Tuesday, June 20, 2017

Getting Old Sucks

" ....Some things you do for money, some things you do for fun, but the things you do for love are going to come back to you one by one...."

                        -Love, Love, Love by The Mountain Goats.

I've gotta be real with you, dearest motherfuckers, I'm not really in a blogging kind of mood today. Not that there's nothing going on, quite the contrary. The Russian Witch Trials are still chugging along with the mainstream media working themselves up into a near masturbatory fuhrer, the likes of which this foul country hasn't experienced since the height of the Monica Lewinsky fiasco. The Saudis are currently engaged in some kind of bizarre "Mean Girls" style tiff with their former flunkies in Qatar for reasons no one seems to fully comprehend. And the United States Military is once again openly committing crimes against humanity by gassing Raqqa with white phosphorous.

No, there's plenty to write about but my heart just isn't up to covering the rest of the worlds problems today. I've got me a serious case of white-people-problems this week. Stage 4 white-people-problems. This week we slapped my grandmother in a home, to put it colorfully and I can't help but to feel like the whole damn world is inside out.

My grandmother was a complicated person. On one hand, she was a Marine Corps officer's wife, a Boho folkie, a tireless civil rights supporter and a Kennedy Democrat. On the other hand, she was also a Marine Corps officer's widow, a rabid Fox News junkie, a casual racist and a Reagan Democrat who practiced passive aggression like a martial art. Truth be told, she could be a real bitch, I suspect that's were I get it from. Our arguments are still the stuff of family lore and our relationship hit the skids on more than one occasion but she always took the high ground and buried the hatchet when I needed her most.

More than anything, though, my Nana (call her grandma at your own risk) was a brilliant artist. Just google Janet Sullivan Turner if you don't fucking believe me. She could do it all: Impressionism, Abstract, Pop Art, painting, sculpture, installation. She could do shit with trash and rusty car parts that would blow your fucking mind. She was a respected figure in the prestigious Philadelphia art scene for over forty years and for good goddamn reason, she did things her way.

I say 'was' because my Nana has dementia, which is why we had to move her out to a home in the sticks, where me and my folks live, from her house of more than four decades in the crumbling Philadelphia suburbs. She's still her but she isn't. Part of her is missing and that part grows a little bit bigger everyday. The home we moved her into is nice but it isn't hers and it never will be. She looks lost there. Defeated. Like a wild tiger in a cage at the zoo. She may be safe but there will always be a faint glimmer of the wilderness in her eyes. A tiny flickering light that screams freedom. It doesn't feel right but it's the best thing we can do for her. It's the only way we can be sure that she's safe. But that doesn't make it any less heartbreaking.

Getting old sucks. There's no way around that brutal truth. I've already been through this once before with my other grandmother which makes the statistical odds of me facing the same fate higher than I prefer to contemplate. It feels tragic that we're all more or less damned to leave this world as helpless as we come into it. But if we're truly lucky, the love that we give to the people who mean the most to us will be payed back in full when we need it most and we'll find it somewhere deep within, from a place even dementia can't reach, to be big enough to let go of our pride and except this gift.

Me, personally, though. I'd rather got out like John Dillinger or Che Guevara, in a blaze of glory. Shot down in the streets by the state I've devoted myself completely to annihilating with a laptop, my weapon of choice, in my hands. And the last words I type will be....

Peace, Love and Empathy- CH

....Somewhere on the other side, my Nana will ask why I had to go out that way. My response: I learned it from you bitch. I learned it from you....

Soundtrack: Songs that influenced this post.

The Times They Are A-Changin' By Bob Dylan
The Suburbs By Arcade Fire
Landslide By The Smashing Pumpkins
Both Sides, Now By Joni Mitchell
Get Me Away From Here I'm Dying By Belle & Sebastian
Hurt By Johnny Cash
Love, Love, Love By The Mountain Goats
My Way By Sid Vicious

Note to dearest motherfuckers-    With my birthday next week and the Fourth on the next, I'm going to take a brief sabbatical to play video games, eat Thai food and blow shit up. All things considered, I feel like I kind of earned it. But I will be back in July with an anti-Hollywood Summer movie list so stay tuned and blow something up for 'Merica, goddammit!

Friday, June 9, 2017

More Summer Reading for Freaks and Radicals

For me, if its summer, that means three things: The Jersey Shore, yard-sailing and phoning it in on my blog with easy breezy posts like my second annual summer reading list. Your average summer reading list is typically equal parts bourgeois banality and elitist snobbery which is a fancy way of saying they're fucking shit. Nobody reads the books on them or at least nobody wants too. They just feel an obligation to so they can brag about being an intellectual without the inconvenience of actually trying to fucking learn something you're not told to learn by an authority figure, be it your fifth grade teacher or Time magazine.

So this years list is all short, sweet and weird. That doesn't mean everything here is for everyone. But if you consider yourself to be a freak and/or radical such as myself then I'm pretty sure I got you covered. None of this shit is new. I don't really give a fuck about new. But it's all still relevant and its all still fun if your fucked up enough to enjoy it.

Nineteen Eighty-Four  By George Orwell

The amazing thing about George Orwell's 1949 sci-fi classic about doomed lovers in a dystopian police state isn't that it's still relevant after all these years. The amazing thing is that it seems to become increasingly relevant with each passing year (Samsung recently came out with the first Telescreen). It's also the first novel I ever loved and it just gets creepier every time I read it.

