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

Saturday, April 8, 2017

Trump Is The New Hillary

Well it's official dearest motherfuckers, Donald Trump has become Hillary Clinton. With Thursday night's reckless and illegal assault on a Russian populated Syrian military base with 59 Tomahawk missiles, there is now officially zero sunlight between the two most repulsive candidates in the putrid history of this vile empire of sin and conquest. And to think just days ago the Donald was being crucified in a congressional witch hunt for passing on the one flavor of poisoned Kool-Aid that made him slightly less toxic than his opponent in the 2016 election, not to mention, persona non grata with the status quo. That is Russophobic Regime-Change Punch (TM). So what the fuck happened this week?

The simple answer is false flag. This Tuesday a village in Idlib Province called Khan Sheikhoun appears to have fallen victim to a deadly chemical attack claiming hundreds of writhing civilian casualties many of whom were young children. The American Government (TM) and their loyal cadres' in the mainstream media didn't even wait for the bodies to stop froffing before blaming the whole nasty atrocity on the government of Bashar Assad without so much as a lick of truth, not that that's ever stopped them before. But why would Assad launch such a foolishly senseless and polarizing crime against humanity when, after years on the brink of destruction, he has finally all but won his war against ISIS and Al-Qaeda. He had even managed to get the tacit support of the Trump Administration, who had stated their intention to drop regime change from their agenda in Syria just days before the attack. There is absolutely zero logical sense in such an attack, that is unless Assad isn't guilty.

We've seen this story before, after the August 2013 sarin gas attacks outside of Damascus. These attacks, originally blamed on Assad, were ultimately proven to be the work of Turkish backed Islamist rebels by veteran investigative journalist Seymour Hersh and members of the UN. The very same rebels currently occupying Idlib Provence. The common narrative about these attacks and then President Obama's response goes something like this. Obama foolishly drew a red line stating that the US would only launch a direct attack against the Syrian government if chemical weapons were used. Chemical weapons were used, but Obama pulled out of the attack at the last minute with some unexpected help from Vladimir Putin. I never fucking bought this.

My theory has always been that Obama very consciously and very loudly drew his red line at a time when, like today, the rebels were getting their fucking asses kicked. I believe Obama did this with the full expectation and possible knowledge that one of the desperate rebel groups, who the CIA was fully aware possessed such chemical weapons capabilities, would cross said red line, frame the Syrian Military and give Obama the excuse he needed to sack Assad without the risk of being labeled Bush 2.0 by a war weary public. Obama showed every intention of acting unilaterally before Putin sabotaged his war plans by brokering a UN peace deal that would and did destroy Assad's obsolete chemical weapons stash. The deal proved popular with the international community leaving Obama with no other choice but to sign onto this deal too in order to save face. But Putin's crafty monkey-wrenching did irreparable damage to Obama's image and ego and I believe this convinced him to sign off on the equally reckless anti-Russian coup in Ukraine as a kind of petty revenge but that's another story for another post.

The situation with Trump is very different. While always a passionate supporter of killing Muslims, Trump made his willingness to collaborate with Putin in Syria the backbone of his foreign policy stance in 2016. While Trump may be a pathological liar, I believe these intentions were genuine. They were too dangerously unpopular with the system not to be. However members of his own team didn't share this view. I believe some of these characters were pushed on Trump by some of his more powerful and neocon-ish sponsors with the hope of convincing the Donald to change his Kremlin ways. When efforts to do this by leaking embarrassing and misleading intelligence on Donald's practically non-existent relationship with Putin's Russia failed, the deep state settled on sabotage.

Just days before the chemical attacks, Islamist rebel leaders indicated that the CIA had reopened their arms supply lines. Around the same time US Ambassador to the UN and raging Russophobe Nikki Haley also made statements that contradicted those made by Secretary of State Rex Tillerson days earlier, reassuring America's flunkee states that the US remained committed to overthrowing Assad. This was clearly an administration divided. This was made all the more clear by the sacking of Trump's realist Rasputin Steve Bannon. The only thing left to do was appeal to Trump's grotesque ego by providing him with the perfect opportunity to prove he's a bigger bad-ass than his arch nemesis Obama who had just recently been revealed to have been spying on Trump's people for at least a year through his amoral National Security Adviser Susan Rice (coincidence?).

This was done by reenacting the scene of Obama's greatest fumble, the red line crossing gas attacks, with a little help from our head-chopping rebel friends. Trump, ever the reactionary, couldn't help himself. Without thinking twice he wiped his ass with his own foreign policy doctrine, stripped buck-naked and dove headfirst into Clintonian nation building. Exposing himself for the dumb-fuck, hypocritical, pig-fucker that he's always been.

So here we are now. Once again on the brink of World War fucking 3. And for the first time since November, the system is in perfect fucking harmony. With Trump's former enemies gathering around their prodigal son to sing Kumbaya over the fuming wreckage of America's latest war crime. It turns out the election really didn't fucking matter after all. The war state always gets it's way. One way or another.

Enjoy your apocalypse dearest motherfuckers. This weary antiwarrior is once again hunting for apartments in Reykjavik.

Peace, Love and Empathy- CH

Soundtrack; Songs that influenced this post.

* You've Got Time By Regina Spektor
* Wardance By Killing Joke
* Waiting Room By Fugazi
* Let's Have A War By Fear
* Ex Lion Tamer By Wire
* My War By Black Flag
* Motorcrash By The Sugarcubes

Tuesday, April 4, 2017

Who Really Killed The Truth?

Is truth dead? That was the question in bold red script against a stark black backdrop on the cover of last weeks Time Magazine. A reference to an iconic story that graced the rag back when it was still relevant enough to do anything iconic, over half a century ago. The article inside was pretty standard boilerplate for partisan liberal Trump-bashing. The kind of clueless, class-def, hatchet job that's become so routine over the last couple months that its downright boring. Not that it was altogether untrue. Their basic argument, that the Donald has ushered in a new era of unprecedented dishonesty, carries a grain of truth to it.

While America has had its share of dishonest presidents, from LBJ shooting at goddamn whales in the Gulf of Tonkin to Slick Willy redefining what the definition of is is, perhaps none have been as shamelessly brazen with their bullshit as Mr. Trump who's whoppers sound almost intentionally absurd. Like they were written for some long forgotten Monty Python skit deemed too ridiculous even for British consumption. Roaming packs of Hillary voting illegals. Small town massacres covered up by the same tabloid vultures who spin every mass shooting into prime time gold. Toaster ovens wired for sound by retired Indo-Kenyan usurpers (that's what Susan Rice is for). It all sounds like the rantings of a madman and I suppose it is.

