Sunday, July 21, 2019

Smash All the Camps (Or Sympathy For Willem Van Spronsen)

I sympathize with Willem Van Spronsen. Maybe that's a bad way to start this post but it feels like the most honest way to start this post. A mentally ill anarchist, not unlike myself, Willem wanted to end his life but he wanted to end it for a cause. So he attacked an ICE detention center with pipe bombs and let the cops do the rest. I've never made my disdain for Antifa a secret, I've befriended too many right-wing anti-imperialists caught in their crossfire, but god help me, this struck me as a move in the right direction for Pacific Northwest anarchists, who have lately been far too busy bombarding alt-right imbeciles to confront our growing police state.

My sympathy is not exclusively political however. My sympathy comes from a place of very personal outrage and my outrage comes from a deeply traumatic childhood. I can usually retain a pretty jaded gonzo snark with my writing, stemming from my misanthropic drag queen sense of humor. But when you've been fucked with by role-crazy adults as a child, part of you will always be that child. So when I see kids in fucking cages, I see myself brutally misgendered in a confessional waiting for hell. And that's when I flip my proverbial shit and get downright histrionic. The only reason why I haven't gone full Kaczynski like Willem, aside from the fact that my meds are working and I generally appose initiatory violence, is because I'm usually too livid in these moments to handle anarcho-home-ec projects like IED's. I'm also probably too pissed off to write a completely lucid blog post, so this time I decided to wait a week and take a closer look at the issue of the camps.

It's very tempting to drop the lion share of the blame on a loud-mouth bully like Trump. He's certainly made the immigration issue more personal by declaring entire classes of people war criminals and encouraging his beloved gorilla juice-heads in ICE to get their Gestapo on. The harsh reality that the media has chosen to ignore however is that there is nothing particularly new about Orange-Man-Bad's persecution of pint-sized undocumented line-crossers. In fact, the bastard still comes in fourth behind the last three presidents in mass deportations. The modern militarization of the boarder actually started decades before Trump with another sanction-happy rapist named Bill Clinton (I believe the two may have met once or twice at one of Jeffrey Epstein's Pretty Baby-Eyes Wide Shut Parties) which was just one small part of his fascistic war on children, the hallmark of which was his draconian Biden-approved crime bill which essentially declared black childhood to be a felony. And this is where we meet the concentration camp question.

Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez generally puts me to shame in the histrionics department (the bitch also looks way better in heels) but she hit the nail on the head when she had the ovaries to call our countries desert tiger-cage day-care centers concentration camps. No single race of people owns the rights to that specific genre of inhumanity. This country had concentration camps for Indians long before Germany was even Germany. A concentration camp is anywhere where large groups of people are concentrated against their will behind bars and concertina wire. You don't have to be a limp-wristed open-borders loving panarchist like me to find that concept repulsive, especially when it involves children. Ankle bracelets are cheap and locking up toddlers is terrorism. But why are we picking favorites here? When it all comes down to it, aren't all prisons concentration camps?

There are millions of people in cages across this country, more than any other country, not just in general but per capita. We make China look like fucking Burning Man for Christ's sake. And what does all this barbarism achieve? Nothing. Not rehabilitation. The American prison system is a factory that gobbles up the children our equally heinous public schools fail and spits out hardened criminals, pathologically incapable of existing anywhere but prison. It's an emotional crippling machine. Recidivism rates are through the roof and a huge portion of this countries permanent prisoners suffer from untreated mental illness. That just leaves us with some hideously arcane Hobbesian sense of frontier justice where we essentially throw people's lives away who hurt us because it makes us feel better about creating a society that makes this pain inevitable. Forgive my bluntness, but this is fucking stupid. We're kicking the dog for biting us because we kicked the dog. Maybe if our schools weren't glorified prisoner factories we would have learned that two wrong don't make a right, two million wrongs makes a catastrophe and concentration camps are never right.

So I welcome Willem's rage, but I also welcome it to be put in the proper perspective. If you appose the camps on the boarder, you should appose their northern supermax cousins. Tribes managed to effect restorative models of justice centuries before the relatively recent invention of the modern prison. There is no reason why our communities, towns and neighborhoods can't do the same. When a society becomes too modern for mercy, it has ceased to evolve into anything worth protecting. Maybe we can get back on track by spending less time and money on violently reacting to societies ills and more time fixing them. The best way to prevent the proliferation of violence in society is to prevent child abuse. Let's start by letting them out of those goddamn cages. Until then, I will continue to have more sympathy for the Willem Van Spronsen's of this country than the comfortable state terrorists they assault. Make of that what you will.

Smash all the camps, dearest motherfuckers, from Yuma to Attica. Either we all get free or nobodies free. No justice? No peace.



Piss, Vinegar & always Empathy- Nicky/CH



Soundtrack; songs that influenced this post

*  Rusty Cage by Soundgarden
*  Excitable Boy by Warren Zevon
*  Drunk II by Mannequin Pussy
*  Suedehead by Morrissey
*  Daddy Was a Bank Robber by the Clash
*  Waiting Room by Fugazi
*  Suspect Device by Stiff Little Fingers
*  Folsom Prison Blues by Johnny Cash
*  Poor Poor Pitiful Me by Warren Zevon

Saturday, July 13, 2019

Nukes For Peace?

Surrounded by trigger happy Tonkinesque gunboats and drowning in debt, the Islamic Republic of Iran has made the risky decision to play the last card left in their deck; to defy the P5+1 Deal in order to save the P5+1 Deal. It's a hell of a gambit but it already has those pussies in the EU clamoring for new talks with the embattled nation. Under the circumstances, I would argue that Iran's decision to enrich Uranium past the amount allowed in the deal but still far short of anything potentially lethal isn't just tactically savvy, it's the right thing to do.

Iran offered Europe and the US everything but a weekly colonoscopy with that deal and we've given them jack shit in return for their patience. While Trump shredded the agreement in a reckless Israel-friendly hissy fit, Europe has sheepishly reneged on their promises to stand up to Orange-Man-Bad and ease their own sanctions. Their indecision isn't just an embarrassing display of geostrategic cowardice that would gag Charles de Gaulle like a gimp, it's a brazen violation of the very deal they claim to remain committed to. In this dire situation, for Iran to continue to sit on their hands, would be a betrayal of both international diplomacy and their long suffering citizenry who these values are supposed to protect.

But this move also begs a bigger and rather uncomfortable question for peaceniks like me. Could Nukes be good for peace? Just typing those words feels blasphemous on my fingertips, but history speaks for itself. Iraq and Libya both forfeited their own nuclear weapons programs for the sake of self-preservation and both ended up brutally mugged for their efforts by the world's preeminent nuclear superpower. Further more, international law on this regard, is little more than a sick fucking joke. Iran has been hounded for decades by an illegally nuclear armed Israel and the only nation to ever use one of those goddamn things while even the intelligence agencies of these very rogue states admits that this program is a total fiction. Meanwhile, India and Pakistan continue their own flagrantly illegal arms race while being bathed in buckets of western aid. And evil Iran should what, be the last boy-scout while they get ransacked? It clearly doesn't make any fucking difference whether they actually have the bombs or not, so why not arm up?

This has essentially become the policy of North Korea, who originally sought little more than to update their dusty moribund nuclear program for the use of hard-water power to help them weather the post-Cold War winter. When confronted by an increasingly belligerent Clinton Administration on the issue, they decided that they might as well double-down and go back to making bombs until Jimmy Carter went rogue on the White House and cobbled together a peace deal that held until Bush decided to follow in Clinton's imperial footsteps with more baseless dick-wagging and saber-rattling. North Korea simply flipped that New England hick the bird and diligently returned to their nukes, braving power both soft and hard, until being offered another equally precarious deal with our current Schizophrenic-in-Chief. North Korea didn't exactly come out of this thing unscathed. Millions of their citizens have starved beneath the weight of our crippling sanctions. But they're still standing and without the taste of Uncle Sam's cock in their mouth. So why not Iran?

This is a question the western world will have to answer as Iran has chosen a middle ground, between Iraq and Korea, to throw the ball in our court. Expecting exposed third world nations to embrace nuclear dovery runs as patronizingly hollow when all the rich countries singing Cat Stevens songs are armed to the fucking teeth. Iran has never invaded a single sovereign nation and yet its expected to play Gandhi to a gang of colonialist bloodhounds who've left rotting carcasses on nearly every continent they've ever raped with a flagpole. In what hopped up universe is this mindset anything but atrociously racist and downright rude? I still think sticking to that deal as long as they did showed the world a lot of class on Iran's part. But class wont cure kids with leukemia or keep food on the table. When it comes to Iran's nuclear weapons program, whether it ever becomes more than fictional or not, don't hate the player, hate the game.

You want peace, dearest motherfuckers? Me too. In fact I wage to bet even those dastardly Mullahs do. But the cowboy in the red, white and blue hat is gonna have to drop his pistols first. After all, he's the only one who's been caught using them.



Peace, Love & Empathy- Nicky/CH



Soundtrack; songs that influenced this post

*  Imagine by John Lennon
*  Peace Sells by Megadeth
*  Peace Train by Cat Stevens
*  Reign In Blood by Slayer
*  International Small Arms Traffic Blues by the Mountain Goats
*  What About Us by Ministry
*  Shinny Happy People by REM
*  Heart Shaped Box by Nirvana
*  Museum of Love by Daniel Johnston
*  Andre by L7

Sunday, July 7, 2019

The Revolt Against Adulthood

Why don't you grow up, Nicky? That's the tried old refrain that never seems to get older than I do. It seems like I hear it from pretty much all the token adult figures in my life; my parents, my therapist, my government. And maybe they've got a point. I am over thirty, unemployed, painfully single and I still live at home. To be fair, I'm also certifiably mentally ill. As a slowly recovering shut-in, my lingering agoraphobia makes it damn near impossible to hold down even a part time job. But If I'm to be 100% honest to a gut-shiving fault, which is pretty much my whole shtick, my aversion to adulthood is far more complex than my inability to properly regulate good and bad stress.

 I was raised in the wrong fucking gender by an establishment of adults who I was led to believe held the mandate of god himself, the ultimate adult figure. By in large, growing up, the adults in my life were cruel, petty, two-faced zealots who had their way with my trust until it quite simply ceased to exist. There is a very firmly moralist part of me that yells at the top of her deeply closeted preteen lungs, WHY THE FUCK WOULD I EVER WANT TO BE LIKE YOU!

