In case you haven't noticed, I've kind of got a thing for conspiracy theories. Good ones. Bad ones. Real ones. Fake ones. That's not to say that I consider myself to be a conspiracy theorist, though I'm certain more than a few of my regular dearest motherfuckers probably disagree. I'm more of a conspiracy enthusiast or, as my late hero Gore Vidal once described himself, a conspiracy analyst. I have my doubts about the "official" story on a number of historical events. I don't buy that FDR was caught off guard by Pearl Harbor. I have trouble believing that Lee Harvey Oswald acted alone. I'm pretty sure those Branch Davidians were murdered in Waco. And don't even get me started on the Middle East. But unlike most "theorists" I recognize that these beliefs are hypothesizes at best. We'll probably never have all the answers and, like a good little agnostic, I'm more or less cool with this.
On the other hand there are some conspiracy theories that I find downright infuriating. Big Foot is bullshit, the Holocaust fucking happened and Obama was born in America. But if there's one conspiracy theory that really gets under my skin and drives me up the fucking wall it's the asinine farce that Kurt Cobain was murdered by Courtney Love. I'm fully aware that this is far from the most repulsive falsehood, the Holocaust one probably gets that tainted honor, but it's the one that really burns my ass. Mostly because I adore both Kurt and Courtney and I can't seem to manage to have a single fucking conversation about either one of them without having to debunk that stupid fucking theory for the umpteenth time. So this year, which would have been Kurt's 50th, I've decided to finally put this shit to rest once and for all. But first things first, some personal explanations are due.
I've been a Nirvana fan forever but I didn't become a fanatic until their music helped me through the darkest chapter of my lifelong struggle with depression. There's only one band that I might love more (with a capital MIGHT) and that's Courtney Love's band Hole. Kurt's lyrics made me feel less alone and gave me the courage to survive the mess I made of my early twenties. Courtney's lyrics however made me feel empowered and gave me the courage to do more than just survive, with her candid tales of feminine empowerment and irreverent freak-show pride, Courtney Love's lyrics gave me the courage to persevere on my own damn terms. And Courtney, perhaps more than any other single person, gave me the metaphoric ovaries to kick down my closet door and taste the light of day as the queer, genderfuck, queen bitch you all know and fear. So, yeah, long story short, this is kind of fucking personal to me.
With that being said, lets go over what we know about the tragic death of Kurt Cobain. Kurt's final downward spiral began on the mourning of March 3, 1994. After taking a red-eye to Rome to join Kurt for the night while on tour with Nirvana, Courtney crashed in her husbands hotel room with some Valium only to wake up to find Kurt's lifeless body. He had downed a fist full of Rohypnol with a bottle of champagne in an apparent suicide attempt. He came back to life after twenty hours in a coma but in many ways Kurt was already gone. Over the next few weeks Kurt OD'd at least two more times. Courtney, who had long tolerated Kurt's addiction, finally put her foot down on March 25 with an intervention. Kurt was livid. In an attempt to strong arm her stubborn husband into recovery Courtney left Seattle alone for Los Angeles where she began an outpatient detox program at the Peninsula Hotel for her own lifelong addiction to prescription sedatives. The move seemed to work when Kurt joined Courtney in L.A. and checked into the nearby Exodus Recovery Center on the 30th. But unbeknownst to Courtney, that very day Kurt had his friend Dylan Carlson buy him a 20 gauge shotgun which he stashed at his Seattle mansion before hopping on the next flight out of town.
Kurt spent two days in rehab before jumping the fence and returning to Seattle. Courtney hired Hollywood P.I. Tom Grant to track her husband down. A decision only she would live to regret. After less than a week of bouncing around local flophouses and shooting galleries Kurt returned to his mansion where his body was discovered on April 8th by an electrician in the greenhouse above his garage. Dead from what the Seattle Police determined to be a self-inflicted shotgun wound.
But according to the conspiracy theorists, lets call them Kurt Truthers, they know better than the Seattle P.D.. They also know better than Kurt's own band mates, friends and family, many of whom had no love lost for Courtney but still had no trouble excepting the fact that the long troubled troubadour had taken his own life. In fact, pretty much the only person close to Kurt who couldn't except this fact was Courtney herself who asked Tom Grant to investigate the possibility of foul play. Once Courtney finally came to terms with what Kurt had done to himself and their family she stopped sending Grant checks for the biggest break of his pathetic existence and Grant got his petty revenge by spending the next two decades building a career out of blaming his former client for her own husbands tragic death. And it's this washed-up, fat-fuck, ex-pig with an ax to grind who has been largely responsible for generating the lion share of the Kurt Truther's so called evidence. Creating a veritable cottage industry out of telling tall-tales to dip-shit twats, Tom had finally found his calling in life, ruining Courtney's.
According to Grant and his little clan of Truthers, Courtney decided to have her husband killed before he could divorce her and cut her out of his will. Rather than taking the easiest route to achieving these means by simply hooking Kurt up with a hot-dose or just letting her husband OD on his own stash without reviving him with Narcan as she often did, Courtney sent Kurt to rehab then hired a hitman to hunt him down like a dog when he escaped, shot him full of dope, propped him upright in his greenhouse, jammed his own shotgun in his mouth and somehow blew his brains out without leaving so much as a trace of evidence. Oh yeah and Courtney managed to pay off the entire Seattle P.D. and she would have gotten away with it too if it wasn't for that meddling dirt-bag dick and his internet fan-club.
If this sounds like bush league horse-shit to you then congratulations you're officially an adult. But for all the children in the room, please allow me to pull the rug from under you so I can beat your monkey-asses with it until they leak blood. Kurt had struggled with crippling depression and chronic stomach pain his whole life. The latter of which was so severe that it had nearly caused him to starve to death. Heroin was the only thing that made his stomach pain tolerable and in spite of their tumultuous and at times downright unhealthy relationship Courtney and their daughter Frances Bean were the only people that gave Kurt any joy during his final days. Virtually everyone else had abandoned him over his use of narcotics. Kurt was terrified that Courtney would leave him. He had associated divorce with death ever since his parents split when he was nine. His suicide attempt in Rome was inspired by the fact that Courtney had merely contemplated cheating on him. And when Courtney threatened to leave Kurt at his intervention if he wouldn't give up the one thing that made his excruciating life livable, Kurt decided he had officially had enough. It was time to go.
Kurt killed himself. And he pulled that trigger for a lot of reasons but, as politically incorrect as this may be to say, Courtney Love and Heroin were the only things that kept him alive as long as he was. Kurt never found the source of his stomach pain but the last doctor he saw believed it was the product of a nerve pinched between his vertebrae due to untreated scoliosis. With its proximity to both the spine and the vagus nerve this likely made Kurt's problem virtually inoperable. This also would have made Kurt a prime candidate for Oxycontin or even Dr. Kevorkian if he had only stuck around for a couple more years. As Courtney had said during her public reading of her late husbands suicide note- "That Eighties tough love bullshit- it doesn't work. We all should have let him have his numbness. We should have let him have the thing that made him feel better, that made his stomach feel better, we should have let him have it instead of trying to strip away his skin." To this day Courtney seems to be the only one who gets this and it's precisely this kind of unabashed empathy that made Kurt along with Courtney's own devoted tribe of fans like myself fall in love with her and I just know from the bottom of my own burning nauseous stomach that Kurt would be disgusted if he knew that the same people who continue to senselessly crucify this person he loved for simply being a convenient scapegoat call themselves his fans. They're not. Just like the assholes he lampooned in "In Bloom" they like all his pretty songs and they like to sing along and they like to shoot their guns but they don't know what it means and they probably never will. So fuck them. And that's all I have left to say about that.
