fine nations greater interests. Naturally, you say fuck off and we dock your pay, slap on a pair of cuffs, and beat the fucking candy out of you if dare to defend yourself before sending you to a sex dungeon upstate. Now it's not organized crime, it's organized government! Aside from that little tin shield that affords one the mandate of the state in spite of never being elected to anything, you tell me the goddamn difference?

I'm far from the first person to make this observation. It's one of the major bedrocks that form the foundation of anarchist thought. But lately, in this hyper-partisan age of unfettered mass hysteria, regular old do-nothing Republicrats and Dempublicans have taken up not-so-dissimilar positions against federal agencies that have crossed them. While Democrats are calling for the collective head of ICE in the face of their mass kidnappings on the border, Republicans are openly musing about giving the ax to the FBI for picking favorites in the 2016 election. Well, I say you don't have to be an anarchist, Republican, or Democrat to support banning both.

ICE was cooked up by those constitutional malcontents in the Bush White House after 9/11 gave them a blank check for pretty much anything in the name of fighting terrorism. ICE was supposed to be in charge of preventing terrorists from crossing the border, a problem that literally doesn't exist. So they've spent the lion share of the last two decades justifying their insane budget by becoming the terrorists themselves. Busting up bus stops and hunting down sick children in the ICU. Trump's latest purge is just the tip of the spear. Obama gave these gangsters more work than Bush and still holds the Guinness World Record for mass deportation outside of Stalinist Russia. Trump just kicked it up a notch with his racist family-smashing midterm publicity stunt. If you truly consider yourself to be a conservative, not to mention a goddamn Christian, there exists no sane reason to keep those thugs rolling in taxpayer dough.

The FBI began as J. Edgar Hoover's glorified vigilante death squad during the outlaw years of the Great Depression, hunting down rival gangsters like John Dillinger and lighting them up with Tommy guns in cold blood (America continues this proud tradition of gang-on-gang violence south of the border with operations like Plan Colombia). During the Cold War, Hoover used his near unchecked power to snoop on the White House and launch a racist jihad against those secret communists in the Civil Rights Movement as part of his Cointelpro operation. The nasty old chickenhawk targeted everyone from virtue signalling pacifists like Martin Luther King to bomb-throwing radicals like Fred Hampton (a personal hero), both of whom and many more ended up dead under highly suspect circumstances before the Cointelpro war had ran it's coarse.

Hoover's boys spend most of their time these days at the same troth of the anti-terror gravy train as their fellow Gestapo in ICE. Their current scam of choice is justifying their ever expanding budgets by egging on mentally fragile Muslim kids online and then taking credit for busting terrorist plots that they essentially ghost-wrote themselves. Does this honestly, honestly, sound like a righteous tool of social justice to you, progressives? Or just a glorified hate group with a license to kill. These malignant gang-bangers don't deserve a government paycheck anymore than ICE or the Ku Klux Klan for that matter. Don't let your totally appropriate hate for Trump fool you into believing that his foes in the feds are any less morally revolting than he is.

When it all comes down to it, the Federal Government only exists for the sole purpose of maintaining the states monopoly on morally abhorrent behavior. The only difference between the feds and my hypothetical gang of thieving tranny gangsters is that at least we'd do your fucking nails before we sprung you loose. Wanna fight crime, dearest motherfuckers? Lets start at home by cutting the budget and banning the spooks. It ain't quite anarchy, but it's a start.



Peace, Love, & Empathy- CH



Soundtrack; Songs that influenced this post.

* Fight Test by Flaming Lips
* Holiday in Cambodia by Dead Kennedys
* End of the Line by Sleigh Bells
* Ten Dollar Bill by Cop Shoot Cop
* Nobody by Mitski
* Who We Be by DMX
* Head Like a Hole by Nine Inch Nails
* Paper Planes by M.I.A.
* Anarchy in the UK by the Sex Pistols

Monday, July 23, 2018

You Don't Have to Like Trump to Hate Russophobic Hysteria

I hate Donald Trump. Every cell in my body rejects that man like a bad virus. Being a genderqueer anarcho-feminist with a functioning conscience, everything I believe in, everything that I have built my foundation of basic human values upon, is in complete and utter opposition to that depraved, misogynistic, xenophobic, orange-nationalist and everything he stands for. His treatment of women, Muslims, and immigrants in particular makes me physically sick. But this week I am not revolted by Trump, I am revolted by his self-righteous opposition and this makes me one very, very, very, pissed off lesbian bitch. No one gets in the way of my own self-righteous hate without getting a fucking taste of it. The Resistance hasn't seen shit until they've fucked with me and when you fuck with detente, you fuck with Comrade Hermit.