I wont argue for a second that our current president doesn't give pathological liars a bad name. Somewhere in a dusty Nevada prison cell Donald's old golfing buddy O.J. Simpson is smacking his shiny forehead and yelping at a tiny see-through TV set "You cant fucking say that!" No, where Time and the rest of their ilk in the mainstream media fly off the rails and deep up their own assholes is when they throw their hands in the air and ask "Who killed the truth?" Like they don't already know. It makes me want to grab them by their starched white collars and scream at the top off my lungs- YOU DID YOU FUCKING CUNTS! Not Trump. Not Breitbart. Not Putin. But YOU! The self-fellating liberal lions of that sinking ship known as the Fourth Estate! You birthed this bastard child known as 'Fake News' when you traded in your objectivity for access during the Persian Gulf War and its all been one great big slide into the Trumpy abyss ever sense.

These, these hollowed crusaders for truth, the heirs of Woodward and Bernstein now battling the ferocious Kraken called Trumpizmo, these are the same god forsaken bastards who told us that Iraqi troops were gleefully pulling the plug on Kuwaiti newborns just for kicks and giggles. These are the bastards who warned us about a genocide in Kosovo that didn't actually begin until after the NATO bombing they promised would stop it. These are the bastards who told us that Saddam Hussein was armed to the teeth with weapons of mass destruction and was ready to sell them to the next Mohammed Atta. These are the bastards who told us tall tales of Libyan rape squads who had to be stopped even if we had to use Al-Qaeda to do it. These are the bastards who continue to insist that Ukraine is in the throws of a Russian invasion which, like Santa Claus, can only be seen with the eyes of those children who truly and blindly believe. And these are the fucking bastards who have devoted every resource at their disposal and every fucking second of every fucking day since November to a desperate crusade to prove that Trump's victory over their precious darling Killary was the product of an insanely Byzantine-esque Kremlin conspiracy that would leave David Icke tongue tied and perplexed. All without providing so much as a fucking speck of verifiable proof. These are the bastards who killed the truth.

And now these deluded and discredited primadonnas have the fucking nerve to wag their bony fingers at the American people for not knowing who to fucking believe. The testicles on these motherless creeps must be the size of goddamn exercise balls. Where do you sperm guzzling cock holsters think Trump learned his fucking tricks from. He is one of you after all. A "media personality" who you shamelessly egged on for ratings until it became horrifically clear that you created a fucking monster. And now you wanna play fucking Van Helsing by slaying your own Frankenstein beast with even more goddamn lies. Well I say, with all disrespect, fuck you and the horse you rode in on. Trump may be a sickening, double-dealing, serial-groping, race-baiting, war-mongering and, yes, lying pile of human excrement but your worse, You made him possible and Karma is gunning for you in the form of unemployment. See you in the well-fare lines cocksuckers. I'll be the one shouting I told you so with a big fucking grin on my fat face.

Goddamn the Fourth Estate, dearest motherfuckers, and long live the Fifth. You wont find any fake news here. Not while this tranny bitch has two fists to swing.

Peace, Love and Fury- CH

Soundtrack; Songs that influenced this post.

* Lawyers, Guns and Money By Warren Zevon
* Liar By Rollins Band
* I Think I Would Die By Hole
* Pretty Vacant By The Sex Pistols
* Candy Sam By Ty Segall
* 100% By Sonic Youth
* Panic By The Smiths
* Radio Radio By Elvis Costello
* See No Evil By Television

Tuesday, March 28, 2017

Why I Love Guns (& You Should Too!)

I like guns. I probably shouldn't like guns. I don't own guns. No one in my immediate family owns guns. And I'm just slightly to the left of Mao Zedong (just slightly). But I love guns. I love everything about guns. How they look. How they sound. I assume how they feel. I'd like to own one someday when I have the money. A revolver I think. Something in walnut and blue steel that really brings out my eyes. Maybe I've just seen too many movies. Call me a Tarantino leftist.

But I love guns. I love guns the way the Black Panthers, Hunter S. Thompson and Alex Cockburn loved guns. I love guns because they empower the poor. They empower the poor to defend themselves without having to rely on the state. More importantly, they empower the poor to defend themselves from the state, be they racist cops, Border Patrol Gestapo or compound torching feds. The Second Amendment is the one civil right that makes all the others possible. Guns insure that poor people can hold their government accountable when they choose to step on the Constitution.

I also love guns because I'm queer. I love guns because I don't look forward to being curb-stomped by a bunch of fucking skinheads for wearing a dress with a beard only to have some hate-fuck pig tell me in traction that I was asking for it. I love guns because I look forward to the opportunity to show such fag-bashing scum that I have a second cock beneath my skirt. One that blows holes in their skulls deeper than any Filipino surgeon could ever dig in my crotch. I love guns because assimilation is a joke queerer than I am and queer rights looks like a drag queen with a loaded Kalashnikov.

But guns are bad, right? Guns hurt people. People hurt people. People with guns hurt people. People with guns and no earthly idea how to use them hurt people. And people with guns hurt people without guns. An armed populace is a free populace and the more armed a populace is the freer a populace is. Guns are an integral part of any working democracy but a democracy only works when its people are engaged and informed. I see know reason why gun safety shouldn't be taught in public schools. I also see know reason why an inherently undemocratic premise like a standing army shouldn't be phased out and replaced by an inherently democratic premise like an organized civilian militia. It works for Switzerland. One of the safest and most democratic nations on earth. Oh and did I mention that they're also socialists. Just blew your mind, didn't I?

So this is a call to arms. To all my comrades on the left, be they anarchist, communist, socialist or libertarian. Black, brown and queer. Arm yourselves. Arm yourselves to the fucking teeth. What's left of our democracy depends on it. And love your guns. Respect your guns. Learn how to use your guns. Keep them holstered until you need them. Keep the peace and shoot any cunt in the ass who tries to take your piece away.

All power to the people, dearest motherfuckers, all power to the people.

Peace, Love and Empathy- CH

Soundtrack; Songs that influenced this post.

