Sunday, July 15, 2018

If Putin Did It: A Hypothetical Defense for a Hypothetical Crime

What if Putin did it? That's the question I've been getting a lot of lately. The proverbial 'it' being the oft-repeated accusation that the Russian government, under the direction of Czar ubermensch Vladimir Putin, colluded with Donald Trump in the 2016 election. I happen to be one of a handful of people on the left who has never bought into this half baked conspiracy theory, cooked up by Democrats to explain how they lost the White House to a reality TV monster and picked up by the so-called intelligence community to justify their purse shriveling budgets. But still I get asked, usually by some limp-wristed Whole-Foods progressive, what if Putin did it?

Since I've grown blue in the face trying to explain to these well intentioned morons that after 18+ months the worst thing that the biggest investigation since Watergate has managed to uncover is a mercenary Slavic clickbait farm and the kind of casual run-ins with Russian oligarchs that are sadly de rigueur for existence in the Washington swamplands, I figured I might as well just answer the goddamn question, which has developed a vibrant new layer of cacophony in the wake of Robert Mueller's latest wave of baseless indictments against Russian nationals who will never stand trial. So what if Putin did it? I would have to shrug my shoulders and say Karma's a bitch.

First off, let us dispense of the fairy tale that America is somehow a vibrant and glowing democracy who's chastity must be defended at all cost. If the 2016 election, a competition between the two most hated creatures in the universe, proved anything it's that this foul wasteland of a nation has reached near dystopian levels of plutocratic corruption. Two people, who no one likes, became front-runners in a "popular" election because they knew how to suck all the right cocks to get there. Even the ostensive dark horse, one Donald J. Trump, only achieved the coin to compete by hustling his ass for corporate welfare bucks like a two-dollar whore. So, whatever Putin did or didn't pervert, it wasn't a goddamn democracy. We lost that decades ago if we ever had it to begin with.

With that being said, what exactly are we accusing Putin of doing? What does the decidedly vague accusation of meddling actually entail. According to the bitching banshees of the DNC and their favorite neocon gumshoe Mueller, the Russians are the source of the "hacked" emails released on Wikileaks proving the already well-known fact that the Democratic establishment rigged the primaries for Hillary. Never mind that a great deal of the ex-intelligence agents who have been weened off the deep state tit have confirmed that all available evidence actually points to a leak within the DNC.... Is the worst accusation the Dems can lob at the Russians really that they told us the truth about our so-called democracy? Oh, lordy! Such treachery. This coming from a party that backed an administration who hacked into our own and everyone else's emails every fucking day. It's like a burglar bitching about his ex ripping off his stash. Cry me a fucking river you terminal hypocrites.

What else do we have in evil Putin's hypothetical bag of election tricks? Another popular theory is that the Russians were behind a cyber hurricane of fake news and propaganda seeking destabilization if not outright regime change. This is the perfect kind of conspiracy theory, the kind that is empirically impossible to disprove. The only real evidence that has been presented to us is that certain trolls were the product of Russian software. But anyone with a two-bit Macintosh can use software from any damn country they please. Is it possible that Russia could be behind such a campaign of chaos? Of coarse. It's also very possible that this accusation is a textbook case of Freudian projection, because we know for a fact that the United States has been using these tactics across the globe for decades. We know because they do it quite openly. We even have an entire branch of the State Department devoted to such projects.

The National Endowment for Democracy was started by the original neocon president, Ronald Reagan, to give our regime change projects a veneer of humanitarian legitimacy. This wretched organization is openly funding dumpster burning hooligans in Nicaragua and Venezuela as we speak. And they have funneled billions (with a B) into the pockets of those dapper neo-Nazi cum-rags who overthrew the democratically elected government of Russia's next door neighbor and cultural promised land Ukraine, creating one colossal dumpster fire raging at the Kremlin's door step. And this doesn't even include the '96 Russian presidential election that we helped that drunken puppet Boris Yeltsin steal. Are we really going to pretend like we're the victims of a phenomena we birthed and continue to foster openly. Talk about the pot calling the kettle meddlesome.

Speaking of which, the most blatant accusation of Russian meddling is also the most ridiculous. The erotic fan fiction of ex-MI6 spook Christopher Steele (essentially ghost written by the DNC) that the Donald is the unwitting puppet of the Kremlin thanks in part to a hidden camera video of the would-be president engaged in a lesbian piss party (and where was I?). Good stuff. Sexy stuff. But more than a little far-fetched considering that the source of this rumor was basically being paid to come up with it. But let's assume this one is true, and I really wish it was. Once again, I love to be the bitch to say we've been there, we've done that.

Back in the '60's the United States became utterly fixated with removing Indonesia's left-wing nationalist strongman, Sukarno, largely because he sought to remain neutral during the last Cold War, a crime the CIA considered worse than communism. One of the house of Dulles' many tricks they tried to play on what was by most accounts a relatively benevolent dictator (at least compared to his American backed neighbors and predecessors) involved spreading facetious rumors that Sukarno was involved in an illicit affair with his pretty young Soviet nurse. In one of the stranger chapters of the Cold War, the Agency even went so far as to produce no fewer than three phony porno movies of the two making the beast with two backs but even with a latex Sukarno mask (no joke) they still couldn't manage to find a believable body double for the dastardly neutralist. The US fell back on a complicated false flag coup that ended with Sukarno spending the rest of his days under house arrest and as many as a million Indonesian communists (and suspected communists) slaughtered in cold blood with our full support. Now that's how you meddle.