 I've talked about this disembodied voice before. The invisible girl who's tired of suffocating beneath the biological trappings of manhood. She wants to come out and play with matches but she's not particularly intrigued by the late capitalist banality of modern adulthood. And, in 2019, she's not alone.

It seems like I come from an entire generation of kids who are downright allergic to adulthood. We are a lost generation that has chosen in overwhelming numbers to stay single, unemployed and live at home. We also seem to be a culture that is defined by our collective nostalgia. We've somehow managed to make washed-up boy bands and thirty year old cartoons a downright viable industry. we've gathered on the Internet into rabid cults devoted to everything from anime to My Little Pony. In the process, we have also become the butt of an endless barrage of jokes from older generations for refusing to conform to what their interpretation of what adulthood is. But isn't that precisely what adulthood is? An interpretation, not unlike other equally subjective concepts like normality and sanity, of what constitutes a successful existence in a collapsing society running on fumes?

So what is an "Adult" in 2019. What earns one that cherished class distinction in the waning hours of the American Century? According to postmodern western society, an adult is someone who pays their taxes and votes for sensible centrist warmongers.

 An adult is someone who works their fingers to the fucking bone for some half-lit cubicle despot who treats them with all the respect of branded cattle.

 An adult cuts their hair and dresses like a goddamn ventriloquist dummy just to fit in with the other miserable fakes in the herd.

 An adult builds them self an oversized suburban prison cell over virgin forests with granite counter tops and cathedral ceilings on the ocean floor of a raging sea of debt.

 An adult gives into the peer pressure of competitive monogamy and pumps out two and a half kids before pushing their demons on them and punishing them for not being properly spoiled and jaded by the shining success of our empty neoliberal existence.

 An adult beats their spouse after the home team loses and then sauces them self to sleep on a cocktail of hard alcohol and sleeping pills.

 An adult is a faceless, spineless, living corpse who does as their told. And this is the "success" my generation of missing children should aspire too? Let me speak for all of us right now and tell the mincing successful adults in the room to go fuck themselves. Even the purgatory of delayed adulthood is better than the hell of their empty existence. Enjoy the Beamer and the fake tits, champ, you've earned it.

And my generation's search for something meaningful in what this toxic society deems meaningless is hardly an anomaly. Many lost generations living in moribund societies pregnant with their own demise have chose to play hide and seek among the wreckage of their ancestors. In the final days of Weimar Germany and the Roman Empire, whole generations chose to abandon the responsibility of keeping their rusted hulk states alive in favor of indulging in the fantasy of burlesque houses and post-pagan orgies. Perhaps these are more than just contractions before the miscarriage. Perhaps there is something hardwired deep into our primordial lizard brains that still thirsts for a return to the natural world when the modern one is in shambles. One only capable of sustaining life in the years before we had been so thoroughly subjugated and assimilated by those gulags of adulthood called schools and the workforce.

There was an age in which we were all children, or primitive as the condescending gatekeepers of history in the Ivy Leagues call it. Before agriculture and property and adulthood, we hunted and gathered our collective resources and spent the lion share of our time engaging each other, irrespective of age, in meaningful play. I've known some much maligned folk who continue this tradition deep in the hollers of Appalachia. They receive the same amount of disrespect from academia as our primitive ancestors and they give same amount fucks about the adult world as I do. It's easy to typecast those who embrace absurdity in absurd times, be they hillbillies or millennials, but maybe, just maybe, we're all responding to something we've been robbed of by the progress of modern adulthood. And maybe it's time we took it back.

This isn't to say that my generation has it all figured out. We just know that the world is fucked up and it doesn't have to be this way. Sadly, some of the decomposing adults are wise enough to acknowledge our discontent and shrewd enough to harness it to consolidate their own plush positions in a crumbling kingdom of shit. Ageing scions of malignant adulthood like Bernie Sanders, Donald Trump and Joe Biden have offered us the faulty illusion of safety beneath their condescending guardianship. These toxic father figures have offered us a candy store of goodies like free healthcare, free tuition, great big walls and even bigger battleships to turn this desperate land into one big safe crib as long as we agree to play nice and let them rape mamma with factory farms and smart bombs.

Well, I don't know about the rest of you kids, but this is one (wo)man-child who's not falling for the stranger's candy again. I say we sneak out after dark and run amok on their wrinkled asses. I say we give the adults a taste of their own fucking medicine.

I say we stop giving the bullies our lunch money and use our would-be tax dollars to buy PlayStations, dope and electric guitars. I say we turn the census into a colossal game of Madlibs. I say we decorate every government building we can find with toilet paper and rotten eggs. I say we all show up to jury duty in blackface except the blacks who show up dressed as white powdered judges. I say we throw a gigantic water-balloon fight on the graves of Arlington with one red-nosed clown for every tombstone. I say we jam up the tailpipes of every police cruiser from Queens to Ferguson with Twinkies and bananas. I say we dose Washington's water supply with homemade moonshine. And I say we all play hooky with a nationwide collective strike and gather at the National Mall to eat fluffer-nutters, make out and play Dungeons and Dragons until the adults step down and give us back our goddamned democracy.

More importantly, I say we stop saying 'Yes mam' and 'No sir' to people who don't treat us with the respect to earn such knee-jerk platitudes. I say we take care of our parents, even if they are condescending dicks, instead of shoving them into homes. I say we tell our friends that we love them before they're gone. And I say we make those friends and family a higher priority than making money to hand over to government thieves. I say we start doing what makes us happy rather than what makes us and the government rich. I say we stop dropping bombs on people for not playing the right games. And I say we start treating all children, young and old, with the kindness and respect we wish to be treated with. No more patriarchy. No more ageism. And no more second class citizens, shamed into the conformity of adulthood. No more invisible girls.

To put it frankly, fuck adulthood, dearest motherfuckers. It's an overrated concept crafted by the dying to enslave the living. Our only responsibilities should be to each other and against the systems that divide us. Let the Nickelodean revolution begin and let it begin with me.



Peace, Love & Empathy- Nicky/CH



Soundtrack; songs that influenced this post

*  Essentially by Japanese Breakfast
*  Teenage Dirtbag by Phoebe Bridgers
*  Our Secret by Beat Happening
*  We're Going To Be Friends by the White Stripes
*  1979 by Smashing Pumpkins
*  Wake Up by Arcade Fire
*  Superbike by Jay Som
*  Come As You Are by Nirvana
*  I Go Home by Daniel Johnston
*  Drunk Walk Home by Mitski
*  In the Garage by Weezer
*  The Concept by Teenage Fanclub

Saturday, June 29, 2019

Godspeed Justin Raimondo, You Brilliant Son of a Bitch

The son of a bitch promised he wasn't gonna go. That's what goes through my grief wrenched mind tonight, as I learn that Justin Raimondo, easily the greatest writer of the Paleoconservative Movement and total unapologetic son of a bitch to the bitter end, has passed after a white knuckle brawl with lung cancer, at 67. He can't be dead. Their has to be a catch. He was so certain that he could kick that bastard disease back to hell where it belonged that he made you believe it too. Justin Raimondo, America's own Yukio Mishima, an abominable twin-fisted fag who punched mountains just for the exercise between cigarettes is dead? No. No fucking way. Not possible.

To those of you who don't know Justin and his work, I have no words to give you. There is simply no way to possibly describe to the uninitiated how massive he was to the Antiwar Movement. But I grew up, a pissed off anti-imperialist queer in my own right, enthralled by the Old Testament grade power of his sublime diction. It made little difference that he was a Buchananite isolationist and that I was a lefty-Yippie-anarcho-punk. He was radical. His enemies were my enemies, Kristol, Horowitz, Hitchens, Rumsfeld, Cheney, and he cut them down mercilessly like a shogun vigilante who's katana thirsted only for the blood of chickenhawks. I had never seen somebody so antiwar be so cruel and it was fucking beautiful. He was brilliant, cunning, merciless, and he was on our side. Those neocon pussies didn't stand a chance. He was our secret weapon, an action movie style wringer for the Peace Movement and he and Eric Garris' antiwar.com remains the finest viable resource in any die hard peacenik's arsenal.

This isn't to say that the old bastard couldn't piss me off. He could make my blood boil like bacon grease, especially when he became a seemingly unshakable defender of our current foul Caesar and refused to admit that the revolution had gone sour after the Donald began racking up war crimes like the politician Justin assured us he wasn't. I raged over this hypocrisy, not because I hated Justin but because I loved him so goddamn much that I couldn't bare to see some slick corporate welfare queen make a fool of my sensei, simply because he wanted so badly to believe that this orange bulldozer could pave the way for the antiwar revolution that we both ached for.

But it's important, for me as much as anybody else if not more so, to remember that Justin came from the Murray Rothbard school of anti-imperialism. With every position he took, right or wrong, he put peace first, no matter how much it hurt, whether this meant endorsing Che or the SDS or Nader or Trump. Justin could care less about Trump the candidate. What he saw was an opportunity for Trump the movement. He saw barns full of Southern Baptist crackers chanting America First and he saw an opportunity to push anti-imperialism into the mainstream zeitgeist. I still, quite violently, disagree with this M.O.. Frankly it smacks of the kind of ends-justify-the-means style tyranny that turned me off of Leninism. But, much like Lenin, Justin was a complicated beast who sometimes let his bleeding heart drown out his enormous brains. And even for this mortal sin, I can't help but to love the old bastard a friend of mine once aptly described as the gay Sicilian Archie Bunker.

Never the less, Justin never stopped fighting like bloody fucking hell for all the right reasons. He vehemently apposed all war, every war this twisted wretch of a country ever invested blood and treasure into. He made no exceptions. Justin took Washington to task for crimes no one else even bothered to cover. No one did finer coverage of the NED sponsored Color Wars which would form the bedrock of the current Second Cold War. No one spoke more eloquently about the collective hunger of the Korean people for reunification which has only recently blossomed into once unthinkable peace talks between those divided nations. His mind was a veritable encyclopedia of world history. A weapon of mass destruction that even the feds failed to contain during their Bush-era witch hunt against antiwar.com. The powerful feared Justin and rightly so. He saw their demise coming back when Trump was still groping teenagers at their fundraisers. Justin had a vision for imperial blowback that was 80/20. He could see certain disaster from miles away. Except for his own.

