Tuesday, July 18, 2017

The Arabian Candidate

I really hate to admit it, dearest motherfuckers, because god knows I've been a critic of the theory but I can no longer deny the fact that the Trump regime is colluding with a subversive foreign power. Over the last half year I have fretfully witnessed my so called president acquiesce in every way imaginable to this rogue state. He has defended their numerous crimes both in public and in private. He has accepted their filthy blood money and surrounded himself with their loyal quislings. He has even gone so far as to support their flagrantly illegal occupation and annexation of a smaller, weaker neighbor.

No I'm not speaking of Donald Trump's alleged collusion with Putin's Russia. The DNC has yet to find a smoking gun on that Grassy Knoll, that is unless you count Donald Jr.'s games of footsie with low level Russian scum bags (Rachel Maddow does, I don't). No, I'm speaking of the Trump administrations borderline homoerotic love affair with their bros in Saudi Arabia, the world's third most diabolical terror state, after America and Israel, naturally. In stark contrast with his icy indifference towards the dreaded Kremlin, the orange bastard has done somersaults through his own pinched asshole to please the Kingdom of Saud. He's gone balls deep on militarily supporting their genocidal war on Yemen. He's promised them $350 billion dollars in military hardware. He's even vociferously supported their strange little tiff with our alleged allies in Qatar, even while members of his own administration rush to put out the fire. All the while, the Donald calls for the absurd premise of a Gulf State NATO, charged with fighting the very terrorists they helped create headquartered in sunny Riyadh.

What all this tells me is that the Trump regime is making a YUUUGE! investment on making Saudi Arabia the future face of American imperialism in the Middle East. Too all this I can only ask: Why? I mean, for the Donald himself and his creepy little predator-Zionist son in law, Jared Kushner, it's obvious. The Saudis are the kings of easy money, especially when it comes to the gaudy real estate the Trumps and the Kushners specialize in. But why the H.R. Mcmasters'? Why the Mad Dog Mattis'? Why are these Deep State veterans that Trump has surrounded himself with so gun-ho about jumping into bed with these blood-sucking sheikhs. The Saudis aren't the only regime on the block with a price tag but they're rapidly becoming the most unstable.

With King Salman a cunts hair away from his thousand thread count death bed, the last few years have played out like a backroom grudge match between contestants for the top spot of heir apparent to the throne in the Royal Kingdom. The latest Crown Prince, the third since 2015, is by far the most dangerous. King Salman's 32 year old son, Crown Prince Bin Salman, has made a name for himself as his pitiless nations Defense Minister with his letting of oceans of blood vis a vis the ethnic cleansing of Zaydi Muslims in Yemen and his less than subtle support for the head chopping maniacs turning Syria into a black hole of endless sectarian violence. He's also been the main force behind the GCC's blockade against Qatar, which I suspect has more to do with his predecessor, Mohammed Bin Nayef's chummy relationship with the tiny little monarchy than anything Al-Jazeera related.

Long story short, the Crown Prince has already stretched his desert empire paper thin before he's even reached the throne. All with a dwindling oil supply and rising discontent among the nation's long oppressed Shia population on the gulf coast. It doesn't take a political scientist to tell you that the Kingdom of Saud is ripe for a well earned civil war.

So once again, I have to ask: Why Saudi Arabia? If your looking for a reliable client state in the Middle East, the obvious choice to me is Iran. Look beyond all the Western/Zionist propaganda and what you have is essentially a stable, reasonably moderate, semi-democratic republic founded on the bedrock of a popular revolution. With it's mixed economy and front row seat to the Eurasian theater, Iran is strategically perfect for quisling-hood. It's oil rich but not oil dependent, It's been a consistent allie in the wars against both Al-Qaeda and ISIS and it's bent over backwards for western approval with the P5+1 nuclear deal. A deal to fix a problem that only existed in the syphilitic minds of neocons and Israeli expansionists, I might add.

Obama appeared to grasp the premise of an Iranian collaboration for the future of American imperial intrigue. At times he even seemed to be on the brink of reaching out to the Islamic Republic but the elites in both parties, including the rag-tag Trump team have totally rejected this opportunity out of hand. Choosing instead to align themselves with Iran's mortal enemy, a bloodthirsty corporatist theocracy that begs Uncle Sam for money with one hand and openly funds violence on our very shores with the other. In case you've forgotten, dearest motherfuckers, it was Saudi Arabia who bankrolled the attacks on 9/11 and paid off the Pakistanis to hide Bin Laden. Which brings up another interesting question: with their clear hatred for Western "values", why does Saudi Arabia allie with the United States? After all, we're no longer the only viable superpower on the block.