My point is, America has made a genuine cottage industry out of fucking with other countries governments, many of them more democratic than our own. I don't buy Putin following our cue. It's too reckless, it's not his style, and with Trump escalating bloodbaths in both Ukraine and Syria, it sure as fuck didn't work. KGB types like Putin are chess players. They play the long game, slow, methodical, measured, and they always have. That's why their rap sheet of Cold War hi-jinks isn't nearly as entertaining as ours. We're Quentin Tarantino , they're Andrei Tarkovsky, and I don't see Tarkovsky directing a B-grade blockbuster like Donald Does Washington.

But if Putin did do it, if Putin did throw a monkey wrench into our already flimsy excuse for a plutocracy, I would be hard pressed not to suggest that the Kremlin has more than earned the right to one low blow considering that they've spent the better part of a century fending off the dirtiest boxer in the sport. And what would make him any worse than the Koch Brothers, George Soros, Sheldon Adelson, or any of the rest of the stateside oligarchs who hardly have America's interests at heart when they "meddle" with our elections. This is already a dirty game, what's one more wolf in the hen house?

Long story short, we're already fucked, dearest motherfuckers. We don't need Putin to pop our cherry.

Peace, Love, & Empathy- CH

Soundtrack: Songs that influenced this post

* Friends of P by the Rentals
* Where is My Mind? by the Pixies
* Human Behavior by Bjork
* Passing Out by Strand of Oaks
* Golden Streams by the Hidden Cameras
* Monkey Wrench by Foo Fighter
* The Nothing Song by Sigur Ros
* Karma Police by Radiohead

Monday, July 9, 2018

An Agoraphobic's Guide to Surviving the Summer Heat

Once upon a time, summer was magical. Free from the oppression of the school year, those three months between May and September seemed like an endless procession of endless days ruled by nothing but unfettered freedom. Afternoons at the community pool, Pumpkins on the jukebox, Frito's always tasted better with chlorine. Day long adventures deep into the cool forests that hugged my neighborhood, discovering new species beneath massive boulders, throwing rocks into the quarry just to hear them bounce and echo off the limestone walls. Spending firefly sparkled evenings roasting marshmallows over crackling orange embers, leaving just enough room for dangerously overbuttered popcorn at the local theater.

But all good things come to an end and even semi-idyllic childhoods fall prey to that soul crushing godless beast called adulthood. The community pool becomes cracked and cold. The forest is overtaken by heartless developers and disease swollen ticks. Fireflies drop dead in the oppressive heat. And family run theaters are run out of town by corporate megaplexes that saturate nubile brains with weapons grade Hollywood horseshit. The summers of my youth were devoured long ago by climate change, late capitalism, Lyme disease, and crippling agoraphobia. But with the whole goddamn planet slowly boiling to death like a longusta lobster, there's plenty of misery to go around.

But never trip, dearest motherfuckers. There are still many ways to waste away the summer heat in the cool first world comfortability of your very own domestic prison cell and who better to give you tips on surviving the great indoors than a recovering shut-in who somehow managed to survive six goddamn years in her parents basement without going completely stark-raving berserk (key word; completely). So here's a short list of a few things that keep me from swallowing my own tongue during this heatwave hostage season.

Filthy Foreign Flicks

The most obvious thing to do while trapped inside by the oppressive summer heat is to jerk off, right? What? We're all thinking it, there's no reason why this can't be a sex-positive apocalypse. But mainstream porn bores the absolute shit out of me and that's not the bodily fluid I'm looking to expel. There's always the wonderful world of amateur fetish porn but you can only watch so many Japanese co-eds shave their pussy and piss the scum down the drain before it becomes monotonous.

Call me a hopeless romantic but I honestly prefer trashy European art films. The French and the Italians in particular seem to have an knack for turning fucking into a high art (the Curious Swedes get an honorable mention). It all depends on what you're looking for. If you're down with unshaved armpits and great big round asses (and who isn't?) then check out the works of that boorish perv Tinto Brass. If you're in the mood for a more feminine and downright gynecological perspective than you can't do much better than the David Cronenberg of pussy herself, Catherine Breillat. My personal favorite is the tumultuous lesbian romance Blue is the Warmest Color by Abdellatif Kechiche, but be forewarned, it's a heartbreaker, so you'll need those tissues for more than one reason. It's kind of like the Notebook, only the fingers go in the pussy instead of down your gagging throat.