This ones for Kurt and Courtney. The best friends a freak like me could ever hope for.
And remember dearest motherfuckers, always remember, It's better to rise than fade away.
As always,
Peace, Love and Empathy- CH
Soundtrack; Songs that influenced this post.
* Negative Creep By Nirvana
* Pretty On The Inside By Hole
* Wave Of Mutilation By The Pixies
* On A Plain By Nirvana
* Violet By Hole
* Ever By Flipper
* In Bloom By Nirvana
* Reasons To Be Beautiful By Hole
* You're One By Imperial Teen
Monday, April 24, 2017
Saturday, April 8, 2017
Trump Is The New Hillary
Well it's official dearest motherfuckers, Donald Trump has become Hillary Clinton. With Thursday night's reckless and illegal assault on a Russian populated Syrian military base with 59 Tomahawk missiles, there is now officially zero sunlight between the two most repulsive candidates in the putrid history of this vile empire of sin and conquest. And to think just days ago the Donald was being crucified in a congressional witch hunt for passing on the one flavor of poisoned Kool-Aid that made him slightly less toxic than his opponent in the 2016 election, not to mention, persona non grata with the status quo. That is Russophobic Regime-Change Punch (TM). So what the fuck happened this week?
The simple answer is false flag. This Tuesday a village in Idlib Province called Khan Sheikhoun appears to have fallen victim to a deadly chemical attack claiming hundreds of writhing civilian casualties many of whom were young children. The American Government (TM) and their loyal cadres' in the mainstream media didn't even wait for the bodies to stop froffing before blaming the whole nasty atrocity on the government of Bashar Assad without so much as a lick of truth, not that that's ever stopped them before. But why would Assad launch such a foolishly senseless and polarizing crime against humanity when, after years on the brink of destruction, he has finally all but won his war against ISIS and Al-Qaeda. He had even managed to get the tacit support of the Trump Administration, who had stated their intention to drop regime change from their agenda in Syria just days before the attack. There is absolutely zero logical sense in such an attack, that is unless Assad isn't guilty.
We've seen this story before, after the August 2013 sarin gas attacks outside of Damascus. These attacks, originally blamed on Assad, were ultimately proven to be the work of Turkish backed Islamist rebels by veteran investigative journalist Seymour Hersh and members of the UN. The very same rebels currently occupying Idlib Provence. The common narrative about these attacks and then President Obama's response goes something like this. Obama foolishly drew a red line stating that the US would only launch a direct attack against the Syrian government if chemical weapons were used. Chemical weapons were used, but Obama pulled out of the attack at the last minute with some unexpected help from Vladimir Putin. I never fucking bought this.
My theory has always been that Obama very consciously and very loudly drew his red line at a time when, like today, the rebels were getting their fucking asses kicked. I believe Obama did this with the full expectation and possible knowledge that one of the desperate rebel groups, who the CIA was fully aware possessed such chemical weapons capabilities, would cross said red line, frame the Syrian Military and give Obama the excuse he needed to sack Assad without the risk of being labeled Bush 2.0 by a war weary public. Obama showed every intention of acting unilaterally before Putin sabotaged his war plans by brokering a UN peace deal that would and did destroy Assad's obsolete chemical weapons stash. The deal proved popular with the international community leaving Obama with no other choice but to sign onto this deal too in order to save face. But Putin's crafty monkey-wrenching did irreparable damage to Obama's image and ego and I believe this convinced him to sign off on the equally reckless anti-Russian coup in Ukraine as a kind of petty revenge but that's another story for another post.
The situation with Trump is very different. While always a passionate supporter of killing Muslims, Trump made his willingness to collaborate with Putin in Syria the backbone of his foreign policy stance in 2016. While Trump may be a pathological liar, I believe these intentions were genuine. They were too dangerously unpopular with the system not to be. However members of his own team didn't share this view. I believe some of these characters were pushed on Trump by some of his more powerful and neocon-ish sponsors with the hope of convincing the Donald to change his Kremlin ways. When efforts to do this by leaking embarrassing and misleading intelligence on Donald's practically non-existent relationship with Putin's Russia failed, the deep state settled on sabotage.
Just days before the chemical attacks, Islamist rebel leaders indicated that the CIA had reopened their arms supply lines. Around the same time US Ambassador to the UN and raging Russophobe Nikki Haley also made statements that contradicted those made by Secretary of State Rex Tillerson days earlier, reassuring America's flunkee states that the US remained committed to overthrowing Assad. This was clearly an administration divided. This was made all the more clear by the sacking of Trump's realist Rasputin Steve Bannon. The only thing left to do was appeal to Trump's grotesque ego by providing him with the perfect opportunity to prove he's a bigger bad-ass than his arch nemesis Obama who had just recently been revealed to have been spying on Trump's people for at least a year through his amoral National Security Adviser Susan Rice (coincidence?).
This was done by reenacting the scene of Obama's greatest fumble, the red line crossing gas attacks, with a little help from our head-chopping rebel friends. Trump, ever the reactionary, couldn't help himself. Without thinking twice he wiped his ass with his own foreign policy doctrine, stripped buck-naked and dove headfirst into Clintonian nation building. Exposing himself for the dumb-fuck, hypocritical, pig-fucker that he's always been.
So here we are now. Once again on the brink of World War fucking 3. And for the first time since November, the system is in perfect fucking harmony. With Trump's former enemies gathering around their prodigal son to sing Kumbaya over the fuming wreckage of America's latest war crime. It turns out the election really didn't fucking matter after all. The war state always gets it's way. One way or another.
Enjoy your apocalypse dearest motherfuckers. This weary antiwarrior is once again hunting for apartments in Reykjavik.
Peace, Love and Empathy- CH
Soundtrack; Songs that influenced this post.
* You've Got Time By Regina Spektor
* Wardance By Killing Joke
* Waiting Room By Fugazi
* Let's Have A War By Fear
* Ex Lion Tamer By Wire
* My War By Black Flag
* Motorcrash By The Sugarcubes
The simple answer is false flag. This Tuesday a village in Idlib Province called Khan Sheikhoun appears to have fallen victim to a deadly chemical attack claiming hundreds of writhing civilian casualties many of whom were young children. The American Government (TM) and their loyal cadres' in the mainstream media didn't even wait for the bodies to stop froffing before blaming the whole nasty atrocity on the government of Bashar Assad without so much as a lick of truth, not that that's ever stopped them before. But why would Assad launch such a foolishly senseless and polarizing crime against humanity when, after years on the brink of destruction, he has finally all but won his war against ISIS and Al-Qaeda. He had even managed to get the tacit support of the Trump Administration, who had stated their intention to drop regime change from their agenda in Syria just days before the attack. There is absolutely zero logical sense in such an attack, that is unless Assad isn't guilty.