Last Monday Donald Trump did something right for a goddamn change. He met with our "enemy" Russian president Vladimir Putin and appears to have taken a legitimate stab at diplomacy. After the meeting he was polite to his guest and registered doubt that Mr. Putin was behind any sort of interference with the 2016 election. He went on to boldly criticize Robert Mueller's childish reenactment of the Salem Witch Trials for grievously damaging Russo-American relations and recklessly endangering world peace between the worlds foremost nuclear powers. "I would rather take a political risk in pursuit of peace than risk peace in pursuit of politics" he proclaimed in a defiant display of what looked suspiciously like leadership.

The reaction by both major parties and their surrogates in the mainstream media was nothing short of hysterical, with supposed journalists gnashing their teeth violently at the very suggestion of detente and the idea that our sainted intelligence community might be less than reliable on an issue that they have clearly turned into a personal jihad. Former CIA director and known liar John Brennan fumed that Trump's sacrilegious condemnation of a deep state apparatus with bodies buried on every known continent was "treasonous". No one at the so-called news outlet that hosted his hissy-fit deigned to bring up the fact that Brennan himself was guilty of high treason for lying under oath to congress on live television about his agencies own Orwellian surveillance of the American citizenry.

Meanwhile, congress chose Trump's medium of choice to lose their proverbial shit, swelling Twitter with a torrent of shit slinging that rivals the Donald's own greatest shits. You had the usual suspects, dick-frothing battle fetishists like Lindsey Graham and John McCain weeping tears of fury over the loss of America the Exceptional's chastity to that filthy Slavic mongrel and the man who refused to slap him in public. The Democrats were worse, begging for impeachment like mother's milk with at least one esteemed representative calling for a full blown military coup. I don't suppose it would help to remind the children in the DNC that another grabby war-monger named Kennedy "meddled" with the Soviets to avoid a nuclear apocalypse that their heroes in the intelligence community demanded.

All I can say at this point is that you motherfuckers are making it real fucking hard to appose this ginger jerk when you act even more childish than he does. There are literally children still in concentration camps and you're sobbing because Trump suggested we should maybe give peace a chance? Well, congratulations children, your tantrum may have worked, for now. The Donald, being the fickle chickenshit that he is has backtracked much of his peace talk and made the ludicrous claim that his temporary sanity was a misquoted Russophobic micro aggression. Now more sanctions and weapons for the Vichy republic of Ukraine are on their way.

And this is the point of all this hysteria. The entire Russiagate hoax is a glorified PR stunt designed to badger a weak-willed president into embracing a new cold war that he never invested in. It's no coincidence that Mueller's latest round of baseless indictments came the day before the Helsinki summit. The entire intelligence community has been mobilized in a concerted effort to widen the diplomatic gulf between Russia and America and this chicanery is getting downright deadly. As Trump himself noted last Monday, our two colossal nation's make up roughly 90% of the world's nuclear warheads and every day we spend in this atomic Mexican stand-off, we get a little closer to someone pulling the goddamn trigger.

You don't have to like Trump to hate this Russophobic hysteria. You just have to care more about humanity then you do about hating Trump. This shouldn't be a tall order but I doubt I can hold my breath long enough to find out. Just let me know if I should duck and cover when I come to, dearest motherfuckers. The shit just keeps getting worse.



Peace, Love, and Empathy- CH



Soundtrack; Songs that influenced this post

* The Bitch is Back by Elton John
* On a Plane by Nirvana
* Get Over It by OK Go
* Never Been Wrong by Waxahatchee
* The Drowners by Suede
* Icky Thump by the White Stripes
* How Does it Feel by the Drive-By Truckers
* No Children by the Mountain Goats

Sunday, July 15, 2018

If Putin Did It: A Hypothetical Defense for a Hypothetical Crime

What if Putin did it? That's the question I've been getting a lot of lately. The proverbial 'it' being the oft-repeated accusation that the Russian government, under the direction of Czar ubermensch Vladimir Putin, colluded with Donald Trump in the 2016 election. I happen to be one of a handful of people on the left who has never bought into this half baked conspiracy theory, cooked up by Democrats to explain how they lost the White House to a reality TV monster and picked up by the so-called intelligence community to justify their purse shriveling budgets. But still I get asked, usually by some limp-wristed Whole-Foods progressive, what if Putin did it?

