Sunday, October 13, 2019

Screwing Over the Kurds: An All-American Pastime

I have long been a vocal supporter of the Kurds, even before the Syrian clusterfuck sparked the Rojava Revolution. Part of this comes from my checkered past as a lapsed Tankie-Guevarist. I grew up gorging myself on New Left folk tails of Third World rebellion. The fearsome PKK were one of a dozen or so clans of crimson bearded renegades, fighting like Castro for some post-colonial utopia. I read everything I could find about the Bolshevik adventures of groups like FARC, Hezbollah and the Naxalites. But the thing that set the Kurds apart was their fourth quarter conversion to anarchism which closely mirrored my own.

Abdullah Ocalan discovered the works of Murray Bookchin right around the time I dropped communism for panarchy and syndicalism. And when the rest of Syria sunk into CIA sponsored Salafi hell, the Ocalan influenced Kurds of the YPG created a successful stateless society that flourished amidst the chaos. It was proof positive that anarchism could work. But it was all over the moment the YPG accepted the poison gift of American military occupation. Anarchism quite simply cannot coexist with the greatest source of imperial tyranny on the fucking planet. The only sick comfort I took in this nauseating arrangement is that I knew it wouldn't last. That's because, dearest motherfuckers, screwing over the Kurds is a time-honored American pastime.

The original Kurdish screwjob was the work of that whimsical Bond villain known as Henry Kissinger. During his busy time as Secretary of State and National Security Adviser under Nixon and Ford, respectively, Henry cooked up a devilish little scheme with the help of his flunkies in Israel and the Shah's Iran. Iraq was becoming suspiciously cozy with the Soviet Union. So they flooded Iraq's long suffering Kurdish independence movement with Soviet hardware pilfered from the killing fields of Vietnam and the Sinai Peninsula. Mustafa Barzani, the founding father of the modern Peshmerga, didn't trust the Shah farther than he could squeeze his ham-fist up his pinched little quisling asshole, no sane Mesopotamian did, but he believed in his heart of hearts that America was that shining beacon of freedom on the hill. Mustafa was a sucker. Once Henry and Co. managed to frighten Iraq into playing ball, we quickly drummed up a deal between them and Iran that included handing over the Kurds on a spit. Not only did old Henry, that Nobel pacifist, refuse to even return Mustafa's frantic calls for help, he cut all humanitarian aide to the region as Helter Skelter came tumbling down. The Kurds were slaughtered and Kissinger summed up America's Kurdish policy in a nutshell when he told a disgusted congress that "One should not confuse undercover action with social work." If only the Kurds took his advice.

Flash forward some fifteen years later, after blitzing our former client Saddam Hussein damn near the brink of oblivion, good old Pappy Bush, that sainted scion of global statesmanship, encouraged the Kurds along with the similarly oppressed Southern Shiites to launch a final putsch against the porno-stached tyrant with all kinds of sunny predictions and empty promises. When the rebellion predictably fell apart, the US once again left the Kurds high and dry to be slaughtered in the thousands. The whole point of the rebellion wasn't success. Quite the contrary. It was designed to provoke a vengeful and largely impotent Saddam into slaughtering our "allies" in order to justify our own war crimes in the region, past, future and present. We knew precisely how Saddam would react because we helped him react the last time he faced a Kurdish uprising, shit, we even sold him the goddamn mustard gas. Once again, the Kurds were just convenient pawns used to provoke another bloodbath that put us in a greater position of power in the region. And, once again, if only the Kurds had learned a fucking lesson from this latest act of imperial treachery on America's part, maybe just maybe, they could have avoided the carnage they currently contend with. But some habits die harder than others.

America didn't truly get behind Rojava until our dreams of a Salafi no-fly zone went belly up. I've long held the creeping suspicion that Rojava was never intended to be anything but a seat warmer for our NATO allies in Turkey. That's why I suspect we pushed the YPG to the brink, taking territory that had always been Arab. That's why we pushed them to abandon the very achievable goal of federal autonomy and burn their bridges with an amenable Assad. We were isolating them from their already hostile neighbors and stretching them razor thin, all while establishing a perfect borderland territory for Turkey to invade and launch more Salafi mayhem from. Never mind Trump's idle threats and empty bluster, Turkey's "Safe Zone" is being primed to be the new Idlib and the Kurds won't be the only ones to get fucked.

This leaves the Kurds with no other choice but to beg for forgiveness and make up with their former allies in Assad's Syria and the Islamic Republic. And this sliver of hope for regional anti-imperial unity is the primary reason I personally support Trump's latest sloppy Kurdish screwjob. For decades the Kurds have been trapped in the worst case of battered spouse syndrome since Nicole Simpson. Their toxic tryst with our gruesome empire has crippled their ability to reach their full revolutionary potential. But a new dawn is rising over the battered sands of Eurasia. For the first time since the end of the Cold War, America's victims have formed a coalition hell bent on ending our hegemony in their hemisphere once and for all. A coalition of half-crippled survivors of the American Century known as the Axis of Resistance. And if the YPG/PKK play their cards right, maybe just maybe, they might have an open place at their table for a stateless clan of bearded renegades with an acquired expertise for taking a stick to NATO's Achilles heal in Turkey.

Don't cry for the Kurds, dearest motherfuckers. Their wounds may be self-inflicted but they aren't terminal. This screwjob could be the last screwjob and the first day of the rest of the Rojava Revolution. The Kurds may be hurting now but they have been presented with the perfect opportunity to have the last laugh over the graves of their betrayers. I only pray that they take it.