We've seen this story before, after the August 2013 sarin gas attacks outside of Damascus. These attacks, originally blamed on Assad, were ultimately proven to be the work of Turkish backed Islamist rebels by veteran investigative journalist Seymour Hersh and members of the UN. The very same rebels currently occupying Idlib Provence. The common narrative about these attacks and then President Obama's response goes something like this. Obama foolishly drew a red line stating that the US would only launch a direct attack against the Syrian government if chemical weapons were used. Chemical weapons were used, but Obama pulled out of the attack at the last minute with some unexpected help from Vladimir Putin. I never fucking bought this.
My theory has always been that Obama very consciously and very loudly drew his red line at a time when, like today, the rebels were getting their fucking asses kicked. I believe Obama did this with the full expectation and possible knowledge that one of the desperate rebel groups, who the CIA was fully aware possessed such chemical weapons capabilities, would cross said red line, frame the Syrian Military and give Obama the excuse he needed to sack Assad without the risk of being labeled Bush 2.0 by a war weary public. Obama showed every intention of acting unilaterally before Putin sabotaged his war plans by brokering a UN peace deal that would and did destroy Assad's obsolete chemical weapons stash. The deal proved popular with the international community leaving Obama with no other choice but to sign onto this deal too in order to save face. But Putin's crafty monkey-wrenching did irreparable damage to Obama's image and ego and I believe this convinced him to sign off on the equally reckless anti-Russian coup in Ukraine as a kind of petty revenge but that's another story for another post.
The situation with Trump is very different. While always a passionate supporter of killing Muslims, Trump made his willingness to collaborate with Putin in Syria the backbone of his foreign policy stance in 2016. While Trump may be a pathological liar, I believe these intentions were genuine. They were too dangerously unpopular with the system not to be. However members of his own team didn't share this view. I believe some of these characters were pushed on Trump by some of his more powerful and neocon-ish sponsors with the hope of convincing the Donald to change his Kremlin ways. When efforts to do this by leaking embarrassing and misleading intelligence on Donald's practically non-existent relationship with Putin's Russia failed, the deep state settled on sabotage.
Just days before the chemical attacks, Islamist rebel leaders indicated that the CIA had reopened their arms supply lines. Around the same time US Ambassador to the UN and raging Russophobe Nikki Haley also made statements that contradicted those made by Secretary of State Rex Tillerson days earlier, reassuring America's flunkee states that the US remained committed to overthrowing Assad. This was clearly an administration divided. This was made all the more clear by the sacking of Trump's realist Rasputin Steve Bannon. The only thing left to do was appeal to Trump's grotesque ego by providing him with the perfect opportunity to prove he's a bigger bad-ass than his arch nemesis Obama who had just recently been revealed to have been spying on Trump's people for at least a year through his amoral National Security Adviser Susan Rice (coincidence?).
This was done by reenacting the scene of Obama's greatest fumble, the red line crossing gas attacks, with a little help from our head-chopping rebel friends. Trump, ever the reactionary, couldn't help himself. Without thinking twice he wiped his ass with his own foreign policy doctrine, stripped buck-naked and dove headfirst into Clintonian nation building. Exposing himself for the dumb-fuck, hypocritical, pig-fucker that he's always been.
So here we are now. Once again on the brink of World War fucking 3. And for the first time since November, the system is in perfect fucking harmony. With Trump's former enemies gathering around their prodigal son to sing Kumbaya over the fuming wreckage of America's latest war crime. It turns out the election really didn't fucking matter after all. The war state always gets it's way. One way or another.
Enjoy your apocalypse dearest motherfuckers. This weary antiwarrior is once again hunting for apartments in Reykjavik.
Peace, Love and Empathy- CH
Soundtrack; Songs that influenced this post.
* You've Got Time By Regina Spektor
* Wardance By Killing Joke
* Waiting Room By Fugazi
* Let's Have A War By Fear
* Ex Lion Tamer By Wire
* My War By Black Flag
* Motorcrash By The Sugarcubes
Tuesday, April 4, 2017
Tuesday, March 28, 2017
Why I Love Guns (& You Should Too!)
I like guns. I probably shouldn't like guns. I don't own guns. No one in my immediate family owns guns. And I'm just slightly to the left of Mao Zedong (just slightly). But I love guns. I love everything about guns. How they look. How they sound. I assume how they feel. I'd like to own one someday when I have the money. A revolver I think. Something in walnut and blue steel that really brings out my eyes. Maybe I've just seen too many movies. Call me a Tarantino leftist.
But I love guns. I love guns the way the Black Panthers, Hunter S. Thompson and Alex Cockburn loved guns. I love guns because they empower the poor. They empower the poor to defend themselves without having to rely on the state. More importantly, they empower the poor to defend themselves from the state, be they racist cops, Border Patrol Gestapo or compound torching feds. The Second Amendment is the one civil right that makes all the others possible. Guns insure that poor people can hold their government accountable when they choose to step on the Constitution.
I also love guns because I'm queer. I love guns because I don't look forward to being curb-stomped by a bunch of fucking skinheads for wearing a dress with a beard only to have some hate-fuck pig tell me in traction that I was asking for it. I love guns because I look forward to the opportunity to show such fag-bashing scum that I have a second cock beneath my skirt. One that blows holes in their skulls deeper than any Filipino surgeon could ever dig in my crotch. I love guns because assimilation is a joke queerer than I am and queer rights looks like a drag queen with a loaded Kalashnikov.
But guns are bad, right? Guns hurt people. People hurt people. People with guns hurt people. People with guns and no earthly idea how to use them hurt people. And people with guns hurt people without guns. An armed populace is a free populace and the more armed a populace is the freer a populace is. Guns are an integral part of any working democracy but a democracy only works when its people are engaged and informed. I see know reason why gun safety shouldn't be taught in public schools. I also see know reason why an inherently undemocratic premise like a standing army shouldn't be phased out and replaced by an inherently democratic premise like an organized civilian militia. It works for Switzerland. One of the safest and most democratic nations on earth. Oh and did I mention that they're also socialists. Just blew your mind, didn't I?
So this is a call to arms. To all my comrades on the left, be they anarchist, communist, socialist or libertarian. Black, brown and queer. Arm yourselves. Arm yourselves to the fucking teeth. What's left of our democracy depends on it. And love your guns. Respect your guns. Learn how to use your guns. Keep them holstered until you need them. Keep the peace and shoot any cunt in the ass who tries to take your piece away.
All power to the people, dearest motherfuckers, all power to the people.
Peace, Love and Empathy- CH
Soundtrack; Songs that influenced this post.
* Ten Dollar Bill By Cop Shoot Cop
* I Shot The Sheriff By Bob Marley
* Fuck The Police By N.W.A.
* Kick Out The Jams By The MC5
* Fight The Power By Public Enemy
* That's When I Reach For My Revolver By Mission Of Burma
* Power To The People By John Lennon
But I love guns. I love guns the way the Black Panthers, Hunter S. Thompson and Alex Cockburn loved guns. I love guns because they empower the poor. They empower the poor to defend themselves without having to rely on the state. More importantly, they empower the poor to defend themselves from the state, be they racist cops, Border Patrol Gestapo or compound torching feds. The Second Amendment is the one civil right that makes all the others possible. Guns insure that poor people can hold their government accountable when they choose to step on the Constitution.