Highlight (spoiler alert)

The only thing more revolting than the horrors of Room 101 is how happily its victims assimilate to their imprisonment once they've been rat-caged. Even our dear hero Winston Smith comes to love Big Brother in the heady afterglow of wartime. Sound familiar? If not, your on the wrong blog.

What Uncle Sam Really Wants  By Noam Chomsky

This little book was the first thing that really ripped the wool from my eyes in regards to America's roll in the universe. In only a few dozen pages the venerable MIT Professor systematically decimates the premise of America as the benevolent superpower. Using an exhaustingly sourced patchwork of documents, NGO reports and eye-witness accounts, Noam Chomsky proves without a shadow of a doubt that American foreign policy is dictated by an overwhelming preference for death squads, dictators, torture and genocide. If your not a card carrying, bomb throwing, enemy of the state by the last page then congratulations! You're a psychopath! You should fit right into this fucked up country.

Highlight (spoiler alert)

More of a lowlight than a highlight, but the harrowing first hand story of an American nun, raped and tortured by a death squad in El Salvador, only to be released after the squads unseen, American English speaking Commander realized she wasn't a local still fucking haunts me. Absolutely soul Shattering....Having fun yet! Were just getting started.

Fight Club   By Chuck Palahniuk

" I am Comrade Hermit's yammering larynx." Chuck Palahniuk's twisted tale of an insomniac who starts an underground boxing club with his enigmatic split personality that evolves into an anarcho-primitivist terrorist organization is often snubbed by uptight literati as little more than a Gen-X Catcher in the Rye. As usual, the snobs in the straight world couldn't be farther from the truth. It's actually a brutal, homoerotic, satire on what passes for masculinity in Post-Modern America and it's also one of the funniest books you'll ever read if you don't make the common mistake of taking it too seriously.

Highlight (spoiler alert)

Everything that comes out of Marla Singer's vile mouth is priceless, "You know, the condom is the glass slipper of our generation. You slip it on when you meet a stranger. You dance all night then you throw it away. The condom, I mean. Not the stranger." But my favorite bit is the back and forth between the nameless narrator and god in the mental institution " across his long walnut desk with his diplomas hanging on the wall behind him" ending with the classic one-liner "Yeah. Well, whatever. You can't teach god anything." Ain't it the truth.

Against Empire   By Michael Parenti

An excellent companion piece to What Uncle Sam Really Wants. America's finest Marxist historian, Michael Parenti, makes a quick and compelling argument against the empty promises of hyper-interventionism and corporate globalization.

Highlight (spoiler alert)

Parenti's analysis of George H.W. Bush's '92 campaign visit to a supermarket, where the incumbent presidential candidate is shocked by the "new" technology of the check-out price scanner, as being emblematic of America's vast class divide is as prescient today as it was then. When a man who clearly hasn't even had to shop for his own groceries in decades can still tax a pauper you know we're ripe for revolution and that was Nineteen fucking Ninety-Two. Our current president could fucking buy Bush Sr. like a goddamn bicycle on Craig's List.

Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas   By Hunter S. Thompson

If it's a novel then it's my favorite novel. If it's a work of non-fiction then it's my favorite work of non-fiction. Either way, whatever the hell it is, the late, great, Doctor Thompson's savage, drug fueled journey into the dark heart of the American Dream aka Las Vegas is the number one reason why I write anything....You know, aside from the war and oppression and shit.

Highlight (spoiler alert)

Thompson's rightfully sainted Wave Speech halfway through the book is not only the finest thing he ever wrote but is quite possibly the finest thing ever written. A poetic requiem for the promise and tragedy of the counter-cultural revolution that was the Middle Sixties in California. It's enough to bring a tear to even the most jaded anarcho-punk's eye.

Hard Boiled   By Frank Miller

Frank Miller's bug-fuck nuts, ultra-violent, dystopian, shooting fest is basically one long, excruciatingly detailed, gun fight and one of my all-time favorite graphic novels. It's basically like Where's Waldo with blood, guts, skyscrapers, flying cars and homicidal cyborgs. I can't honestly tell you much about the story-line other than it involves an insurance investigator named Nixon who discovers that, unbeknownst to him, he's also a robotic hitman for a major corporation, but it's one wild fucking ride regardless.

Highlight (spoiler alert)

The whole goddamn thing! Like I said, it's basically just one long bloodbath and it's fucking perfect. The kind of illustrated madness that could only come from the early Nineties.

The Communist Manifesto   By Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels

I know, I know, not exactly a crowd pleaser, especially with some of my more libertarian minded dearest motherfuckers, but just try reading the first section aloud on the Fourth of July, surrounded by bombs and stale jingoism, and tell me it doesn't give you chills. No? Well maybe it's just me but on the right night, in the right light, it sounds like a godless prayer for the damned classes of a late capitalist society. You can almost hear the Internationale playing from the smokey abyss like the Karaoke music of a distant haunted cruise ship. Still nothing? well, fuck you guys then.

Highlight (spoiler alert)

The first section, the finest and most bombastically poetic analysis of class struggle ever committed to pulp, is really the only section worth reading. The other two are sadly little more than sniping bitch-fests lobbed against Marx's former allies in the libertarian left. Just think Mean Girls with a bunch of bearded, old, European socialists and you basically get the picture.