Justin's furious fighting spirit extended to his own personal health. When faced with a death sentence after smoking half the tobacco in Virginia, he looked the reaper deep in the socket and snarled bring it on like a Spaghetti Western cowboy. Like peace, Justin fought for his life to win, even when the odds were insurmountable. He was one of the greatest writers of his generation, a head on my Mount Rushmore right between Hunter Thompson and Gore Vidal, and he helped light a fire in me when I had all but given up on the art itself. My own personal Renaissance from an agoraphobic has-been/never-was to a literary fire-starter began on the message boards beneath his columns on antiwar.com. After flaking out of college with a nervous meltdown, I was ready to give up my lifelong dreams of becoming the genderfuck Raul Duke. Justin proved to me that you didn't need a newspaper to burn down the Pentagon. All you needed was the grit to look power deep in the socket and snarl bring it on.

The son of a bitch promised he wouldn't go. And if this lefty-Yippie-anarcho-punk has anything to say about it, that promise will be kept. Justin's war is my war, and that war doesn't stop until every American war does. Someday, on the grave of this crumbling empire you will find "Justin was here!" scrawled in my lipstick and that's another promise I aim to keep.

As the good Doctor Gonzo would say, there he goes. One of God's own prototypes. A high-powered mutant of some kind never even considered for mass production. Too weird to live, and too rare to die. Godspeed Justin Raimondo, you brilliant son of a bitch. We'll keep the fire burning for you until it catches on.


Peace, Love & Empathy- CH



Soundtrack; songs that influenced this post

*  You Cant Put Your Arms Around a Memory by Johnny Thunders
*  All Apologies by Nirvana
*  Left of the Dial by the Replacements
*  Knockin' On Heaven's Door by Bob Dylan
*  A Better Union by Titus Andronicus
*  Wild Horses by the Rolling Stones
*  Stuck Between Stations by the Hold Steady
*  Make You Better by the Decemberists

Sunday, June 23, 2019

Queer Power!: Because Pride is Not Enough

Once upon a time, somewhere over the rainbow, being Queer was dangerous. We were vile leather-clad degenerates, strutting down the cracked streets of neon drenched red light districts, lipstick smeared, basted in glitter, our self-manicured claws sharper than knives, our foul tongues sharper than claws, posing, posturing, begging the devil for a bad time.

We were outlaws, pirates sailing the high deserts in long stolen Cadillacs, painting our faces like savages and pitching our battered rainbow tepees on the banks of the Salton Sea, smoking peace-pipes loaded with hash, reefer, semen, tobacco, opium, ludes, kitten heels and moldy crumbled make-up. We got so high, we fucked so hard, for so long, our tantric screams of ecstasy bouncing off the canyon walls and swelling the cul-de-sacs of the recently robbed rich, depriving them of the sleep they so desperately needed to fulfill their wretched obligations as some bloated dictator's greatest generation, a pill-popping silent majority who couldn't swallow a barbiturate big enough to free them from the knowledge that the moaning sodomites who ransacked their garages were their bastard kin.

We were bomb-throwing revolutionaries, marching with Panthers, torching cop cars, hurling our diseased corpses upon the machines of powerful men all but deaf to anything but the sound of our shattered bones clogging the guts of their federally funded sports utility vehicles. We were Billy Burroughs, Miss Major, Hakim Bey, Allen Ginsberg, John Waters, Leslie Feinberg, Harry Hay, Paul Goodman, Gore Vidal, Larry Kramer. We were dykes, fags, trannies, perverts, lunatics, sodomites, carpet munchers, cocksuckers, radical faeries, flaming fucking queens. We were dangerous. We were beautiful. We were Queer.

Not that it was all unshaved pussy and roses. We also got clubbed to death by roll crazy fascist pigs and lynched behind the pickup trucks of neckless bullet-headed closet queens, deeply threatened by the chaos of our hard won sexual liberation. We were raped and castrated for pissing in the wrong way in the right places or vice versa. We had our childhoods excavated, evacuated, eviscerated, annihilated, incinerated, hooked up to the jumper cables of a mincing cabal of priests, cops, shrinks, parents, teachers, scions of adulthood who used every weapon at their disposal to mutilate us in their own barbaric image of "Normal."

We lost whole generations of brothers, sisters, lovers, fuckers, heroes, villains, magnificent creatures too divine to reproduce, to a plague the state couldn't be bothered to even acknowledge, a veritable holocaust of derelict medical neglect. Millions gone, vanished, erased. But all these horrors pale in comparison to the most grievous disease to ever infect the American Faggot, the disease of assimilation, invisibility, ceasing to exist, melting into the masses who we long raged so valiantly against. Much like today's Zionists, we have braved a Third Reich only to take our place in the Fourth. Today, Queer people, my people, have become an integral part of the very system that conspired to destroy us only decades ago.

I have seen the finest minds of my generation destroyed by political correctness, plump, sane and tastefully dressed. Today's queer is polite. Today's queer is well behaved. Today's queer is neat and tidy and commercially viable, that foul beast known as the law-abiding citizen. Today's queer votes Democrat and quivers at the feet of the police state, begging for safety, begging for censorship, begging for shelter beneath the cathedral ceilings of elite institutions which suddenly find us so novel. Today's queer is the spayed and neutered poodle of the First World. Something to be paraded about and celebrated for one month a year as a symbol of western benevolence. "Look how fine we treat our parasites!" They beam glowingly to the brown savages in desperate need of cultural correction. We are safe. We are boring. We are "Normal." The adults have finally succeeded in our correction. We aren't even queer anymore. We are gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgender, a divided alphabet of carefully assimilated zoo creatures. We are Pete Buttigieg, Caitlyn Jenner, Rachel Maddow, Ellen DeGeneres, Tyler Perry. I am lost. I am sick. These are not my people, I tell myself.

Maybe I'm just stranger than the average millennial or perhaps simply too old for my young age. My view of Queer rights, of what it even means to be Queer, seems to come from a different era. I may be a millennial but I spent the better part of my hermetic early twenties living through books on Kwame Ture and Russell Means and Abbie Hoffman. Tomes on those halcyon days of rage in the Sixties and Seventies when anything was possible through barrel of a gun. During my self-imposed agoraphobic isolation, I found myself between those pages. The way I see it, Queer is not some posh lifestyle fit for reality TV, but a race unto itself. A stateless, anti-colonial race like the Chicanos or the Black Power Movement. A race in need of self-emancipation and liberation rather than belonging or equality.

There was a time, many years ago, when Queer people were separated across a thousand races. Every tribe from the British Isles to the Alaskan Tundra retained a respectful place of honor in their communities for those of us who could not or would not conform to the typical biological order of reproduction and gender performance. We were raised to be pillars of our tribes; priests, shaman, warriors, teachers and caregivers. That time ended with the Roman-ization of Christianity and the patriarchal creation of property. From that point on, we were purged from the ranks of our societies, burned at the preachers stake and fed alive to the conquistador's dogs. We were forced to build our own race in the hinterlands. We were a species reborn in the wild. Our culture was pagan, feral and free. Now that heterosexual conglomeration known as the white race wants us back. But some of us don't want to belong. Some of us would sooner remain pink niggers than become token members of the master race. Some of us have good memories. Some of us haven't forgotten the plagues and funeral pyres. And some of us want revenge.

My proposition to this break in the ranks among my people is this; Being gay or trans is not a choice. It's a variation that exists in nature. If some of my people wish to return to the often bastardized versions of our former tribes, then let them. That's their choice and I genuinely wish them well. They can be LGBT in the white man's world. However, being LGBT may not be a choice but I say being Queer is. Being Queer isn't simply fucking and performing differently. Being Queer is a conscious rejection of white western colonial society. It is a rejection of all things "Normal." It is a rejection of puritanical patriarchy. It is a rejection of fitting in. It is a rejection of passing for male or female. It is a rejection of monogamy and traditional marriage. It is a rejection of both church and state. It is a rejection of the police-warfare state and all the drafts and mandatory minimums which fill it's belly with the flesh of both our children and their enemies alike. It is a rejection of those imperial dugouts called embassies being festooned with our flags while they oppress our brothers and sisters in the Third World. It is a rejection of the First World and the colonialist mindset it cultivates. And perhaps above all else, it is a rejection of that modern genre of violence called progress.

On this the eve of the Fiftieth Anniversary of the Revolt at Stonewall, I call on us proud few undomesticated faggots who still march in the footsteps of those partisans to redeclare our independence from the straight world and its shallow ethnic borders and create a race of our own built upon our feral renegade culture of resistance. This June, I say we declare Queer to be our race and revolution to be our creed. It's high time to light that fire again. The only power we need is Queer power, because pride just isn't enough.



Peace, Love, Empathy & Solidarity- Nicky/CH



Soundtrack; songs that influenced this post

*  Home Again Garden Grove by the Mountain Goats
*  Been a Son by Nirvana
*  Can You Read My Mind by Boygenius
*  All the Young Dudes by David Bowie
*  Drowners by Suede
*  Trash by New York Dolls
*  I Fought the Law by Dead Kennedys
*  Rockstar by Hole
*  My Body is Made of Crushed Little Stars by Mitski
*  Burn Baby by L7
*  Freak Scene by Dinosaur Jr.
*  Debaser by the Pixies
*  Home by David Byrne & Brian Eno

Sunday, June 16, 2019

The Spreading Antifa Virus

There's a storm brewing, dearest motherfuckers, or so I'm told. And I'm not talking about climate change. The wild wild world of the world wide web is ablaze with rumors, dark rumors, rumors told of a Fourth Reich, more than seventy years since the last one ran out of gas in the mucklands of Stalingrad. Fash is back and this time it's coming through the left door. There are reams of hysterical chatter across the mucklands of social media speaking of a diabolical collaboration between the far right and the far left. From Julian Assange robbing Hillary of her throne for Donald Trump, to Steve Bannon and George Galloway exchanging bro-hugs at a Eurasianist summit in Kazakhstan, to Glenn Greenwald getting chummy with Tucker Carlson on Fox News. It's a deep, dark, twisted, incestuous collaboration built on a shared comradery among crypto-Baathist Russophiles goosestepping their way to overthrowing the blessed post-war order of the Atlanticist brand of globalism we all know and love. And naturally that dastardly Kremlin puppet master, Vladimir Putin, is behind it all with his army of trolls and bots and other assorted shadow people. It's a dementedly elaborate conspiracy to lynch liberal democracy and here's the Shyamalan twist, apparently I'm the token tranny holding the noose.