I also love guns because I'm queer. I love guns because I don't look forward to being curb-stomped by a bunch of fucking skinheads for wearing a dress with a beard only to have some hate-fuck pig tell me in traction that I was asking for it. I love guns because I look forward to the opportunity to show such fag-bashing scum that I have a second cock beneath my skirt. One that blows holes in their skulls deeper than any Filipino surgeon could ever dig in my crotch. I love guns because assimilation is a joke queerer than I am and queer rights looks like a drag queen with a loaded Kalashnikov.
But guns are bad, right? Guns hurt people. People hurt people. People with guns hurt people. People with guns and no earthly idea how to use them hurt people. And people with guns hurt people without guns. An armed populace is a free populace and the more armed a populace is the freer a populace is. Guns are an integral part of any working democracy but a democracy only works when its people are engaged and informed. I see know reason why gun safety shouldn't be taught in public schools. I also see know reason why an inherently undemocratic premise like a standing army shouldn't be phased out and replaced by an inherently democratic premise like an organized civilian militia. It works for Switzerland. One of the safest and most democratic nations on earth. Oh and did I mention that they're also socialists. Just blew your mind, didn't I?
So this is a call to arms. To all my comrades on the left, be they anarchist, communist, socialist or libertarian. Black, brown and queer. Arm yourselves. Arm yourselves to the fucking teeth. What's left of our democracy depends on it. And love your guns. Respect your guns. Learn how to use your guns. Keep them holstered until you need them. Keep the peace and shoot any cunt in the ass who tries to take your piece away.
All power to the people, dearest motherfuckers, all power to the people.
Peace, Love and Empathy- CH
Soundtrack; Songs that influenced this post.
* Ten Dollar Bill By Cop Shoot Cop
* I Shot The Sheriff By Bob Marley
* Fuck The Police By N.W.A.
* Kick Out The Jams By The MC5
* Fight The Power By Public Enemy
* That's When I Reach For My Revolver By Mission Of Burma
* Power To The People By John Lennon
Monday, March 20, 2017
Falling Back In Love With Anarchism
My political compass has always leaned left but, truth be told, it hasn't always leaned against the state. I was a teenage anarchist but somewhere along the road to adulthood I fell off that wagon and out of love with black flags and Molotov cocktails. I became a democratic socialist before I went full Bolshevik and became a fist-throwing communist. It's only recently, over the last several years, that I've come full circle and rediscovered my anti-statist roots. Yes, dearest motherfuckers, I have fallen back in love with anarchism and it really is even better than the first time. But in order to really understand why you have to understand where I've been.
The one constant through out my political journey has been Marx. I discovered the brilliant, bearded bastard in the oddest of places. In a seventh grade Catholic classroom Mrs. Williams taught us that Karl Marx stood against everything that America and the Catholic Church represented. Unfortunately for her, in those halcyon days of the Iraq War and my burgeoning queer-dom, that was the best sales pitch I had ever heard. That summer I bought a yellowed paperback copy of the Communist Manifesto from a church basement sale of all places and devoured it like a sacrament. I didn't understand every word but its homilies against the evils of empire and organized religion and the state that held it all together rang true. His calls for a Dictatorship Of The Proletariat however did not. So I kept looking for answers.
I found them in Chiapas where I first fell in love with anarchism. The Zapatista Army Of National Liberation, better known as the Zapatistas or the EZLN, were founded in the early/mid Eighties when a handful of North Mexican urban guerrillas traveled south to teach the Indians about Marx's dream of a post-state society only to discover that the natives were already living it. Together they developed a post-Marxist anarchist philosophy that was both brand new and centuries old. Neozapatismo, as it became known, preached that a truly communal society needn't rely on vanguardism or "temporary" dictatorships but could be better achieved through direct and leaderless democracy. They took this philosophy public in 1994 when the EZLN launched a largely symbolic and bloodless armed uprising in response to the devastation rought against agrarian Southern Mexico by NAFTA. Led by the daring and mercurial Subcomandante Marcos, the Zapatistas were the gateway drug that introduced me to Che, Zapata, Bakunin and the Flores Magon brothers.
But my teenage tryst with anarchism proved to be short lived. Around the end of my senior year in high school I became infatuated with the rise of democratic socialism in South America known as the Pink Tide. Around the same time I also became overwhelmed by a series of devastating nervous breakdowns that caused me to lose a lot of the faith I once had in people and humanity as a whole. It took nearly a decade for me to realize the connection between the two. At a time when the world became a very uncomfortably chaotic place strong class warriors like Hugo Chavez, Evo Morales and the Kirchners became very appealing to me. But as my world continued to fall apart and I retreated further and further into myself, soon even the safety net of state socialism wasn't enough to sustain me.
I have always had a keen fascination with the Soviet Union. The adversary. The exotic dark horse. A superpower supposedly devoted to some notion of equality rather than conquest. During the darkest days of my twenties this fascination mutated into a strange form of Soviet nostalgia by proxy. At a time when I had nothing and nothing made sense, the idea of an orderly society where no one was rich but no one was left behind really turned me on. I use to dream about a simple life in Brezhnev Era Leningrad. Traveling home from some comfortably non-descript job at a railway depot on the Metro to my cozy fifth floor hovel in a suburban concrete Krushchyovka which I shared with my charming proletariat bride and our beautiful twin daughters (always twins, always daughters). Living a comfortably non-complex life straight out of 'The Irony Of Fate'. Getting drunk on Stoli. Getting fat on Pelmeni rations. Watching 'Nu, Pogodi!' on our tiny black and white TV. Celebrating New Years with our comrades at a local public banya. It sounds kind of twisted now but back then it was the only thing that made sense. A perfectly anti-American dream with little pink Dachas for you and me. Communism fit like a slipper at the bottom of a black hole.
Somehow, miraculously, I bounced back from rock bottom. I managed to claw my way out of that agoraphobic black hole and once my flesh tasted the blinding light of freedom my flirtation with communism soured rather quickly. I found it particularly hard to play red make-believe when I finally came to terms with my gender dysphoria and that there were plenty of days where I felt much more like a Nikita than a Nikolai which likely meant that the only dacha I would ever know in my formerly beloved USSR would be a padded cell in a sanitarium. But I'd always have Caracas, right?
Not so much. After years of struggling against every kind of American funded skulduggery imaginable and the suspiciously sudden death of my hero Hugo Chavez, the Bolivarian Revolution seemed to run out of steam. The very state that late democratic revolutionaries like Hugo and Nestor Kirchner had used to restore justice and equality to their impoverished nations was just as easily manipulated by their enemies to regain power and demolish everything they had worked so hard to achieve. I was forced to face the conclusion that it was the state itself that was the problem. Leaders came and went, some good, some bad, but as long as the state remained in tact the revolution could only be temporary at best. The Zapatistas had been right all along.
Just as I became painfully aware of how truly wrong I was, a new revolution came along that blew me away. A revolution that felt oddly familiar. Out in the dust-lands of the Levant, as the Wilson-era Pseudo-state of Syria disintegrated beneath the boots and truncheons of Uncle Sam's latest jihad Frankensteins, The regions long oppressed Kurdish population rose up and established a stateless society in what has become known as the Rojava Revolution. The seeds of this uprising where sewn by a fellow exiled ex-Marxist-Leninist who had become similarly disgruntled with the false promises of the state. From his prison cell on the Turkish Island of Imrali, veteran Kurdish revolutionary Abdullah Ocalan developed the anarchist philosophy of Democratic Confederalism which, just like Neozapatismo, saw centuries old tribal democracy as the best pathway to something roughly resembling Marxian utopia. Ocalan built the bomb behind bars but it took the brave pilgrims of Rojava to light the fuse and once again set my world on fire.