Less Than Zero   By Bret Easton Ellis

"Everyone's afraid to merge in L.A." Bret Easton Ellis is probably my favorite novelist and the fact that he wrote this book, his best selling debut, at twenty-one never ceases to blow my mind like a job. Nothing captures the soulless hedonism of the Beverley Hills elite like Less Than Zero, Where every character comes across like a board sociopath out ants to burn. It's like Keeping Up with the Kardashians directed by Werner Herzog. You'll never merge again.

Highlight (spoiler alert)

Clay's flashbacks to his summers spent in the lonesome desert surrounding his grandparents Palm Beach mansion read like ghost stories of a haunted childhood. I don't think anybody has come closer to capturing the grief of burgeoning adulthood better on the written page. The humanity revealed beneath his nihilistic facade only in the past tense make the increasingly heinous events in his current life all the more harrowing.

Addicted to War   By Joel Andreas

American Imperialism has never been this much fun! Joel Andreas' classic adult picture book on America's long and bloodthirsty history of hegemonic conquest, from Manifest Destiny to the War on Terror, comes across like Schoolhouse Rock for anarchists. It's the funnest way to learn that you live in a monster.

Highlight (spoiler alert)

The first edition of Addicted to War came out in 1991 in response to the first Persian Gulf War and it's stinging coverage of that often glossed over desert bloodbath is second to none and more relevant now than ever considering that that bloodbath continues to this day, 26 years later.

Howl and Other Poems   By Allen Ginsberg

Allen Ginsberg's obscenely beautiful tribute to all the freaks, fags, junkies, commies, hustlers and basket cases who crashed and burned during the grey flannel drudgery of the Forties and Fifties in order to make the liberation of the Sixties possible. Forgotten martyrs in an invisible war. Ginsberg lays their bodies blemished and bare and anoints them with the sacrament of the finest poetry of this or any other century. Bow to the master, dearest motherfuckers, for if you consider yourself to be among the freaks and radicals that make this world worth fighting for, then Mr. Ginsberg is your shaman, the only priest you'll ever need, and Howl is your Apostles Creed.

Highlight (spoiler alert)

As exquisite as Howl is, my personal favorite work of poetry is actually America, which can be found in the Other Poems section. A Hilarious one sided conversation between an irate malcontent and a mute and remorseless nation state, America is one of the single biggest influences on this equally irate blog and the genderfuck malcontent who writes it.

Well that's it, dearest motherfuckers. That's my list of fantastically deranged and totally inappropriate books. The kind your teachers fought to ban and your finest fake news outlets do their damnedest to ignore. If ten books in one summer is to few for you then your clearly either smarter than me or you have more free time. Either way, I hate you and you can go fuck yourself....Or just check out last years more exhausting and obscure list. I would talk more but I still have a chapter of a book on the Weather Underground that I've been trying to finish for three weeks now.

Happy reading and Merry Summer.

Peace, Love and Empathy- CH

Soundtrack: Albums to listen to while reading these books.

Nineteen Eighty-Four

Greatest Fits By Ministry

What Uncle Sam Really Wants

Bedtime For Democracy By Dead Kennedys

Fight Club

Doolittle By The Pixies

Against Empire

Raw Power By The Stooges

Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas

Clouds Taste Metallic By The Flaming Lips

Hard Boiled

(Album) Generic Flipper By Flipper

The Communist Manifesto

Pink Flag By Wire

Less Than Zero

Pretty Hate Machine By Nine Inch Nails

Addicted to War

Combat Rock By The Clash

Howl and Other Poems

The Velvet Underground By The Velvet Underground

Tuesday, May 30, 2017

The Russian Witch Trials

I am sick and fucking tired of this goddamn Russian shit! Please, God, Christ, Buddha, Mohamed, whatever, please, please, please tell me I'm not the only one outside of Donald Trump's rapidly shrinking fan-club who has had enough of this fucking Russophobic conspiracy nonsense. It's been over four months of this fucking shit. Over four months of baseless accusations. Over four months of anonymous tips. Over four months of House and Senate investigations. And what has it proven? What do we have to show for all this fucking hysteria? Zero, nothing, zippo, bupkis, not one single solitary shred of verifiable evidence that there is any nefarious connection what so ever between the administration of one Donald J. Trump and the evil empire of Sith Lord Vladimir Putin (cue howling wolves and blood curdling screams). But we're just getting started here folks. Over the last two weeks this crazy train has switched gears over to witch trial mode.

This madness reached new heights of snow-blind hysteria early this month when the Donald, in all his Donald-ness, finally fired FBI Director and all around general douche-bag James Comey. The reason isn't hard to understand if you pull your head out of your ass. Comey has spent the last several months on a wild goose chase trying desperately to prove that his new boss is guilty of what is quite possibly the only crime he hasn't committed, collusion with Mother Russia. The motherfucker colluded like fucking crazy with Israel (his son-in-law currently maintains a Summer home in Benjamin Netanyahu's asshole) and Saudi Arabia but apparently it's not a crime to play nice with apartheid states and jihad factories. As if this isn't enough to get any common person shit-canned with extreme prejudice, Comey also totally refused to investigate the very real crime of intelligence agents leaking government secrets to their butt-buddies in the mainstream media, likely because he was one of the leakers.