Adult Swim

The official channel of twenty-nothing stoners and solipsistic insomniacs isn't actually a channel at all. It's a children's network that somehow got hijacked after hours by a tribe of smarmy post-grads in that forest city of smack-hounds known as Atlanta. Best known for being a hub of network adult animation reruns like American Dad and Family Guy as well as primo high-concept cartoons like Venture Bros. and Rick & Morty, If you can stay up late enough it's also actually home to some of the most avant garde television ever created. Batshit surrealist programming like Off the Air, Joe Pera Talks With You, and Check It Out! with Steve Brule push the envelope to the fucking edge of what can even be considered television. It's the kind of cracked genius that can only be tapped into under the influence of dangerous amounts of high-powered psychedelics. And its on expanded cable! Andy Kaufman and Hunter S. Thompson would be proud. We've come a long way, weirdos.

Speak of the devil, after masturbation, the second obvious option for solitary indoor summer depravity is getting ripped to the tits on mind bending recreational pharmaceuticals. What better way to take the edge off the fact that the anthropocene is doomed to the fate of the dinosaurs. I personally take way too goddamn many prescription drugs to risk mixing them with anything fun. But as said above, a lot of the art that I love was birthed under the influence of something or other, so my suggestion to you, dearest motherfuckers, is get fucked up but get educated first. The Erowid Center hosts the largest online library of legal and illegal controlled substances, over 63,000 documents on over 350 psychoactive substances, including accounts of personal experiences (good and bad) and helpful advice on safe tripping and harm reduction. Being the weirdo that I am, I just read it for kicks, but if you're feeling truly sinister try something completely bonkers. Chew some khat, drink some ayahuasca tea, or lick a Colorado River toad. The dark net is a great big land of endless opportunity. Just get educated first. And keep a notebook handy for new ideas about late night television pilots.

Celebrity Skin by Hole

Once you sober up from a long evening of toad licking, pick a warm cloudy afternoon, get a full tank of gas, pick a long country road, role all the windows down, and listen to Courtney Love's post-widow phoenix album, Celebrity Skin, from start to finish. With it's clear blazing guitar riffs and songs about forgiveness and redemption and blowing Edward Norton, it just fucking sounds like summer should feel and for about forty minutes on the open road it does. Back when I was at my worst, it was the one thing that could get me out of the house. Cruising down Purdue Mountain with the wind in my hair and Malibu blasting from my shitty old Ford Taurus was about as close to heaven as I was biologically capable of experiencing. Even the mushroom clouds looked angelic in the rear view mirror. It's the perfect summer album for our apocalyptic era.

Disinfo Guides & Amok Dispatches

Do you love obsessively researching bizarre arcane cultural phenomena but hate spending hours and hours and hours online? Is the caustic tyranny of that bright white screen slowly drilling into your brain like a fucking power drill? Well open a fucking book you junkie, you know, those things made of dead trees that you keep on your coffee table so your hipster friends will think you're an intellectual. The best alternative to the gonzo smorgasbord of internet are the Guides published by those masters of literary esoterica at the Disinformation Company. With unforgettable titles like You Are Being Lied To and Everything You Know Is Wrong, Disinfo Guides are thick, well researched, compendiums on a wide range of fringe topics from the occult and bizarre conspiracy theories to psychedelic drugs and obscure sexual fetishes, all written by a rogues gallery of professional freaks like Paul Krassner, Genesis P-Orridge, and Timothy Leary. Sadly, like many great works of bizarro non-fiction, they are out of print, but still available used on Amazon (my copies aren't for sale).

If you're looking for something even more esoteric (love that word), try hunting down one of the legendary Dispatches released by Amok, the proto-Disinfo, back in the halcyon days of guerrilla print media, the Nineties. These phone-book size tomes read like a Sears Roebuck catalog for perverted bibliophiles. It's a colossal reader of manuals, zines, pamphlets, and manifestos you'll wish you could get your hands on. If it had just a little more porn it would be even better than the internet. But if you're done jacking off and ordering experimental Chinese tryptamines on the dark web, then unplug, crash on the couch, and check one out. The more you know!....

The Boys by Garth Ennis

I've gotta be real with you, dearest motherfuckers, I fucking despise superheroes. I find the whole concept to be absurdly contrived and unbearably jingoistic. All powerful do-gooders saving the world from, well..., the world, just sounds like organized religion with tights to me. During a season drowning in these brightly colored Hollywood cliches, the best respite is the brilliantly iconoclastic comics of Garth Ennis, the anti-Stan Lee, and if you're a comic book buff who despises superheroes like me, it doesn't get much better than his twelve volume anti-supe magnum opus, the Boys, where the superheroes are all hedonistic psychopaths engaged in a corporate conspiracy to take over the military industrial complex. The Boys are a rag-tag gang of their victims payed by the CIA to keep the supes under control. It's gory, it's sexually explicit, and it's absolutely fucking hilarious. Wonder Woman is a drunk, Superman is a serial killer, and the X-Men are a harem for a Vatican-grade child molester. It's the comic that got Ennis fired from DC and it's a fantastic excuse to stay home and avoid the cinematic abortions being performed by Marvel at your local megaplex.