It's a little soon to know just how successful this new revolution will be and I'm more than a little uncomfortable with the fact that it's been infiltrated by American soldiers and Peshmerga nationalists, but Rojava has already survived ten times the blood and guts as the Bolsheviks and the Bolivarians combined, relatively speaking, and it has done so by doing the one thing that Lenin and Chavez lacked the courage and vision to do and that's trust the people. The Russian Revolution died the day the Bolsheviks banned the Soviets and the one piece of Chavez's dream likely to survive the fall of Bolivarianism are the autonomous communes he established in his countries poorest favelas. We'll never know for sure if these revolutions would have proven more successful if the strongmen who lead them had taken a leap of faith by trusting the people they were supposedly fighting for just a little bit more and loosening their grip on the reigns of power but at the very least they would have failed with a little more honor.
I turned to the state for comfort when I felt too crippled with fear to fight for the world I believed in and it is precisely this kind of fear that allows the state to flourish while true democracy suffocates on its fumes. Democracy takes work. Democracy requires the constant engagement of its citizenry to remain vital and it is only through this kind of full spectrum democracy that a better world is possible. And that's what anarchism is really all about, not black flags or Molotov cocktails, but democracy, unfiltered and unterrified. I know the sway that charismatic demagogues can wield, especially in times of fear and uncertainty. I've fallen victim to them myself. But you can't be given freedom like a brightly wrapped Christmas gift. You have to take it and embrace it every day. To paraphrase the late, great, syndicalist, Rudolf Rocker, I didn't fall back in love with anarchism because it's the final solution. I fell back in love with anarchism because I realized, that at least as far as I can see, there is no final solution.
It's never too late to go back home again, dearest motherfuckers, and your never too big to admit that you were wrong.
Peace, Love, Empathy and Anarchy- CH
P.S. This post is devoted to the loving memory of my former hero Justin Raimondo and all the other fine folks who lost their goddamn minds during the 2016 Presidential Election. Here's hoping for their speedy return to the light of sanity. We'll be here waiting with open arms and open hearts when they do.
Soundtrack: Some songs that influenced this post-
* Teenage Riot By Sonic Youth
* Bulls On Parade By Rage Against The Machine
* I Was A Teenage Anarchist By Against Me!
* I Fought The Law By The Clash
* Death Valley '69 By Sonic Youth
* The House That Heaven Built By Japandroids
* Testify By Rage Against The Machine
* What A Wonderful World By The Ramones
The one constant through out my political journey has been Marx. I discovered the brilliant, bearded bastard in the oddest of places. In a seventh grade Catholic classroom Mrs. Williams taught us that Karl Marx stood against everything that America and the Catholic Church represented. Unfortunately for her, in those halcyon days of the Iraq War and my burgeoning queer-dom, that was the best sales pitch I had ever heard. That summer I bought a yellowed paperback copy of the Communist Manifesto from a church basement sale of all places and devoured it like a sacrament. I didn't understand every word but its homilies against the evils of empire and organized religion and the state that held it all together rang true. His calls for a Dictatorship Of The Proletariat however did not. So I kept looking for answers.
I found them in Chiapas where I first fell in love with anarchism. The Zapatista Army Of National Liberation, better known as the Zapatistas or the EZLN, were founded in the early/mid Eighties when a handful of North Mexican urban guerrillas traveled south to teach the Indians about Marx's dream of a post-state society only to discover that the natives were already living it. Together they developed a post-Marxist anarchist philosophy that was both brand new and centuries old. Neozapatismo, as it became known, preached that a truly communal society needn't rely on vanguardism or "temporary" dictatorships but could be better achieved through direct and leaderless democracy. They took this philosophy public in 1994 when the EZLN launched a largely symbolic and bloodless armed uprising in response to the devastation rought against agrarian Southern Mexico by NAFTA. Led by the daring and mercurial Subcomandante Marcos, the Zapatistas were the gateway drug that introduced me to Che, Zapata, Bakunin and the Flores Magon brothers.
But my teenage tryst with anarchism proved to be short lived. Around the end of my senior year in high school I became infatuated with the rise of democratic socialism in South America known as the Pink Tide. Around the same time I also became overwhelmed by a series of devastating nervous breakdowns that caused me to lose a lot of the faith I once had in people and humanity as a whole. It took nearly a decade for me to realize the connection between the two. At a time when the world became a very uncomfortably chaotic place strong class warriors like Hugo Chavez, Evo Morales and the Kirchners became very appealing to me. But as my world continued to fall apart and I retreated further and further into myself, soon even the safety net of state socialism wasn't enough to sustain me.
I have always had a keen fascination with the Soviet Union. The adversary. The exotic dark horse. A superpower supposedly devoted to some notion of equality rather than conquest. During the darkest days of my twenties this fascination mutated into a strange form of Soviet nostalgia by proxy. At a time when I had nothing and nothing made sense, the idea of an orderly society where no one was rich but no one was left behind really turned me on. I use to dream about a simple life in Brezhnev Era Leningrad. Traveling home from some comfortably non-descript job at a railway depot on the Metro to my cozy fifth floor hovel in a suburban concrete Krushchyovka which I shared with my charming proletariat bride and our beautiful twin daughters (always twins, always daughters). Living a comfortably non-complex life straight out of 'The Irony Of Fate'. Getting drunk on Stoli. Getting fat on Pelmeni rations. Watching 'Nu, Pogodi!' on our tiny black and white TV. Celebrating New Years with our comrades at a local public banya. It sounds kind of twisted now but back then it was the only thing that made sense. A perfectly anti-American dream with little pink Dachas for you and me. Communism fit like a slipper at the bottom of a black hole.
Somehow, miraculously, I bounced back from rock bottom. I managed to claw my way out of that agoraphobic black hole and once my flesh tasted the blinding light of freedom my flirtation with communism soured rather quickly. I found it particularly hard to play red make-believe when I finally came to terms with my gender dysphoria and that there were plenty of days where I felt much more like a Nikita than a Nikolai which likely meant that the only dacha I would ever know in my formerly beloved USSR would be a padded cell in a sanitarium. But I'd always have Caracas, right?
Not so much. After years of struggling against every kind of American funded skulduggery imaginable and the suspiciously sudden death of my hero Hugo Chavez, the Bolivarian Revolution seemed to run out of steam. The very state that late democratic revolutionaries like Hugo and Nestor Kirchner had used to restore justice and equality to their impoverished nations was just as easily manipulated by their enemies to regain power and demolish everything they had worked so hard to achieve. I was forced to face the conclusion that it was the state itself that was the problem. Leaders came and went, some good, some bad, but as long as the state remained in tact the revolution could only be temporary at best. The Zapatistas had been right all along.
Just as I became painfully aware of how truly wrong I was, a new revolution came along that blew me away. A revolution that felt oddly familiar. Out in the dust-lands of the Levant, as the Wilson-era Pseudo-state of Syria disintegrated beneath the boots and truncheons of Uncle Sam's latest jihad Frankensteins, The regions long oppressed Kurdish population rose up and established a stateless society in what has become known as the Rojava Revolution. The seeds of this uprising where sewn by a fellow exiled ex-Marxist-Leninist who had become similarly disgruntled with the false promises of the state. From his prison cell on the Turkish Island of Imrali, veteran Kurdish revolutionary Abdullah Ocalan developed the anarchist philosophy of Democratic Confederalism which, just like Neozapatismo, saw centuries old tribal democracy as the best pathway to something roughly resembling Marxian utopia. Ocalan built the bomb behind bars but it took the brave pilgrims of Rojava to light the fuse and once again set my world on fire.