* Ten Dollar Bill By Cop Shoot Cop
* I Shot The Sheriff By Bob Marley
* Fuck The Police By N.W.A.
* Kick Out The Jams By The MC5
* Fight The Power By Public Enemy
* That's When I Reach For My Revolver By Mission Of Burma
* Power To The People By John Lennon

Monday, March 20, 2017

Falling Back In Love With Anarchism

My political compass has always leaned left but, truth be told, it hasn't always leaned against the state. I was a teenage anarchist but somewhere along the road to adulthood I fell off that wagon and out of love with black flags and Molotov cocktails. I became a democratic socialist before I went full Bolshevik and became a fist-throwing communist. It's only recently, over the last several years, that I've come full circle and rediscovered my anti-statist roots. Yes, dearest motherfuckers, I have fallen back in love with anarchism and it really is even better than the first time. But in order to really understand why you have to understand where I've been.

The one constant through out my political journey has been Marx. I discovered the brilliant, bearded bastard in the oddest of places. In a seventh grade Catholic classroom Mrs. Williams taught us that Karl Marx stood against everything that America and the Catholic Church represented. Unfortunately for her, in those halcyon days of the Iraq War and my burgeoning queer-dom, that was the best sales pitch I had ever heard. That summer I bought a yellowed paperback copy of the Communist Manifesto from a church basement sale of all places and devoured it like a sacrament. I didn't understand every word but its homilies against the evils of empire and organized religion and the state that held it all together rang true. His calls for a Dictatorship Of The Proletariat however did not. So I kept looking for answers.

I found them in Chiapas where I first fell in love with anarchism. The Zapatista Army Of National Liberation, better known as the Zapatistas or the EZLN, were founded in the early/mid Eighties when a handful of North Mexican urban guerrillas traveled south to teach the Indians about Marx's dream of a post-state society only to discover that the natives were already living it. Together they developed a post-Marxist anarchist philosophy that was both brand new and centuries old. Neozapatismo, as it became known, preached that a truly communal society needn't rely on vanguardism or "temporary" dictatorships but could be better achieved through direct and leaderless democracy. They took this philosophy public in 1994 when the EZLN launched a largely symbolic and bloodless armed uprising in response to the devastation rought against agrarian Southern Mexico by NAFTA. Led by the daring and mercurial Subcomandante Marcos, the Zapatistas were the gateway drug that introduced me to Che, Zapata, Bakunin and the Flores Magon brothers.

But my teenage tryst with anarchism proved to be short lived. Around the end of my senior year in high school I became infatuated with the rise of democratic socialism in South America known as the Pink Tide. Around the same time I also became overwhelmed by a series of devastating nervous breakdowns that caused me to lose a lot of the faith I once had in people and humanity as a whole. It took nearly a decade for me to realize the connection between the two. At a time when the world became a very uncomfortably chaotic place strong class warriors like Hugo Chavez, Evo Morales and the Kirchners became very appealing to me. But as my world continued to fall apart and I retreated further and further into myself, soon even the safety net of state socialism wasn't enough to sustain me.

I have always had a keen fascination with the Soviet Union. The adversary. The exotic dark horse. A superpower supposedly devoted to some notion of equality rather than conquest. During the darkest days of my twenties this fascination mutated into a strange form of Soviet nostalgia by proxy. At a time when I had nothing and nothing made sense, the idea of an orderly society where no one was rich but no one was left behind really turned me on. I use to dream about a simple life in Brezhnev Era Leningrad. Traveling home from some comfortably non-descript job at a railway depot on the Metro to my cozy fifth floor hovel in a suburban concrete Krushchyovka which I shared with my charming proletariat bride and our beautiful twin daughters (always twins, always daughters). Living a comfortably non-complex life straight out of 'The Irony Of Fate'. Getting drunk on Stoli. Getting fat on Pelmeni rations. Watching 'Nu, Pogodi!' on our tiny black and white TV. Celebrating New Years with our comrades at a local public banya. It sounds kind of twisted now but back then it was the only thing that made sense. A perfectly anti-American dream with little pink Dachas for you and me. Communism fit like a slipper at the bottom of a black hole.

Somehow, miraculously, I bounced back from rock bottom. I managed to claw my way out of that agoraphobic black hole and once my flesh tasted the blinding light of freedom my flirtation with communism soured rather quickly. I found it particularly hard to play red make-believe when I finally came to terms with my gender dysphoria and that there were plenty of days where I felt much more like a Nikita than a Nikolai which likely meant that the only dacha I would ever know in my formerly beloved USSR would be a padded cell in a sanitarium. But I'd always have Caracas, right?

Not so much. After years of struggling against every kind of American funded skulduggery imaginable and the suspiciously sudden death of my hero Hugo Chavez, the Bolivarian Revolution seemed to run out of steam. The very state that late democratic revolutionaries like Hugo and Nestor Kirchner had used to restore justice and equality to their impoverished nations was just as easily manipulated by their enemies to regain power and demolish everything they had worked so hard to achieve. I was forced to face the conclusion that it was the state itself that was the problem. Leaders came and went, some good, some bad, but as long as the state remained in tact the revolution could only be temporary at best. The Zapatistas had been right all along.

Just as I became painfully aware of how truly wrong I was, a new revolution came along that blew me away. A revolution that felt oddly familiar. Out in the dust-lands of the Levant, as the Wilson-era Pseudo-state of Syria disintegrated beneath the boots and truncheons of Uncle Sam's latest jihad Frankensteins, The regions long oppressed Kurdish population rose up and established a stateless society in what has become known as the Rojava Revolution. The seeds of this uprising where sewn by a fellow exiled ex-Marxist-Leninist who had become similarly disgruntled with the false promises of the state. From his prison cell on the Turkish Island of Imrali, veteran Kurdish revolutionary Abdullah Ocalan developed the anarchist philosophy of Democratic Confederalism which, just like Neozapatismo, saw centuries old tribal democracy as the best pathway to something roughly resembling Marxian utopia. Ocalan built the bomb behind bars but it took the brave pilgrims of Rojava to light the fuse and once again set my world on fire.

It's a little soon to know just how successful this new revolution will be and I'm more than a little uncomfortable with the fact that it's been infiltrated by American soldiers and Peshmerga nationalists, but Rojava has already survived ten times the blood and guts as the Bolsheviks and the Bolivarians combined, relatively speaking, and it has done so by doing the one thing that Lenin and Chavez lacked the courage and vision to do and that's trust the people. The Russian Revolution died the day the Bolsheviks banned the Soviets and the one piece of Chavez's dream likely to survive the fall of Bolivarianism are the autonomous communes he established in his countries poorest favelas. We'll never know for sure if these revolutions would have proven more successful if the strongmen who lead them had taken a leap of faith by trusting the people they were supposedly fighting for just a little bit more and loosening their grip on the reigns of power but at the very least they would have failed with a little more honor.