For those of you who are less than familiar with my jagged, lip-smacking brand of drag queen satire, that first paragraph was a joke and so is this whole tired conspiracy theory of a new Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact. Some call it Horseshoe Theory, some call it the Red-Brown or the Red-Green-Brown Alliance (Just add Islamaphobia!), but that old feverish canard about a grand plot by the fascist right to infiltrate the far-left or vice versa has long been a favorite scare tactic of neoliberal centrists seeking to keep dissidents separated across their manufactured left-right divide. The desired result of this campaign is to keep conservatives and leftists too frightened of "infiltrators" to think outside of the ideological box while also keeping them dependent on the radical center to protect them from the ominous "other". Nothing scares the establishment more than working class unity, so the establishment turns this unity into a Polanskiesque horror story. Any leftist open to working with the right (like myself) is in danger of being linked to the worst excesses of white nationalism, while any conservative who refuses to spit on a hippie is blackballed as a dreaded National Bolshevik.

There is nothing new about this divide and conquer school of neoliberal strategy. I would expect it coming from those paranoid nitwits at MSNBC or the Southern Poverty Law Center. The scary thing about this latest wave of Horseshoe hysteria is that it appears to be infecting the radical left, thanks largely to the malign influence of Antifa. Originally founded as a loose collection of left-wing punks tired of getting curb-stomped by neo-Nazi skinheads, Antifa has devolved into an uptight squadron of watered down social anarchists who mostly busy themselves flexing their muscles and beating the fucking shit out of their peers in toxic masculinity in the alt-right. They define themselves as anti-fascists but, much like socialism, everyone seems to have a different definition of what fascism even is. Antifa seems to think it covers everything that offends their suburban, upper-middle-class sensibilities. Personally, speaking as someone who's always despised fascism, I see it as an attempt by the wealthy upper-class to hijack working-class populist rhetoric in order to use pissed off poor people to protect the endangered status quo that enslaves them.

The sick fucking thing is this seems to be precisely what Antifa has become devoted to. This country is way too goddamn complex for a single left-wing revolution to truly succeed. You will never see a communist Utah anymore than you can hope to expect a fundamentalist Vermont. Demanding Antifa's level of ideological purity is the surest way to insure that a truly stateless revolution is damned to certain failure. Historically speaking, what great American anarchist could ever pass Antifa's Hoity-toity purity test. Could Emma Goldman with her moral opposition to abortion. Or Edward Abbey with his environmental concerns regarding immigration. How about the great Alexander Cockburn himself who spent the last years of his life writing columns for that old-right flagship, Chronicles. Anarchy has always been about diversity and individualism because humanity itself is defined by diversity and individualism. The only way we will ever be able to conquer the state is if we provide stateless opportunities that can appeal to everyone, not just a handful of skateboarding hipsters on the coasts.

If Antifa has its way, anarchism will die a slow miserable death as a bourgeois fad or, even worse, become assimilated into the increasingly authoritarian status quo of the neoliberal west. This is a fate far more dire than the risk posed by largely-mythic nazbols, tankies and sputnik leftists in online chatrooms. More and more, everyday, Antifa is beginning to resemble the Red Guards, Mao's censorious and largely stateless student shock troops. If this growing virus of leftist paranoia continues to spread, we could be looking at a population that doesn't even require the state to be oppressed, a stateless police state. This is the stuff of Orwellian nightmares and this is one left-wing anarchist who will not sit idly by and watch it happen. I say anarchy is for everyone who rejects the state and embraces voluntary liberty, regardless of whether your adjective of choice is national or communist, syndicalist or capitalist. If that makes me a token fascist faggot, then so be it. Anything beats being a self-censoring, crypto-fascist, Antifa brat. And if that rubs you wrong, dearest motherfuckers, you can pucker up and kiss the queerest part of my fat tranny ass. I'm through stepping on eggshells and I'm not here to please you. Come and get me.



Peace, Love & Solidarity- CH



Soundtrack; songs that influenced this post.

*  Kick Out the Jams by the MC5
*  (I Blame) Society by Titus Andronicus
*  White Riot by the Clash
*  Hologram by Tacocat
*  Attitude by the Misfits
*  Flag Pole Sitta by Harvey Danger
*  Blank Generation by Richard Hell & the Voidoids
*  Pinhead by the Ramones
*  The Passenger by Iggy Pop

Sunday, June 9, 2019

Hollywood, Cinema, Pornography & Propaganda

It's often said that there is a fine line between art and pornography, and this is true, but few people take the time to seriously contemplate where that line is. As a fan of both art and pornography, not to mention sociology, I have probably spent too much time on the subject. Most people view the dividing line between these two mediums to be the actions of its subjects, to put it bluntly, people fucking. But some of my favorite art films include graphic scenes of passionate and unsimulated coitus. And some of my favorite genres of pornography involve acts that many wouldn't even consider to be sexual. No, the line between art and pornography is not defined by its subject matter but rather by its intent. The intent of art is to provoke and engage the audience intellectually. The intent of pornography is to indulge and engage the audience reactively.

Unlike far too many other feminists, I have no problem with pornography in and of itself, particularly if it involves Asian lesbians with small feet and plenty of rope, but there are forms of pornography that have nothing to do with natural human sexuality in all its perverted diversity. Propaganda would probably be my least favorite genre of pornography and this hardcore smut plays on cable news 24/7 when any child could be flipping through the channels. Propaganda is the ultimate form of malignant pornography. It is the complete antithesis of art, designed for the express purpose of keeping people reacting by making sure they have no time to think. The audience is blitzed with an explosive barrage of suggestions, largely parroted from the satanic conglomeration of big government and big business commonly referred to by woke freaks like me as the Establishment. "Fear! Fear! Be afraid! Be afraid! Vote! Buy! Vote! Attack Iran! Squirrels on jet skies! Lupus fun run! Drone strike! MONEY SHOT! Have you attacked Iran yet?" Some pretty sick shit. Ted Turner makes Bob Guccione look like Captain Kangaroo.

But while cable news may make the sickest porn in the biz, they don't sling the most. That foul distinction belongs to Hollywood, a bottomless tar pit of brain-dead smut. I love cinema, I have since watching Bonnie & Clyde on Turner Classic Movies as a curious genderless tyke, but it is because I love cinema that I have grown to despise those perverts in Tinsel Town. Hollywood is the mortal enemy of any true cinephile because it reduces the art form into an intellectually masturbatory industry. And Summer is their jiz streaked Bacchanalia of mass banality, when big studio vampires lure wayward rubes to the cool shadows of the theater where they suck their wallets dry.

People in this country hate to talk about movies with me because I hate all their beloved stupid fucking movies with a furious passion that idiots tend to find off-putting. I hate the pandering nostalgia porn of Pixar, where computer generated mascots assault peoples clitoral-sensitive funny-bones with an endless stream of random pointless references like Robin Williams on a crystal methamphetamine bender. I hate the goopy inspiration porn of high-handed historical hagiographies, designed to glorify the state as a bastion of multicultural perseverance in order to sell the American Dream like a snuff film to the jaded foreigners on the festival circuit."You see, Frenchy, America ain't so bad. We got saucy colored gals making our Nazi rockets!"

I hate the endless assembly line of instantly forgettable remakes, cheesier than any Skinemax parody and twice as stupid, often advertised as progress just because they replaced all the main characters with this weeks favorite token minority. "Stay tuned for Paul Feig's gutless remake of The Breakfast Club with all the leads...  Played by... Hermaphrodites with Marfan Syndrome?! Be there!!!" And I absolutely fucking despise with every cell in my chronically misgendered corpse that never ending assembly line of moronic blockbuster schlock that every errant asshole and their cousin adores called Marvel Studios. The one dimensional superheroes. The black and white moralism. The empty social justice pandering. The gratuitous abuse of green screen special effects. The thinly veiled appeal to hyper-jingoistic do-gooder interventionism. I fucking hate it all. Superheroes have long been the bane of good comic books, now they threaten to take Hollywood to new depths of pornographic sleaze as they turn the once moribund industry into a cultural juggernaut defacing the globe with American "values". The basic premise of nearly every one of these cinematic abortions is identically simplistic; Here's your fucking shit, now eat it. And eat it they do, by the boatload. I only wish Stan Lee was still alive so he could die twice.

This has long been the problem with American Cinema. People in this country view films as being roller coaster rides. They hand some toothless carny a sweaty wad of cash and get their cheap thrills for about 90 minutes then forget what the saw on the way home. And sometimes that's OK, but to reduce an entire medium to mental masturbation sinfully underestimates the revolutionary power of cinema. Not to sound like a snob, but Europe still seems like the one place that really gets this on an above marginal level. People in Italy and France go to theaters to think and be challenged, to be provoked, and in a society so desensitized by constant war, plague and pestilence, it takes a lot of cinematic dynamite to provoke even basic empathy. That's why a new wave of European directors have taken to resurrecting Antonin Artaud's Theatre of Cruelty, a philosophy that preaches that the only way to drain the collective abscesses of a crumbling society is to assault audiences dulled senses with provocative imagery and tap into the subconscious root of their misery.

In this context, the director must not simply be an artist. They must be a terrorist, awakening the privileged to the suffering that will be returned to them by the people that their wealth oppresses if they fail to wake from their stupor. These auteurs of Europe's so called new wave of extremity have turned the propaganda of modern cinema into a new form of what the old anarchists referred to as propaganda of the deed, using their Kalashnikov cameras to blitz the cinema with the power of uncensored imagination, raw, naked, dripping with blood. They use the once exploitative tropes of horror and eroticism to provoke philosophical debates on things even most Europeans would prefer to ignore.

As I alluded to above, the English speaking world has derisively called this new wave 'Extreme Cinema'. They even find the gal to accuse it's directors, terrifying visual Blanquists like Lars Von Trier, Gaspar Noe and Micheal Haneke, of being the real pornographers for the simple fact that they aren't afraid to use the weapon of untethered sexuality to get their point across. We have witnessed similar knee-jerk reactions to nearly every significant avante-garde movement of the last century, from the Dadaists to the Vienna Actionists. The western press doesn't want you to expose yourself to the masochistic lessons that only radicals dare to teach. They fear, as they always have, that you might run the risk of being awakened from your shackled slumber in this suburban purgatory capitalism has erected around us. But I implore you to ignore their breathless warnings, save your time, save your money or what's left of it, skip the latest Avengers monstrosity, stay home and download something to challenge yourself, like Gaspar Noe's latest intoxicating mirage, Climax, or the critic-eviscerating menace that is Mr. Von Trier's The House That Jack Built. Prepare to be offended but resist the temptation to simply react. This is not Hollywood pornography. This is art. This is cinema. It's supposed to hurt a little, but trust me, dearest motherfuckers, it's worth the price of admission.



Peace, Love & Empathy- CH



Other movies to watch out for.