Since I've grown blue in the face trying to explain to these well intentioned morons that after 18+ months the worst thing that the biggest investigation since Watergate has managed to uncover is a mercenary Slavic clickbait farm and the kind of casual run-ins with Russian oligarchs that are sadly de rigueur for existence in the Washington swamplands, I figured I might as well just answer the goddamn question, which has developed a vibrant new layer of cacophony in the wake of Robert Mueller's latest wave of baseless indictments against Russian nationals who will never stand trial. So what if Putin did it? I would have to shrug my shoulders and say Karma's a bitch.

First off, let us dispense of the fairy tale that America is somehow a vibrant and glowing democracy who's chastity must be defended at all cost. If the 2016 election, a competition between the two most hated creatures in the universe, proved anything it's that this foul wasteland of a nation has reached near dystopian levels of plutocratic corruption. Two people, who no one likes, became front-runners in a "popular" election because they knew how to suck all the right cocks to get there. Even the ostensive dark horse, one Donald J. Trump, only achieved the coin to compete by hustling his ass for corporate welfare bucks like a two-dollar whore. So, whatever Putin did or didn't pervert, it wasn't a goddamn democracy. We lost that decades ago if we ever had it to begin with.

With that being said, what exactly are we accusing Putin of doing? What does the decidedly vague accusation of meddling actually entail. According to the bitching banshees of the DNC and their favorite neocon gumshoe Mueller, the Russians are the source of the "hacked" emails released on Wikileaks proving the already well-known fact that the Democratic establishment rigged the primaries for Hillary. Never mind that a great deal of the ex-intelligence agents who have been weened off the deep state tit have confirmed that all available evidence actually points to a leak within the DNC.... Is the worst accusation the Dems can lob at the Russians really that they told us the truth about our so-called democracy? Oh, lordy! Such treachery. This coming from a party that backed an administration who hacked into our own and everyone else's emails every fucking day. It's like a burglar bitching about his ex ripping off his stash. Cry me a fucking river you terminal hypocrites.

What else do we have in evil Putin's hypothetical bag of election tricks? Another popular theory is that the Russians were behind a cyber hurricane of fake news and propaganda seeking destabilization if not outright regime change. This is the perfect kind of conspiracy theory, the kind that is empirically impossible to disprove. The only real evidence that has been presented to us is that certain trolls were the product of Russian software. But anyone with a two-bit Macintosh can use software from any damn country they please. Is it possible that Russia could be behind such a campaign of chaos? Of coarse. It's also very possible that this accusation is a textbook case of Freudian projection, because we know for a fact that the United States has been using these tactics across the globe for decades. We know because they do it quite openly. We even have an entire branch of the State Department devoted to such projects.

The National Endowment for Democracy was started by the original neocon president, Ronald Reagan, to give our regime change projects a veneer of humanitarian legitimacy. This wretched organization is openly funding dumpster burning hooligans in Nicaragua and Venezuela as we speak. And they have funneled billions (with a B) into the pockets of those dapper neo-Nazi cum-rags who overthrew the democratically elected government of Russia's next door neighbor and cultural promised land Ukraine, creating one colossal dumpster fire raging at the Kremlin's door step. And this doesn't even include the '96 Russian presidential election that we helped that drunken puppet Boris Yeltsin steal. Are we really going to pretend like we're the victims of a phenomena we birthed and continue to foster openly. Talk about the pot calling the kettle meddlesome.

Speaking of which, the most blatant accusation of Russian meddling is also the most ridiculous. The erotic fan fiction of ex-MI6 spook Christopher Steele (essentially ghost written by the DNC) that the Donald is the unwitting puppet of the Kremlin thanks in part to a hidden camera video of the would-be president engaged in a lesbian piss party (and where was I?). Good stuff. Sexy stuff. But more than a little far-fetched considering that the source of this rumor was basically being paid to come up with it. But let's assume this one is true, and I really wish it was. Once again, I love to be the bitch to say we've been there, we've done that.