I turned to the state for comfort when I felt too crippled with fear to fight for the world I believed in and it is precisely this kind of fear that allows the state to flourish while true democracy suffocates on its fumes. Democracy takes work. Democracy requires the constant engagement of its citizenry to remain vital and it is only through this kind of full spectrum democracy that a better world is possible. And that's what anarchism is really all about, not black flags or Molotov cocktails, but democracy, unfiltered and unterrified. I know the sway that charismatic demagogues can wield, especially in times of fear and uncertainty. I've fallen victim to them myself. But you can't be given freedom like a brightly wrapped Christmas gift. You have to take it and embrace it every day. To paraphrase the late, great, syndicalist, Rudolf Rocker, I didn't fall back in love with anarchism because it's the final solution. I fell back in love with anarchism because I realized, that at least as far as I can see, there is no final solution.

It's never too late to go back home again, dearest motherfuckers, and your never too big to admit that you were wrong.

Peace, Love, Empathy and Anarchy- CH

P.S. This post is devoted to the loving memory of my former hero Justin Raimondo and all the other fine folks who lost their goddamn minds during the 2016 Presidential Election. Here's hoping for their speedy return to the light of sanity. We'll be here waiting with open arms and open hearts when they do.

Soundtrack: Some songs that influenced this post-

* Teenage Riot By Sonic Youth
* Bulls On Parade By Rage Against The Machine
* I Was A Teenage Anarchist By Against Me!
* I Fought The Law By The Clash
* Death Valley '69 By Sonic Youth
* The House That Heaven Built By Japandroids
* Testify By Rage Against The Machine
* What A Wonderful World By The Ramones

Tuesday, March 14, 2017

Are You There God? Its Me, Comrade Hermit

Are you there god? Its me, Comrade Hermit. You know, the bearded broad with the blog (cant have too many of those to keep track of). I'm not asking to be cute. I seriously want to know; are you there god? And if you are then whats the fucking deal with the silent treatment? I mean, 2000 years without so much as a phone call or a burning bush? I've tried hard to believe in you for most of my life but your not exactly making it easy. Truth be told, I really don't know if you exist and I cant play make believe just because I want you to.

Ten years in Catholic school. Ten years of Ten Commandments and twice a week mass. A solid decade of my childhood was devoted to trying, ultimately in vain, to ignore the absurd nature of faith; believing in something totally devoid of all facts and reason and I nearly lost my proverbial shit in the process. I lived in fear of my own gender and sexuality. I lived in fear of a kind and loving god willing to reduce cities to ash heaps because their citizenry refused to fuck each other in your preferred orifice.

I don't want to believe in these parts of the Bible. I don't want to believe that you would allow a place like Hell to exist just so you wouldn't have to get your hands messy torturing the rule breakers for eternity, ferrying out your dirty work to a subterranean black site like the US government. I don't want to believe in a god who would drown the entire planet in a hissy fit because....    Wait? Why did you do that again? I don't want to believe in such a god because that could only mean that god is a despotic and pathologically unbalanced dick. I get enough of that from my government. I don't need it from my religion. Frankly, I'd rather worship Satan under such a scenario. Shit, maybe his rebellion was called for. A coup d'etat against a smite-happy spiritual strongman gone bat-shit with unchecked authority. I don't want to say these things, god, but I feel like someone has to.

But I can also tell you what I do want to believe in. I want to believe in the god introduced to us by Jesus Christ and Muhammad. I kind, loving father who denies no one a seat at his table. A force for good and justice that no state can contain. I want to believe that the Old Testament and even some parts of the New are false propaganda conjured up by false prophets using your name in vain attempts to rule and manipulate the weak at heart. I want to believe in a god who doesn't need to be omnipotent to get her rocks off. Oh yeah, and I want to believe that god is a chick.

I want to believe that Hell doesn't really exist, at least not in a literal sense. That in reality Hell, Earth and Purgatory are one in the same. A test that we have to take over and over again until we get it right. I want to believe that no one is beyond redemption. That even the very worst among us are simply not prepared or evolved enough to except the higher truth of your love. Reincarnation, the Hindu's call this and I'm sure your all too aware that my own soul is more than a few life cycles from enlightenment. Which is why I also want to believe that next time around I come back a little more whole. Perhaps as a biological woman with a few less mental illness' or at least a seabird, soaring high above the white caps of the Atlantic and living off shellfish and junk food in some trashy Jersey Shore town. I want to believe in a god that believes in second, third and fourth chances. A god as flawed and forgiving as the best of her children. A god like Gandhi, Tolstoy and MLK.

Most of all, I want to believe that this all isn't for nothing. That all the pain and suffering and death and bullshit adds up to something at the end of the day and that we're not all just wasting our time here spinning wheels and jerking off into socks. I want to believe that I'm not just sitting here at my computer talking to myself again. So I'll ask again, just one more time. Are you there god?....    I'll be here waiting, ready to listen, when your ready to answer.

Peace, Love and Empathy- CH

Soundtrack; Some songs that influenced this post-

* Sympathy For The Devil By The Rolling Stones
* No Cars Go By Arcade Fire
* Highway 61 Revisited By Bob Dylan
* All These Things That I've Done By The Killers
* Gloria By Patti Smith
* All Apologies By Nirvana
* Straight To You By Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds
* Cherub Rock By The Smashing Pumpkins

Tuesday, February 28, 2017

War Of The Warlords

The first two months of Trump have been defined almost exclusively by chaos. So much so that it's been damn near impossible for even the most astute tranny wonk to keep up with. Secret Russian agents. Fake news. Jammed up airports. Incoherent executive orders. Jackbooted ICE-men. Swarms of locusts. Witch trials. Human sacrifices. And, of coarse, lies, lies and more goddamn lies, coming from all directions. Much of this chaos has been chalked up to the utter ineptitude of Trump and his rogues gallery of bush league morons. There's a grain of truth to this. Others have chalked it up to that mad maestro of mania, Steven Ilyich Bannon. All part of some finely constructed campaign to bring on the apocalypse. And there's probably a grain of truth to that too. But mostly I see this madness as a toxic byproduct of Trump's war on the establishment and the establishment's war on Trump. A civil war between two tribes of bloodthirsty imperialists, grappling for the future of Manifest Destiny. On the one side is the old-school, neocon, chicken-hawks demanding total war with Putin's Russia. On the other is Trump's raft of "realist" malcontents calling for detente with Russia in order to focus on who they view as the real obstacle to American primacy, namely Islam and more importantly China. I shall here forth refer to these dueling cabals of warlords as the Russophobes (aka the establishment) and the Sinophobes (Trump).