Peace, Love & Empathy- Nicky/CH



Soundtrack; songs that influenced this post

*  High and Dry by Radiohead
*  Joey by Concrete Blonde
*  Helter Skelter by the Beatles
*  Looking for America by Lana Del Rey
*  Killing for Company by Swans
*  Louie Louie by Black Flag
*  War Dance by Killing Joke
*  Ever by Flipper
*  What About Us? by Ministry
*  Hate to Say I Told You So by the Hives

Sunday, October 6, 2019

Climate Cthulhu: A Post-Modern Horror Story

It is October 2019, dearest motherfuckers, and we are living in a horror story. To say that these are apocalyptic times seems to be a gross understatement. The Biblical notion of Armageddon, what with the gnashing of teeth and pillars of salt, seems almost quaint in our age, like some new attraction at Disney World where the Dipping Dots are served up to the kiddos by friendly leather-clad catamites. The Thunderdome looks like a goddamn jungle gym when compared to the Lovecraftian horrors of climate change. Mankind itself is being stalked by a colossal beast of our own creation with tentacles reaching far and wide across the globe.

From the sinking islands of the South Pacific, which are being swallowed whole like pills by the sea, to the frontiers of Alaska, where the once long frozen tundras are being set ablaze in massive god-size funeral pyres. From the tropical jungles of Central Africa, being erased from the globe by a tidal wave of rapidly expanding Saharan dunes, to the urban jungles of South Asia, where the sun burns so hot that the pavement of the streets themselves melts like ice cream in an oven and the sadhus shrivel up like burnt jerky on the blistering sidewalks. This beast has killed millions. This beast has slaughtered whole civilizations, liquidated glaciers the size of continents and murdered entire seasons in cold blood. Spring and Fall have been burned from the fucking calendar and Winter is next. This beast is just getting started and soon the dog days will last forever, or at least until forever too falls victim to this environmental Cthulhu. Howard Philips shrieks as Mother Nature wails. Ladies and gentleman, we are fucked. The killer has us cornered in the attic and their will be no final girls in this slasher nightmare.

This beast of which I speak, call it climate change, call it global warming, call it whatever the hell you like, is the bastard creation of a Doctor Frankenstein which too goes by many names; globalism, capitalism, neoliberalism, consumerism, industrialism, imperialism. All just different genres of that fickle vice known as modernity, a fork in the road of human evolution where the brightest monkeys fooled themselves into believing that their self-serving technology made them superior to the rest of the living world. As usual, Marx was right and Marx was wrong. Marx was right to observe that capitalism, one of modernity's more garish offspring, thrived on the nihilistic, almost vampiric thirst for constant expansion. He was wrong however to assume that capitalism's insatiable hunger would inevitably lead to its own demise. There is another, far more unsavory, end game for the capitalist beast besides the karma of popular revolution, and that is a mass murder-suicide by expansion itself. Marx never imagined, even in his most fevered dreams, that humanity could be so ruthless as to destroy itself with toxic pleasure and use the old Kraut's beloved industrialism to do it. It took mad men like Theodore Kaczynski to see that coming. Now Ted sits in his concrete tomb in Colorado, too sickened by his own vision to even snarl "I told you so!" to the once smug guards who's homes are now on fire in the Rockies.

I avoided writing on this topic for years. Not simply because it is incredibly unpleasant. I've spent my life in the shadows of exceptable human behavior, cross-dressing and burning flags just for kicks. Unpleasant is a second language to me. I've avoided writing on the Climate Cthulhu largely because I felt I lacked the proper vocabulary to capture it truthfully. Like many Americans, I know little of science. I can grasp the importance and meaning behind the terminology but I lack the basic right-brain skill set to properly explain it. But as I find myself entering the thirty-first October of my short existence, I realize that climate change is not merely a scientific story, but a horror story for the post-modern era. That is the kind of story I can tell. And the most truly horrific detail of this grisly tale is the simple, almost unpalatable, fact that it is likely too little too late for a happy ending. We have taken our greed and our vanity and fucked the earth herself. Now the earth must correct us before we can rape her to death with our "progress." Our best case scenario as a species is that billions will die, society as we know it will collapse and a few pockets of humanity will adapt and survive.

There are people who don't want you to believe this. Powerful people offering us the opium of hope. But let there be no question that this is a poison gift delivered by the fathers of the beast themselves. That global virus of big business and big government created this nightmare. Trusting them to fix it, especially by awarding there institutions like the United Nations and the American Federal Government more power, more money, more expansion, is a tragic fool's errand and we can't afford to be the errand boys of the bourgeoisie anymore. The UN and the Davos set will not save us. They wouldn't even if they could. They will take our money and our sovereignty and our dwindling resources and use them to save themselves. They will live out a Caligulaesque post-apocalyptic existence in fortified bunkers and space colonies while the rest of us suffer and toil and disintegrate in the fires of the hell their greed made possible.

So, is there any hope? Perhaps, but very little. The monster of climate change was birthed in the cesspool of imperial mass society. Our best hope, our only hope, is to unite beneath a drop-out culture of total retreat from this modern monstrosity we dare call civilization. We must look inwards, towards our own communities, embrace the communalism of our tribal heritage and reject the poison fruit of bigness. We must take care of each other by taking care of our own. Only radical localism can combat radical globalism. However, in order for this strategy to have any impact beyond that of a suicide mission, we will require mass grassroots mobilization. The children of the climate resistance movement have shown us that the possibilities of decentralized global revolt can still shake the towers of the elites.

Sadly, the learned helplessness driven into the subconscious of these kids by statist institutionalism has rendered their otherwise admirable actions impotent. It is a heart-wrenching lesson in the power of manufactured consent that now even our youth revolts have been rendered to the status of begging the adults of the global elite to save us from their own tyranny. I weep at the feet of Greta Thunberg. In any other era she would have been a pubescent warlord like Joan of Arc, bringing the big men of this world to their knees to beg her sword for mercy. In the sickness of our current age she has been reduced to the roll of a glorified dominatrix. The powerful wait in line to be scolded and humiliated by her razor tongue before posing for a fist-bumping selfie and returning to their private jets as they pat themselves on the back and quip "I deserved that." 