-Irreversible (2002) by Gaspar Noe
-Man Bites Dog (1992) by Remy Belvaux, Andre Bonzel & Benoit Poelvoorde
-Funny Games (1997) by Micheal Haneke
-Martyrs (2008) by Pascal Laugier
-Blue Is the Warmest Colour (2013) by Abdellatif Kechiche
-Holy Motors (2012) by Leos Carax
-The Piano Teacher (2001) by Micheal Haneke
-Inside (2007) by Julien Maury & Alexandre Bustillo
-Antichrist (2009) by Lars Von Trier
-Raw (2016) by Julia Ducournau



Soundtrack; songs that influenced this post.

*  Love to Hate You by Erasure
*  Closer by Nine Inch Nails
*  Goodbye Yellow Brick Road by Elton John
*  My Monkey by Marilyn Manson
*  Kool Thing by Sonic Youth
*  Wuthering Heights by Kate Bush
*  Shitty Ballet by Bleached
*  Debaser by the Pixies
*  Raping a Slave by Swans

Sunday, May 26, 2019

Waiting Out the Landlord's Clock In Iran

Quick hypothetical; Lets say you've been living in the same house in the same neighborhood for your whole life, generations in fact. There have been some minor squabbles but for the most part you've managed to get along with the neighbors. Then one day, some outside landlord buys the house next door. After several tenants come and go, a real loudmouth thug moves in, making threats, beating his wife and kids. Finally, the bastard truly breaks bad, tares down your fence and declares your backyard to be part of his property. After an epic battle in the courts, he finally returns to his property and eventually gets evicted. 'Great!', you think, naturally, and you even help the landlord clean up the place. Everything seems peachy fucking keen for suburbia. And then the landlord moves in.

Suddenly, this brash wealthy landlord is building shit up, putting up new outbuildings and sheds near the property line, erecting tall steel fences with razor wire. Suddenly, it dawns on you that the last tenant wasn't the problem, you were, and the last tenant was only removed because he wasn't trouble enough for you. And the threats start up again. Local street kids who you've helped out in the past are declared gangs and you get blamed for running them. The landlord accuses you of possessing certain weapons that your neighbors have and freely flaunt but you've never showed any interest in. Finally, after dealing with years of threats, you sign a deal with the landlord promising to stop procuring these fictional weapons if the landlord backs off. Things calm down for a tip. Then the landlord pulls out of the deal and shit gets nuts again.

The landlord starts telling you that you better not attack any of his installations on your property line, as if you've been the aggressor. He starts warning all of your neighbors how dangerous you are until even they start to believe it. Heavily armed men start stalking the neighborhood menacingly. A large armored vehicle parks outside your house at all hours. Whenever it shows up, you get a phone call from the landlord, telling you in a steely draw that you better not attack his truck. You call the cops. They agree with you that the landlord is way out of line but even they are afraid to get on his bad side. They tell you 'tough luck motherfucker' and hang up abruptly. The shit gets worse. Several vehicles in the neighborhood are allegedly vandalized and naturally you're the one to blame. Scared and isolated, you start stalking up on weapons which only makes the threats increase. Soon the armored vehicle is parking on your lawn, grinding it's tires into the sod and flicking lit cigarettes into your flower beds. And it dawns on you, as the phone rings with the landlord undoubtedly on the other end, 'these crazy fuckers want me to attack them..." What do you do? I'm not telling you, I'm asking you. What do you do?

In case you haven't guessed, this is a Straw Dogs-style analogy for America's insane harassment campaign against the Islamic Republic of Iran. After a decade of fighting off the brutal attacks of America's Sumerian pit-bull, Saddam Hussein, Iran manages to put the little psycho in his place. The US finally turns on the maniac and overthrows him with Iran's help, only for it to become increasingly clear to helpful Iran that they were always the real target. You see, those damn Persians offended the landlord when they evicted his friend the Shah and got too close with their neighbors in the Kremlin. We strong armed them into signing a peace deal that kept them from developing weapons they likely never even attempted to acquire (though the Shah and Israel did), only to have us violate it and threaten them for not sticking to it even though they have. Over the last few weeks, Trump and his lunatic neocon death squad have stepped up the madness, repeatedly and menacingly warning Iran not to attack our imperial phalanx of illegal military installations surrounding them on all sides, blaming them for mysterious acts of vandalism that may or may not have even taken place and flooding the Gulf with cigarette flicking battleships and B-52 bombers.

So what did Iran do? So far nothing, which is the smartest move to make. Trump is literally begging Iran to strike and give him the Gulf of Tonkin he needs to justify the invasion he's been angling for since Sheldon Adleson paid him to do so. The only thing Iran can do is practice patience and allow the over eager warmongers of the administration-who-couldn't-shoot-straight to expose themselves for the fumbling aggressors that they are while China slowly bleeds their prolapsed empire dry. The so-called free world is still too petrified to stand up to that Helter Skelter ax murderer, Uncle Sam. But as his geostrategic failures begin to pile up higher than the corpses, from Korea to Iraq to Venezuela and beyond, it will become increasingly clear to these nations who have long been held hostage by this country, that it's days of primacy are numbered. We can only hope that Iran can wait out the landlord's clock and that Bolton isn't quite crazy enough to pull a false flag.

Keep the peace and keep hope alive, dearest motherfuckers. For where an empire is bleeding, there is still hope for peace and sometimes hope is all we've got.



Soundtrack; songs that influenced this post

*  Let's Lynch the Landlord by Dead Kennedys
*  Gimme Shelter by the Rolling Stones
*  The Crying Game by Boy George
*  I'm Waiting for the Man by the Velvet Underground
*  Under Pressure by Queen & David Bowie
*  Grow Into a Ghost by Swearin
*  Ring of Fire by Johnny Cash
*  Shitty Ballet by Bleached
*  Rock the Casbah by the Clash
*  Time is On My Side by the Rolling Stones

Sunday, May 19, 2019

Pledging Allegiance to the Divided States of America

I'm a pessimist because of intelligence, but an optimist because of will

-Antonio Gramsci


When the individual's behavior and consciousness get hooked to a routine sequence of external actions, he is a dead robot, and it is time for him to die and be reborn. Time to "drop out", "turn on", and "tune in."

-Timothy Leary



America, the indispensable nation. That old jingoistic canard gets tossed around like confetti in this country, while the rest of the world rolls their collective eyes and crack their collective knuckles. According to patriotic lore, America is some beige, color-blind, miracle designed by the greatest white philosophers since Socrates to free the world from its backwards indigenous ways with the magic of global capitalism. Naturally, this is all bullshit. The kind of sad pep-talk a date-rapist gives himself in the mirror before showering his glamour muscles in Axe body spray. There is absolutely nothing miraculous about America but that doesn't mean that it isn't exceptional.

America is an exceptionally cruel experiment in the outer reaches of colonial social engineering. We are a nation defined by the two greatest holocausts in recorded history, spanning three continents and an entire hemisphere. America as we know it was founded by an ambitious collection of European super-colonialists who found themselves and their nations increasingly depleted of the wealth they accumulated from the Crusades. So they traveled the seas in search of greener pastures to irrigate with more dark-skinned blood. They found their sainted killing fields of Shangri-La in the New World and with the superiority of their steel, they decided to take the Americas by force and slaughter anyone who stood in their way. But with an entire hemisphere half empty of its indigenous inhabitants, these European overlords found themselves with too much work for their feeble bourgeois fingers to handle, so they filled their new colonies with shiploads of slaves pilfered from the jungles of Africa to build a nation on their scarred shoulders, murdering millions more in the process and permanently hobbling another entire continent.

But even slave-driving proved too onerous for our glorious founding fathers, so they brought in floods of refugees from their more battered European neighbors to serve as a pauper class between the WASPs and their shackled human property. The result of this massive game of Red Rover was a badly cobbled together empire that lacked the royal blood and soil that usually held the illusion of the European-style nation state together. New races had to be constructed to justify their class division. Scores of seemingly incongruous tribes were lumped together into massive racial conglomerations known as White and Colored (later to be broken down into Black and Brown). Whenever the numbers of the people of color swelled to numbers that threatened the White master race, whole chunks were chiseled off and arbitrarily declared White. Irish, Italians, Jews; we were all niggers once until we became more useful as White insulation than dark fodder.

Eventually, however, these badly manufactured moving lines collapsed beneath the weight of their own absurdity and racism was traded in, at least officially, for a new imperial creed of neoliberal globalism and market order. And so yesterday's White supremacists became today's racial harmony loving progressive internationalists, using the racism which they once thrived upon to justify their existence in order to prevent others from engaging in the kind of genocides that made them pillars of international order. Appeals to good old fashioned White supremacy are still trotted out from time to time by the likes of Donald Trump to rally those still suspicious of the new order around it with the vestiges of the old, and the racist power structure remains largely untouched where it remains useful in the courts and prisons, regardless of the politically correct language they have adopted like menthol to numb their pollution. Never the less, by and large, globalization is the new White.

What we're left with as this strange bastard empire slouches towards Bethlehem to die in a hail of bullets is a colossal landmass of lost souls without purpose. As we cling to the wreckage of our manufactured mass tribes we descend deeper and deeper into nihilistic violence and self destruction. We are ravaged by plagues of mass shootings and narcotics addiction. While our mandarins continue to start unwinnable crusades in a sad attempt to revive their past glories, we stand as a nation on the brink of a societal collapse unlike any seen since the Roman Empire. But in this crisis I can't help but to see great opportunities. Every apocalypse presents an opportunity, however fleeting, for utopia.

In the case of a post-racial/post-colonial America, I see the opportunity for a thousand utopias. Cleaved from the chains of more traditional national identities, American's and the citizenry of other vast neocolonial experiments like Canada and Australia have been granted the ability to redefine themselves however they goddamn please. What race do you want to be? What gender feels like freedom? What do you want to call your new species? We can choose to cling to our past as prisoners of a horrific imperial experiment, we can wallow in aggrievement and victimhood and go down with this rusted hulk of a slave ship, or we can rise above it, wipe the slate clean and create new tribes around the more abstract and less constraining concepts of love and community, family and kinship, anarchy and liberty.

There is no reason why hillbillies can't live on trout and moonshine in Appalachia while hippie dykes macro-may rainbow flags in New England and Mormon Fundamentalists build a new Zion in the deserts of Utah. There is no reason why we cant have Mutualism in Kansas, Syndicalism in Pennsylvania, Communism in Vermont, Paleolibertarianism in Oklahoma and Agorism in Florida. Hell, there's no reason we can't have them all in one city block. Ultimately, the only way to save this thing called America is to break this thing called America. This nation was a hideous mistake but it doesn't have to be our prison. All we have to do is embrace the endless possibilities of a voluntary society by dropping out of this broken involuntary one.