Before I go any further into my armchair analysis, I feel it  important to remember that, in spite of their strategic differences, both of these sides have essentially the same goal- American global domination. They also have essentially the same foe, beneath their initial targets, and that foe is a united Eurasia. The full integration of the worlds greatest landmass spells out the end of American hegemony. If the rising dragons of the Orient can create a direct link to the Euro-zone then the Dollar is dead and the world is cursed to the peaceful coexistence of a multi-polar order. This harmony is what the Mandarins of Washington and Wall Street fear most and it is what motivates both sides of this war of the warlords. Where they differ is on who to shoot first.

The Russophobes represent the old school of American imperialism, which see's a united and independent Russia as the greatest threat to their dreams of world power, mostly do to its geographic position as the great land bridge connecting Europe to Asia. This was the true motivation behind the Cold War, which began when Lenin's Bolsheviks overthrew the Yankee puppet state of the Czar and attempted to forge their own bloody path forward, out of the Dark-Age feudalism of Kremlin serfdom and into the light of the Twentieth Century. This great leap towards modernism was what really terrified the western establishment, not communism. Wilson and his Atlanticists understood this threat to their international designs immediately and sent tens of thousands of dough-boys, fresh from the crimson trenches of the First World War, into the new Soviet experiment to supplement the Czar's disgruntled death squads in an epic bloodbath that came to be known as the White Terror. And it never really ended. The USSR developed into a frantic, violent and, above all else, paranoid warfare state under the unrelenting pressure of this siege, eventually cracking beneath its weight. Lenin's dream, however flawed it may have been, was finally snuffed out in 1991, after decades of sabotage and proxy wars, and a new puppet Czar was established. A vodka soaked buffoon named Boris Yeltsin, who gladly kept the Motherland good and backwards for his Washington handlers as long as he could fatten his wallet and fatten his ass while Russia was ripped inside out by crony shock capitalism and surrounded by the rapidly encroaching storm of NATO.

The Russophobes ultimate game plan was and still is to reduce Russia to Balkanized rubble, the same way they did to the former Yugoslavia. A dammed clusterfuck of impoverished ethno-states, too busy stabbing each other in the back to pose any viable threat to Dollar dominance. Vladimir Putin threw a wrench into these plans after he was chosen to replace Yeltsin by the power brokers of the deep Kremlin, who feared the further empowerment of Gennady Zyugnov's dogged Communists who would have easily defeated the increasingly despised Yeltsin in '96 if it wasn't for Clinton's flagrant meddling in that years presidential elections. Putin was originally Yeltsin's protege but once at the helm he quickly proved to be nearly as threatening to the Federation's status quo as Zyugnov. Reigning in the oligarchs, making peace with the Chechnyans and, most damningly, standing up to American meddling in Georgia and Ukraine. Naturally, Putin became persona non grata. The Russophobes, who by now, ruled not only Washington and Wall Street, but the mass media too, aimed all their guns at the Russian strongman's chrome dome and set their phasers to kill.

But not all the Mandarins of American power remained committed to this decades old plot to slay the Russian bear. Many came to see this policy as dated, wasteful and counterproductive. Among them, Donald J. Trump and a host of disgruntled veteran Cold Warriors who had grown impatient with the seemingly endless great chess game with the Kremlin. They rejected the old company line, proclaimed themselves "realists" and set their sights on the rising dragon of China as the real threat to American power. They boldly advocated collaboration with Putin's Russia in the eternally troublesome Middle East while they shifted their focus towards confronting China in the Pacific.

This deviation proved successful in the polls, helping Trump and his Sinaphobes to win the White House, but it proved toxic in the nostrils of the Russophobic old guard, some of whom even managed to infiltrate Trump's administration, including his fag-bashing zealot of a Vice President, Mike Pence. What has transpired is a tit for tat civil war, with both sides literally fighting over who to bomb first. Thus we see the intelligence leaks to the mainstream press, the sabotage of Trump's number one realist heavy, Michael Flynn, the banishment of certain "journalists" from the Press Corps. and a slew of disinformation coming from both sides.

This is the kind of madness that could only exist in the dying days of history's greatest empire. This morbidly obese giant has become demented with rage as it slouches slowly to it's grave. Many of my fellow anti-imperialists and anti-interventionists have made the foolish mistake of choosing sides of this blood tainted pissing match, figuring, childishly, that the enemy of their enemy is their friend and since Trump is pissing off all the right cunts, he must be some kind allie to our cause. The reality couldn't be farther from the truth. Trump doesn't represent some new school of isolationism. He represents some new school of American Imperialism. Much as FDR tried to use the camouflage of socialism to save capitalism, Trump seeks to use the language of anti-interventionism to save the empire. We should not wish him luck in this endeavor, rather we should pray that both sides of this fight are to busy cutting each others throats to cut anyone else's.

So here's to the war of the warlords! May it last long and may it's casualties be many. May Michael Flynn's shit-canning be the first of many and may every putrid organ of the so called mainstream media discredit themselves in the process. I'm no fan of war. But when it comes to cunts burning cunts, I say let em burn and I'll get the marshmallows and the weenie-roasters.

Stay neutral, dearest motherfuckers. The Swiss inherit the earth and the only good warmonger is an impeached warmonger.

Peace, Love and Empathy- CH

Soundtrack; Some songs that influenced this post-

* My War By Black Flag
* The Wheel By P.J. Harvey
* I Against I By Bad Brains
* The Future By Leonard Cohen
* Home Again Garden Grove By The Mountain Goats
* Party At Ground Zero By Fishbone

Tuesday, February 14, 2017

I Suck At Love

To say I'm unlucky in love is probably as big of a fucking understatement as anyone will ever hear. Truth be told, strip this post bare of all its poetic pretensions and you can pretty much sum it up in a single solitary sentence. I suck at love. I suck at a lot of things, volleyball, algebra, emotional boundaries. But I suck at nothing as badly or as painfully as I suck at love. I'm a hopeless romantic with a capital H. I've never had a girlfriend. I've never even had a date. I'm a 28 year old virgin and this life I'm living is beginning to feel like the cruelest Woody Allen movie never made. This Valentines Day, like all Valentines Days, I'm alone and you, very dearest of motherfuckers, are my only company. So buckle-up for a heart-shredding bitch-fest, because I desperately need to vent.