The problem wasn't that Trump finally fired this braying jackass. The problem was how Trump chose to do it. Still suffering under the delusion that being president means acting like Vito Corleone, the Donald invited Comey to a creepy and no doubt heavily rape-vibe (watch out for those tiny pussy-grabbers) candlelight dinner and asked him, softly, slowly, to lay off his boy Michael Flynn, who is undoubtedly guilty as Judas at the Last Supper of cozying up to Russia's age old frenemy Turkey, and only then did he fucking fire the loser, giving his beleaguered Deputy Attorney General Rod Rosenstein no choice but to deliver the Democrats, the deep state and the mass media their wet dream of a Special Counsel to oversee the fed's investigation into baseless Russian skulduggery.

This is Beltway code for witch trial. Once one of these investigations starts it doesn't stop until the appointed Special Counsel blows the whistle. And seeing as the appointed Counsel is none other than former FBI Director and Bush-era deep state vet Robert Mueller, this shit is never gonna fucking end. There are no Russian ties aside from the kind of sleazy business dealings that everyone in Washington and Wall Street has on their rap-sheets but the Grand Counselor can expand the investigation into any direction he damn-well chooses. The Monica Lewinsky boondoggle that I grew up with started out as a Special Counsel investigation into the Clinton's shifty land dealings back in Arkansas. As I said above, Trump may not be guilty of collusion with Russia but he's guilty of pretty much everything else. This thing might start in the Kremlin but it could easily end in a shallow grave in the Meadowlands.

So what's the downside, you may ask? Trump is a race-bating, pussy-grabbing, son of a pig fucking slumlord. Fuck him and the jumbo jet he rode in on. And originally that was my attitude towards this whole witch-hunt too. Let the Democrats keep Trump too busy to blow up the planet while further disenfranchising themselves from their own base by clinging to a hopeless lie. What more could an anarchist ask for, right? But sadly it hasn't shaken down that way. As Trump discovered this April with his Tomahawk party in Syria, the number one way to please the establishment is to bomb poor people. Clinton knew this. That's why he bombed four countries while he was under investigation, often timed to coincide with each new sex scandal. As stupid as Trump is he has clearly gotten this memo as well, as he proved with his saber-rattling Iran bash-fest in the Middle East last week, not to mention the corpses he's stacking up in Yemen and Syria like putrefying border walls that our tax dollars have already payed for.

The other major problem with the Russian witch trials is that it further perpetuates the lie that Vladimir Putin and more broadly Russia itself is the fucking enemy. As I've stated here many times before, the single redeeming quality of Trump's otherwise repulsive campaign was his insistence on detente with Putin's Russia. Sadly, this flew out the fucking window the moment Trump took the bait and bombed Syria for a gas attack they clearly didn't commit. But this wasn't enough for that bourgeois bureaucratic class of capitalist roaders known as the deep state and their dickless flunkies in the mainstream media. These knuckle-dragging cretins will accept nothing short of a new Cold War. The longer their lie of the Russian menace is kept alive the more likely this dying empire is to follow through with a Third World War and believe it or not there are some sick and powerful people in this country who want precisely that. This Counsel is their plaything.

I know I'm a broken fucking record here but I hate Donald Trump. I hate everything he is and everything he stands for and I absolutely despise feeling forced to defend the cunt against even greater evils. But I'm not so demented in my rage that I'm willing to blow up the whole fucking planet just because he's on it. Please, God, Christ, Buddha, Mohamed, whatever, please, please, please tell me I'm not the only one.

Peace, Love and Empathy- CH

Soundtrack; Songs that influenced this post.

* Margin Walker By Fugazi
* Crazy Train By Ozzy Osbourne
* Gimme Gimme Gimme By Black Flag
* Kerosene By Big Black
* Tiny Dancer By Elton John
* Rape Me By Nirvana
* 1969 By The Stooges
* I'm Ready By Royal Trux
* It's The End Of The World As We Know It By REM
* Black Hole Sun By Soundgarden

Tuesday, May 23, 2017

Swearing On The Internet

I've been doing this blog thing for about two and a half years and sixty-some posts now and my results have been rather mixed. While I'm proud of the work that I've done and I genuinely believe that I have one of the best goddamn blogs on the internet, I still can't manage to get more than a handful of dearest motherfuckers to give a shit. I don't mean to come across as unappreciative but with my long history of depression there are some weeks where I feel like goddamn Lenin giving mass to my nine confirmed apostles at Finland Station and then there are other weeks where it feels like I'm doing little more than swearing on the internet. This last month has felt mostly like the latter.

While I've put out what I feel is some of my best work, I've watched in despair as my daily page views have gone down faster than Jody Foster at WNBA meet and greet. Even after publishing my first piece for the Libertarian Institute in February I still can't manage to get anyone to so much as return my goddamn emails and my two biggest patrons, through zero fault of their own, also happen to be the two hardest working libertarians in show business (you know who you are). Just add a defunct serotonin level and WA-LA! You have one seriously blue anarchist.