Well they deserve worse. We need to step it up and stop begging for scraps at the master's table. We can no longer afford to be their dogs. If these are the last days of human existence then I say we go down biting the hand that feeds. These kids need to realize how dangerous they are. They should take their boycotts to the next level and stop engaging in the fascism of compulsory schooling altogether. They shouldn't settle for flight shaming. They should lay their bodies across the tarmac and slash the tires of the private jets of glad-handing climate charlatans like Al Gore and Leonardo DiCaprio. And we the adults should do our part by doing more than just wallowing in our guilt. We should boycott the beast itself by refusing to pay the taxes that feed it. We should chase the multinationals from our neighborhoods, villages and cities with pitchforks and torches. We should use those torches to burn down our SUVs and suburbs, and we should use the insurance money to by dirt bikes and tepees in the woods. We should hurl toxic waste in the faces of the developers and bankers and lobbyists and oilmen so even they cant hide from the monstrosity of their deeds. These are the do-or-die times and we need to become fucking savages again.

But we also need to prepare ourselves for the worst, dearest motherfuckers. The rich are already in survival mode. They are using the specter of the beast they built to consolidate their power. We need to stop wasting our time on the circus of electoral pageantry and impeachment hearings erected to distract us from a burning world while the arsonists loot from the ashes. We need to direct our attention not just to crippling the beast but to protecting our families, our communities, our tribes, our people. We need to gather with those who mean the most to us and map out a strategy for survival and foster the sense of communal responsibility that progress robbed us of when they began this horror story many years ago. This may not be the happy ending we want but, if we're lucky and we fight like hell for what really matters, it may be the bittersweet ending we deserve.



Peace, Love & Empathy- Nicky/CH



Soundtrack; songs to burn and rive too

*  Baby's On Fire by Brian Eno
*  End of the Line by Sleigh Bells
*  I Wanna Be Your Dog by the Stooges
*  The Future by Leonard Cohen
*  Lonely Planet Boy by New York Dolls
*  The Hand That Feeds by Nine Inch Nails
*  Monkey Gone To Heaven By The Pixies
*  Man Size by PJ Harvey
*  I Think That I Would Die by Hole
*  Sappy by Nirvana
*  This Tornado Love You by Neko Case
*  Our Town by Iris Dement

Sunday, September 29, 2019

The Conscience of a Contrarian

Some months are harder than others to be a poorly trained anarcho-gonzo visionary. During these last couple months of the hellishly hot post-apocalyptic summer of this year of our lord Xenu, twenty-hundred-and-nineteen, I couldn't seem to write a blog post that didn't smack one class of my dearest motherfuckers or another across the face like a goddamn dead cat. I attempt to make an argument that Ilhan Omar voters and Tucker Carlson viewers have far more in common in the realm of war and peace than they do with any carcinogenic class of moderates in their own parties and the leftists act like I'm some kind of crypto-fascist Rudolf Hess apologist. The very next month, I make an argument that the white race is little more than a violent social construct that does a grave injustice to all poor people and the same paleos who applauded my daring and seemed primed to declare me their genderfuck Phyllis Schlafly last month are taking their turn tying the fucking noose. I just can't win with you people. It's not every month that you manage to piss off people you admire on both ends of the aisle, but what can I say? I'm a regular Renaissance bitch.

It's months like these that I get saddled by my friends on both the left and the right with the dreaded C-word, and I ain't talkin bout See-You-Next-Tuesday. The word reserved for cantankerous ideological perverts like me is contrarian. Such a universally reviled slur, but what the hell does it actually mean. The popular consensus among the mainstream politicos is that a contrarian is simply a childish rebel who picks confrontational opinions based largely on their radical cache or lack of popularity among the scions of the centrist wonkgeist. A contrarian zigs when the rest of the country zags. A contrarian picks fights just for cheap kicks and the verbal exercise.

And I'll own up to some of this. I've always been a rebel, distrustful of any and all authority, I mean, shit, I'm a lapsed Irish Catholic raised on punk rock and cowboy movies, it's practically in my fucking DNA. But the fact that this distinction is seen as some kind of vice is just proof positive to me of how far down that proverbial rabbit hole our nation's special genre of bipolar bipartisanship has taken us. To your average partisan American dupe, a contrarian is essentially someone who refuses to comply with our toxic left-right paradigm. A leftist who refuses to blindly back Russiagate just because they recognize the well established fact that Trump sits somewhere on the psycho branch of the anti-social personality tree. Or a conservative who doesn't require endless war or organized fag-bashing to satiate his or her own personal biblical philosophy.

When it all comes down to it, a contrarian is really just anyone across the political spectrum devoted to consistent anti-authoritarianism, regardless of who holds the reigns of power. A contrarian is an ideological skeptic who rejects the poisoned fruit of dogma, and there was a time before antifa when all true anarchists were contrarians. Generally, politically speaking, most of the major continental ideologues, left, right, or whatever have both positive and negative qualities. Their ideas only become dangerous when they're viewed as literalist scripture. Proudhon, Marx, Spengler, Freud, Stirner and Nietzsche are all brilliant thinkers who's works provide a profound insight into the human condition that should be valuable to everyone and anyone. The problem comes when their works are given the untouchable biblical status of the word of god.

Communism failed because the Bolsheviks took Marx's Dictatorship of the Proletariat way too goddamn literally and the free market mutated into crony capitalism when western bankers mistook its amoral lawlessness for all out Social Darwinism. Any idea, no matter how morally valuable, can become malignant once it's appropriated by an established status quo and assimilated into that aristocracies world order. In no place is this vampiric phenomena more severe than in the false utopia of liberal democracy, where authoritarianism has been perfected through the softcore violence of assimilation. A brave old world where the name of the game is 'If you can't beat em, kill em. And if you can't kill em, then bring em into the fold.' This crafty strategy can and has been applied virtually everywhere with devastating results.