I have been fascinated by the female species for as long as I've been aware of their existence. Needless to say, it's a rather complicated obsession, considering my own gender fluidity. My feelings towards the not-so-opposite sex have always been a rather dizzying cocktail of lust, adoration and green-eyed jealousy. I never went through a period of time in my childhood where I found girls to be gross. Even as a young boy who couldn't even pronounce gender dysphoria, let alone comprehend it, I looked upon my female classmates as enjoying a degree of simple intimacy between each other that frustrated me to no end. Mostly because, try as I might, I couldn't seem to reenact it with the male playmates I felt trapped with out of some kind of unspoken obligation to an interpretation of normal that felt anything but. I had plenty of male friends growing up. In fact I seemed to collect them in some doomed attempt to feel whole. But I would have gladly traded them all for just one girl who knew my name and spoke it like it brought her as much joy and peace as it brought to me. Childhood was nice, but it was also more than a little lonely for a boy who couldn't understand why he couldn't find sanctuary in scraped knee's and little league games.

High School was better. I found pieces of myself that I didn't know existed in the brief moments of emotional intimacy I shared with girls I felt honored to call my friends. I loved many of them, in ways that they sadly couldn't or wouldn't love me back. I never left that gilded cage known as the friend zone. I wanted desperately to make a break from this emotional prison, but fear became a strong and sly warden, too much so for me to overcome. A warden who knew that these long sought-after friendships were too precious for me to risk losing over the tension of unrequited love. So I stayed silent. I suffered quietly with a gentle smile on my face while I enjoyed a sense of solemn camaraderie that I wasn't yet prepared to fully comprehend. Deep down, I didn't just want to be with the girls. A deep, secret part of me wanted to be one of them. I was a secret girl, secretly in love with girls who I still love to this day. I can recite their names like Catholic saints- Sara, Alison, Dana, Jennifer, Kayleen- Their all still part of me. I miss them everyday.

College would be the traditional place for an nontraditional person such as myself to find them-self, sexually speaking. But the growing storm of my mental illness had other plans. Before I was ever given the opportunity to stumble through an awkward, drunken sexual encounter or a drug fueled transgression into smudged make-up and frilly lingerie, I pulled a full Tony Soprano and emotionally short-circuited, falling apart in an epic nervous breakdown brought on by my inability to grow up at the same pace as my piers. Dazed and confused, I tried in vain to reach my feet and face my demons but they were too strong. So I spent the next seven long years alone in my house trying gather the strength I needed to defeat them. Ultimately, it was the unbearable weight of my gut-wrenching loneliness that eventually forced me back out into the terror of the real world. After spending several consecutive months lying beneath a veil of tears, imagining a warm body in bed next to me just to get to sleep, I finally stepped outside of my house.

Not long after, I also stepped outside of the closet. After years of running and fooling myself, I finally embraced the fact that being male was one prison cell too many for my soul to bare occupying. I accepted the terrifying truth that an obsessive-compulsive agoraphobic like myself, who fears nothing more than change of any kind, had a gender too wild and free to fit under a single fixed label. I'm a man. I'm a woman. I'm one-hundred-and-fifty-thousand things in between. I'm gender fluid and perhaps more than anything else, I'm a lesbian. My sexuality is defined by my fluctuating femininity and it always has. It's the only label that makes any sense to me, even if it makes sense to no one else. I'm not pretty. I have a beard and I have a prick and I feel little incentive to get rid of either anytime soon. But none of those facts makes me feel like any less of a dyke, I've found a shaky peace in this complicated truth but I have yet to find love. I've yet to even come close and this fact burns me to the very core of my being.

But what can I do? I leave my house now but I don't drink, I don't dance, I don't go to church (the only thing more obnoxious than a dancing drunk is a dancing preacher.) I still lack the emotional fitness to handle school or even part-time work. Where do I go? What do I do? Online dating? I'm a little bit of a tough sell on paper, to say the least- Charming, unemployed, bearded bull-dyke with a dick seeks lipstick lesbian, manic-pixie-dream-girl to share make-up and get stoned with- Yeah! That one pretty much sells itself. I could lie, but, in case you haven't noticed, that's not exactly my thing. So for the 28th Valentines Day running I am bitterly and unhappily alone. My only hope is that some you out there can find some kind of comfort in my pain. Your hearts may be broken, but none are as broken as mine. And if you do have someone? Stop bitching about the price of flowers, grab them, hold them tight, fuck them crazy, tell them you love them and, above all else, be thankful. You have no idea how fucking lucky you are.

Be good to each other, dearest motherfuckers, and take care of yourselves, cause you're all this loveless loser's got to keep shimself warm tonight.

Peace, Love and Empathy- CH

Soundtrack; Some songs that influenced this post-

* Crazy For You By Slowdive
* Dance Music By The Mountain Goats
* Just Like Heaven By Dinosaur Jr.
* About A Girl By Nirvana
* Something I Can Never Have By The Jesus & Mary Chain
* Chick Habit By April March

Tuesday, February 7, 2017

The Emerald Belt Project (Dreaming Is Free)

I get a lot of flack for being a pretty negative prick, and rightly so. I could probably sniff out a conspiracy at a goddamn Easter egg hunt. If you read my last three posts in a row, you'd probably think I wrote them with a loaded revolver in my mouth. If you read the last six, you'd probably fight me for the piece so you could put it in yours. What can I say? What do you want from me? I'm an obese, fluid, basket case who cant even take his own junk for granite. So, yeah, I'm a bit edgy. You try being fucking chipper under those circumstances.

But it is important, even for a genderfucked, post-goth, drama-queen like myself, to at least make an attempt to look on the bright side. The best way I know how to do this is to dream. After all, as Debbie Harry once mused, dreaming is free. Only, as an unrepentant Marxist and anarcho-syndicalist, my dreams are a little bit different, to say the least, and my favorite dream is what I like to call the Emerald Belt Project. Now, I'm not exactly a political scientist, so don't give me shit about the logistics, after all this is dream, not a goddamn manifesto. Manifesto's are for people without ADD.