It's a little soon to know just how successful this new revolution will be and I'm more than a little uncomfortable with the fact that it's been infiltrated by American soldiers and Peshmerga nationalists, but Rojava has already survived ten times the blood and guts as the Bolsheviks and the Bolivarians combined, relatively speaking, and it has done so by doing the one thing that Lenin and Chavez lacked the courage and vision to do and that's trust the people. The Russian Revolution died the day the Bolsheviks banned the Soviets and the one piece of Chavez's dream likely to survive the fall of Bolivarianism are the autonomous communes he established in his countries poorest favelas. We'll never know for sure if these revolutions would have proven more successful if the strongmen who lead them had taken a leap of faith by trusting the people they were supposedly fighting for just a little bit more and loosening their grip on the reigns of power but at the very least they would have failed with a little more honor.
I turned to the state for comfort when I felt too crippled with fear to fight for the world I believed in and it is precisely this kind of fear that allows the state to flourish while true democracy suffocates on its fumes. Democracy takes work. Democracy requires the constant engagement of its citizenry to remain vital and it is only through this kind of full spectrum democracy that a better world is possible. And that's what anarchism is really all about, not black flags or Molotov cocktails, but democracy, unfiltered and unterrified. I know the sway that charismatic demagogues can wield, especially in times of fear and uncertainty. I've fallen victim to them myself. But you can't be given freedom like a brightly wrapped Christmas gift. You have to take it and embrace it every day. To paraphrase the late, great, syndicalist, Rudolf Rocker, I didn't fall back in love with anarchism because it's the final solution. I fell back in love with anarchism because I realized, that at least as far as I can see, there is no final solution.
It's never too late to go back home again, dearest motherfuckers, and your never too big to admit that you were wrong.
Peace, Love, Empathy and Anarchy- CH
P.S. This post is devoted to the loving memory of my former hero Justin Raimondo and all the other fine folks who lost their goddamn minds during the 2016 Presidential Election. Here's hoping for their speedy return to the light of sanity. We'll be here waiting with open arms and open hearts when they do.
Soundtrack: Some songs that influenced this post-
* Teenage Riot By Sonic Youth
* Bulls On Parade By Rage Against The Machine
* I Was A Teenage Anarchist By Against Me!
* I Fought The Law By The Clash
* Death Valley '69 By Sonic Youth
* The House That Heaven Built By Japandroids
* Testify By Rage Against The Machine
* What A Wonderful World By The Ramones
Tuesday, March 14, 2017
Are You There God? Its Me, Comrade Hermit
Are you there god? Its me, Comrade Hermit. You know, the bearded broad with the blog (cant have too many of those to keep track of). I'm not asking to be cute. I seriously want to know; are you there god? And if you are then whats the fucking deal with the silent treatment? I mean, 2000 years without so much as a phone call or a burning bush? I've tried hard to believe in you for most of my life but your not exactly making it easy. Truth be told, I really don't know if you exist and I cant play make believe just because I want you to.
Ten years in Catholic school. Ten years of Ten Commandments and twice a week mass. A solid decade of my childhood was devoted to trying, ultimately in vain, to ignore the absurd nature of faith; believing in something totally devoid of all facts and reason and I nearly lost my proverbial shit in the process. I lived in fear of my own gender and sexuality. I lived in fear of a kind and loving god willing to reduce cities to ash heaps because their citizenry refused to fuck each other in your preferred orifice.
I don't want to believe in these parts of the Bible. I don't want to believe that you would allow a place like Hell to exist just so you wouldn't have to get your hands messy torturing the rule breakers for eternity, ferrying out your dirty work to a subterranean black site like the US government. I don't want to believe in a god who would drown the entire planet in a hissy fit because.... Wait? Why did you do that again? I don't want to believe in such a god because that could only mean that god is a despotic and pathologically unbalanced dick. I get enough of that from my government. I don't need it from my religion. Frankly, I'd rather worship Satan under such a scenario. Shit, maybe his rebellion was called for. A coup d'etat against a smite-happy spiritual strongman gone bat-shit with unchecked authority. I don't want to say these things, god, but I feel like someone has to.
But I can also tell you what I do want to believe in. I want to believe in the god introduced to us by Jesus Christ and Muhammad. I kind, loving father who denies no one a seat at his table. A force for good and justice that no state can contain. I want to believe that the Old Testament and even some parts of the New are false propaganda conjured up by false prophets using your name in vain attempts to rule and manipulate the weak at heart. I want to believe in a god who doesn't need to be omnipotent to get her rocks off. Oh yeah, and I want to believe that god is a chick.
I want to believe that Hell doesn't really exist, at least not in a literal sense. That in reality Hell, Earth and Purgatory are one in the same. A test that we have to take over and over again until we get it right. I want to believe that no one is beyond redemption. That even the very worst among us are simply not prepared or evolved enough to except the higher truth of your love. Reincarnation, the Hindu's call this and I'm sure your all too aware that my own soul is more than a few life cycles from enlightenment. Which is why I also want to believe that next time around I come back a little more whole. Perhaps as a biological woman with a few less mental illness' or at least a seabird, soaring high above the white caps of the Atlantic and living off shellfish and junk food in some trashy Jersey Shore town. I want to believe in a god that believes in second, third and fourth chances. A god as flawed and forgiving as the best of her children. A god like Gandhi, Tolstoy and MLK.
Most of all, I want to believe that this all isn't for nothing. That all the pain and suffering and death and bullshit adds up to something at the end of the day and that we're not all just wasting our time here spinning wheels and jerking off into socks. I want to believe that I'm not just sitting here at my computer talking to myself again. So I'll ask again, just one more time. Are you there god?.... I'll be here waiting, ready to listen, when your ready to answer.
Peace, Love and Empathy- CH
Soundtrack; Some songs that influenced this post-
* Sympathy For The Devil By The Rolling Stones
* No Cars Go By Arcade Fire
* Highway 61 Revisited By Bob Dylan
* All These Things That I've Done By The Killers
* Gloria By Patti Smith
* All Apologies By Nirvana
* Straight To You By Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds
* Cherub Rock By The Smashing Pumpkins
Ten years in Catholic school. Ten years of Ten Commandments and twice a week mass. A solid decade of my childhood was devoted to trying, ultimately in vain, to ignore the absurd nature of faith; believing in something totally devoid of all facts and reason and I nearly lost my proverbial shit in the process. I lived in fear of my own gender and sexuality. I lived in fear of a kind and loving god willing to reduce cities to ash heaps because their citizenry refused to fuck each other in your preferred orifice.
I don't want to believe in these parts of the Bible. I don't want to believe that you would allow a place like Hell to exist just so you wouldn't have to get your hands messy torturing the rule breakers for eternity, ferrying out your dirty work to a subterranean black site like the US government. I don't want to believe in a god who would drown the entire planet in a hissy fit because.... Wait? Why did you do that again? I don't want to believe in such a god because that could only mean that god is a despotic and pathologically unbalanced dick. I get enough of that from my government. I don't need it from my religion. Frankly, I'd rather worship Satan under such a scenario. Shit, maybe his rebellion was called for. A coup d'etat against a smite-happy spiritual strongman gone bat-shit with unchecked authority. I don't want to say these things, god, but I feel like someone has to.