United we fall, divided we stand, dearest motherfuckers. Now lets Balkanize this bitch before the Chinese get a chance to pick at the bones. Viva la secession!



Peace, Love & Empathy- CH



Soundtrack; songs that influenced this post

*  Rush by Big Audio Dynamite 2
*  Severed by the Decemberists
*  Read My Mind by Boygenius
*  Sit Down by James
*  You Can't Put Your Arms Around a Memory by Johnny Thunders
*  I'm Free by the Soup Dragons
*  Private World by New York Dolls
*  Come Together by Primal Scream
*  This Must Be the Place by Talking Heads

Sunday, May 12, 2019

Trump's War In Venezuela Could Be Che's Revenge

Che Guevara had a dream. After decades of chasing the American Empire into guerrilla street fights from Guatemala to the Congo, Che dreamed of drawing that dreadful beast into an unwinnable quagmire on the graves of its first victims in the heart of Latin America, the treacherous mountain forests of Bolivia where the Conquistadors first struck it rich with Indio silver. Che dreamed of revenge for centuries of violence, of rape, genocide and colonialism. He dreamed of creating another Vietnam in the Western Hemisphere that would spread across Uncle Sam's indentured colonies and liberate his people, all of his people, from Tierra del Fuego to Tijuana and beyond. Che chased this Quixotic dream into the rugged highlands of Bolivia in 1966 where he got more than he bargained for. Less than a year later he would be dead at the hands of a CIA death squad. But his dream remained, festering just beneath the flesh of a thousand banana republics.

Flash forward to a half century later. Just a few jungles north-west of Che's grave, in the embattled nation of Venezuela. May 1st, May Day in this year of our lord Satan, twenty-hundred-and-nineteen. Everything should have gone perfectly. Everything was in place for Washington's latest Latino coup de tat. After softening up the oil rich left-wing pariah state with decades of crippling sanctions and economic sabotage, the stage was finally set. Uncle Sam's latest camera-ready caudillos, Juan Guaido and Leopoldo Lopez, a couple of scrumptiously fuckable brown choir boys who appear to have been hand plucked from Manudo by the School of the Americas had secured the loyalty of a score of Venezuelan power brokers from the Supreme Court to the Presidential Guard. The night before, Guaido announced his final triumphant putsch in the form of a march to his master's house at the American embassy in Caracas. A profound publicity stunt in which the entirety of Nicholas Maduro's fiercely loyal army would join him in overthrowing their own democratically elected government. His Employer in Chief seconded the motion vis a vis Twitter. It all should have gone perfectly, like a thousand times before.

To say it didn't would be an understatement to say the least. To say the most, Guaido's latest recital of counter-revolutionary puppet theatre became the geostrategic equivalent of Donald Trump shitting his tux on prom night. Guaido's little victory march turned into a laughable pity parade, with Kid Pinochet joined only by a handful of rent-a-thugs in military cosplay. His calls for open revolt fell on deaf ears in all but the toniest barrios of the capital where the entire spectacle was epitomized by the sight of bougie rioteers in Dolce Gabbana, chucking Molotov cocktails. The Supreme Court and the Presidential Guard may have played hooky but the peasants didn't. Upon word of Uncle Sam's latest plan to pervert their nation, even Maduro's enemies flooded the streets in rallies for his defense and, more importantly, the defense of the Bolivarian Revolution. If it wasn't for the cowardly actions of one role-crazy tank driver in Tienanmen mode, the whole flopped coup may have been a virtually bloodless affair.

Naturally, the Administration Who Couldn't Shoot Straight excepted defeat with all the honor and modesty of the Bad News Bears. Trump's troika of tyrannic twats, Mike Pompeo, Elliot Abrams and Lucifer's favorite mental midget, John Bolton, went berzerk scrambling for excuses to explain their complete and total humiliation at the hands of a porno-stashed ex bus driver nearly universally despised by his own people. It was Russia! It was, it was China! No! Hezbollah! No Cobra Kai! John Kreese himself coaxed Maduro off the tarmac with a hardy pep talk and told him to sweep the leg. Yeah, that's it. No! It was those wily Cubans again, just like in Grenada. According to Satan's push-broom, half their goddamn army blocked a sure thing without firing a bullet. Stealthy motherfuckers, those Cubans. Like goddamn ninjas, not one naked eye saw them coming or going. Anything, any excuse, any explanation other than the simple fact that Trump got punked and shit the bed. How did this happen? Latin American coups are supposed to be America's last growth industry. We use to overthrow another democracy every other week back in the Dulles days. What have we become? What went wrong?

The most painfully obvious reason, at least to anybody outside the swamplands of the Beltway, is that the American Empire has become a joke and Trump is the punchline. Lets face it, somebody should, after Ahmed Chalabi and the boys from Tel Aviv convinced the indispensable nation to hand half the Middle East over to Al Qaeda in a doggy-bag we became a little less indispensable. But aside from the inevitable decline of the west, the best answer for why the Bolivarian Republic couldn't be flipped like Honduras or Ukraine is the simple fact that it is indeed a republic, a democracy who's foundation predates even Maduro's far more honorable predecessor, Hugo Chavez, with the creation of the grassroots council communist experiment of the Barrio Assembly of Caracas in 1991.

Over a decade later, this movement was consecrated with its own popular revolution, not with the election of Chavez but with his defense in the streets during America's most successful or rather least unsuccessful modern Venezuelan coup attempt in 2002. Revolution is the original direct democracy. Once a people have fought and bled for a republic or any cause for that matter that they can call their own, it becomes very hard, even with state reinforced poverty, to convince them to sell it up the river for a song, especially if the lyrics are in English. This is why Cuba still stands firm as a viable anti-colonialist boogeyman after decades of Yanqui skulduggery. If anything, Trump made Maduro more powerful, which leaves him with all out war as his last option.

This is where Che comes in again. That's right, dearest motherfuckers, full circle time. Chances are, Trump is simply flexing his flabby glamour muscles for those decomposing fossils back in Little Havana. But if Bolton has his way, and never count that sick fucker out, every bluster will end in a ground war and a ground war in Venezuela would be a complete and total unmitigated disaster for the world's last superpower, an Iraq sized black hole in the heart of Bolivar country. This disaster however could be an unexpected gift from the devil himself to Latin America's flagging anti-imperialist left, from the fearsome collectivos to the resilient Shinning Path. Che spoke at length about the strategic value of creating two, three, many Vietnams to sap the American Empire of its resources across the Third World. With Afghanistan, Syria and possibly Iran, a costly war south of the border could be the final Vietnam that Che dreamed of and died for in Bolivia. Trump's war in Venezuela could be Che's revenge.

Call me a communist, dearest motherfuckers(we actually prefer Kropotkinite-American), but I can't think of a more fitting end for a more despicable Imperial experiment. Death by greed on the stoop of Potosi, in the dark heart of where it all began, with Che's wicked laughter hanging like cigar smoke above the ruins. I hate war, but with any luck this could be America's last.



Peace, Love & Empathy- CH



Soundtrack; songs that influenced this post

*  Every Body Here Hates You by Courtney Barnett
*  Police Truck by Dead Kennedy's
*  Tough Enough by Ex Hex
*  Fake Empire by the National
*  Comeback Kid by Sleigh Bells
*  Ahead by Wire
*  North American Scum by LCD Soundsystem
*  Mousetrap by Some Velvet Sidewalk


Sunday, May 5, 2019

Boredom and Suffering and Safety and Liberty

I'm not going to lie to you, dearest motherfuckers. My life is kind of a dumpster fire right now. In fact, it's been kind of a dumpster fire for the last few years. Even aside from my clinical crosses to bare: anxiety, depression, OCD, ADD, IBS, Lyme disease, dysphoria, bubonic plague, etc: The last few years have felt like a Macy's Day Parade of Ballardian car crashes. My grandmother gets dementia and has to be moved through fifty different fucking homes because none of them can be bothered to treat her like a goddamn human being unless their paid in speed boats. My cat and loyal companion of nearly twenty years loses both thyroids, shits everywhere and slowly dies on me. Then my best humanoid friend since high school up and moves to a different goddamn continent. Then my father gets run over by a sleep deprived paper-man and finds out he has cancer in the emergency room. Then some sick fuck shoots a geezer and blows his brains out next door to my loony Nana's latest nursing home. Then the cops murder another friend in cold blood for being autistic while black. And then and then and then and then....

It's gotten to the point where I've begun having weekly panic attacks reducing me to sobbing jello thrashing violently on my bathroom floor. It didn't use to be this way. Its times like these I actually miss being a shut-in. During the agoraphobic half of my twenties my days were typically structured around doing whatever the fuck I felt like whenever the fuck I felt like it. I could binge watch a half dozen French horror movies or completely lose myself killing cops on Grand Theft Auto and sink a week into researching the finer points of Wilhelm Reich's Orgone Therapy. I had no friends, no blog, no job, no obligations whatsoever. When the outside world got too menacing I could just make myself disappear like a ghost in my parents basement where they'd never find me. I had nothing to fear and that was the point. The universe had grown too goddamn big for me to cope with, so I chose to make the universe go away and become a hermit with no worries. No worries, that is, except my crippling loneliness, my total disgust with my biological sex, my fear of dying alone in that goddamn basement and my downright terminal boredom. And that's the trade off.

Madame de Stael once mused that, in life, one must choose between boredom and suffering, and I've spent the better part of the more stressful half of my twenties learning this lesson the hard way. My life in isolation may have been safe but it was also totally unfulfilling. As terrifying and painful as the last few years of my life have been I have fucking lived them and I've lived them my way. I've turned my little blog into a genuine menace to society. I have embraced the Lokian spiritual chaos of my fluid gender identity. I have made friends with everyone from single-black mothers to neofascist wack-jobs, the two most dangerous kinds of people on earth. I've also become a contributing editor to the worlds most dangerous website, Attack the System, not to mention a regular contributor to the vanguard of the Fifth Estate, CounterPunch. I've found my place in a tribe that I've been searching for my whole life and I volunteer handling diseased piss and blood for my people at a free AIDS clinic. Not only have I embraced my participation in the joyful suffering of the world but I've embraced outright danger. I have embraced anarchy, not just as a philosophy but as a lifestyle, and those things are very much related.