China would seem like a much more reasonable alternative. The United States may still be far more powerful but we're also clearly an empire in decline. The election of a grabby circus clown like Trump makes that fact almost painfully clear. With multiple military quagmires in multiple countries on multiple continents burning out of control not to mention the worlds most ass backwards welfare state, America is in debt up to its fucking eyeballs and China is the loan shark with our cojones in a vice. Saudi Arabia wouldn't be the first American "allie" to turn to the Red Dragon for patronage. Many former Yankee client states in Africa and Latin America have chosen this route. So why not the Saudi's? China is a conservative illiberal republic founded on Confucianist values with one of the worlds fastest growing middle classes. Sounds like a perfect match to me.

My point here is that unlike Saudi Arabia and the United States, Iran and China are reliable partners. So why are both the Saudis and the Americans who have lowered themselves to doing their bidding so allergic to reliable. The answer is as simple as it is ugly: Because Saudi Arabia and America are empires founded on plunder and empires thrive on chaos. America doesn't want stability in the Middle East even if it means one-upping the Russians and the Chinese. They want the Middle East broken and dependent so they can justify their existence to both their own citizenry and the world at large. What good is the United States without a war or five to fight. In that context it makes perfect sense for them to allie with a nation that exports jihad like a raw commodity.

Similarly, the Saudis don't want a stable papa nation keeping tabs on them and telling them how to burn their money. They want a surrogate who is bleeding and desperate. They want an empire that throws around weapons like Mardi Gras beads as it crashes and burns. In short, the Saudis want a sponsor as fucked up and reckless as they are. So it's little wonder that they became the one establishment order to welcome the Donald into the fold with open arms once their prize stead (S)Hillary busted herself lame on the election hurtle. After all it doesn't get much more fucked up than Trump. It's the perfect match. A marriage made in hell. A bloated, discolored, greedy old scam artist farting his way through one last con and a budding, swarthy, young psychopath on the cusp of despotism. Donald Trump and the Crown Prince are like the Sid and Nancy of international violence. Nicholas Sparks couldn't come up with a grander romance. Call it, The Arabian Candidate and sell it at the airport for ten bucks a pop.

Ain't love grand, dearest motherfuckers.

Peace, Love and Empathy- CH

Soundtrack: Songs that influenced this post.

Head Like A Hole By Nine Inch Nails
Losing My Religion By REM
Chainsaw Gutsfuck By Mayhem
Rock The Kasbah By The Clash
Violet By Hole
Reign In Blood By Slayer
Everyone Wants To Live Forever By The Flaming Lips
Pleasure By Feist
Peace Sells By Megadeath
Just Like Henry By Dressy Bessy

Sunday, July 9, 2017

Summer Flicks For Snobs & Pricks

I love movies. I'd say they're probably my fourth favorite thing after the three P's: Punk, Politics and Pussy. And there are few things that I love more than going to the movies. I love everything about it, the dangerously over buttered popcorn, the glow of the big screen in that deep dark room, even the unwinnable arguments I get into with my brother over the meaning of what we just witnessed on the moonlit drives home. There's really only one thing I don't like about going to the movies these days and, ironically enough, it's the fucking movies themselves! Especially in the summer when that putrid cesspool called Hollywood (America's second undrainable swamp!) unleashes a tidal wave of the dumbest, safest, tackiest, money-grubbing horseshit that their pea sized lizard brains can fart out. It's all green screens, CGI and wisecracking, jingoistic superheroes pimping the lowest common denominator out of their hard earned walking change. I know, I know, I'm a film snob and a total fucking prick. Nothing gets my unwanted, chubby little pecker harder than a good old fashioned bugfuck art flick or a pretentious, Euro-trash, soft-core fuck-fest: Vaseline, subtitles and all. I would love nothing better than to gorge myself sick on this strange vice before the silky glory of the silver screen but sadly there aren't too many faggy revival houses out in Amish country, so I have to settle on watching Netflix in my parent's basement.