When the Labor Movement in this country became too dangerously successful to suppress with Vickers' and thugs alone, FDR, America's original fascist president so revered by the Sandernista left, assimilated these organizations into the federal government with the New Deal and turned them into the mafia-friendly glorified corporations that blindly back outsourcing politicians today. When the Civil Rights Movement grew fangs in the late sixties, that racist old Texas pigfucker, LBJ, dumped water on the riots by paying off desperate black folks with the consolation prizes of dead-end welfare programs and high-rise prisons billed as subsidized housing. When the Women's Movement began to pick up steam, it got hijacked by a bunch of tranny-bashing, slut-shaming, bourgeois puritans who tag-teamed with the Christian Right to battle the scourge of free speech, sexual liberation and working class red light districts. And when peace finally began to sell after the horrors of Vietnam and the failures of Iraq, the war machine appropriated the language of human rights to justify their war crimes as being necessary to prevent other war crimes. Even the anarchists who once shook the streets in black blocs have been domesticated into antifa censorship squads, "deplatforming" the fascism of controversial speech while pigs keep tabs on both them and their right wing targets.

In an age when the mainstream is defined by its appeasement to violent globalism in the name of progress and the various industrial complexes it feeds, and even subversive subcultures are being gobbled up, coproratized and sold as another commodity of a beige mass culture of the crumbling First World, contrarianism is the only viable mode of rebellion resistant to subsidization. The outdated faux tribalism of left vs right, black vs white, must be swapped by a less divisive solidarity which only recognizes the bottom vs the top, the subjugated vs the subjugators, the powerless vs the powerful. Mormons and drag queens and paleos and anarchists must unite to reject the false inclusion of assimilation into a degraded society and defend our tribes and each other's against those who seek to appropriate and destroy them. Deplorables must become feminists. Black Panthers must become sovereign citizens. Conservatives need to adopt the drop-out subculture of the New Left and leftists need to adopt the localist isolationism of the Old Right. We must all embrace a culture too radically idiosyncratic to be commandeered and a skepticism to all sacred cows deemed unquestionable.

Contrarianism in defense of liberation is no vice, dearest motherfuckers. It's a goddamn necessity. Question everything and advocate the devil. After all, isn't every devil just another renegade angel in horns?



Peace, Love & Empathy- Nicky/CH



Soundtrack; songs that influenced this post.

*  Just What I Needed by the Cars
*  Alternative Ulster by Stiff Little Fingers
*  Kids In the Dark by Bat For Lashes
*  Friend or Foe by Adam Ant
*  Firestarter by the Prodigy
*  Sympathy For the Devil by the Rolling Stones
*  Sweet Jane by the Cowboy Junkies
*  Slowdive by Slowdive
*  Stay With Me by Faces
*  I Love You, I'm Going to Blow Up Your School by Mogwai

Sunday, September 22, 2019

When Drones Come Home to Roost

It was fucking beautiful. There are no more accurate words in the English dictionary to describe the vision I saw. I awoke Sunday afternoon, turned the TV on to CNN and there it was in all its infernal glory like Christmas Morning in hell. Standing six-hundred stories high above the sea of sand in Saudi Arabia's Empty Quarter, a leaning wall of towering flames shimmering across the night sky like an aurora borealis made of fire. As all the usual yammering skulls off camera spun fantastic tall tales about an Iranian conspiracy to deny the House of Saud their Allah given right to rape and pillage with abandon, only one thing, one message, burned through my frontal lobes like Abqaiq crude, "They did it. The Houthis really did it!" The resounding feeling of karmic justice was downright euphoric. I wanted to cry. I wanted to dance. Fuck, I wanted to masturbate to the sight of those rabid dogs getting exactly what they deserved.

After spending nearly half a decade watching Saudi Arabia's savage holocaust in Yemen and the dogged Houthi rebels courageous if at times downright suicidal resistance, after pouring over a veritable ocean of pictures and footage of starving and slaughtered Zaydi children, somehow this conflict on the other side of the planet had become very personal to me. In spite of being a decadent pagan faggot, the chaste Houthi rebels had come to symbolize a greater narrative beyond their own struggle for independence. They had come to symbolize a greater resistance to a dying empire of Atlantic supremacy represented by their twisted Arab cartels in the Persian Gulf, the Salafi Goliath to the Shia Davids. But now, the unthinkable. David struck back hard with his RC slingshot, landing a spectacular blow to the vital organ Goliath held most dear, his wallet.

There is a certain twisted irony in the fact that the Saudi Kingdom's self-proclaimed 9/11, the original being an attack they were intimately involved in, didn't cost a single human life. After all, a sociopathic absolute monarchy like Saudi Arabia has little use for the frivolity of human life, only the monetary gain they can wring from it's corpses. So the greatest tragedy ever visited upon such a venal nation should naturally cost them nothing but dollars. After decades of brutal Wahhabi bloodshed across the globe; throwing acid in the faces of unveiled coeds in Afghanistan, firing rockets into civilian apartment blocks in Chechnya, gang raping Gypsy Holocaust survivors in Kosovo, stoning queer children to a bloody pulp in Iraq, decapitating whole villages of "infidels" in Syria, and pushing the entire nation of Yemen to the brink of genocide with all the latest and greatest gadgets their precious petro-dollars could buy from the American Military Industrial Complex, it took just ten toy planes to bring these bullies to their fucking knees. The illusion of traditional military supremacy has been shattered. The drones have finally come home to roost.

And this is why fingering Iran for these attacks has become so necessary, not just because Iran is the current boogeyman of choice so desperately reviled by the psychopathic Saudi Kingdom and their cantankerous orange marionette in the Oval Office, but because of the message the real masterminds behind this splendid propaganda of the deed send. That message, written to every powerful army on the globe in fire across the desert sky, is you are not safe and we can destroy you. The drone was a toy of death designed by the American war machine to make crimes against humanity so simple that even a pock-marked fat-ass in a Las Vegas airbase could wipe out a village with the click of a mouse before knocking off early to indulge in jalapeno poppers and casual harassment at the Hooter's down the strip. Now, much the way Anonymous and Wikileaks had done with the internet, rag-tag anti-imperialists like the Houthis have turned this tool of imperial conquest against the empire itself and used it to outfox trillions of dollars of cutting edge Washington technology. The war machine has been rendered irrelevant by its own infernal innovations. This is a good thing, a very good thing.