But I can also tell you what I do want to believe in. I want to believe in the god introduced to us by Jesus Christ and Muhammad. I kind, loving father who denies no one a seat at his table. A force for good and justice that no state can contain. I want to believe that the Old Testament and even some parts of the New are false propaganda conjured up by false prophets using your name in vain attempts to rule and manipulate the weak at heart. I want to believe in a god who doesn't need to be omnipotent to get her rocks off. Oh yeah, and I want to believe that god is a chick.
I want to believe that Hell doesn't really exist, at least not in a literal sense. That in reality Hell, Earth and Purgatory are one in the same. A test that we have to take over and over again until we get it right. I want to believe that no one is beyond redemption. That even the very worst among us are simply not prepared or evolved enough to except the higher truth of your love. Reincarnation, the Hindu's call this and I'm sure your all too aware that my own soul is more than a few life cycles from enlightenment. Which is why I also want to believe that next time around I come back a little more whole. Perhaps as a biological woman with a few less mental illness' or at least a seabird, soaring high above the white caps of the Atlantic and living off shellfish and junk food in some trashy Jersey Shore town. I want to believe in a god that believes in second, third and fourth chances. A god as flawed and forgiving as the best of her children. A god like Gandhi, Tolstoy and MLK.
Most of all, I want to believe that this all isn't for nothing. That all the pain and suffering and death and bullshit adds up to something at the end of the day and that we're not all just wasting our time here spinning wheels and jerking off into socks. I want to believe that I'm not just sitting here at my computer talking to myself again. So I'll ask again, just one more time. Are you there god?.... I'll be here waiting, ready to listen, when your ready to answer.
Peace, Love and Empathy- CH
Soundtrack; Some songs that influenced this post-
* Sympathy For The Devil By The Rolling Stones
* No Cars Go By Arcade Fire
* Highway 61 Revisited By Bob Dylan
* All These Things That I've Done By The Killers
* Gloria By Patti Smith
* All Apologies By Nirvana
* Straight To You By Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds
* Cherub Rock By The Smashing Pumpkins
Tuesday, February 28, 2017
War Of The Warlords
The first two months of Trump have been defined almost exclusively by chaos. So much so that it's been damn near impossible for even the most astute tranny wonk to keep up with. Secret Russian agents. Fake news. Jammed up airports. Incoherent executive orders. Jackbooted ICE-men. Swarms of locusts. Witch trials. Human sacrifices. And, of coarse, lies, lies and more goddamn lies, coming from all directions. Much of this chaos has been chalked up to the utter ineptitude of Trump and his rogues gallery of bush league morons. There's a grain of truth to this. Others have chalked it up to that mad maestro of mania, Steven Ilyich Bannon. All part of some finely constructed campaign to bring on the apocalypse. And there's probably a grain of truth to that too. But mostly I see this madness as a toxic byproduct of Trump's war on the establishment and the establishment's war on Trump. A civil war between two tribes of bloodthirsty imperialists, grappling for the future of Manifest Destiny. On the one side is the old-school, neocon, chicken-hawks demanding total war with Putin's Russia. On the other is Trump's raft of "realist" malcontents calling for detente with Russia in order to focus on who they view as the real obstacle to American primacy, namely Islam and more importantly China. I shall here forth refer to these dueling cabals of warlords as the Russophobes (aka the establishment) and the Sinophobes (Trump).
Before I go any further into my armchair analysis, I feel it important to remember that, in spite of their strategic differences, both of these sides have essentially the same goal- American global domination. They also have essentially the same foe, beneath their initial targets, and that foe is a united Eurasia. The full integration of the worlds greatest landmass spells out the end of American hegemony. If the rising dragons of the Orient can create a direct link to the Euro-zone then the Dollar is dead and the world is cursed to the peaceful coexistence of a multi-polar order. This harmony is what the Mandarins of Washington and Wall Street fear most and it is what motivates both sides of this war of the warlords. Where they differ is on who to shoot first.
The Russophobes represent the old school of American imperialism, which see's a united and independent Russia as the greatest threat to their dreams of world power, mostly do to its geographic position as the great land bridge connecting Europe to Asia. This was the true motivation behind the Cold War, which began when Lenin's Bolsheviks overthrew the Yankee puppet state of the Czar and attempted to forge their own bloody path forward, out of the Dark-Age feudalism of Kremlin serfdom and into the light of the Twentieth Century. This great leap towards modernism was what really terrified the western establishment, not communism. Wilson and his Atlanticists understood this threat to their international designs immediately and sent tens of thousands of dough-boys, fresh from the crimson trenches of the First World War, into the new Soviet experiment to supplement the Czar's disgruntled death squads in an epic bloodbath that came to be known as the White Terror. And it never really ended. The USSR developed into a frantic, violent and, above all else, paranoid warfare state under the unrelenting pressure of this siege, eventually cracking beneath its weight. Lenin's dream, however flawed it may have been, was finally snuffed out in 1991, after decades of sabotage and proxy wars, and a new puppet Czar was established. A vodka soaked buffoon named Boris Yeltsin, who gladly kept the Motherland good and backwards for his Washington handlers as long as he could fatten his wallet and fatten his ass while Russia was ripped inside out by crony shock capitalism and surrounded by the rapidly encroaching storm of NATO.
The Russophobes ultimate game plan was and still is to reduce Russia to Balkanized rubble, the same way they did to the former Yugoslavia. A dammed clusterfuck of impoverished ethno-states, too busy stabbing each other in the back to pose any viable threat to Dollar dominance. Vladimir Putin threw a wrench into these plans after he was chosen to replace Yeltsin by the power brokers of the deep Kremlin, who feared the further empowerment of Gennady Zyugnov's dogged Communists who would have easily defeated the increasingly despised Yeltsin in '96 if it wasn't for Clinton's flagrant meddling in that years presidential elections. Putin was originally Yeltsin's protege but once at the helm he quickly proved to be nearly as threatening to the Federation's status quo as Zyugnov. Reigning in the oligarchs, making peace with the Chechnyans and, most damningly, standing up to American meddling in Georgia and Ukraine. Naturally, Putin became persona non grata. The Russophobes, who by now, ruled not only Washington and Wall Street, but the mass media too, aimed all their guns at the Russian strongman's chrome dome and set their phasers to kill.
But not all the Mandarins of American power remained committed to this decades old plot to slay the Russian bear. Many came to see this policy as dated, wasteful and counterproductive. Among them, Donald J. Trump and a host of disgruntled veteran Cold Warriors who had grown impatient with the seemingly endless great chess game with the Kremlin. They rejected the old company line, proclaimed themselves "realists" and set their sights on the rising dragon of China as the real threat to American power. They boldly advocated collaboration with Putin's Russia in the eternally troublesome Middle East while they shifted their focus towards confronting China in the Pacific.