As if this isn't depressing enough to lay my weary head on the railroad tracks and pray for traffic, I also have to contend with an increasingly cantankerous gender identity. Being gender-fluid, I have days where I feel male, days where I feel female and days where I feel somewhere in between. It is the female days that hurt the worst and lately I've been blessed with a shitload of fucking female days. Days where my Tony Soprano physique and my Robin Williams body hair make me feel more like a fucking mess than a genderfuck superstar. It's an ugly, lonely, gnawing feeling of physical and spiritual disconnection that no one without gender dysphoria can ever truly understand. There are days when I desperately want to be the girl with the most cake as my radical faerie godmother Courtney Love might put it. On those days I can only describe my depression as a form of emotional starvation. White people problems, right?

Believe it or not, I didn't write this dreary little piece in search of pity, honestly I didn't. Well, OK, maybe a little. I'm a drama queen, drown me. But mostly I wrote this exercise in emo self-flagellation for the same reason I write anything, whether a thousand people read it or no one does. I write shit like this because writing is who I am. Writing is how I deal with this shit. Writing is my heroin and I couldn't give up my fix even if I wanted to. I also write this because I made a promise to myself when I started this blog as a lowly shut-in. A promise to always tell the truth, the whole truth, the brutal truth and nothing but. It's what I believe separates my blog from many others. Pure unadulterated honesty, no matter how teeth-grindingly uncomfortable it might get. It's naked self-portraits like this one that help me understand who I really am and if I'm lucky, maybe just maybe, they can help you to do the same.

So whoever is out there, whoever you are, thank you for listening. I can't promise you much from this blog beyond total sincerity of spirit. But I can promise you that I'll always keep it fucking interesting. It's the only way I know how to live. Now spread the word, goddammit, Mama want's to be famous!

P.S. I'm sure you've all already heard the tragic news from Manchester. Part of me considered scrapping this self-indulgent piece for something a little more appropriate but I figured a tranny bitch-fest might actually piss off those cockless ISIS fag-bashers even more. After all the best revenge against the hate-fucks of this world is to live life loudly. But if your religious pray for Madchester, that fantastically dirty old town with it's great music, amazing drugs and wonderful, wonderful people. And if your not religious then, I guess, light a candle, listen to some Joy Division and fuck the one your with. Far too many people aren't blessed enough to do any of the above today.

Peace, Love and Empathy- CH

Soundtrack; Songs that influenced this post.

* Hate My Way By Throwing Muses
* Slip Away By Perfume Genius
* Doll Parts By Hole
* I Found A Reason By The Velvet Underground
* There Is A Light That Never Goes Out By The Smiths
* She's Like Heroin To Me By The Gun Club
* I Blame Myself By Sky Ferreira
* Love Will Tare Us Apart By Joy Division

Tuesday, May 9, 2017

The JFO Doctrine

Once upon a time, every successive White House administration had its one big war. Sometimes these wars were traded down from regime to regime and, of coarse, there was always a plethora of bloody little side projects, you know, coup d'tats and the like, but each administration had their defining war to justify their shallow existence, their Korea, their Vietnam, their Persian Gulf.

But lately, over the last couple of decades or so, America has been hoarding wars like a geriatric shut-in who can't seem to adopt enough hissing feral cats. Administrations start wars and nobody ever finishes them. The next administration just adds more wars as if an ever elusive successful conflict will somehow cancel out the shitty ones they refuse to end. But inevitably each new conflict just becomes yet another shitty conflict stuffed inside another shitty conflict stuffed inside another shitty conflict like some kind of imperial turducken baked in white phosphorous.

Washington's mouthy prostitutes in the so-called mainstream media seem to be perplexed by this scenario. These gnashing heads, often veteran war-hoarders themselves, seem to have no clue as to how we got here. Oh, but they're just bursting with bright ideas on how to get out. Bomb this. Bomb that. Arm them. Arm him. No not him! His brother, we hate 'him' now. Everything but the most obvious fucking solution, Comrade's Razor. I can sum it up in six simple words- ....Or we could JUST FUCK OFF. Some folks call this Isolationism. Some folks call it anti-interventionism. I call it the Just Fuck Off Doctrine or the JFO if your busy. It's pretty damn simple. Let me show you how it works with a few current examples.

First up: North Korea! You can't seem to turn on the Clinton News Network or Grope News without hearing the latest about this plucky little problem child. Somehow the Kim Dynasty has developed the strange notion that ditching their nukes might put them at greater risk for another American intervention. Perhaps the past fate of post-WMD regimes like Iraq and Libya may have something to do with this. But our news "experts" don't know anything about that. Their living in the here and now, not the past, dig it? And the here and now is just chock full of exciting executive options. Should we bomb them? Should we hack them? Should we muscle China into doing our dirty work for us? Should we make Seoul pay for the privilege of being our human shield? Hey guys, I got an idea! Maybe we should just fuck off?

North Korea has been willing to work with us since 1994 when former President Jimmy Carter hammered out a peace agreement to avoid a Second Korean War. The agreement was that North Korea would hand over their nukes if we would help them out with their heating bills vis-a-vis cheap gas and a couple of light water reactors, along with a pledge of non-aggression. The only problem is WE didn't hold up our end of the bargain. Then we made things even worse by putting North Korea on our Axis of Evil hit-list. Not to mention staging yearly dress rehearsals for a Third World War right on the DMZ or as we cutely call them, war games (Oh, what fun!). The solution should be pretty fucking simple- Hold up our end of the goddamn bargain, pull our troops off the goddamn peninsula and just fuck off.