This isn't just a win for the Houthis and the starving children they protect. This is a win for cash-strapped, working-class, revolutionaries everywhere. This is a win for the otaku crypto-anarchist looking to strike a blow against the Red Army from the comfort of his Hong Kong high-rise. This is a win for the Gazan fisherman looking to pierce the iron dome and vanquish the IDF sunken ship that had fed his family for generations. This is a win for the Kashmiri Muslim displaced by a Hindu Nationalist army that conceals her very existence beneath its shadow. This is a win for the migrant caravan looking to jam up the Border Patrol's digital wall just long enough to escape their rapacious grasp. This is a win for the Cascadian primitivist seeking to even the score with the local dam drowning his hunting grounds in the murky deep.

This is a win for all of us, dearest motherfuckers, and we should appose the latest blackballing of the Iranian Revolutionary Guard, not just because wars of mass deception are more evil than most, but because credit must be given where credit is due. Those Saudi savages weren't leveled by another state army. They were leveled by one of us, stateless partisans in a guerrilla war to crush empire in all its twisted manifestations. Let me be the first queer anarchist lumpenproletariat to congratulate my unlikely Houthi comrades for a job well done. Hey man nice shot.



Peace, Love & Empathy- Nicky/CH



Soundtrack; songs that influenced this post

*  Hey Man Nice Shot by Filter
*  Golden Light by Twin Shadow
*  In a Big City by Titus Andronicus
*  Sleep Now In the Fire by Rage Against the Machine
*  Real Long Time by White Reaper
*  Ironic by Alanis Morissette
*  I Touch Myself by the Divinyls
*  The Boys Are Back In Town by Thin Lizzy

Sunday, September 15, 2019

The Bigotry of 'Hate Speech' and Facebook Fascism

Being a mouthy genderfuck internet personality, I've grown accustomed to hearing some pretty caustic shit online and I've generally come to except it. After the sixth or seventh time being threatened with gang rape by yet another alt-right troglodyte, the shock runs a little thin. I've actually become rather skilled at the digital-jujitsu that's become a necessity for existing as an openly trans person online. I've even made a few hideous friends on the far-right in the process. Generally speaking, most trolls are either childish pranksters or sadistic psychopaths. If you keep a razor sharp tongue and a sense of humor, either one can be handled with relative ease. This isn't to say that they aren't despicable human garbage or that words don't hurt, but there are things far worse than hate speech online and I personally have never felt more dehumanized or offended as a queer person than I have by the way Facebook treated me this past week, all in the name of policing hate speech and patronizing marginalized creatures like myself.

It began as a pretty typical week for a mildly agoraphobic gonzo visionary. Writing, volunteering, therapy, more writing, hyperventilating, more therapy. All through out this literary basket-case existence, I try to keep the handful of my very dearest motherfuckers who follow me online informed and entertained with a withering barrage of foul mouthed snark and incendiary rants. After coming home from an extra soul digging, come-to-Jesus, round of group therapy, still basking in the teary-eyed afterglow of cathartic trans sisterhood, I went to log offline for the night, only to discover that Facebook had banned me for 24 hours. Now usually this kind of authoritarian negative reinforcement would be reason for celebration. I work very hard to upset the normies in the straight world and if you haven't been suspended from Facebook in this line of work, you're probably not doing it right. Right? But it wasn't simply being banned that disgusted me. What really drove the proverbial screws into my thumbs was their excuse. You guessed it, 'hate speech'. And what heinous thing did I dare post to be deserving of such virtue signalling corporate censorship? I can't remember the exact words because they dutifully expunged them from my permanent record, but it was something to the effect of-

"Afghanistan is where empires go to die. Maybe we should send the Taliban a gift basket, "Knock it off with the fag-bashing but keep up the good work. Hugs and kisses, Some Tranny Anarchist""

Pretty typical anti-imperialist gallows humor from yours truly and hardly unusual, but lets pretend for a second that Facebook really gives two fucks and a shit about 'hate speech' and unpack their cracked Orwellian line of reasoning. There are only two bits of that admittedly iconoclastic blurb that could possibly be construed as hate speech. The first is my saddling the poor Taliban with the label "fag-bashing." If this is hate speech, it's clearly not directed at any hypothetical 'fag', but rather the bastards who bash them. Which essentially means that Facebook is protecting the butt-hurt feelings of those fine dope-peddling pederasts in the Taliban, the poor babies. And if this was it, then I probably would have spent those 24 hours laughing my faggot ass off at the hysteria of such knee-jerk political correctness, rather than stewing like a genderqueer gumbo.

The one that set me off, that made me want to break my pumps off in Zuckerberg's pasty ass, is the insane contention that the way I choose to self-identify as "Some Tranny Anarchist" constitutes as hate speech. Who the fuck do those motherfuckers think they are, telling me which word I can or cant repossess to empower MYself and MY community? I own my space as a crazy, heathen, tranny, bull-dyke, and some limp-wristed, milquetoast, bean-counting, cubicle jockey or the cryptic computer algorithm he rode in on is gonna tell me how to step in those heels? Fuck you and fuck your mother.
If you don't wear this fucking skin, you don't get to tell me how to fucking rock it, you little bitch.

Lets get fucking real here folks. We all know who runs Silicon Valley and it ain't cunts like me. It's a whitey-white, cis-hetero, Proud Boy's club that has little space for anyone who sits down to pee. The fact that these bougie billionaires in training are the first line of fire in the war on hate speech is proof positive that the concept in and of itself is inherently bigoted. When you give the same white supremacist patriarchs who invented this bigoted power structure the right to determine what hate is, you give them control of the narrative. You afford them the ability to censor the very people they facetiously claim to protect anytime the conversation gets uncomfortable.