This deviation proved successful in the polls, helping Trump and his Sinaphobes to win the White House, but it proved toxic in the nostrils of the Russophobic old guard, some of whom even managed to infiltrate Trump's administration, including his fag-bashing zealot of a Vice President, Mike Pence. What has transpired is a tit for tat civil war, with both sides literally fighting over who to bomb first. Thus we see the intelligence leaks to the mainstream press, the sabotage of Trump's number one realist heavy, Michael Flynn, the banishment of certain "journalists" from the Press Corps. and a slew of disinformation coming from both sides.
This is the kind of madness that could only exist in the dying days of history's greatest empire. This morbidly obese giant has become demented with rage as it slouches slowly to it's grave. Many of my fellow anti-imperialists and anti-interventionists have made the foolish mistake of choosing sides of this blood tainted pissing match, figuring, childishly, that the enemy of their enemy is their friend and since Trump is pissing off all the right cunts, he must be some kind allie to our cause. The reality couldn't be farther from the truth. Trump doesn't represent some new school of isolationism. He represents some new school of American Imperialism. Much as FDR tried to use the camouflage of socialism to save capitalism, Trump seeks to use the language of anti-interventionism to save the empire. We should not wish him luck in this endeavor, rather we should pray that both sides of this fight are to busy cutting each others throats to cut anyone else's.
So here's to the war of the warlords! May it last long and may it's casualties be many. May Michael Flynn's shit-canning be the first of many and may every putrid organ of the so called mainstream media discredit themselves in the process. I'm no fan of war. But when it comes to cunts burning cunts, I say let em burn and I'll get the marshmallows and the weenie-roasters.
Stay neutral, dearest motherfuckers. The Swiss inherit the earth and the only good warmonger is an impeached warmonger.
Peace, Love and Empathy- CH
Soundtrack; Some songs that influenced this post-
* My War By Black Flag
* The Wheel By P.J. Harvey
* I Against I By Bad Brains
* The Future By Leonard Cohen
* Home Again Garden Grove By The Mountain Goats
* Party At Ground Zero By Fishbone
Before I go any further into my armchair analysis, I feel it important to remember that, in spite of their strategic differences, both of these sides have essentially the same goal- American global domination. They also have essentially the same foe, beneath their initial targets, and that foe is a united Eurasia. The full integration of the worlds greatest landmass spells out the end of American hegemony. If the rising dragons of the Orient can create a direct link to the Euro-zone then the Dollar is dead and the world is cursed to the peaceful coexistence of a multi-polar order. This harmony is what the Mandarins of Washington and Wall Street fear most and it is what motivates both sides of this war of the warlords. Where they differ is on who to shoot first.
The Russophobes represent the old school of American imperialism, which see's a united and independent Russia as the greatest threat to their dreams of world power, mostly do to its geographic position as the great land bridge connecting Europe to Asia. This was the true motivation behind the Cold War, which began when Lenin's Bolsheviks overthrew the Yankee puppet state of the Czar and attempted to forge their own bloody path forward, out of the Dark-Age feudalism of Kremlin serfdom and into the light of the Twentieth Century. This great leap towards modernism was what really terrified the western establishment, not communism. Wilson and his Atlanticists understood this threat to their international designs immediately and sent tens of thousands of dough-boys, fresh from the crimson trenches of the First World War, into the new Soviet experiment to supplement the Czar's disgruntled death squads in an epic bloodbath that came to be known as the White Terror. And it never really ended. The USSR developed into a frantic, violent and, above all else, paranoid warfare state under the unrelenting pressure of this siege, eventually cracking beneath its weight. Lenin's dream, however flawed it may have been, was finally snuffed out in 1991, after decades of sabotage and proxy wars, and a new puppet Czar was established. A vodka soaked buffoon named Boris Yeltsin, who gladly kept the Motherland good and backwards for his Washington handlers as long as he could fatten his wallet and fatten his ass while Russia was ripped inside out by crony shock capitalism and surrounded by the rapidly encroaching storm of NATO.
The Russophobes ultimate game plan was and still is to reduce Russia to Balkanized rubble, the same way they did to the former Yugoslavia. A dammed clusterfuck of impoverished ethno-states, too busy stabbing each other in the back to pose any viable threat to Dollar dominance. Vladimir Putin threw a wrench into these plans after he was chosen to replace Yeltsin by the power brokers of the deep Kremlin, who feared the further empowerment of Gennady Zyugnov's dogged Communists who would have easily defeated the increasingly despised Yeltsin in '96 if it wasn't for Clinton's flagrant meddling in that years presidential elections. Putin was originally Yeltsin's protege but once at the helm he quickly proved to be nearly as threatening to the Federation's status quo as Zyugnov. Reigning in the oligarchs, making peace with the Chechnyans and, most damningly, standing up to American meddling in Georgia and Ukraine. Naturally, Putin became persona non grata. The Russophobes, who by now, ruled not only Washington and Wall Street, but the mass media too, aimed all their guns at the Russian strongman's chrome dome and set their phasers to kill.
But not all the Mandarins of American power remained committed to this decades old plot to slay the Russian bear. Many came to see this policy as dated, wasteful and counterproductive. Among them, Donald J. Trump and a host of disgruntled veteran Cold Warriors who had grown impatient with the seemingly endless great chess game with the Kremlin. They rejected the old company line, proclaimed themselves "realists" and set their sights on the rising dragon of China as the real threat to American power. They boldly advocated collaboration with Putin's Russia in the eternally troublesome Middle East while they shifted their focus towards confronting China in the Pacific.
This deviation proved successful in the polls, helping Trump and his Sinaphobes to win the White House, but it proved toxic in the nostrils of the Russophobic old guard, some of whom even managed to infiltrate Trump's administration, including his fag-bashing zealot of a Vice President, Mike Pence. What has transpired is a tit for tat civil war, with both sides literally fighting over who to bomb first. Thus we see the intelligence leaks to the mainstream press, the sabotage of Trump's number one realist heavy, Michael Flynn, the banishment of certain "journalists" from the Press Corps. and a slew of disinformation coming from both sides.
This is the kind of madness that could only exist in the dying days of history's greatest empire. This morbidly obese giant has become demented with rage as it slouches slowly to it's grave. Many of my fellow anti-imperialists and anti-interventionists have made the foolish mistake of choosing sides of this blood tainted pissing match, figuring, childishly, that the enemy of their enemy is their friend and since Trump is pissing off all the right cunts, he must be some kind allie to our cause. The reality couldn't be farther from the truth. Trump doesn't represent some new school of isolationism. He represents some new school of American Imperialism. Much as FDR tried to use the camouflage of socialism to save capitalism, Trump seeks to use the language of anti-interventionism to save the empire. We should not wish him luck in this endeavor, rather we should pray that both sides of this fight are to busy cutting each others throats to cut anyone else's.
So here's to the war of the warlords! May it last long and may it's casualties be many. May Michael Flynn's shit-canning be the first of many and may every putrid organ of the so called mainstream media discredit themselves in the process. I'm no fan of war. But when it comes to cunts burning cunts, I say let em burn and I'll get the marshmallows and the weenie-roasters.
Stay neutral, dearest motherfuckers. The Swiss inherit the earth and the only good warmonger is an impeached warmonger.
Peace, Love and Empathy- CH
Soundtrack; Some songs that influenced this post-
* My War By Black Flag
* The Wheel By P.J. Harvey
* I Against I By Bad Brains
* The Future By Leonard Cohen
* Home Again Garden Grove By The Mountain Goats
* Party At Ground Zero By Fishbone
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