It all starts with the collapse of the American Empire, which, lets face it, is an inevitability. All capitalist societies are built to self-destruct. It's a system built on the naive premise of never ending expansion on a planet with a finite amount of space and resources to expand upon. A capitalist state has know choice but to become an empire in order to feed it's perpetual fix for growth. And all empires inevitably collapse beneath their own weight, just like Chris Christie. No one can eat the entire worlds supply of cannolis and live to tell about it.

Signs of this collapse are everywhere, from the Great Recession to our loss of influence on the global stage to the fact that even the most ignorant of American's doesn't take our three ring circus of a plutocracy seriously anymore, I mean, shit, they even elected one of the clowns to be the ringleader. The cracks are all there and growing larger day by day. It's simply a matter of time before those cracks become breaks and those broken pieces disintegrate like sand between Uncle Sams bloody finger tips. To most people this all probably sounds pretty terrifying. But to a degenerate like myself, it sounds better than Christmas fucking morning. It's what I've been waiting half my life for.

My dream is to take advantage of this chaotic opportunity and gather the continents leftist malcontents, be they communist, anarchist, socialist or libertarian, provided that they're all anti-statist in nature, and unite them under one banner. Then, together, we repatriate my local Rustbelt ruins along the Great Lakes, forgotten cities like Erie, Cleveland and Detroit, with nothing to offer but abandoned land and untapped opportunity. Here we make our stand and create a confederacy of stateless artist colonies with the backbone of a new post-capitalist economy built on an industry I can only describe as AgriPunk.

With literally thousands of square miles of unused indoor factory space we could create the worlds largest hydroponic grow operation on the planet with the Great Lakes serving as a near bottomless source of irrigation. With this we can provide ourselves and a hungry globe with a huge cache of organic fruits and vegetables, and naturally enough cannabis and opium to put those sheep-shagging warlords in Central Asia out of business for good, thus turning the Rustbelt into the Emerald Belt.  All governed democratically through an interwoven network of grass roots syndicates and workers councils, making leaders as obsolete as the empire they once served. Income taxes will be replaced with union dues, standing armies and police forces will be replaced by local civilian militias and apartment complexes will become autonomous communes for the workers.

The profits made from herbs and narcotics alone would provide more than enough capital finance for a vibrant network of free autonomous social welfare programs like schools, clinics, hospitals and nursing homes as well as public transportation and infrastructure projects, centrally funded through the councils and syndicates but independently and democratically run by the communities that utilize these services.

As for all the empty lots, warehouses and abandoned homes, these will be forfeited to any rugged settler or collective with the balls and brains to rebuild them and create mutualist homesteads. Living off the land and devoting themselves to the creation of life and art, rather than the soulless management of pointless government bureaucracy and multi-national corporate servitude. The result? Something like L.A.'s fateful South Central Farm or Copenhagen's Freetown Christiania times a million. Miles and miles and miles of gigantic social art projects with their artists living inside them, all governed cooperatively without a single banker or IRS man breathing down their necks.

There would be a central, gold-backed, currency, mostly for trade purposes, but people would be free to make their own money and decide what it's worth. Or they can simply barter and trade goods for services. And this would be just one of many utopias stretching across the post-American Western Hemisphere. Classic Liberals and more market oriented anarchists may set up their own independent projects in New England or Alaska. Primitivists might do the same in the Pacific Northwest. More traditionalist paleoconservative minded folks could set up their own colonies in Utah or Montana. And so it goes. Libertarian communist campesinos in El Salvador. Black nationalists in Mississippi. Indigenous tribalists in the Badlands. A colorful collage of radical experiments in direct democracy competing peacefully for the favor of a populace free to pick and choose which society makes sense to them.

What's missing from this picture?  Give up? War. With no more standing armies and stateless nations to small and decentralized to dominate even their own populaces let alone anyone else's, wars will be rendered to relatively minor skirmishes between tribes and militias. There would still be violence. There will always be violence. But without the apparatus of a centralized state and with communities busy with the joyful work of their own self determination, war as we know it may simply cease to exist.

I know, I know, it sounds nuts right? But why not? Why not dream big and swing for the fucking fences. Everything new started out as something "crazy", from Maknovia and Catalonia to Chiapas and Rojava. I'll fully admit to not having all the kinks worked if you'll admit to being at least a little intrigued by my wild dream. And by all means, feel free to punch wholes in it. But the Emerald Belt Project is what I dream about when I grow weary of dead girls and bad leaders and, like I said, dreaming is free.

Dream big, dearest motherfuckers. Only dreamers can change the world.

Peace, Love, Empathy and Anarchy- CH

Thursday, February 2, 2017

Her Name Was Nora

Her name was Nora. She was an 8 year old American girl. And she was murdered last Sunday. I wish I could tell you more about her. I wish I could tell you her favorite color and the songs she liked to sing on her way to school. I wish I could tell you that she loved horses and lilacs and dreamed of being a doctor when she grew up. But I cant. All I can tell you is that her name was Nora. She was an 8 year old American girl. And our new president, Donald J. Trump decided that she had to die. Just the latest in a seemingly endless procession of innocent victims of our seemingly endless war on terror.

Nawar al-Awlaki, affectionately known to family and loved ones as Nora, was the daughter of Anwar al-Awlaki, the American born cleric murdered in an Obama ordered drone strike in 2011 for the crime of using his freedom of speech to advocate violence against the United States, which, in my mind, made his assassination about as justified as Charlie Hebdo. What's even worse is that his 16 year old son, Nora's older brother, was murdered in a similar strike just weeks later. Which makes the idea of Nora's own tragic demise being just a horrific coincidence more than a little hard to swallow. Nora was one of as many as 57 people slaughtered, most of them also relatives of al-Awlaki, on the morning of January 29th by a Seal Team 6 death squad in an operation planned under the presidency of Barack Obama and approved by his successor, Donald J. Trump. The objective of the strike was supposedly to attain important information on Al-Qaeda but after an alleged firefight, the Seals, our heroes, apparently found it necessary to kill everything that fucking moved. Of the 57 killed only 14 have been confirmed as enemy combatants by the Pentagon. Even if you believe that to be true, that still leaves another 43 innocents, mostly women and children. Nora was one of the first to be shot but one of the last to die. Suffering from a bullet wound to her neck, Nora spent the last two hours of her tragically short life bleeding to death in her wounded mothers arms.