When a queer person identifies as a fag or a black person identifies as a nigga, they aren't just repossessing those words, they're assuring that they remain a part of the conversation. This runs contrary to censorship's culture of mild mannered silence which numbs the sting of injustice without addressing the authoritarian hierarchy that serves as its source and, Surprise! Surprise!, those rules are being installed by, you guessed it, that very same authoritarian hierarchy. Political correctness has nothing to do with equality. It's about making it easier for bigots like the ones in Silicon Valley to hide behind the Teflon shield of decorum and good manners. These cunts want the niggas, spicks, faggots and trannies like me to be seen but not heard,  domesticated exotic pets in their multicultural cyber-zoo. Well, I'll say it again, fuck them and their shallow 'feelings.'

All of this, however, assumes that this countries twisted concept of political correctness is the source of my temporary suspension, and it may be, but considering the sheer volume of possible 'hate speech' to be policed on social media juggernauts like Facebook, it seems more than likely that my latest expression of vocabulary gender rebellion is likely motivated by more political aims. I may be a small fish online but my small pond of followers includes some big scary sharks; militiamen, national anarchists, tankies, third world journalists, euroskeptics and curiously, as of last week, every Russophobes favorite boogeyman, Aleksandr Dugin, who reposted one of my many calls for revolutionary left-right bottom unity on his own Facebook page just before my frequent use of 'hate speech' suddenly officially crossed the line.

All of this would sound like something straight out of an Oliver Stone flick even to me in any other decade. But in our age of post-Trump McCarthyite hysteria, where DARPA and State Department think tanks like the Atlantic Council are quite openly working in tandem with Big Tech to damn the Fifth Estate that threatens its zeitgeist dominance to the digital apartheid of 'fake news', nothing seems paranoid anymore. Seemingly bit players on the antiwar fringe like Daniel McAdams and Peter Van Buren have been banned for life from Twitter for the kind of off color banter that occurs fifty tweets per second from the kind of trolls I've grown muscular grappling with without repercussion. Could I be next? Could you? The message to me seems to be pretty clear, if your world view falls outside of the globalist status quo, watch your fucking mouth because your next post could be your last. I feel safer already. How about you?

As far as I'm concerned, all censorship is bullshit and the corporate manufactured territory of social media is as good as any other commons. We the people who occupy these spaces have squatters rights and policing our profiles for politics of profit makes the Mike Zuckerberg's of this world no better than any other garden variety slumlord who flagrantly violates the rights of his tenants. I for one am a mutualist and a syndicalist, so I don't fucking swing that way. Property, even of the intellectual variety, should defined by occupation not management and any business that profits off the labor of others without the balance of democracy is little more than a modern slave driver. In an increasingly digital universe it's high time that we brought this master class to its fucking knees and take back what's rightfully ours. We need to put the socialism into social fucking media.

Being the technologically retarded Luddite that I am, I couldn't begin to tell you how to achieve this goal. I'm a big idea bitch, dearest motherfuckers. I'll leave it up to you to handle the nuts and bolts. But one thing I can tell you with total confidence is that I will never stop using social media to afflict the comfortable or comfort the afflicted, and you better fucking believe that that includes proudly and loudly identifying as a crazy, heathen, tranny, bull-dyke. If Facebook wants to shut me up, they're gonna need something with a higher caliber than a fucking keyboard to do it. Bring it on, you cissy honky twats. I've tangoed with worse and won.



Peace, Rage & Empathy- Nicky/CH



Soundtrack; songs that influence this post

*  Violence by Grimes & i_o
*  Let's Lynch the Landlord by Dead Kennedy's
*  All My Friends by LCD Soundsystem
*  It's Coming It's Real by Swans
*  Express Yourself by NWA
*  Gene Kelly by Mika
*  Retard Girl by Hole
*  In a Big City by Titus Andronicus
*  Stigmata by Ministry
*  Queen by Perfume Genius
*  Closer by Nine Inch Nails
*  Kids by Pup
*  The Future by Leonard Cohen
*  I Live My Broken Dreams by Daniel Johnston



This post is dedicated in loving memory to Daniel Johnston, another freak who never retreated from his pride in being broken. Daniel's own perseverance over mental illness and the restraints society failed to put on him because of it inspired me during one of the darkest periods my life to pull the proverbial revolver from my mouth and put my pain down on paper. Without his influence, a highly doubt that this blog would even exist. Godspeed, my crazy brother. You will not be forgotten.


Sunday, September 8, 2019

Yemen as Arabian Vietnam

It wasn't supposed to end this way. The last soldiers and agents of the world's biggest and deadliest empire, fleeing Saigon with their thorned tails between their legs as a rag-tag army of half-starved guerrillas inched closer by the hour. The last Bell helicopters, stuffed to the brim with bourgeois refugees of the fascist Yankee quisling state of South Vietnam, bumbling about before they scatter like highway vultures interrupted by a semi as they attempt to pick the last bone clean on a withering carcass. This was unthinkable just a decade earlier, when LBJ decided to turn a contentious civil war into a full blown holocaust. We had thrown everything but the White House kitchen sink at those yellow commie savages; bombs, napalm, agent orange, near institutionalized campaigns of rape and slaughter. We had turned the jungles of Indochina into a living hell, just a few Pinkville's shy of a full tilt genocide. But they just kept coming. Tiny men and women in black pajamas with hearts like lions, throwing their malnourished bodies into the guts and gears of the war machine. At the end of the day, the empire's efforts were all for nothing. Billions of dollars, millions of lives, and the sterling reputation we had built on the myths of the Good War were gone like dust scattered to the wind. Was there a lesson to be learned here? Was anybody but Charlie interested in learning it?

