Its recently been brought to my attention by a well respected member of the libertarian literati that my writing more or less sucks. I wont name any names, god knows I've burned enough fucking bridges, but suffice it to say you would know who he is if I did. This isn't a new complaint. I've heard it before but the certain terms of his criticism and the fact that I actually respect the son of a bitch made its way through my armor like a spear. Unfortunately for him, the only way I know how to cope with such turmoil is through my bad writing.
His gripe was a tired old sawhorse often tossed about by white cis-gender libertarians. What it basically amounts to is that he's uncomfortable with my "personal" style of narrative. He's revolted by all the I, I, I's. I this, I that, I hate war, I have feelings, and I share them with my work, and apparently I shouldn't fucking do this. Fair enough. My writing is personal. I'm a personal person. Things like war and the state effect me deeply so I express those feelings honestly through my prose. Apparently this along with my penchant for profanity makes my work unpublishable by the big shots of libertarian online journalism. Apparently my work is too unconventional to meet their sterling standards of literary integrity.
Well fuck them. Apparently those cunty know-it-alls have never heard of New Journalism. If it was up to these self-appointed Mandarins of the fifth estate Hunter S. Thompson, Tom Wolfe, and Matt Taibbi would have never been published. Apparently they skipped class the day their staunchy universities taught about Gonzo Journalism. The basic message that I've gotten from these people is that I'm too different. And they call themselves libertarians?
I'll never understand this, alleged radicals who devote themselves to political liberty somehow justify artistic tyranny? The peace loving ex-hippies who evolved from sticking daisies in the barrels of rifles to editing major alternative news sources want everyone to fucking write the same. There is no room for forms of expression that deviate from the company line of stale, detached, masculine, editorial order.
Who the hell do these people think they are? You're all for pot, pussy, and peace but my deadly I, I, I's are a bridge too far into chaos? You're crusaders for free speech but you uphold the grey flannel rule of the seven deadly words? And you have the fucking gall to look down your crooked little noses at real fucking radicals like my friends Tom Knapp and Keith Preston for not being capital L libertarians and publishing degenerates like me? This is what's become of the fifth estate? A bitchy little clique of elitist brats getting high off their own flatulence? To quote television's finest egoist, Rick Sanchez, "You wanted to be safe from the government so you became a stupid government!"
To me the avante garde and radical politics of any kind have always gone together like sadism and masochism. Embracing one but rejecting the other isn't just heresy, it's just plain fucking boring. Somewhere along the line these guardians of the digital underground became a petite version of the conformist legacy media that they mock. Somewhere along the line they began to take themselves too goddamn seriously. They lost their sense of humor and they lost touch with what the free press really means.
I strongly suggest they look to the message boards beneath their carefully structured articles for a reminder. These places are hives for true liberty, where all manor of libertarians, anarchists, stoners, Stalinists, truthers, trannies, third positionists, cryptos, and perverts come together to break bread and bust balls. There are better writers in these cyber trenches than the people who get published above them. That is what real democracy, both political and artistic, fucking looks like. Take fucking notice.
These dearest motherfuckers on the fringe of the fringe are my people. They've made me a better writer than any chickenshit, role crazy, editor ever has. I just wanted to cross that editorial line one time and be the first freak on the board to see my name in the big print. I wanted it for me and I wanted it for them. But if I have to bite off half my tongue to get there then it's not worth it. I won't become like them, the other them, I'm better than that. I'll take authentic obscurity over establishment validation any day of the fucking week and you can etch that on my gravestone.
I asked that glorified desk chair hall monitor what he was so damn afraid of. He responded that he was afraid of publishing bad writing. That hurt, but it shouldn't. Coming from a sell-out like him, that's a goddamn compliment. I said a lot of things in response to his unwarranted low-blow, a lot of angry vitriolic things that I probably should have kept to myself. But here's what I should have told him; You're goddamn right I'm a bad writer. I'm the baddest motherfucking writer you'll ever snub. And you should be afraid. You should be very afraid. Those who fight mainstream scum all to often take their place, which will damn you to the same fate of utter irrelevancy. Let my bad journalism be a reminder that your "good" journalism is a one way ticket to circling the drain. Say hi to Dan Rather when you get there, you chickenshit conformist.
...And to you few proud dearest motherfuckers that read this post, all I can do is sincerely thank you. You have given me the only gift a starving artist truly desires, an audience. For this I can only wish you these three little words...
Peace, Love, & Empathy- CH
Soundtrack; Songs that influenced this post
* Take This Job and Shove It by Johnny Paycheck
* Where Eagles Dare by the Misfits
* So What by Ministry
* I Think That I Would Die by Hole
* I Walk the Line by Johnny Cash
* I Bet On Losing Dogs by Mitski
* Chickenshit Conformist by Dead Kennedys
* Everybody Does by Julien Baker
* My War by Black Flag
* My Way by Sid Vicious