I can't be the only one, can I? There has to be at least a few other weirdos out there hungry for something new and strange this summer and maybe even a few curious rubes brave enough to watch on the wild side. Well, never fear, dearest motherfuckers, Comrade Hermit Productions is proud to present the first annual list of Summer Flicks For Snobs & Pricks. A small collection of some of my favorite of-the-beaten-path cinematic gems for you fine fucks to feast on in the cool comfortability of your own basement. You probably won't find any of this shit at Redbox and you definitely won't find it at your local megaplex but as long as you have access to an old-school, snail-mail, Netflix account, you should be able to get your grubby mitts on all that lies below. Just pace yourselves, dearest motherfuckers, especially the more bourgeois among you. This is the kind of shit that Hollywood doesn't want you to see. But if you keep an open mind, it might just get blown. You're welcome.

The Doom Generation (1995) Directed by Gregg Araki

Gregg is by far the most underrated director to come out of the Queer Cinema movement, largely because he's it's most dangerous alumni and The Doom Generation is his blood soaked magnum opus: The nihilistic saga of a shiftless teenage couple, Amy and Jordan (played by the equally gorgeous Rose McGowan and James Duval) who hook up with a mysterious bisexual drifter who involves them in a convenience store robbery gone gruesomely wrong. Together, the triad flees the dystopian sprawl of the Los Angeles suburbs, only to be stalked by an endless procession of queer bashers and Amy's irate ex-lovers. Hollywood hated it because they didn't get it. It's a grotesquely humorous analogy for the culture of random chauvinistic and heterosexist violence that women, girls and queer kids have to live with every fucking day. Araki never sugarcoated it for the breeders or the squeamish (or do I repeat myself) which is precisely what make him and movies like The Doom Generation so fucking vital.

Highlight (spoiler alert)

Rose McGowan's Amy Blue instantly became one of my idols upon watching this movie back in high school. With her fuck-you attitude and her Gothic Lolita swagger she was everything little girls weren't supposed to be and everything that I secretly wished I was. Her foul mouthed one-liners are still fucking priceless: from " You're like a life support system for a cock!" to " If bullshit were music, you'd be a big brass band" and, of course, the instantly classic refrain "Eat my fuck". Amy's filthy mouth made me wanna be a girl.

Visitor Q (2001) Directed by Takashi Miike

Note to dearest motherfuckers: NOT FOR EVERYONE. Takashi Miike has made some fantastically fucked up cinema over the last twenty-something years: masterfully mixing the awkward dreaminess of David Lynch with the grotty body horror of David Cronenberg in cult classics like Audition, Ichi the Killer and Gozu. But I believe the mad genius of J-Horror hit his peak with this little known, direct-to-DVD black comedy which may very well go down in history as the most fucked up family movie ever made. Incest, heroin addiction, necrophilia, domestic violence: The Yamazaki family shatters every taboo in the book before a nameless stranger injects himself into the madness and brings them back together through the magic of casual violence and erotic lactation....like I said, not for everyone, but if your just the right kind of fucked up you might just find a strange bitter-sweetness in Visitor Q that's, dare I say, almost heartwarming.

Highlight (spoiler alert)

The scene where the Yamazaki's gleefully hack their son's bullies to bits should bring a smile to the face of anyone who grew up weird and was forced to suffer for it by vicious square kids or any parent who's ever had a day dream about fucking gutting some teenage psychopath for calling their kid a faggot. Here's your moment, beautiful people. Soak it in.

Shortbus (2006) Directed by John Cameron Mitchell

Mitchell, that beautiful creature who gave us the gift of Hedwig and the Angry Inch, once stated in an interview, "Sex...is to interesting to leave to porn." He proves this maxim in spades with this groundbreaking erotic comedy that follows the denizens of a weekly queer happening known as the Shortbus as they try to find themselves and each other through the tangled web of their sex lives. You'll laugh, you'll cry, but you probably wont come. That's not the point as Mitchell shows us that even explicit sex doesn't have to be pornography. It can be something even cooler. It can be art.

Highlight (spoiler alert)

Nothing can beat the final scene, where Shortbus' host, the brilliantly vivacious Justin Vivian Bond, playing herself, sings to the love battered collective, joined together under candlelight during a blackout, a wistful lullaby which explodes into an anthem as she's joined by a marching band, uniting the room with the refrain "We all get it in the end!" It's downright orgasmic.

Sonatine (1993) Directed by Takeshi Kitano

Murakawa is a depressed Yakuza sent down to Okinawa to broker a peace deal between warring clans, only to find himself and his men caught in an ambush. They escape to a secluded beach house where they rescue a mysterious rape victim and lose themselves in childish pranks, firecrackers and rainy day bullshitting only to have the violence of the adult world they escaped come crashing in on them. Takeshi Kitano is nothing short of phenomenal: writing, directing and starring in one of the most refreshingly original gangster films ever made. Watch it on a rainy afternoon and fucking lose yourself. I promise you wont regret it.