Flash forward some forty years and tragedy repeats itself as farce. This time it's one of the now hemorrhaging American empire's dauphins, a dick-swinging desert upstart called Saudi Arabia, that is rapidly finding itself overwhelmed by the unintended consequences of its own private Vietnam. After another gaggle of impoverished peasants called the Houthis decided to take their once regional conflict from the northern mountains of Yemen to the bustling capital of Sanaa, overthrowing yet another fascist Yankee quisling state, Saudi Arabia's swarthy young princeling, Mohammed bin Salman, decided to show the world what he's made of by burying his poorest neighbor in American munitions. Like his fellow psychopath, LBJ, MBS threw everything he could get his filthy hands on at these poor people; bombs, drones, white phosphorous, mercenary death squads of African child soldiers, and a crippling naval blockade, all with more than a little help from their friends back in Washington. Hundreds of thousands murdered in cold blood. Even more starved, diseased, malnourished, most of them children. But just four years into this genocidal campaign and it's all falling apart. That handsome young Lothario in Riyadh is left drowning in the dunes as his "allies" flee the scene of the crime.

Even after all the death, misery, fear and loathing, those dastardly Shia barbarians known as the Houthi just keep coming. In fact, they now appear to stand stronger, taller, more furious than ever. Galvanized like steel soldiers in the hell-fires of what should have been their Armageddon. Like the Cong before them, these outgunned young renegades have turned the tables on their tormentors with nothing but sheer rage and tenacity. Baseless conspiracy theories about them being Iranian agent provocateurs aside, they weathered this storm alone, buried the bodies of their children, bided their time and are now in the midst of making minced meat of their wealthy would-be Saudi conquistadors. Striking oil lines with homemade drones, Jerry-rigged in crumbling urban garages from the smashed bits of American machines that haunted their villages long before the onslaught. Trapping Saudi soldiers and their hapless local mercenaries in giant valley-wide ambushes, taking hundreds of Salafi chin scalps at a time. Making a bunch of racist colonial pigs belly-crawl through scorpion infested deserts back to the gaudy glass towers from which they came.

The Saudis are fucked and even their one-time friends know it. Half of their fighting force, sponsored by the equally dreadful United Arab Emirates, are defecting from this blood belching quagmire and turning their attention instead towards rebuilding an independent South Yemen. The Emirates couldn't be happier with a Dalit house-slave's throat in their hands. The only thing keeping them in this savage farce to begin with is their hope of securing the shipping routes of the southern ports in cities like the now rebel held Aden. The UAE's goal of becoming the Persian Gulf's answer to Singapore appears to be pushing them to the brink of opening a second front against their former besties in Riyadh in order to achieve their own petite imperialist objectives. Prince Salman's blood spattered vanity project is as dead as South Vietnam.

Once again, another imperial blood feast, billions of dollars, millions of lives and the once sterling reputation of the "new" Saudi Arabian empire built on little more than CNN mythology, gone, demolished like a Zaydi schoolhouse, all for nothing, just another Vietnam scattered like a fist full of sand in the breeze of the Arabian Sea. Is there finally a lesson to be learned here? Yes, but only the Houthi, like their Vietcong counterparts, seem to have learned it. The desert holocaust in Yemen mirrors the jungle holocaust in Vietnam because the imperialist antagonists of both battles failed to learn the basic lesson that no amount of money, high-tech military hardware or unbridled savagery can deter a people determined to be free. It appears all empires are damned to remain forever blind to this lesson no matter how many times peasants are forced to teach it to them, from Algiers to Kabul to god knows who's next, because imperialism itself is defined by its blindness to humanity. It is it's strength as well as it's folly.

We must also take note here that the modern concepts of the western style nation state are at best the fickle illusions of an over-privileged class and at worst a fevered nightmare brought on by fumes of the Industrial Revolution. Trying to cobble a nation together from two separate and distinct societies like the Northern Zaydi Tribesman and the Southern Sunni Proletariat has proven to be as asinine and bullheaded as trying to deny the almost metaphysical unity of two nations that have always been one like Vietnam. Nation building is a cruel fool's errand and it never works. The lion share of America and it's imperial offspring's woes in places like the Middle East and Southeast Asia derive from their insistence on modernizing people they have zero respect for with statist contraptions like capitalism and mass borders. The best lesson the Houthis can take from recent events to their south is that their supposed enemies in that region essentially want the same damn thing, to escape western nation building and finally be left the fuck alone. If both sides can realize this, then they can unite to divide and maybe, just maybe, this hopped up nightmare can finally end.

Imperialism is a heavy weapon in the hands of the powerful. But it's as good as glass against the will of a people who refuse to be ruled. All empires will crumble because they are designed to deny this basic fact of human nature and any system that denies humanity is inherently unsustainable. To put it bluntly, they quite simply cannot kill us all, but united we can destroy them. Houthis, Hezbollah, Southern Separatists, Kashmiri Separatists, Black Lives Matter, Sovereign Citizens, the Vietcong, the Weather Underground; only together are we too heavy to be moved by any imperial behemoth. Let us all join hands and fuck it up, dearest motherfuckers. Why the hell not? Lets fight like a Houthi.



Peace, Love & Empathy- Nicky/CH



Soundtrack; songs that influenced this post

*  Volcano Girls by Veruca Salt
*  Not by Big Thief
*  The Cutter by Echo & the Bunnymen
*  NYC by Interpol
*  Pennyroyal Tea by Nirvana
*  Radio by Ty Segall
*  Home Again Garden Grove by the Mountain Goats
*  Sick by Vivian Girls
*  All Mirrors by Angel Olsen
*  A Get Together to Tear it Apart by the Hives



This post is devoted in loving memory to Nora Al-Awlaki, the eight year old American girl slaughtered at the hands of a Navy Seal death squad sent by our peace loving president to murder her entire family. This atrocity, more than any other, sparked my career as a revolutionary writer and not just because it was the first thing I ever published. I will continue to write about imperialism in Nora's ancestral home of Yemen until my fingers bleed to the bone, to honor not just her, but all children who are murdered by the state and all the brave men and women on the sand who slay their killers. Solidarity.