Brad Neely Videos

Probably best known for his criminally underrated and short lived Adult Swim experiments in animated absurdity like China, IL and Brad Neely's Harg Nallin' Sclopio Peepio (you heard me), crazed Dada cartoonist extraordinaire Brad Neely's finest works, in my humble opinion, are still his bonkers Lo-Fi internet series' I Am Baby Cakes and The Professor Brothers, the first being the whimsical philosophical ramblings of a gigantic thirty year old man-child (please, save your jokes until after class) and the second being the seemingly improvised revisionist history lectures of a pair of fraternal community college teachers. My personal favorites are the bro's insane takes on Bible history in which a motorcycle riding Jesus rises from the dead to to take the Apostles out for ribs and the perverts of Sodom and Gomorrah ("named after an even weirder move") fuck boulders painted to look like god's face. It's still the funniest fucking shit online and it's my go to whenever the world makes me feel like eating a shotgun.

Norwegian Black Metal

Miss the dark coldness of winter? Me neither. But sometimes, when the sky is on fire above the triple digit blacktop skillet that has become our dying planet (Thanks Republicans!... Oh! And Democrats), I like to shove my head in the freezer and crank some Darkthrone or Burzum and imagine that I'm freezing to death in an ancient pagan pine forest, surrounded by hungry wolves and ten foot icicles. With all the distorted buzz-saw feedback and impossibly inhuman cave screeching you can practically see the dancing green specter of the aurora borealis just behind the Trader Joe's mac and cheese. Sure their a bunch of church-burning satanists but goddammit if they don't make some deliciously scenic racket. More refreshing than a Popsicle. Hail Satan.

Dazed and Confused

There exists no better summer flick than Richard Linklater's 1993 coming of age cult classic. Set on the last day of school, 1976, in the Texas suburbs, the kids in Dazed aren't appealing because they're beautiful (though Parker Posey's deliciously frosty ass definitely is), we keep coming back to cruise with them because they're just like us and the losers we grew up with, bored, stoned, scared, horny, and just seeking to belong somewhere, even it's for just one night before adulthood crashes the party and we have to go back to working for the city. Take it from my old friend Dave Wooderson, dearest motherfuckers, no matter how depressingly hot it gets out there in the real world, you just gotta keep on livin man, L-I-V-I-N.

Take it easy and stay out of that stupid fucking sun.

Peace, Love, & Empathy- CH

Soundtrack; songs that influenced this post

* I Touch Myself by the Divinyls
* Star Spangled Banner by Black Lips
* I Wanna Get High But I Don't Want Brain Damage By Flaming Lips & Lightning Bolt
* Heaven Tonight by Hole
* Jesus Built My Hot Rod by Ministry & Gibby Haynes
* Superman by R.E.M.
* Jesus Etc. by Wilco
* Transylvanian Hunger by Darkthrone
* Slow Ride by Foghat

Monday, July 2, 2018


Never trust anyone a day older than thirty. I've spent most of my young life more or less living by that ancient hippie code and I've had good reason to do so. My childhood is pockmarked by adult authority figures who have in one way shape or form betrayed my trust in humanity. Growing up, the lion share of my fiercest bullies have always been older than thirty. Most of them were people that I was told (by other people over thirty) to trust and confide in, teachers, clergy, psychiatrists, administrators, people who taught me how to hate myself and shut the fuck up. Thankfully, their lessons never stuck but they sure as hell left a mark.

This is part of the reason why I'm an anarchist and this is part of the reason why I'm so passionate about youth rights. Part of me will always be that angry thirteen year old goth girl thrashing to get out. This is also why my birthday this year tastes a little bit bitter sweet. You see, dearest motherfuckers, this Saturday I turned thirty and I'm tempted not to trust myself....    OK, maybe that's a touch extreme even for me but adulthood feels fucking weird as hell and I'm not quite sure what to do with it.

On the other hand, I've had to fight like holy fucking hell, tooth and nail, just to get here. The very fact that I've lived to see thirty outside of an institution is likely some form of small miracle. My first introduction to adulthood after high school, as an aspiring college student, ended in a calamitous nervous breakdown before I could even officially enroll. I spent the next six years as a prisoner of agoraphobia, locked up in a prison of my own design. I was a twenty-something shut-in and I've spent the last four years of my life struggling like hell just to have one and it all started with this blog. I have always been a writer. I've been horrifying adults with my prose since I learned to grip pen in my left hand. But when college blew up in my face I convinced myself that my dreams of being a literary terrorist like Mikhail Bakunin or Hunter S. Thompson were thoroughly shit-housed. I was way fucking wrong and I've done my damnedest to prove it.

I've been through a lot of shit since I've started this humble blog and you, my very few most dearest of motherfuckers have been there with me through it all. Since I became Comrade Hermit: anarcho-genderfuck jihadist, I've been in and out of therapy, I've come out of the closet and made peace with my torrential fluid kaleidoscope of a gender identity, I've gone toe to toe with fag-bashing trolls and transphobic therapists, I've made friends with more fabulous faggots and mental patients than a goddamn Lou Reed song, I officially broke up with my teenage squeeze Lenin and fell back in love with my ex, anarchism, I've busted my goddamn ass writing weekly manifestos and even managed to get a few published. I'm also roughly halfway through writing a psycho-sexual novella (think Georges Bataille meets John Hughes on DMT) and I'm volunteering at a thrift store (not as sexy as that ass Macklemore would have you believe). All while my tight tribe of a family has battled everything from Alzheimer's to car crashes and everything in between.