In life, one must chose between boredom and suffering. Similarly, I've come to believe that in politics, one must choose between safety and liberty. As a shut-in, I embraced safety, not just as a lifestyle but as a philosophy. I was a dutiful state socialist and the idea of a well regulated egalitarian society was as appealing to me as the shelter of my parent's basement. As a recovering hermit in the mad world I've come to find my past affection for benevolent statism to be almost as stifling as the mask of my former gender identity. The truth is, that a world of strict gun control, Scandinavian style welfare and the prohibition of victimless crimes probably would be safer. But it would be as boring as living in a human zoo. Sure, we'd all be well fed and taken care of, but we wouldn't be free. Like my former existence as a shut-in, it would be safe but totally unfulfilling. And for some people maybe that's enough, but I simply can't bare to live that way anymore. I didn't choose the terrifying liberty of the outside world to be a part of a society that's just as safe as my parent's basement.

So I've decided to embrace suffering, even with all its heartbreaks and panic attacks. And I've decided to embrace the liberty of anarchism even with all it's overdoses, border jumpers and active shooters, because, like another quotable corpse named Zapata once quipped, I would rather die on my feet than live on my knees. Come hell, dearest motherfuckers. Come hell.



Peace, Love, Suffering and Liberty- CH



Soundtrack; songs that influenced this post

*  This Is Why We Fight by the Decemberists
*  Human Zoo by Built to Spill
*  The Running Styles of New York by the Tallest Man On Earth
*  Me and My Dog by Boygenius
*  Neat Neat Neat by the Damned
*  Wild One by Iggy Pop
*  Wedding Singer by Modern Baseball
*  My Way by Sid Vicious
*  Imitations of Life by REM
*  Shades of Blue by Yo La Tengo
*  Free at Last by PUP
*  Float On by Modest Mouse

Sunday, April 28, 2019

Trans-Tribalism or: Why Traditionalists Should Stop Worrying and Embrace the Queer Revolution

I like conservatives. Not all conservatives. Not the bomb bomb bomb bomb bomb Iran kind or the endangered white male victim kind. But the Traditionalist kind. The Old Right, Paleolibertarian, fuck-you-mind-your-own-damn-business kind. I like people like Bill Kaufman, Wendell Berry, Ron Paul and H.L. Mencken. I admire the prose and courage of Yukio Mishima. I appreciate the insight of Martin Heidegger. I think Oswald Spengler's ideas are at least as prophetic as those of Gramsci and Marx. I even think Alain de Benoist has a few good ideas (and about 67 bad ones). Justin Raimondo used to be one of my favorite writers before he mysteriously vanished up Donald Trump's orange asshole. And I consider antifa-hate-thing Troy Southgate to be a personal friend of mine.

This isn't to say that I consider myself to be a conservative. Not by a long shot. I'm a queer Yippie anarchist who's madly in love with the Frankfurt School, still reactively defends the legacy of the Cuban Revolution and supports reparations, albeit voluntary ones. I've been called an SJW so many times, I mistake it for my initials. But I also have a lot in common with the more anti-establishment fringes of the right. I love guns, hate the government and despise Joe Biden almost as much as I do Hillary Clinton. I genuinely believe that an ideal society should be centered around agrarian village life and that the millionaires in Manhattan and Bel Air are so divorced from reality that they don't even realize that they're already living in hell. I even got my start sharpening my literary teeth as an online provocateur on the boards of the isolationist antiwar.com. (Scott Horton won't publish me because he has a bug up his ass about Gonzo journalism but my dear friend Angela Keaton will probably die trying to convince him otherwise, god bless her soul.) But in spite of all this common ground, most Traditional Conservatives don't like me. Most Traditional Conservatives don't like me because they are repulsed by my fluid gender identity.

The general opinion of many of the few fabulous conservatives on trannies like me is that we're some kind of perverted aberration of decadent western values. The painfully ironic thing is that this couldn't be farther from the truth. With the recent revival of pre-Christian ideals on the Traditional Right their remains no more logical reason for these folks not to embrace the burgeoning Queer Revolution. The whole concept of two biologically exclusive genders is the product of puritanical Judeo-Christianity and malignant metropolitan modernity. Long story short, it is the gender binary that is the perverted aberration of decadent western values.

Nearly all ancient pre-Christian civilizations from the Amazon to the Danube recognized the existence of third genders, people who in today's world would be labeled transgender. Many pagan deities from Odin to Dionysus exhibited gender bending attributes and in the ancient world many people like me were not only accepted but revered members of our tribes, often serving as shaman or medicine women. To this day, the tribal communities least affected and most resistant to modern "progress" retain space for people outside of the gender binary, from the Muxe of Zapotec Oaxaca to the Hijra of rural india.

In this light, the rise of "new" gender identities outside of the binary should be seen in a similar light to the rise of the Neopagan Movement. We are people struggling to honor our spirits beyond the limited opportunities of the modern scientific establishment that holds so little respect for the sacred. We are trying to return to the roots of a more spiritual society. I could give you reams of scientific studies showing that gender identities like my own originate in the womb. But labels and numbers will always fail to capture the transcendent peace I find expressing my androgyny through ritual and community. Being transgender, whether you identify as genderqueer, non-binary, two-spirit or genderfluid, is a profoundly spiritual experience. It is something deeply sacred that is ingrained in our very souls. Something that centuries of modern tyranny failed to suppress. We are not the product of late-capitalist decadence. We are a rejection of its shallow materialistic values. We have been given a choice and we have chosen our souls over our bodies. Something tells me that Jung would be proud.

In this new era of climate catastrophe and technological isolation, as empires crash and burn like wayward zeppelins, young people across the spiritually depleted expanse of the First World are looking inward for salvation. With the uncanny connectivity of modernties great suicide machine known as the internet, a new era of tribal awareness is upon us. People have grown weary of the empty commercialism and savage ultraviolence of progress. We want something new. We want something old. We want to belong. The age of ethnic class division has reached a fever pitch in this twilight of suburbs and towers. The new tribes will not be built upon the petty distinctions of biology but by the metaphysical power of the soul that truly connects us. To those on the right who I admire but still make the mistake to disparage my tribe, I am here to say, I am with you. We are all on the same side of history. Lets make it together.



Peace, Love & Empathy- CH



Soundtrack; songs that influenced this post

*  Human Behavior by Bjork
*  Roots Bloody Roots by Sepultura
*  (Nothing But) Flowers by Talking Heads
*  The Suburbs by Father John Misty
*  Life On Mars by David Bowie
*  The Glorious Land by PJ Harvey
*  Call From the Grave by Bathory
*  Staralfur by Sigur Ros

Monday, April 22, 2019

We Are All Julian Assange!: An Anarchist Soliloquy

These are the days, dearest motherfuckers. These are those days. These days. These days of rage. These do or die days. These all or nothing days. These days with the ice caps melting and the seas rising to drown their wayward children. These days with the empire collapsing all around us in heaps of flames like the glowing red spires of a thousand Notre Damme's. Days of hysteria and blindness. Days of gnashing teeth and talking heads decapitated from the reality they pontificate upon. Days of drones strikes and indefinite detention. The end of days for the worlds most abominable superpower, exit stage right. But the actors in this epic tragedy are revolting. Swing low, sweet cherry, Helter Skelter is coming down with a fight. Nero's finale is rapidly becoming a concerto. In days like these, truth has become a precious commodity. The kind of glimmering prize that even the better angels of our nature are tempted to horde. But sadly sometimes even horded prizes can be taken for granite. Washed away in the rapids of filth that can only be called "truth" in parentheses.

It's not easy to tell eight billion people that they are damned to a hell of their own creation. Pacifists have been crucified for far less. An entire estate once devoted to just such a task has collapsed beneath the weight of its responsibility. A whole new estate had to be created on the fringes to take their place. Unlike the Fourth, we dreary partisans of the Fifth Estate are not charming birds performing behind the gilded cage of a faberge news desk. We are not the beautiful people. We are the freaks, the weirdos, the hackers, the leakers, the bloggers, the trolls, the 300 pound kids in Belorussian babushka's basements pounding our stubby little fingers black and blue against our machines. We are the heard unseen. We are the fissures in the crumbling iceberg. The embers in the belfry. And this week we are all Julian Assange.

Seven long years buried alive in the catacombs of a South American embassy. Or was it eight? So hard to tell with no sunlight. Shanghaid on trumped up charges for the crime of exposing the horrific realities of America's rapidly collapsing forever wars. Seven long years of playing claustrophobic games of cat and mouse with the closing walls. Tempting fate to jump first from the brink of our burgeoning insanity. We told the truth. We showed it to them in stark black and white. We showed them the bodies. First the men, their guilt unverified, irrelevant. Then the women. Then the children. Fed, charred, writhing and screaming to the tomahawk fangs of a great green machine, it's vital organs laughing and cheering, basking in the thick black smoke of their state sanctioned cruelty. We showed them the digital kraken in the Utah desert. We showed them the tentacles connecting our police state to every flickering screen in this country and beyond, keeping tabs on the indentured citizenry of a world that can only be called "free" in parentheses. They just shrugged.

We told you the truth! We told you everything! We carried the freedom the press dropped on Golgotha like a soiled cross. We carried it on our brittle shoulders with no help from Christ. We sacrificed our freedom, our health, our very sanity. We gave it all to you on a silver platter like the severed head of John the Baptist and your thanks for this sacrifice is cruel indifference, total radio silence while the cameras of the Fouled Estate capture our final journey between prison cells. Skin bleached by shadows. Long beard, tangled and grey like the smoke from a drone strike. Head still held high, screaming obscenities to the heavens with the crumpled proverbs of Gore Vidal clenched in our shackled fists. Still speaking truth to no one like an Old Testament prophet warning a joyfully oblivious Gomorrah of the flames that await it if it consents to such barbarism. And it consents, with a shrug. It always consents. The truth is a second rate high at best to a population of permanent children weaned on fentanyl and war porn.

Today we are all Julian Assange because if they can crucify Julian Assange they can crucify any one of us. Like Julian, we are not simply guilty of being journalists. We are guilty of being members of the Fifth and final Estate. We are guilty of being truth tellers, untethered to the multinational life-support-system of big business and bigger government. We are guilty of colluding with one another across their manufactured borders dividing us into left and right. We are guilty of spitting out the poison of the propaganda that once passed for journalism in this country. We are guilty of betraying their shallow patriotism in the name of truth. We are guilty as charged and we are aggressively unapologetic for our crimes.