Back in the '60's the United States became utterly fixated with removing Indonesia's left-wing nationalist strongman, Sukarno, largely because he sought to remain neutral during the last Cold War, a crime the CIA considered worse than communism. One of the house of Dulles' many tricks they tried to play on what was by most accounts a relatively benevolent dictator (at least compared to his American backed neighbors and predecessors) involved spreading facetious rumors that Sukarno was involved in an illicit affair with his pretty young Soviet nurse. In one of the stranger chapters of the Cold War, the Agency even went so far as to produce no fewer than three phony porno movies of the two making the beast with two backs but even with a latex Sukarno mask (no joke) they still couldn't manage to find a believable body double for the dastardly neutralist. The US fell back on a complicated false flag coup that ended with Sukarno spending the rest of his days under house arrest and as many as a million Indonesian communists (and suspected communists) slaughtered in cold blood with our full support. Now that's how you meddle.

My point is, America has made a genuine cottage industry out of fucking with other countries governments, many of them more democratic than our own. I don't buy Putin following our cue. It's too reckless, it's not his style, and with Trump escalating bloodbaths in both Ukraine and Syria, it sure as fuck didn't work. KGB types like Putin are chess players. They play the long game, slow, methodical, measured, and they always have. That's why their rap sheet of Cold War hi-jinks isn't nearly as entertaining as ours. We're Quentin Tarantino , they're Andrei Tarkovsky, and I don't see Tarkovsky directing a B-grade blockbuster like Donald Does Washington.

But if Putin did do it, if Putin did throw a monkey wrench into our already flimsy excuse for a plutocracy, I would be hard pressed not to suggest that the Kremlin has more than earned the right to one low blow considering that they've spent the better part of a century fending off the dirtiest boxer in the sport. And what would make him any worse than the Koch Brothers, George Soros, Sheldon Adelson, or any of the rest of the stateside oligarchs who hardly have America's interests at heart when they "meddle" with our elections. This is already a dirty game, what's one more wolf in the hen house?

Long story short, we're already fucked, dearest motherfuckers. We don't need Putin to pop our cherry.



Peace, Love, & Empathy- CH



Soundtrack: Songs that influenced this post

* Friends of P by the Rentals
* Where is My Mind? by the Pixies
* Human Behavior by Bjork
* Passing Out by Strand of Oaks
* Golden Streams by the Hidden Cameras
* Monkey Wrench by Foo Fighter
* The Nothing Song by Sigur Ros
* Karma Police by Radiohead

Monday, July 9, 2018

An Agoraphobic's Guide to Surviving the Summer Heat

Once upon a time, summer was magical. Free from the oppression of the school year, those three months between May and September seemed like an endless procession of endless days ruled by nothing but unfettered freedom. Afternoons at the community pool, Pumpkins on the jukebox, Frito's always tasted better with chlorine. Day long adventures deep into the cool forests that hugged my neighborhood, discovering new species beneath massive boulders, throwing rocks into the quarry just to hear them bounce and echo off the limestone walls. Spending firefly sparkled evenings roasting marshmallows over crackling orange embers, leaving just enough room for dangerously overbuttered popcorn at the local theater.

But all good things come to an end and even semi-idyllic childhoods fall prey to that soul crushing godless beast called adulthood. The community pool becomes cracked and cold. The forest is overtaken by heartless developers and disease swollen ticks. Fireflies drop dead in the oppressive heat. And family run theaters are run out of town by corporate megaplexes that saturate nubile brains with weapons grade Hollywood horseshit. The summers of my youth were devoured long ago by climate change, late capitalism, Lyme disease, and crippling agoraphobia. But with the whole goddamn planet slowly boiling to death like a longusta lobster, there's plenty of misery to go around.

But never trip, dearest motherfuckers. There are still many ways to waste away the summer heat in the cool first world comfortability of your very own domestic prison cell and who better to give you tips on surviving the great indoors than a recovering shut-in who somehow managed to survive six goddamn years in her parents basement without going completely stark-raving berserk (key word; completely). So here's a short list of a few things that keep me from swallowing my own tongue during this heatwave hostage season.



Filthy Foreign Flicks

The most obvious thing to do while trapped inside by the oppressive summer heat is to jerk off, right? What? We're all thinking it, there's no reason why this can't be a sex-positive apocalypse. But mainstream porn bores the absolute shit out of me and that's not the bodily fluid I'm looking to expel. There's always the wonderful world of amateur fetish porn but you can only watch so many Japanese co-eds shave their pussy and piss the scum down the drain before it becomes monotonous.