I haven't done it alone either. This blog probably wouldn't even exist if it wasn't for my anarchist faerie god parents, Angela Keaton and Thomas Knapp, who have shown the patience of saints in leading me through the decidedly passive-aggressive minefield of the Fifth Estate (the only one worth fighting for!). And god only knows that I would likely be locked up somewhere like Ted Kaczynski if it wasn't for the undying support of my aging parents and my uber-cis-hetero brother who have embraced my perpetual weirdness on every step of this strange fucking journey to god knows where. And of coarse I've had you dearest motherfuckers, the few proud misfits with the vision to recognize a crazy diamond in the rough when you see one. Nothing has ever meant more to me than being heard and you have heard me. For that I can only thank you.

So this is fucking thirty? I don't know if I like it but it's not like I can give it back for store credit. I'm not going to lie because that's not my style, this shit would be a fuck-ton easier if I were a sane cis-gender lesbian who actually got laid. But when was the last time you read about a great artist or revolutionary with a cushy childhood? As for the proverbial million dollar question- Does this mean I'm an adult now? My answer is a resounding fuck no. As far as I'm concerned, I'll be twenty-nine for the next thirty years, minimum. Here's hoping those years come with a little more pussy and a little less tragedy, but I wouldn't count on it. Either way, I'm in this thing for the long haul and all the adults in this room and the next won't shut me up.

Peace, Love, & Nostrovia- CH

Soundtrack; Songs that influenced this post

* Whisper to a Scream (Birds Fly) by Icicle Works
* 1979 by Smashing Pumpkins
* Swim by Surfer Blood
* That's the Story of My Life by the Velvet Underground
* Celebrity Skin by Hole
* If I Ever Leave This World Alive by Flogging Molly
* Shine On You Crazy Diamond by Pink Floyd
* Keep the Car Running by Arcade Fire
* My Generation by the Who
* Please Don't Die by Father John Misty

Monday, June 25, 2018

Silly Fascists, Concentration Camps Are For Kids!

Donald Trump is putting families in concentration camps. I wish I was being hyperbolic or facetious, I wish a lot of things right now, decidedly un-Christian things. But, sadly, I am being completely and unabashedly honest when I say that our president is locking up children and pregnant women in sun roasted desert kennels unfit for rabid coyotes, let alone toddlers. I honestly can't think of any other way to put it. I honestly wish that I didn't have to fucking write this thing. But I'm an agoraphobic and I don't own a gun. This blog is the only weapon I've got. This blog and the vitriolic disgust that it weaponizes.

My disgust with a president who is using terrorism to ethnically cleanse whole corners of this country. There remains no other sane reason to rip infants from their mother's tit, wailing and screaming. Like the brazen daylight gestapo raids, these TV-ready acts of inhuman cruelty are designed for the express purpose of terrifying a community of millions to flee for their children's lives back into the arms and machetes of cartels and death squads.

My disgust in a cruel and draconian immigration system that predates Trump's reign by decades. It wasn't so long ago that this country was an open border sanctuary nation that welcomed yesterday's wetbacks, the Italians, the Polish, and my own people, the Irish, fleeing sectarian violence and state sanctioned starvation, with open arms. This lucid and humane system that helped build this country has been traded in for a barbaric, Kafkaesque, labyrinth of slow and costly rules and regulations that give desperate people no choice but to take the law into their own hands. All in defense of an invisible line drawn in the desert by people who stole it from the ancestors of the very same "illegals".

My disgust with a country that outsources misery with corrupt one-sided trade laws that are anything but free and genocidal puppet states that are anything but democratic, and then coldly refuses sanctuary to the refugees that these imperial policies produce. El Salvador, Guatemala, and Honduras were all gruesome playgrounds for Reagan's anti-communist death squads who raped, murdered, and tortured hundreds of thousands of innocent people on Uncle Sam's dime. Along with Mexico, what remained of these blood spattered banana republics had their ancient indigenous subsistence agrarian systems depleted by cheap imports from the factory farms up north, where many of these out of work farmers crossed the boarder to reclaim their pilfered livelihoods. These same nations have also been held hostage by our equally corrupt war on drugs. Civilians have found themselves caught between warring factions that have both grown bloody rich, not from the plants that have long grown there but by the prohibition that made a war on these plants a booming industry for both sides of the fight.

My disgust with both political parties who would rather crack each others skulls before the unblinking eye of mid-term election news coverage than find an actual fucking solution to this mess. The Republicans, who sell their terrified constituency of endangered white males a one way ticket to a past glory that exists only in the imaginations of overgrown children, with the price of admission being the scapegoating of a people even more powerless than they feel. And the Democrats, who use the Latino vote like a goddamn condom, playing the part of the great white savior when it was liberal lions like Bill Clinton and Barack Obama who set the stage for Trump's theater of cruelty with their own despicable, record breaking, deportation regimes. To the fucking sycophants who runs this sinking ship of a country, no horror is too sacred to be pimped out for electoral cache.