Next stop: Syria and Iraq. This dustland cluster-fuck has become so colossal and convoluted that it's beginning to feel like one big bloody parody of the follies of hyper-interventionism. Several foreign armies, both invited and NATO, at least twice as many foreign "investors", dozens of proxies and militias, false flags, double crosses, triple crosses, alliances, back stabbings and more conspiracies than you can shake a fucking stick at. I, quite frankly, give up on trying to make sense of it all if that's even possible anymore. There are just too goddamn many narratives to keep up with but our Washington warlords are still convinced that they can fix this mess with more guns, more bombs, more drones and more war. We could keep this dumpster fire burning or we could make like a Comrade and just fuck off.

We've been bombing the shit out of this fucking region since the nineties and what the fuck has it achieved? We've replaced Saddam with Al-Qaeda and Al-Qaeda with ISIS and now we wanna spread the party to Syria and god knows where else? The best thing we can do for these poor people is to just fucking leave and let their neighbors in Russia and Iran carry the weight. My heart fucking bleeds for the Kurds in particular but only they can earn their independence. Our involvement, even if it were as benevolent as we claim, only serves to water down and delegitimize their revolution.

And last but certainly not least: Afghanistan. That tried and true black hole that sucks in empires and spits out ghosts. Russia, Britain, Russia again, every empire goes to this isolated mountain range to die and die hard. This is America's longest running war and there appears to be no end in site. Likely it will only come with the fall of our own hulking empire and as much as I'd love to see that empire crash and burn for the sake of us all, I don't want to see it fall like that, drowning in an ocean of blood that can only be supplied by the poor of both of our nations. Unlike Korea, Syria and Iraq, our "experts" seem to be shit out of ideas on how to solve Afghanistan. When asked, they tend to stammer about like tongue tied teenagers caught jerking off and usually just end up shrugging their shoulders and saying "What are ya gonna do?". Well I'll tell you ghoulish pricks what you should fucking do. You should pick up your shit and just fuck off.

Those mountains are ungovernable. The people gnarly enough to live there have been living the same way for a millennia and they show no sign that their willing to change any time soon and why should they? It's their damn country. If they wanna shag sheep and smoke opium, let em (somebody should be getting laid and lifted, right?). Leave em be. It's no skin off our ass or at least it shouldn't be. And if the Taliban comes back then the Taliban comes back. I have know love lost for those sexist cunts but they didn't launch 9/11, our good buddies in Saudi Arabia did and the Taliban would have been more than willing to give Osama up if we had showed any interest in respecting their pride with a deal that didn't make them swallow it and belly crawl to Uncle Sam's steel-toed boot.

War doesn't work. It doesn't get any simpler than that. Violence begets more violence. Terror begets more terrorism. No substantial peace has ever been achieved through American intervention. Even our so called Great War only set the stage for the Third Reich and the Second one only set the stage for the Cold War. How many people have to fucking die before this country finally learns to keep its hands to itself and just fuck off. It really is just that simple. So I'll say it one more time. You motherfuckers can keep it up with your bombs and your plunder until we all go broke and die beneath a mushroom cloud or you could do us all a big fucking favor including your own greedy selves and JUST FUCK OFF.

Peace, Love and Empathy- CH

Soundtrack; Songs that influenced this post.

* Hey Joe By Jimmi Hendrix
* The National Anthem By Radiohead
* Lexicon Devil By The Germs
* I'm Afraid Of Americans By David Bowie and Trent Reznor
* Stigmata By Ministry
* Old College Try By The Mountain Goats
* Search And Destroy By The Stooges
* Peace, Love And Understanding By Elvis Costello

Tuesday, May 2, 2017

Fuck Political Correctness

Y'all know me or at least you better at this point. I'm a pretty socially progressive motherfucker. Aside from my roll as the Internets foremost (if criminally ignored) genderfuck evangelist, fighting on the front lines for a post-gender society, I have been fairly outspoken in my support for the rights of the socially underfoot, be they racial minorities, undocumented workers, Muslims, polygamists, sex workers, drug users, born again heathens, sadomasochists, little people, shell-shocked veterans, necrophiles, Amerindians, outlaw bikers, the disabled, cholos, the obese (morbidly or otherwise) and every single shade of the queer rainbow. You know, all the fun folks who get fucked for not fitting into the heterosexist Aryan jigsaw puzzle known as the American Dream.

But unlike most so called social justice warriors, if there is one thing I can't stand, one thing that pisses me off nearly as much as bigotry itself, it's that loathsome post-modern illness known as political correctness. Oh, I'm sure it all started with the very best of intentions but its infected the once buoyant civil rights movement with a nasty strain of stage three fascism which is threatening to suffocate us all with its noxious fumes.

We live in a country that's very existence is sadly defined by racism, sexism, slavery and genocide. A so called democracy with a prison population larger than some small countries. Black, brown and queer folks are forced to live there lives with a target on their backs and we're seriously sitting here splitting hairs over trigger words and micro-aggressions? Dearest motherfuckers, we can do better than this.