Call me a hopeless romantic but I honestly prefer trashy European art films. The French and the Italians in particular seem to have an knack for turning fucking into a high art (the Curious Swedes get an honorable mention). It all depends on what you're looking for. If you're down with unshaved armpits and great big round asses (and who isn't?) then check out the works of that boorish perv Tinto Brass. If you're in the mood for a more feminine and downright gynecological perspective than you can't do much better than the David Cronenberg of pussy herself, Catherine Breillat. My personal favorite is the tumultuous lesbian romance Blue is the Warmest Color by Abdellatif Kechiche, but be forewarned, it's a heartbreaker, so you'll need those tissues for more than one reason. It's kind of like the Notebook, only the fingers go in the pussy instead of down your gagging throat.



Adult Swim

The official channel of twenty-nothing stoners and solipsistic insomniacs isn't actually a channel at all. It's a children's network that somehow got hijacked after hours by a tribe of smarmy post-grads in that forest city of smack-hounds known as Atlanta. Best known for being a hub of network adult animation reruns like American Dad and Family Guy as well as primo high-concept cartoons like Venture Bros. and Rick & Morty, If you can stay up late enough it's also actually home to some of the most avant garde television ever created. Batshit surrealist programming like Off the Air, Joe Pera Talks With You, and Check It Out! with Steve Brule push the envelope to the fucking edge of what can even be considered television. It's the kind of cracked genius that can only be tapped into under the influence of dangerous amounts of high-powered psychedelics. And its on expanded cable! Andy Kaufman and Hunter S. Thompson would be proud. We've come a long way, weirdos.



Erowid.org

Speak of the devil, after masturbation, the second obvious option for solitary indoor summer depravity is getting ripped to the tits on mind bending recreational pharmaceuticals. What better way to take the edge off the fact that the anthropocene is doomed to the fate of the dinosaurs. I personally take way too goddamn many prescription drugs to risk mixing them with anything fun. But as said above, a lot of the art that I love was birthed under the influence of something or other, so my suggestion to you, dearest motherfuckers, is get fucked up but get educated first. The Erowid Center hosts the largest online library of legal and illegal controlled substances, over 63,000 documents on over 350 psychoactive substances, including accounts of personal experiences (good and bad) and helpful advice on safe tripping and harm reduction. Being the weirdo that I am, I just read it for kicks, but if you're feeling truly sinister try something completely bonkers. Chew some khat, drink some ayahuasca tea, or lick a Colorado River toad. The dark net is a great big land of endless opportunity. Just get educated first. And keep a notebook handy for new ideas about late night television pilots.



Celebrity Skin by Hole

Once you sober up from a long evening of toad licking, pick a warm cloudy afternoon, get a full tank of gas, pick a long country road, role all the windows down, and listen to Courtney Love's post-widow phoenix album, Celebrity Skin, from start to finish. With it's clear blazing guitar riffs and songs about forgiveness and redemption and blowing Edward Norton, it just fucking sounds like summer should feel and for about forty minutes on the open road it does. Back when I was at my worst, it was the one thing that could get me out of the house. Cruising down Purdue Mountain with the wind in my hair and Malibu blasting from my shitty old Ford Taurus was about as close to heaven as I was biologically capable of experiencing. Even the mushroom clouds looked angelic in the rear view mirror. It's the perfect summer album for our apocalyptic era.



Disinfo Guides & Amok Dispatches

Do you love obsessively researching bizarre arcane cultural phenomena but hate spending hours and hours and hours online? Is the caustic tyranny of that bright white screen slowly drilling into your brain like a fucking power drill? Well open a fucking book you junkie, you know, those things made of dead trees that you keep on your coffee table so your hipster friends will think you're an intellectual. The best alternative to the gonzo smorgasbord of internet are the Guides published by those masters of literary esoterica at the Disinformation Company. With unforgettable titles like You Are Being Lied To and Everything You Know Is Wrong, Disinfo Guides are thick, well researched, compendiums on a wide range of fringe topics from the occult and bizarre conspiracy theories to psychedelic drugs and obscure sexual fetishes, all written by a rogues gallery of professional freaks like Paul Krassner, Genesis P-Orridge, and Timothy Leary. Sadly, like many great works of bizarro non-fiction, they are out of print, but still available used on Amazon (my copies aren't for sale).