My disgust is more powerful than the highest caliber handgun on the market and I have plenty of high powered disgust to go around. But I reserve the lion share of my vitriol for the very notion of the border itself, a state contraption who's very existence depends on violence and degradation. The unspeakable cruelty we are currently witnessing on our southern border is the inevitable result of its very existence and we now see this beast in it's truest manifestation across the globe. In Italy and Greece, where boatloads of refugees are driven back into the watery grave of the sea. In the Balkans, Hungary, and Poland, where walls of razor wire have been erected to slit the wrists of the orphans of wars that those very nations partook in. The border itself is a contraption designed for fascistic terror. Its abolition should should be the priority of any sane creature with some fraction of a heart. I don't have an easy solution to Trump's kiddie concentration camps or the family friendly penal colonies he was brow beaten into replacing them with, but a riot would be a nice start. Let this post be the first brick that crashes through the White House window.

Fuck you, Donald .J Trump, super sadist. Fuck you very much.

Peace, Love, & Fury- CH

Soundtrack; Songs That Influenced This Post

* Reign In Blood by Slayer
* List of Demands by the Kills
* Down In It by Nine Inch Nails
* Suspect Device by Stiff Little Fingers
* Prison Song #01 by System of a Down
* Police Truck by Dead Kennedy's
* People of the Sun by Rage Against the Machine
* Getting Closer by Nitzer Ebb
* Too Many Puppies by Primus
* Can Do by TV On the Radio
* Rock & Roll N*gger by Marilyn Manson

Monday, June 18, 2018

Create Two, Three, Many Stonewalls

I'm sure I don't have to tell anyone its Pride Month. Its been advertised everywhere from Google to Twitter. A coming out party for the wholesale corporate appropriation of an underground movement. Its not even Queer Pride Month anymore, that title has become too politically incorrect, it might make the straight world uneasy. It's LGBTQ Pride Month, that Disneyfied assimilationist alphabet soup cooked up to get the breeders comfortable enough to bother curing AIDS.

Not that I have anything against Pride Month, quite the contrary, I'm very proud to be a genderfuck lesbian. I'm just apoplectic over the fact that I finally came out just in time for my community to sell out. If you were to go on the advertisements and fanfare alone you'd think we were celebrating the day that drone strike sociopath Barack Obama granted us the right to government sanctioned monogamy. The liberal establishment who suddenly loves us so goddamn much always seems to fail to mention that Queer Pride Month was originally launched to commemorate a violent uprising against the very state they hold so near and dear.

June became Pride Month in celebration of the Stonewall Uprisings of late June, 1969. After the NYPD launched another violent raid against another underground gay bar, the Stonewall Inn, in Manhattan's Greenwich Village, the T-girls and gay boys decided they weren't in the mood to get bashed again by a bunch of bribe taking, sexually confused, neckless, cretins with badges. June 28, 1969 was the day the fags bashed back. And they bashed hard. These weren't today's garden variety house queers either. This mob was a beautiful patchwork of the colors of the queer rainbow that have been erased by the LGBTQ establishment in favor of marketability. These were the drag queens, unpassable trans women, Radical Faeries, and flannel bound bulldykes, my people. We took on the state and we fucking won. We literally kicked the ass of the meanest police force in the country, digging our nails into their thick necks and cracking their jar-heads wide open with bricks. By the time we were finished with our enemies in blue they were running for their lives from the queer volcano they ignited.

This was the birth of the Queer Liberation Movement. Within weeks a score of revolutionary organizations were hatched across the Five Boroughs and eventually the country. Influenced by fellow anti-colonialist urban guerrilla movements like the Black Panthers and the Latin Kings, they weren't asking for reform, they were demanding revolution and they were declaring war against the state that oppressed them. This is precisely what the mainstream left and their assimilationist quislings are trying to pink wash with their politically castrated Pride Month and the tragically defanged LGBTQ movement. Queer liberation has always been an inherently anti-statist movement and contrary to popular belief our fight is far from fucking over.

To paraphrase the late Che Guevara, we need to create two, three, many Stonewalls. We need to create a Stonewall in every red light district being gentrified by corporate "family" fascists. We need to create a Stonewall in every prison where trans people are cruelly quarantined into isolation for their own protection when it's the guards who are the real threat. We need to create a Stonewall in every public school where children are segregated and deprived based solely on the contents of their genitalia. We need to create a Stonewall in every clinic that denies people basic services for not conforming to the gender on their birth certificates. We need to create a Stonewall in every tax-exempt church that still advocates abuse against their children, our children. We need to create a Stonewall in every federal agency that victimizes our people for crossing the border or trying to make a goddamn living with their own bodies. We need to create a Stonewall at the headquarters of every pharmaceutical lobby that takes our tax dollars through corporate welfare and jacks up the cost of hormones sky high to a level that only a pampered bitch like Caitlyn Jenner could afford.

And we need to create one great big queer fucking Stonewall uprising in Washington D.C. where a fascist empire presides over its unwilling subjects across the globe with all the mercy of the Marquis De Sade. Where the pitiless war machine orders drones and bombs and bullets to murder our brothers and sisters and everything in between with endless wars and homophobic puppet regimes. We need a million Stonewalls, dearest motherfuckers. And we need to keep that fire burning until we chase every pig out of town.