Highlight (spoiler alert)

Murakawa's revenge on the bosses who slaughtered his men is one of the most haunting shootouts in cinema history. Kitano stalks the darkened hotel boardroom like a panther with an M-16. His expressionless face, still as a stone mask. His quiet rage, silent but palpable like a phantom pulse set to the beat of the gunfire, flashing in the darkness like a strobe light. Just like the movie itself, it breaths madness like a strange kind of magic that makes perfect sense to no one but Murakawa and the audience that he holds captive.

The Dreamers (2003) Directed by Bernardo Bertolucci

Thirty years after Last Tango In Paris, Bernardo Bertolucci returns to the City of Light with this beautiful erotic love letter to youth, cinema and rebellion. During the build up to the May '68 Paris Uprising, American film student Matthew (Michael Pitt, brilliant, gorgeous) shacks up with local twin cinephiles, Isabelle (Eva Green, equally brilliant, doubly beautiful) and Theo (Lois Garrel, meh?) at their stately chateau while their bourgeois parents are on holiday. Matthew quickly discovers that the twins have zero sexual mores, even between each other, and he quickly finds himself sucked into their private world of sex games, classic cinema and revolutionary Maoism, all culminating in the break out of the revolution they've been waiting for.

Highlight (spoiler alert)

As shallow as it may sound to a cinematic laymen, the sex scenes really are a work of art. Every three way is more like a four way with Bertolucci's camera playing the role of the fourth, silent lover. It delivers a level of intimacy to the audience that makes mainstream pornography look like a sad and lonely joke. Matthew's passionate but ultimately doomed attempt to convince the twins that love is far more revolutionary than violence during the final scene is another highlight, still as poignant and tragically unheard today as it was in 1968. C'est la vie.

The Killer (1989) Directed by John Woo

John Woo's high octane masterpiece is nothing short of a triumph of Hong Kong cinema. The operatic tale of an assassin with a heart of gold who agrees to do one last hit in order to pay for the eye surgery of a nightclub singer he accidentally blinded in a previous job, only to be double crossed by his Triad boss and befriend a detective fascinated by the criminals valor. I know, on paper it sounds melodramatic and it is but it's also the greatest action film ever made. Trust me, skip the latest Vin Diesel abortion and watch this instead. If your disappointed then please kill yourself, your hopeless and I can't help you.

Highlight (spoiler alert)

No action sequence will ever beat the epic final shootout in the abandoned chapel: Beretta's flashing, bodies falling, doves flying, candles flickering, blood spurting. John Woo turns unspeakable carnage into a bullet ballet of near biblical proportions. What more can I say? It's fucking beautiful. Shakespeare would be humbled.

Gummo (1997) Directed by Harmony Korine

Gummo isn't a movie. Gummo is an experience. One that will mark you and forever change the way you look at cinema and the world around you. It's a strange, terrifying, beautiful thing to behold. In the dystopian wasteland of tornado ravaged Xenia, Ohio, an odd collection of aimless misfits eck out a strange existence on the wreckage of their former lives. At times it feels almost like a Jacques Cousteau film only with people playing the parts of the monsters only found at the bottom of the sea. These bizarre, seemingly random and largely improvised vignettes are rendered even more surreal by Harmony Korine's use of gritty, voyeuristic, cinema verite style of camera work and a soundtrack comprised almost entirely of left-field extreme metal bands like Burzum, Absu, Spazz and Sleep. It's one hell of a fucking trip. Do yourself a favor, buy the ticket, take the ride.

Highlight (spoiler alert)

During the final vignette, when Chloe Sevigny emerges from the dirty water in the vacant above ground swimming pool and kisses Bunny Boy surrounded by a pounding torrential downpour while Roy Orbison's Crying plays in the background has to be one of the great indelible images in the history of avante garde cinema and it's an image permanently fried into my frontal lobe like a cigar burn, at least I hope so. Maybe I should watch it again just to make sure....