If you're looking for something even more esoteric (love that word), try hunting down one of the legendary Dispatches released by Amok, the proto-Disinfo, back in the halcyon days of guerrilla print media, the Nineties. These phone-book size tomes read like a Sears Roebuck catalog for perverted bibliophiles. It's a colossal reader of manuals, zines, pamphlets, and manifestos you'll wish you could get your hands on. If it had just a little more porn it would be even better than the internet. But if you're done jacking off and ordering experimental Chinese tryptamines on the dark web, then unplug, crash on the couch, and check one out. The more you know!....



The Boys by Garth Ennis

I've gotta be real with you, dearest motherfuckers, I fucking despise superheroes. I find the whole concept to be absurdly contrived and unbearably jingoistic. All powerful do-gooders saving the world from, well..., the world, just sounds like organized religion with tights to me. During a season drowning in these brightly colored Hollywood cliches, the best respite is the brilliantly iconoclastic comics of Garth Ennis, the anti-Stan Lee, and if you're a comic book buff who despises superheroes like me, it doesn't get much better than his twelve volume anti-supe magnum opus, the Boys, where the superheroes are all hedonistic psychopaths engaged in a corporate conspiracy to take over the military industrial complex. The Boys are a rag-tag gang of their victims payed by the CIA to keep the supes under control. It's gory, it's sexually explicit, and it's absolutely fucking hilarious. Wonder Woman is a drunk, Superman is a serial killer, and the X-Men are a harem for a Vatican-grade child molester. It's the comic that got Ennis fired from DC and it's a fantastic excuse to stay home and avoid the cinematic abortions being performed by Marvel at your local megaplex.



Brad Neely Videos

Probably best known for his criminally underrated and short lived Adult Swim experiments in animated absurdity like China, IL and Brad Neely's Harg Nallin' Sclopio Peepio (you heard me), crazed Dada cartoonist extraordinaire Brad Neely's finest works, in my humble opinion, are still his bonkers Lo-Fi internet series' I Am Baby Cakes and The Professor Brothers, the first being the whimsical philosophical ramblings of a gigantic thirty year old man-child (please, save your jokes until after class) and the second being the seemingly improvised revisionist history lectures of a pair of fraternal community college teachers. My personal favorites are the bro's insane takes on Bible history in which a motorcycle riding Jesus rises from the dead to to take the Apostles out for ribs and the perverts of Sodom and Gomorrah ("named after an even weirder move") fuck boulders painted to look like god's face. It's still the funniest fucking shit online and it's my go to whenever the world makes me feel like eating a shotgun.



Norwegian Black Metal

Miss the dark coldness of winter? Me neither. But sometimes, when the sky is on fire above the triple digit blacktop skillet that has become our dying planet (Thanks Republicans!... Oh! And Democrats), I like to shove my head in the freezer and crank some Darkthrone or Burzum and imagine that I'm freezing to death in an ancient pagan pine forest, surrounded by hungry wolves and ten foot icicles. With all the distorted buzz-saw feedback and impossibly inhuman cave screeching you can practically see the dancing green specter of the aurora borealis just behind the Trader Joe's mac and cheese. Sure their a bunch of church-burning satanists but goddammit if they don't make some deliciously scenic racket. More refreshing than a Popsicle. Hail Satan.



Dazed and Confused

There exists no better summer flick than Richard Linklater's 1993 coming of age cult classic. Set on the last day of school, 1976, in the Texas suburbs, the kids in Dazed aren't appealing because they're beautiful (though Parker Posey's deliciously frosty ass definitely is), we keep coming back to cruise with them because they're just like us and the losers we grew up with, bored, stoned, scared, horny, and just seeking to belong somewhere, even it's for just one night before adulthood crashes the party and we have to go back to working for the city. Take it from my old friend Dave Wooderson, dearest motherfuckers, no matter how depressingly hot it gets out there in the real world, you just gotta keep on livin man, L-I-V-I-N.



Take it easy and stay out of that stupid fucking sun.



Peace, Love, & Empathy- CH



Soundtrack; songs that influenced this post

* I Touch Myself by the Divinyls
* Star Spangled Banner by Black Lips
* I Wanna Get High But I Don't Want Brain Damage By Flaming Lips & Lightning Bolt
* Heaven Tonight by Hole
* Jesus Built My Hot Rod by Ministry & Gibby Haynes
* Superman by R.E.M.
* Jesus Etc. by Wilco
* Transylvanian Hunger by Darkthrone
* Slow Ride by Foghat

Monday, July 2, 2018

Thirty

Never trust anyone a day older than thirty. I've spent most of my young life more or less living by that ancient hippie code and I've had good reason to do so. My childhood is pockmarked by adult authority figures who have in one way shape or form betrayed my trust in humanity. Growing up, the lion share of my fiercest bullies have always been older than thirty. Most of them were people that I was told (by other people over thirty) to trust and confide in, teachers, clergy, psychiatrists, administrators, people who taught me how to hate myself and shut the fuck up. Thankfully, their lessons never stuck but they sure as hell left a mark.