Peace, Love, & Empathy- CH

Soundtrack: Songs That Influenced This Post

* 1969 by the Stooges
* Queen Bitch by David Bowie
* Revolution by the Beatles
* Saints by the Breeders
* Queen by Perfume Genius
* Street Fighting Man by the Rolling Stones
* Your Dog by Soccer Mommy
* Ahead by Wire
* Modern Girl by Sleater-Kinney 

Monday, June 11, 2018

Fuck You, God (....I Love You)

I don't have to tell anyone who's read this blog that I have a rather complicated relationship with god. I seem to swing violently from dewy eyed new age mysticism to church burning blasphemy. Chock this up to being raised in the wrong gender in a decidedly fag-bashy diocese of the Catholic Church. Being told in so many words that your true self belongs in hell, forever, by a bunch kiddy-diddling fuck-heads in backwards collars tends to leave a mark.

On the other hand, I was also raised by a devout and loving mother who seems to see angels all around her and believes with all her heart that they serve every creature, big or small or queer. I never shared her undaunting faith, like my chemist father, I've always been a little more skeptical, but goddammit if I didn't respect the absolute hell out of it and on more than a few occasions the power of my mother's faith has felt like a salvation on a desperately damned planet of false prophets and self-serving hate-mongers.

So, yeah, my relationship with spirituality is kind of complicated. At no time does this manic washing machine of existential cataclysm get more absurdly bipolar then in times of severe crisis. And wouldn't you know it, this week turned out to be a real fucking dumpster fire. I was suppose to take the week off and go to the Jersey shore with my folks and my brother, a trip we scrape together for and look forward to all year. But last week some snoozing twat ran over our momentary tranquility with a fucking car, literally.

My 59 year old father was out for his daily mourning run last Tuesday when, out of nowhere, he gets completely shit-housed by some overworked paper man asleep at the wheel. Broke both legs, a foot, his nose, carved up his face like a goddamn Christmas roast and left him in a pool of blood for my brother to find him. My father is the strong silent type, not very emotional, but he's the glue that holds the rest of the whack-jobs in this fucking family together. When he got creamed, we all got creamed.

I've already been fighting off a particularly nasty bout of depression and anxiety all month long and when my mother woke me to the news that my dad was in the emergency room, I went into a kind of spiritual split personality disorder. On one hand, I clutched a rosary in my fist like a closeted Republican at Mardi Gras, begging god to give us a fucking break. On the other hand, I was spitting bullets at Christ for being such a fucking cunt.

We work hard and suffer our asses off all year, hanging on to one goddamn week away from our miserable existence and you plaster our soft-spoken patriarch on some ass-wipes grill like a goddamn grasshopper? What the shit is your fucking problem, son of god? Cancer, Lyme disease, depression, Alzheimer's, gender dysphoria, and now fucking car crashes? What's next? Bubonic plague? You'd think we nailed you to that fucking cross ourselves. Give us a fucking break for once. Kind and loving god, my fat tranny ass.

This was where my already severely scarred brain was at when we went to see my father in the hospital. My brother was a goddamn trooper but me and my mother could barely keep our collective shit together. You'd think the car hit us, twice. But god speaks in weird accents when you least expect it. In this case it was through my black and blue father. This man of few words said two things from his hospital bed that blew my mind like an acid trip. He told us he felt bad for the bastard who hit him and he told us it was a miracle that it wasn't worse.

Perspective is a tricky bitch. Just when you think you've got it all figured out, you don't. I think maybe god, supposing such an entity exists, is pretty similar. If my crippled father can see the bright side through black blood bandages then maybe god isn't such a cunt after all. Maybe that very compassion is god and we all have a bit of her inside us. I don't know. But I thank god or whoever-the-fuck that my father is alive to gently show us our place with his strength.

Hold on there, dearest motherfuckers. Somethings out there, it's bigger than us, and together we're going to carry that weight.

Peace, Love, & Empathy- CH

Soundtrack; songs that influenced this post.

* A Deal With God by Kate Bush
* In Heaven by Japanese Breakfast
* Selfish Feelings by Christopher Owens
* Strange Condition by Pete Yorn
* Rejoice by Julien Baker
* There Is a Light That Never Goes Out by the Smiths
* On My Knees by Middle Kids
* It's Okay by Dead Moon

In loving memory of Anthony Bourdain, who taught me how to tell the truth until it hurts. Godspeed, you fantastic bastard. You won't be forgotten.

Monday, June 4, 2018

Rise of the Decadents: Notes From a Spenglerian Faggot

In spite of my Freudo-Marxian syndicalist roots I pride myself on being something of a cafeteria philosopher, taking a little influence here, there, and everywhere, even from the fringes. Fuck, who am I kidding, especially from the fringes. Wack-jobs make the best visionaries. But as far as the far right is concerned you'll be hard pressed to find any work of philosophy with anything resembling intellectual depth. Even the non-racial shit (few and far between) is plagued with the kind of half-baked mysticism that's only fascinating to a pre-teen metal-head (been there, done that). I make an acception, however, for the work of German Conservative Revolutionary Oswald Spengler, in particular his World War era magnum opus Decline of the West, which is more than worth thumbing through, even for a genderfuck anarchist derelict like me.