Love Exposure (2008) Directed by Sion Sono

Clocking in at just over four hours, you would think that Sion Sono's epic black rom-com would be fucking exhausting but if you have an afternoon to kill, Love Exposure is your weapon of choice. The story starts with Yu, the earnest son of a widowed Catholic Priest who only seems to have time for him in the confessional booth. Yu's solution to this problem is to start committing sins to confess, the more perverse the better. This sends him down a strange and twisted path that leads him to petty vandalism, uspkirt photography, cross-dressing, finding true love and battling a deadly cult for her heart. It's insane. It's beautiful. it's Japan in a nutshell. A love story that could only exist on that wonderful, volcanic archipelago where everything seems to be both sacred and perverse all at the same time.

Highlight (spoiler alert)

Yu's ultra-violent, Tarantino-esque siege of Zero Church headquarters as his drag queen ultra-ego, Miss Scorpion, plays like Kill Bill meets Rocky Horror. It's the queerest jihad since Stonewall and it's all for love. Absolutely perfect in every single way.

Together (2000) Directed by Lukas Moodysson

Lukas Moodyson's bitter-sweet period comedy about a bored house wife who leaves her alcoholic husband with her children and crashes at her idealistic brother's floundering hippie commune in 1975 Stockholm earned a very special place in my heart during a very dark time in my life. It would have been very easy just to make this movie a tasteless parody of '60's/'70's counterculture but even Together's most seemingly irredeemable hippie brats are treated with a degree of love and compassion that only a self-proclaimed fellow socialist like Moodyson could deliver. Only a true egalitarian could skewer his own fellow comrades with such tenderness. It's a movie about sensitive idealists coming to terms with the fact that though the revolution may be over their love for each other still makes them family. Call it the charming side of self-criticism.

Highlight (spoiler alert)

It's strictly personal but the awkward relationship that develops between Lena's shiftless, bookish daughter and the schlubby neighbor boy really got me deep. Probably because the two ugly ducklings bare more than a passing resemblance to me and my first middle school crush. Caitlin, wherever the fuck you are, someone weird still loves you.

The Edukators (2004) Directed by Hans Weingartner

A menage a trios develops between the three members of a non-violent leftist cadre after they're forced by circumstance to take a wealthy businessman hostage. Together, the four of them hide out in the picturesque Austrian Alps, where the rebels with a cause realize that their prisoner use to be one of them back in the seventies. What results is a beautiful meditation on love and revolution that will stay with you years after watching this brilliant indie gem. I was heartbroken to learn that Hollywood planned to remake The Edukators but overjoyed to learn it had crashed and burned in development hell. What can I say? Some people never change.

Highlight (spoiler alert)

The final sequence, in which it's revealed that Hardenberg has gone back on his promise and presses charges against the trio after all, who it turns out predicted his hypocrisy and already escaped, unveils like a dream sequence beautifully set to the score of Jeff Buckley's flawless cover of Hallelujah. It's nothing short of cinematic perfection and it makes me cry every fucking time. The kind of magic those greedy hacks in Hollywood could never remake in a million years with a billion dollars.

Well there you have it, dearest motherfuckers, another pretentious list from your favorite asshole. I can just see you rolling your eyes right now but if I can get just one of you to watch just one of these criminally underrated masterpieces then I can breath easy and live with the chorus of sighs and snickers that seem to follow my snarky ass everywhere I go, watch two and they might just sound like music to my ears. Just remember, dearest motherfuckers, safe art is bad art and life's too goddamn short to waste on bad art.

Peace, Love and Eat My Fuck- CH

Soundtrack: Music from or inspired by theses flicks

* Alison By Slowdive
* The Hardest Button To Button By The White Stripes
* Boys Of Melody By The Hidden Cameras
* Wave Of Mutilation By The Pixies
* S.O.S. By Abba
* Hey Joe By Jimi Hendrix
* Nightswimming By REM
* Dunkelhelt By Burzum
* Somebody To Love By Queen
* Hallelujah By Jeff Buckley

Monday, July 3, 2017

Red Line Fever

I had every intention of taking this week off and reserving my creative juices for barbecue and blowing up mail boxes, you know, patriotic shit. But a couple of very peculiar and very disturbing things popped up in the news last week and the idea of not putting my thoughts out on paper in regards to these events feels like a heavier burden on my anxiety ridden skull than cranking out another post during my vacation so, fuck it, here we go.

The first story to stick in my brain like an errant popcorn kernel was Seymour Hersh's brilliant piece on the Kan Sheikhoun gas attacks in Syria and the bombing that our petulant president, Donald Trump, launched against the Syrian airbase in Shayrat in response. The only thing more shocking than the lies old Seymour debunked with this top notch piece of investigative journalism is the fact that he had to go to fucking Germany to get it published.