This word police bullshit has to stop. It's alright to inform people on how you prefer to identify or what pronouns you use but don't jump down peoples fucking throats just because they have trouble catching up. You have to remember that even white, male, cis-breeders are victims of the tyranny of the straight world too. Ignorance should be fought with love and information. It shouldn't be confused with intolerance and even intolerance is deserving of some degree of basic respect. With my bearded butch-ness, odds are that large swathes of the outside world will never see me for who I really am, even members of my own family probably wont. And that's OK. That doesn't make them bad people, close minded perhaps, but as long as they don't crucify me for being a genderqueer dyke with a dick then I won't crucify them for being vanilla milquetoast cissys. After all isn't it punishment enough that they were born boring? That doesn't mean that the very worst bigots should be tolerated though. Not by a long shot. But we must choose our battles wisely.

There's no such thing as a bad word, just a misused one. I come from the Eazy-E school of free speech. If somebody calls me a tranny or a faggot, I don't go running for a 'safe space' or some straight authority figure to hide behind. I fucking own it. I tell the bigots, "You're goddamn right I'm a tranny faggot. I'm the baddest motherfucking tranny faggot you'll ever meet. Swing on me and I'll kick your fucking ass into next week and eat out your fucking girlfriend for breakfast, lunch and dinner!" We need to stop being victims and start getting fucking fierce.

The Black Power and Queer Liberation movements didn't go around asking the state or the campus for their fucking rights. They stood tall, demanded them and took them if need be. Somewhere along the way we got hoodwinked by the very establishment that we were raging against into believing that we needed their protection from freedom of speech and I don't believe that this was a coincidence either. Those fucking bastards have us exactly where they want us, helpless and victimized rather than mighty and empowered. They've taken all the danger out of our movements by reducing us to assimilated whiny cowards that can be easily corralled into the reservations we call safe spaces. I say no more. Enough with this fucking bullshit. The only thing that political correctness has achieved is strengthening coercive institutions and making it easier for the bigots inside them to hide behind the beige wall of good manners and proper decorum. We need to take back our movements, return to the streets loud and proud and make our communities so ferociously radical in our convictions that any ground we stand on will become a safe space, Safe from everything but revolution that is.

Fuck political correctness, dearest motherfuckers, fuck it to death. And that comes to you straight from the bottom of my bleeding tranny faggot heart.

Peace, Love and Empathy- CH

Soundtrack; Songs that influenced this post.

* Express Yourself By N.W.A.
* Big Beautiful Day By PWR BTTM
* Attitude By The Misfits
* Rock And Roll N*gger By Patti Smith
* Last Caress By The Misfits
* Hip Hop By Dead Prez
* My Way By Sid Vicious

Monday, April 24, 2017

Courtney Didn't Do It!

In case you haven't noticed, I've kind of got a thing for conspiracy theories. Good ones. Bad ones. Real ones. Fake ones. That's not to say that I consider myself to be a conspiracy theorist, though I'm certain more than a few of my regular dearest motherfuckers probably disagree. I'm more of a conspiracy enthusiast or, as my late hero Gore Vidal once described himself, a conspiracy analyst. I have my doubts about the "official" story on a number of historical events. I don't buy that FDR was caught off guard by Pearl Harbor. I have trouble believing that Lee Harvey Oswald acted alone. I'm pretty sure those Branch Davidians were murdered in Waco. And don't even get me started on the Middle East. But unlike most "theorists" I recognize that these beliefs are hypothesizes at best. We'll probably never have all the answers and, like a good little agnostic, I'm more or less cool with this.

On the other hand there are some conspiracy theories that I find downright infuriating. Big Foot is bullshit, the Holocaust fucking happened and Obama was born in America. But if there's one conspiracy theory that really gets under my skin and drives me up the fucking wall it's the asinine farce that Kurt Cobain was murdered by Courtney Love. I'm fully aware that this is far from the most repulsive falsehood, the Holocaust one probably gets that tainted honor, but it's the one that really burns my ass. Mostly because I adore both Kurt and Courtney and I can't seem to manage to have a single fucking conversation about either one of them without having to debunk that stupid fucking theory for the umpteenth time. So this year, which would have been Kurt's 50th, I've decided to finally put this shit to rest once and for all. But first things first, some personal explanations are due.

I've been a Nirvana fan forever but I didn't become a fanatic until their music helped me through the darkest chapter of my lifelong struggle with depression. There's only one band that I might love more (with a capital MIGHT) and that's Courtney Love's band Hole. Kurt's lyrics made me feel less alone and gave me the courage to survive the mess I made of my early twenties. Courtney's lyrics however made me feel empowered and gave me the courage to do more than just survive, with her candid tales of feminine empowerment and irreverent freak-show pride, Courtney Love's lyrics gave me the courage to persevere on my own damn terms. And Courtney, perhaps more than any other single person, gave me the metaphoric ovaries to kick down my closet door and taste the light of day as the queer, genderfuck, queen bitch you all know and fear. So, yeah, long story short, this is kind of fucking personal to me.

With that being said, lets go over what we know about the tragic death of Kurt Cobain. Kurt's final downward spiral began on the mourning of March 3, 1994. After taking a red-eye to Rome to join Kurt for the night while on tour with Nirvana, Courtney crashed in her husbands hotel room with some Valium only to wake up to find Kurt's lifeless body. He had downed a fist full of Rohypnol with a bottle of champagne in an apparent suicide attempt. He came back to life after twenty hours in a coma but in many ways Kurt was already gone. Over the next few weeks Kurt OD'd at least two more times. Courtney, who had long tolerated Kurt's addiction, finally put her foot down on March 25 with an intervention. Kurt was livid. In an attempt to strong arm her stubborn husband into recovery Courtney left Seattle alone for Los Angeles where she began an outpatient detox program at the Peninsula Hotel for her own lifelong addiction to prescription sedatives. The move seemed to work when Kurt joined Courtney in L.A. and checked into the nearby Exodus Recovery Center on the 30th. But unbeknownst to Courtney, that very day Kurt had his friend Dylan Carlson buy him a 20 gauge shotgun which he stashed at his Seattle mansion before hopping on the next flight out of town.