The braying parasites of the evening news could care less about any of these ugly details. The only part of the story that they found worthy of their fleeting attention was the single solitary death of one of their beloved Seals, which, considering their Wild Bunch approach to warfare, was more than likely a case of friendly fire. My late grandfather was a career officer in the Marine Corps. A commitment I didn't agree with but respected regardless. I have a full respect for the fact that there are a good many righteous men and women serving at all levels and branches of the American military machine, however foul it may be. But these men were not soldiers. They were terrorists who clearly came to Yemen to kill anything that got in their way. I have a hard time feeling remorse for a slain terrorist, especially while the bullet riddled corpses of their victims remain callously ignored. One has to wonder if Saudi Arabia reported on the tragic death of a dozen or so amateur pilots on September 12th.

I won't lie to you, dearest motherfuckers, this story got to me on a very deep personal level. When I first read about it I cried and I've been writing Nora's name on my right hand ever sense in tribute. I don't know why the death of that little girl feels so damn personal. She wasn't the first child to fall victim to America's never-ending terrorist war on terror and sadly she won't be the last. But something about her still haunts me. Maybe it's just the Winter depression. I've even gone so far as to chalk it up to my gender dysphoria. As far fetched as it may seem, something deep inside tells me that in another life I could have been a Khanith and me and Nora could have been childhood friends. But more than anything, I think what bothers me most is the unbearable fact that no one but me seems to really fucking care. 57 people are dead. 57 people will never breath again. 57 people will never sing another song on their way to school. 57 people will never spend another Sunday afternoon with their loved ones. And no one fucking cares. When did life become so goddamn cheap. Even on many of my favorite alternative news sites, people seem more concerned with partisan bullshit than the 57 caskets being laid to rest in war-torn Yemen. Including one very small box reserved for a little girl who's only crime was standing in the way of American bullets.

I don't know what motivated Barack Obama to plan this raid and I don't know what motivated Donald Trump to make himself the 45th war criminal to occupy the Oval Office by approving it and, quite frankly, I don't fucking care. The only thing I know, the only thing that I care about this week, is that her name was Nora. She was an 8 year old girl slain by her own country. And sometimes I really hate to call myself an American.

Peace, Love and Empathy- CH

Tuesday, January 17, 2017

Obama: Illusion V. Reality

I never bought into the whole Obama hysteria thing. I probably should have. I was his target demographic back in 2008. A naive, idealistic, first time voter who despised Bush and was totally in love with some version of the 1960's that only really exists in the hearts and minds of the very young. Obama's whole song and dance seemed to be designed with me in mind but I just wasn't buying it. Something just didn't quite smell right. Maybe it was the way he could say so much, so beautifully, without really saying anything at all. Maybe it was the fact that his voting record as a first term senator was suspiciously non-existent. But mostly I think it was the way he used antiwar rhetoric to condemn Iraq while simultaneously pushing for intensified involvement in Afghanistan, as if a "good war" could somehow cancel out the acidic karma of a bad one. I tried explaining these things to others on the left to no avail. I vividly remember trying to convince my 12th grade journalism teacher, one of the smartest men I've ever known, that voting for this smooth talking used war salesman would blow up in his face like a firecracker and I remember the totally blank look on his face, as if I was speaking to him in Swahili.

I dearly wish I could tell you I was proven wrong but not nearly as dearly as I wish I could tell you that my generation of left-wing voters realized that they were. But people only see what they want to see and presidential legacies are a lot like presidential campaigns, all smoke and mirrors and malignant mythology. A great example of this phenomenon is the collective memory of former president Jimmy Carter. Regardless of whether you consider yourself left or right or somewhere in between, you likely see old Jimmy the way most of the rest of the country does- as a soft-spoken, ill-equipped but well-intentioned peacenik. The facts however don't represent this illusion.

While Jimmy made a few peace deals to fill his otherwise bleak presidential library, his most lasting impact can be felt from his decision to back Zbigniew Brzezinski's plot to send Islamic mercenaries into into the newly secular republic of Afghanistan in order to suck the Soviet Union into a brutal and unwinnable quagmire. This plot became the still ongoing Afghan war and these mercenaries, dubbed Mujaheddin, would become the founding fathers of the Islamic terrorist menace that haunts us to this day. This was hardly an isolated misstep for President Carter either. He also OK'd the use of American Army hardware for South Korea's Kwangju Massacre, which gave Tienanmen a run for its money, resulting in the deaths of as many as 2000 peaceful student protesters and similarly kept weapons flowing to Suharto's Indonesia during the height of the East Timorese Genocide which cost the tiny island nation nearly a third of it's population. But this isn't how America remembers Jimmy Carter. Instead he's nearly universally revered as a Nobel Peace Prize winning elder-statesman. I fear this wholly undeserved fate of illusion is also what awaits soon to be former president Barack Obama as well.

Much like Mr. Carter, Mr. Obama is responsible for a couple of outstanding peace deals, namely with Iran and Cuba, but those achievements are largely legacy projects designed to boost the president's flagging international PR. They stand alone as exceptions to a very violent rule. Also like Jimmy, Obama's largest impact will undoubtedly be his contribution to the proliferation of international terror. Aside from his promised bloodbath in Afghanistan (ironically the one promise he kept), the Nobel Laureate vastly expanded the playground of head-chopping Salafist psychopaths with his gruesome regime change experiments in Libya and Syria, the ripples from which are only beginning to expand, from the empowerment of Boko Haram to the European Refugee Crisis. All over gold-backed Dinars and strategic oil pipelines.

Obama has also built on the Bush legacy of constitutional degradation and executive authoritarianism by awarding the presidency all the powers of judge, jury and executioner with his grossly expanded use of homicidal drone warfare, checking off the names of civilians to be slaughtered one by one from a list delivered to him by the CIA weekly like the Sunday paper. He's also approved the expansion of the surveillance state to damn near Orwellian proportions and hunted down any soldier or civil servant brave enough to expose these crimes against democracy like dogs, even if he did decide to let a couple of them go. All this from a man who promised my generation a new era of transparency. It almost sounds like a sick joke in retrospect.

But this isn't how the 44th President of the United States of America will be remembered. Just turn on CNN and listen to an endless procession of putrid homilies to the historic legacy of America's first black president, as if his race automatically transforms the man from LBJ to MLK. And the saddest thing about this whole gross spectacle is that I still feel like the only leftist of my generation who's not fucking buying it. Seemingly righteous kids from Occupy to Black Lives Matter gather in mourning of the election of Donald Trump as if it were the end of a second Camelot rather than a simple changing of the guard. But people only see what they want to see and until children grow up, they'll always prefer the comfort of illusion to the sobering harshness of reality.

Peace, Love and Empathy- CH