This is part of the reason why I'm an anarchist and this is part of the reason why I'm so passionate about youth rights. Part of me will always be that angry thirteen year old goth girl thrashing to get out. This is also why my birthday this year tastes a little bit bitter sweet. You see, dearest motherfuckers, this Saturday I turned thirty and I'm tempted not to trust myself....    OK, maybe that's a touch extreme even for me but adulthood feels fucking weird as hell and I'm not quite sure what to do with it.

On the other hand, I've had to fight like holy fucking hell, tooth and nail, just to get here. The very fact that I've lived to see thirty outside of an institution is likely some form of small miracle. My first introduction to adulthood after high school, as an aspiring college student, ended in a calamitous nervous breakdown before I could even officially enroll. I spent the next six years as a prisoner of agoraphobia, locked up in a prison of my own design. I was a twenty-something shut-in and I've spent the last four years of my life struggling like hell just to have one and it all started with this blog. I have always been a writer. I've been horrifying adults with my prose since I learned to grip pen in my left hand. But when college blew up in my face I convinced myself that my dreams of being a literary terrorist like Mikhail Bakunin or Hunter S. Thompson were thoroughly shit-housed. I was way fucking wrong and I've done my damnedest to prove it.

I've been through a lot of shit since I've started this humble blog and you, my very few most dearest of motherfuckers have been there with me through it all. Since I became Comrade Hermit: anarcho-genderfuck jihadist, I've been in and out of therapy, I've come out of the closet and made peace with my torrential fluid kaleidoscope of a gender identity, I've gone toe to toe with fag-bashing trolls and transphobic therapists, I've made friends with more fabulous faggots and mental patients than a goddamn Lou Reed song, I officially broke up with my teenage squeeze Lenin and fell back in love with my ex, anarchism, I've busted my goddamn ass writing weekly manifestos and even managed to get a few published. I'm also roughly halfway through writing a psycho-sexual novella (think Georges Bataille meets John Hughes on DMT) and I'm volunteering at a thrift store (not as sexy as that ass Macklemore would have you believe). All while my tight tribe of a family has battled everything from Alzheimer's to car crashes and everything in between.

I haven't done it alone either. This blog probably wouldn't even exist if it wasn't for my anarchist faerie god parents, Angela Keaton and Thomas Knapp, who have shown the patience of saints in leading me through the decidedly passive-aggressive minefield of the Fifth Estate (the only one worth fighting for!). And god only knows that I would likely be locked up somewhere like Ted Kaczynski if it wasn't for the undying support of my aging parents and my uber-cis-hetero brother who have embraced my perpetual weirdness on every step of this strange fucking journey to god knows where. And of coarse I've had you dearest motherfuckers, the few proud misfits with the vision to recognize a crazy diamond in the rough when you see one. Nothing has ever meant more to me than being heard and you have heard me. For that I can only thank you.

So this is fucking thirty? I don't know if I like it but it's not like I can give it back for store credit. I'm not going to lie because that's not my style, this shit would be a fuck-ton easier if I were a sane cis-gender lesbian who actually got laid. But when was the last time you read about a great artist or revolutionary with a cushy childhood? As for the proverbial million dollar question- Does this mean I'm an adult now? My answer is a resounding fuck no. As far as I'm concerned, I'll be twenty-nine for the next thirty years, minimum. Here's hoping those years come with a little more pussy and a little less tragedy, but I wouldn't count on it. Either way, I'm in this thing for the long haul and all the adults in this room and the next won't shut me up.



Peace, Love, & Nostrovia- CH



Soundtrack; Songs that influenced this post

* Whisper to a Scream (Birds Fly) by Icicle Works
* 1979 by Smashing Pumpkins
* Swim by Surfer Blood
* That's the Story of My Life by the Velvet Underground
* Celebrity Skin by Hole
* If I Ever Leave This World Alive by Flogging Molly
* Shine On You Crazy Diamond by Pink Floyd
* Keep the Car Running by Arcade Fire
* My Generation by the Who
* Please Don't Die by Father John Misty