Kurt spent two days in rehab before jumping the fence and returning to Seattle. Courtney hired Hollywood P.I. Tom Grant to track her husband down. A decision only she would live to regret. After less than a week of bouncing around local flophouses and shooting galleries Kurt returned to his mansion where his body was discovered on April 8th by an electrician in the greenhouse above his garage. Dead from what the Seattle Police determined to be a self-inflicted shotgun wound.

But according to the conspiracy theorists, lets call them Kurt Truthers, they know better than the Seattle P.D.. They also know better than Kurt's own band mates, friends and family, many of whom had no love lost for Courtney but still had no trouble excepting the fact that the long troubled troubadour had taken his own life. In fact, pretty much the only person close to Kurt who couldn't except this fact was Courtney herself who asked Tom Grant to investigate the possibility of foul play. Once Courtney finally came to terms with what Kurt had done to himself and their family she stopped sending Grant checks for the biggest break of his pathetic existence and Grant got his petty revenge by spending the next two decades building a career out of blaming his former client for her own husbands tragic death. And it's this washed-up, fat-fuck, ex-pig with an ax to grind who has been largely responsible for generating the lion share of the Kurt Truther's so called evidence. Creating a veritable cottage industry out of telling tall-tales to dip-shit twats, Tom had finally found his calling in life, ruining Courtney's.

According to Grant and his little clan of Truthers, Courtney decided to have her husband killed before he could divorce her and cut her out of his will. Rather than taking the easiest route to achieving these means by simply hooking Kurt up with a hot-dose or just letting her husband OD on his own stash without reviving him with Narcan as she often did, Courtney sent Kurt to rehab then hired a hitman to hunt him down like a dog when he escaped, shot him full of dope, propped him upright in his greenhouse, jammed his own shotgun in his mouth and somehow blew his brains out without leaving so much as a trace of evidence. Oh yeah and Courtney managed to pay off the entire Seattle P.D. and she would have gotten away with it too if it wasn't for that meddling dirt-bag dick and his internet fan-club.

If this sounds like bush league horse-shit to you then congratulations you're officially an adult. But for all the children in the room, please allow me to pull the rug from under you so I can beat your monkey-asses with it until they leak blood. Kurt had struggled with crippling depression and chronic stomach pain his whole life. The latter of which was so severe that it had nearly caused him to starve to death. Heroin was the only thing that made his stomach pain tolerable and in spite of their tumultuous and at times downright unhealthy relationship Courtney and their daughter Frances Bean were the only people that gave Kurt any joy during his final days. Virtually everyone else had abandoned him over his use of narcotics. Kurt was terrified that Courtney would leave him. He had associated divorce with death ever since his parents split when he was nine. His suicide attempt in Rome was inspired by the fact that Courtney had merely contemplated cheating on him. And when Courtney threatened to leave Kurt at his intervention if he wouldn't give up the one thing that made his excruciating life livable, Kurt decided he had officially had enough. It was time to go.

Kurt killed himself. And he pulled that trigger for a lot of reasons but, as politically incorrect as this may be to say, Courtney Love and Heroin were the only things that kept him alive as long as he was. Kurt never found the source of his stomach pain but the last doctor he saw believed it was the product of a nerve pinched between his vertebrae due to untreated scoliosis. With its proximity to both the spine and the vagus nerve this likely made Kurt's problem virtually inoperable. This also would have made Kurt a prime candidate for Oxycontin or even Dr. Kevorkian if he had only stuck around for a couple more years. As Courtney had said during her public reading of her late husbands suicide note- "That Eighties tough love bullshit- it doesn't work. We all should have let him have his numbness. We should have let him have the thing that made him feel better, that made his stomach feel better, we should have let him have it instead of trying to strip away his skin." To this day Courtney seems to be the only one who gets this and it's precisely this kind of unabashed empathy that made Kurt along with Courtney's own devoted tribe of fans like myself fall in love with her and I just know from the bottom of my own burning nauseous stomach that Kurt would be disgusted if he knew that the same people who continue to senselessly crucify this person he loved for simply being a convenient scapegoat call themselves his fans. They're not. Just like the assholes he lampooned in "In Bloom" they like all his pretty songs and they like to sing along and they like to shoot their guns but they don't know what it means and they probably never will. So fuck them. And that's all I have left to say about that.

This ones for Kurt and Courtney. The best friends a freak like me could ever hope for.

And remember dearest motherfuckers, always remember, It's better to rise than fade away.

As always,

Peace, Love and Empathy- CH

Soundtrack; Songs that influenced this post.

* Negative Creep By Nirvana
* Pretty On The Inside By Hole
* Wave Of Mutilation By The Pixies
* On A Plain By Nirvana
* Violet By Hole
* Ever By Flipper
* In Bloom By Nirvana
* Reasons To Be Beautiful By Hole
* You're One By Imperial Teen