 Long since banished from the land of fake news that has become this sad country, Hersh's piece was originally commissioned to be released by the London Review of Books who had published his equally incendiary piece on the equally facacta Ghouta chemical attacks of 2013 (we'll circle back  to this later). But the Limey twits chickened out like those bitches across the pond, forcing America's greatest living journalist to go to the Germans (the goddamn Germans!?!) for freedom of the press. Thank god for Die Welt. If it wasn't for those wonderful Krauts, we, the few woke Americans, would have to once again go to Russia Today to find out that our life is a lie.

What Hersh revealed with this piece is basically what the Russians have been trying to tell us all along: Khan Sheikhoun wasn't a sarin gas attack, it was a standard bombing of a known jihadist meeting sight that contained dangerous chemicals in the basement, where said jihadists stashed their weapons and sundry loot. This isn't particularly shocking to anyone who actually took the time to read into the story. The shocking part was that the Russians had informed the US Military of this attack days before hand in order to give our spooks a chance to pull out any double agents we may have had working out of the target. Trump was repeatedly informed of this fact and pulled the fucking trigger on the illegal bombing of a Russian occupied airbase anyway.

Hersh and his sources theorize that the cloud of toxic fumes that happened as a result of the Kan Sheikhoun bombing were the product of chlorine and manure stored at the sight. Very possible, but the paranoid side of me can't seem to shake the sneaking suspicion that this site was intentionally loaded with toxic chemicals by one of the CIA's al-Nusra rats, who had been tipped off indirectly by those poor over trusting Russians themselves, in order to deliver the Donald the red line crossing tragedy that would goad him into embracing the Agency's beloved regime change schemes and wiping his ass with the last shred of hope left for detente with Russia. Sunrise. Sunset.

The second news story that ruined my holiday coincided, perhaps not uncoincidentally with the dropping of Hersh's story. Early last week a number of weird threats began to emanate from the White House. Sean Spicer, Washington's second finest drag king after Lindsey Graham, made cryptic claims that unidentified sources had identified plans for "another" Syrian chemical weapons attack by the Assad regime and that, if this happened, The Syrian president would pay a heavy price. Neither the Pentagon nor the State department backed up this narrative but that didn't stop Snarling Nikki Haley from stoking the flames of war before congress the next day: speaking of the necessity for sending not only Assad but his allies in Russia and Iran a message. After another day passed with no telltale chemical attack, Secretary of Defense and Tobin Bell stunt double, Mad Dog Mattis made the absurd assertion to reporters that the only reason the Syrians didn't launch the attack was because of the White House's mercurial threats. "That showed them!" What the fuck, right?

The whole weird affair seemed like a failed reenactment of Obama's 2013 red flag fiasco, when the then-president nearly went to war with Syria over another chemical attack that Seymour Hersh revealed to be a jihadist false flag in the Damascus suburb of Ghouta. I have long posited the unpopular theory that Barack Obama had actually set the red line on chemical attacks as a kind of dare, knowing full well that his minions in al-Nusra were the only ones with both the means and the motive to cross it thus giving Obama the green light to finally destroy Assad with the international support necessary to please his pseudo-liberal base. The only reason this didn't work out was because  Trump's former man-crush, Vladimir Putin stole Obama's thunder with a peace deal that made his NPR friendly dream war impossible.

Last week's red line drawing threats feel like a characteristically clumsy attempt by Trump's regime who couldn't shoot straight to goad another false flag attack. As Hersh proved in Die Welt, the administration has full knowledge that Assad isn't in the business of committing these kind of attacks  and it's practically common knowledge that the floundering jihadists of al-Nusra have the goods. So what does this mean? In the wake of the Russian witch trials and his plummeting approval ratings, President Trump has a bad case of red line fever, and aside from an increasingly unlikely Russian miracle, there is only one known cure for this disease: all out war.

Go ahead, dearest motherfuckers, call me paranoid and I hope you're right, but I couldn't bomb my neighbors private property with a clean conscience if I didn't at least warn you of my suspicions.

Happy Fourth.

Peace, Love and Empathy- CH

Soundtrack: Songs that influenced this post.

* Fourth Of July By X
* Your Life Is A Lie By MGMT
* Townie By Mitski
* Flagpole Sitta By Harvey Danger
* Oblivion By Grimes
* Saints By The Breeders
* Human Behavior By Bjork
* Where Is My Mind By The Pixies

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 of 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