The basic thesis is that the world is broken up into distinct cultures (Greco-Roman, Persian, etc.) that tend to have a shelf life of roughly two thousand years. Every culture rises, stagnates, and develops into a civilization once its creative impulse wanes. And every civilization falls into a murky abyss of cultural decadence (people like me) and monetary greed (people like Trump) from which a new culture springs, starting the cycle over again. The focus of Spengler's theory was that at the dawn of the First World War, Western Civilization had reached it's winter time. The Faustian Civilization, as Oswald referred to the stagnant West was bleeding out. It's organic aristocracy of philosophers and prophets had been replaced by a plastic plutocratic elite. It's spirituality had been replaced by the paper god of money. It's temples had become transformed into veritable piggy banks for greedy heretics. And most foreboding of all, the West had entered into a final state of militant Caesarism with it's increasingly desperate populace looking to enigmatic strongmen for guidance in the turbulence.

Sounds familiar, right? Much like his fellow Teutonic doomer, Karl Marx, Spengler's philosophy seemed a bit presumptuous at the time but with each passing generation it seemed to become more and more relevant. It seems downright prophetic in today's crumbling American Century. We as a society have lost all meaning in an era of total technological isolation and savage environmental devastation. While the already damned American Empire makes it's dogmatic death march to World War 3 with the rising culture of Eurasia and the oceans begin to boil like Satan's cauldrons, our directionless citizenry can't seem to be bothered to so much as look up from their flickering devices to see the growing mushroom clouds on the horizon. The few who do look to uber-statist demagogues like Donald Trump and Bernie Sanders to save them from themselves. As the Mountain Goats once sang, the warning signs all bright and garish, too far in number to ignore.

On one hand, as a stalwart anti-imperialist, I'm tempted to welcome the destruction of this violent civilization with arms wide open. On the other hand, being an openly perverted genderless heretic, I have to ask, where do I stand in this Faustian winter time. According to many figures on the Splenglerian right, it's people like me who represent the decadence that is drowning what remains of civilization in a slurry of iconoclasm and sin. I'm gonna just rip the fucking needle off the record right now and take the dangerously contrarian position of agreeing with my enemies. Sinners like me are gutting this rotting civilization like a goddamn jack-o-lantern and I say good riddance. In fact I would argue that this controlled cultural demolition is precisely the cure that Doctor Spengler ordered.

What so many people on the right and the left fail to recognize is that Spengler was not an ideologue or even a pessimist. He was an analyst and a decidedly pragmatic one at that. Spengler didn't view the observations in Decline as inherently bad or inherently good but rather as inherently inevitable. To Spengler cultures were complex organisms and, like all organisms, They're born, they live, and they die. My personal spin on this theory is that decadents like myself are a necessary part of this life cycle and that the rise in queer identity can be directly traced to it. When a culture stagnates into a civilization the only right thing to do is to put it out of its misery. That's where we come in.

The unholy decadents achieve this end by upending everything that the prisoners of the collapsing West hold near and dear. Dated notions of gender, race, government, and religion, all must be purged in the fires of a cultural revolution that only freaks like us can wage. Think of us as Faustian lumberjacks, chopping down the dead trees of a derelict society to make room for a new forest. Radical traditionalists shouldn't look upon us as a historical aberration but rather as a nomadic tribe like that of the Mongol hordes, laying the ground work for a new dynasty with our acts of constructive vandalism. However, I say it's high time the decadents take it a step further and form a Spenglerian race all our own.

According to Spengler, the only power stronger than the opium of capital is blood aka race. Counter to the standard biological interpretation of race popular with the poseurs of the Third Reich and the alt-right, Spengler defined race as a people united in outlook. If this doesn't describe the queer community and our more radical allies then I don't know what does. And who better to construct a new culture than the wreckers of the last, a ragtag stateless tribe of faggots, trannies, dykes, witches, doms, power bottoms, anarchists, libertarians, whores, Gnostics, occultists and other assorted liberated radicals. Together we can create our own civilization, the anti-civilization of post-modern stateless tribalism. A new spiritual awakening beyond the tired trappings of stagnant puritanical dogma. A new pantheistic religiosity that defies the boundaries of the last. No color. No gender. No gods. No masters. Maybe this wasn't quite what Spengler and Marx had in mind but they taught me that a proper understanding of the patterns of the past can help us define our future. Call me their bastard dauphin and quiver.

This is a call to arms, dearest motherfuckers. As the West crumbles beneath our stilettos let us form a new culture of unfettered liberty. Let the queer age begin and let it begin with me. After all, every new beginning comes from some other new beginnings end....

Peace, Love, & Empathy- CH

Soundtrack: songs that influenced this post

* Closing Time by Semisonic
* Man-Size by PJ Harvey
* Fake Empire by the National
* Old College Try by the Mountain Goats
* Geyser by Mitski
* Rise by Public Image Ltd.
* Honey Bunny by Girls
* Turn It On by Flaming Lips

P.S. I'll be going to the shore next week to get my head straight. It's a yearly necessity. So there'll be no post next week. But never fear, my crazy faggot ass should be back in fine form two weeks from today. PEACE- you know who.