We are all Julian Assange. We are all Chelsea Manning. We are all Reality Winner. We are all Edward Snowden, Glen Greenwald, Ross Ulbricht, Cody Wilson, Jeremy Scahill, Peter Van Buren and Laura Poitras. We are the charred, writhing, screaming corpses of the earth. We are the children you left home alone while you went out starting fires in the Middle East and we found the loaded .45 you keep under the bed. We are the Fifth fucking Estate. We are pissed off and we are not going away. When you crucify one of us, you crucify all of us. I hope you brought a lot of nails. We will make things ugly for you and that's a promise I aim to keep. You want a war? You got one. Bring your guns, hell, bring your goddamn atom bombs. I will outfox them all with my blog. My keyboard is one weapon of mass destruction you don't have to fabricate. This isn't over. Not by a long shot.



Your's in Lucifer, Pan, Loki & Christ- CH



Soundtrack; songs that influenced this post

*  Drunk Walk Home by Mitski
*  Helter Skelter by the Beatles
*  Heads Gonna Roll by Jenny Lewis
*  Awful by Hole
*  Pretty by Girlpool
*  Float On by Modest Mouse
*  Don't be so Hard on Yourself by Alex Lahey
*  The Best Ever Death Metal Band in Denton by the Mountain Goats
*  Karma Police by Radiohead

Sunday, April 14, 2019

The Strange Success of Russiagate

It was the popcorn fart heard round the world. After two years of the vilest Russophobic hysteria seen since McCarthy was hauled off to a laughing academy in a straight-jacket, Robert Mueller, patron saint of butt-hurt Dems and indefinite Muslim detention, came to a conclusion on Russiagate only stunning to those of us who don't live outside the bulletproof walls of stone blind denial. After 37 indictments for totally unrelated Beltway scumbaggery. After $26 million of the taxpayers pilfered dollars flushed down the fucking toilet. After five hundred thousand hours of unhinged sore losers like Rachel Maddow giving Alex Jones a run for his money screaming their bloody heads off about one grassy knoll after another. The results of the great Russian Inquisition of 2019 are bupkis, notta, zero, no collusion whatsoever between one Donald J. Trump and the Putin regime. You could have heard a pin-head drop at MSDNC.

It was like the last scene of the Sopranos. Ivanka is struggling to park the Jag. Melania and Baron are popping onion rings. Putin heads for the bathroom with his hand shoved deep in his Members Only jacket. Journey swells on the jukebox. The bells on the door jangle. Donny's big orange face looks up it's "Don't stop!....". Lights out. And the pumped up kiddos in the #Resistance are smacking the side of the Sony until Robert Mueller's name appears on the credits. There all screaming high-holy what-the-fucks while skeptical cunts like me struggle to hold back our hysteric laughter long enough to say I told you so. Long story short; No collusion, you imbeciles! A sexually aggressive cartoon character became president because you insisted on cutting corners for a bomb dropping Wall Street battle ax who the Rustbelt casualties in purple America couldn't stomach voting for. You lose. You blew it. There are no boogeymen with long Slavic names to blame. You suck. Game over.

Naturally, the faithful in snowflake country are taking the news a little hard. Some of them are still holding out hope for a secret Easter egg of collusion buried somewhere deep in the fully unredacted Mueller Report and who knows, they could get lucky. There might be some shred of humiliating evidence lost in that massive unholy Finnegan's Wake of labyrinthine documentation. Some whimsical anecdote from a Ukrainian goat herder about a meeting between Trump and Stalin at a Burger King ten miles outside of Donetsk. Lord knows the Truthers managed to milk the 9/11 Commission Report for a few fleeting boners. And if the public never gets their hands on it, both sides of Congress will be able to spin this thing into more converging narratives than the New Testament. We will have the Adam Schiff Book of Mueller, the Devin Nunes Book of Mueller, the Dianne Feinstein Book of Mueller, each more bullshit than the last.

But the truly woke members of the Resistance have already begun to accept the harsh reality that if an old school neocon gumshoe like Mueller couldn't justify his pitiful career of framing immigrant children for terror plots with a climactic slam dunk then there was never really any 'there' there to begin with. Mueller is one of the assholes who legitimized the Iraq War with nothing but a few crumbs of yellow cake and a C+ term paper. If even a steel-haired master inquisitor like him couldn't scrounge up enough dirt to save face for such a pointless publicity stunt then the litter box is officially empty. No one wants to go down in history as a foot note next to Ken Starr. These well intentioned dupes who invested so much of their hopes and dreams of saving America from the Orange Menace into this aimless witch hunt are finally awakening to the nightmare that their crusaders for truth in the Fourth Estate and the deep state have mislead them down the rabbit hole into becoming the new Truthers. They're looking up at their dorm room walls as we speak, to a manic collage of crumpled receipts, torn magazine adds and scribbled Post-it notes tied together with thumbtacks and red yarn and asking themselves, "What in god's green dick have I become?"

With any luck these shell-shocked man-children will never trust another mainstream journalist or federal agent ever again and I take comfort in that. But does that mean that Russiagate was a total bust? Well, that really all depends on how you look at it. If the point was to vindicate the Democrats for losing the White House to a confirmed lunatic then the answer is a pretty resounding yes. However, if you're one of this countries talking heads on loan from the Military Industrial Complex, you have a long career and a grossly increased stream of income to look forward to. That's because the most lasting result of our latest Red Scare has been pushing both parties to embrace the most dangerously Russophobic foreign policy positions that we've seen since the Cuban Missile Crisis. Even the once ostensibly detente friendly Donald Trump has eviscerated the INF Treaty, threatened World War Three over Kremlin aid to the embattled Maduro regime in Caracas and completely forgotten Julian Assange's name as he's being hauled off to Florence Supermax for the next thousand years.

And perhaps this was the point all along. Not to impeach a president who has turned the world's foremost sinking superpower into a laughing stalk. But to insure that a geostrategic wildcard with possible financial ties to sanctioned Russian oligarchs stayed the course and kept the new Cold War the deep state has invested so much time and money into running. If the latter is indeed the case then I'd say that Russiagate has been a resounding success. Congrats, boys. Once again, you've made the world a far more dangerous and prosperous place. The Dulles brothers would be so proud.



Peace, Love & Empathy- CH



Soundtrack; songs that influenced this post

*  Surrender by Cheap Trick
*  Insomniac by Echobelly
*  Don't Stop Believin by Journey
*  Drunk Walk Home by Mitski
*  I'm the Man by Joe Jackson
*  Hate To Say I Told You So by the Hives
*  Back In the USSR by the Beatles
*  Don't Look Back In Anger by Oasis
*  Better by Regina Spektor

Sunday, April 7, 2019

Fuck the Border

Well, he finally got what he wanted, dearest motherfuckers. That vile crusted jizz rag we call a president has finally managed to manufacture an actual crisis at the border. After months of saber rattling conspiracy theories about secret jihadists and child actors, after years of demonizing people escaping the shitholes that Uncle Sam dug himself in the killing fields of the Northern Triangle, the grand swarms have finally arrived, too great in number for even the Donald's enemies on the fake news to ignore. Naturally, Trump is playing up this tragedy as vindication for all his racist wolf-crying but the sick reality is that it's likely largely the result of it. A self-fulfilling doomsday prophecy for the MAGA era.

As Trump and his Mexican counterparts have turned the southern border into a fucking war zone, refugees see the last window closing on their hopes to escape the despotic and corrupt regimes that American taxpayers continue to prop up. If not now than never. So they pool their feeble savings into massive caravans and weather the storm troopers on the American DMZ with their gas and their guns. And the talking heads on my TV set have the nerve to question whether or not these people qualify as refugees. What sane mob of mothers would risk such merciless abuse for their own children unless they literally feared for their lives? So they brave that perilous invisible line drawn in the sand by the crusaders of Manifest Destiny in the razor slim hope that maybe, just maybe, they can escape the hordes of badged barbarians who hunt them down in the desert like animals.

The result of their desperate predicament is prisons packed with children orphaned by our runaway police state. Caged. Traumatized. Violated. Abused in every way imaginable. There exists no moral excuse for torturing children like this. Zero. This is state sanctioned child abuse on an industrial level. The Pope must be green with envy. Thousands of these nameless kids rot in cages like the carcasses of chewed up animals at a war torn zoo. Filthy. Degraded. Dehumanized. Never to be reunited with their mothers, many of whom are undoubtedly getting gang-raped as we speak in our gulag archipelago of privatized black holes. Trump's solution to this sickening display of human depravity is naturally more human depravity. More guards. More guns. More walls. More barbed wire. Beautiful barbed wire. Beautiful dungeons stuffed with the poorest people in the Western Hemisphere. Beautiful roaming gangs of ill-trained, well payed and role crazy kidnappers cruising elementary schools and cancer wards for a fresh crop of brown prey.

In a nutshell, more beautiful infrastructure to manufacture the illusion that a border is anything but an invisible and largely arbitrary line in the desert drawn to police human beings like cattle and sell deadly toys to their ranchers. Borders are a concept defined by statism, colonialism and the violence these things thrive on. The only means of policing these commons is by violating the basic civil right of voluntary movement. There is no humane way to do this. Any do-gooder progressive poseur who tells you otherwise is either a liar or an imbecile. Either way, they only serve to justify the existence of the fascist police state, as does the very notion of the border itself. People have the right to protect their private property as they see fit but no one owns the desert. No one owns the Rio Grande. And no one has the right to police those peaceful nomads who choose to make a living across a landscape that has hosted their ancestral tribes since the white man was still fucking his siblings back in rat plagued Europe.

There is only one solution to the turmoil at the border which represents the basic values of the voluntaryism that gives all forms of anti-statism meaning and that is the wholesale disintegration of that border as a practice and a concept. I'm all for tribalism, it's only natural. But any tribe who requires a child abusing police state doesn't deserve to exist. We can all do better than this.

Fuck the border, dearest motherfuckers. And that's a quote you can chisel into my grave stone. Cowards who betray children should fucking suffer and that includes that vile, malignant scumbag in the Oval Office. Forget impeachment. sow me a noose. Nuremberg is missing an orange pinata. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a few thousand prison breaks to plan.



Peace, Love & Empathy- CH



P.S. To any censorious spook, public or private, who lacks the capacity to grasp my sense of humor, I live at 138 Katherine Drive in Bellefonte, Pennsylvania. Just try and hold-off the drone strike until after 11:30 PM. I don't like to miss Rick & Morty. Thanks.



Soundtrack; songs that influenced this post

*  Zombie by the Cranberries
*  White Minority by Black Flag
*  Panic by the Smiths
*  Lynch the Landlord by Dead Kennedy's
*  Paint It Black by the Rolling Stones
*  All Over Now by the Cranberries
*  First In the Gang to Die by Morrissey
*  Landslide by Beirut