Sunday, September 1, 2019

Any War on Terror is Bullshit

The saying goes that the greatest trick the devil ever played was fooling the world that he doesn't exist. I've long said that the greatest trick the state ever played was fooling the world that only its existence could keep the devil at bay. The devil in this case being a constantly evolving crop of scapegoats often labeled terrorists. Then again the Old Testament interpretation of the devil has always been the ultimate scapegoat. Lucifer's great crime was trying to mimic god's omnipotence with a failed coup. God cast the rebellious angel out of heaven but allowed him to continue to play god in hell because his existence served as the ultimate excuse for god's unlimited power. My childhood priest, Father Foster, probably wouldn't agree with this interpretation, but as a budding young anarchist, this is the way the tale sounded to me. The devil's very existence was defined by god and god in turn needed the devil to justify his power. And this is what I see when I look at the issue of terrorism.

Terrorist attacks aren't prevalent in peaceful nations. No one's blowing up Lichtenstein. It's violence that perpetuates violence. So it only seems natural to me that America, a state with an epic reputation for violence, both at home and abroad, should become a magnet for copycat killers. The United States makes over a hundred attempts to wack Fidel Castro and Lee Harvey Oswald guns down the president. The United States turns the jungles of Vietnam into a massive killing field and Charles Whitman turns the University of Texas into a free fire zone. The United States burns a compound full of women and children alive in Waco and Timothy McVeigh blows the Murray Building to smithereens. The United States hollows out a skyscraper in Serbia with hellfire missiles and our former client in the Balkans, Osama bin Laden, takes down two towers with hijacked commercial airliners. The United States wipes out an entire village in Yemen with a Navy Seal death squad and a white nationalist dressed in Navy Seal cosplay turns himself into a one man death squad and wipes out a bustling Walmart full of brown civilians.

I may be something of a wonk when it comes to mass violence, it's a peculiar hobby that goes back to my peculiar Catholic childhood, but I take very little pride when I tell you that I could quite literally go on like this all fucking day. As Malcolm X astutely observed about the Kennedy Assassination, these are all simply tragic cases of the chickens coming home to roost.

It's amazing to me how many scapegoats the mainstream media can drum up for these atrocities, from Grand Theft Auto to Marilyn Manson, without drawing the most blatantly obvious conclusion that those living beneath the yoke of the most violent empire on earth might be a bit more susceptible to becoming copycats of state violence than most. It's less amazing to me that the agents of this state fail to make this same conclusion once you realize that their very existence relies upon this demonic proliferation of mass violence. This becomes a sort of twisted self-fulfilling prophecy machine that the state inspires terrorism with acts of terrorism launched to combat terrorism. But with the very American reaction to the latest spree of mass killings, we see a new and dangerous trend. The state has finally given birth to the ultimate scapegoat, the Alt-Right lone wolf.

In the past twenty years, America has used its reactionary War on Terror to rapidly expand the police-warfare state by scapegoating the world's fastest growing religion of Islam. They skillfully used the attack that their own barbaric foreign policy invited on 9/11 to justify an endless forever war across the ever-expanding Muslim world. Perhaps even scarier is the Orwellian nightmare state created on the home front, which subjects us all to near full spectrum surveillance 24/7. While the FBI kept up a steady quota of Muslim headhunting by entrapping mentally feeble brown kids online, most of the police state's attention was directed towards the existential threat of radical tree-huggers and wily peace activists. But in our PC age of racial sensitivity, this brown-baiting bait and switch has become an increasingly tough sell even for the most prudent statist lunkhead. The specter of the white nationalist is the perfect upgrade. After all, even child pornographers are sickened by Nazis.

But the mainstream interpretation of this right-wing radicalism is recklessly vague. With every virtue signalling call from Time Magazine to Elizabeth Warren to declare all out war on the radical right there is often a half-whispered addendum of "...and other anti-government extremists." But what constitutes an anti-government extremist? Well, dearest motherfuckers, whoever the fuck you want, or rather whoever the fuck our lethal executive office wants. Me, you, Ilhan Omar, Black Lives Matter, with a thin skinned lunatic like Trump in the White House, whoever criticizes his tie or suggests he pees sitting down. The Resistance clamoring for these knee-jerk state reactions to state inspired violence seem to be totally oblivious to the fact that they're merrily building their own fucking caskets. Just as Obama's hope-and-change posse handed an orangutan an Uzi by allowing Barack to turn the Oval Office into a drone-strike internet cafe, today's self-proclaimed leftists are pushing for sharper fangs on the state without even considering the possibility that they could get bit.

But what is even more terrifying than further empowering our hollow-point presidency is the fortification of the permanent state in the police/intelligence community. According to disturbingly influential Russophobic crowd exciters like Rachel Maddow and Alexander Reid Ross (no relation, thank Christ), the entire spectrum of the anti-authoritarian fringe from left to right is part of one big John Nash-style spiderweb of red-brown Putin puppets. Everyone from Ron Paul to Jill Stein is a part of this neo-McCarthyite orbit and we're all connected by dots to angry white men in white sheets. You don't have to be an Alt-Right nut-job to recognize how dangerous this philosophy has become, especially once it's made official state policy. After all, according to this increasingly mainstream conspiracy theory, anybody who doesn't vote for a Bush or a Clinton is now an honorary Alt-Right nut-job anyway. See you at the next cross burning.

At the end of the day, all acts of mass violence are acts of terrorism, regardless of whether they're committed by skinheads or cops, and the last time I checked, the cops have a way bigger body count of brown and queer civilians. Do we really wan't to give them Bazookas to chase after their own shadows? Does anybody honestly believe that they would even be the primary targets? I ain't biting, dearest motherfuckers and neither should you. In our current national hell, all non-state terrorists are convenient scapegoats for the state that births them. And any war on terror is bullshit.



Peace, Love & Empathy- Nicky/CH



Soundtrack; songs that influenced this post

*  Hypocrite by Lush
*  Burning Down the House by Talking Heads
*  Big White Cloud by John Cale
*  Hurt by Nine Inch Nails
*  Gimme Shelter by the Rolling Stones
*  Jesus' Son by Priests
*  That's When I Reach for My Revolver by Moby
*  Asking for It by Hole
*  Hurt by Johnny Cash
*  Zombie by the Cranberries