We Won’t Let You Kill Yourself

In yet another sterling example of the American psyche, when we see suicides are becoming alarmingly prevalent, and decreasing in average age, at the Golden Gate Bridge — America’s suicide Mecca — what do we do? We build a net under it! Treat the symptoms. Shoot the top of the flame.

Four people jump off in a single day in July? Passing motorists yelling “Jump!” and “Go, Dude!”? This society we’ve created is an irredeemable shithole. The Dollar God, whose only sermon is sociopathy and narcissism, reigns supreme. And guess what, folks? We’re not going to remediate the Dollar God’s horrible shithole. AND we’re not going to let you exit it. We’re literally going to trap you in a net.

That way, we can put you in a private hospital, which funnels in public funds and treats you with those public funds, minus X. X, of course, being the profit for the investors who have just become richer off your thwarted suicide attempt. Maybe we can get you on some pills, too — we shouldn’t neglect enriching the pharma investors. That wouldn’t be fair.


Let’s Have a War!

Well, here we go. Re-enter the Cold War. Your humble author is all for this. In fact, your humble author wants it to turn Hot. Let’s launch enough nukes to destroy all human life on this planet. Kind of like a very successful chemotherapy on the planetary body. Kill the cancer — the thing that grows without bound — the thing that eats all, self-justified, self-satisfied, and that procreates, procreates, procreates. Metastasizes.

Alternatively, let’s agree to pretend we don’t have nuclear weapons. Hell, the U.S. pumps out more tanks than the Pentagon requests, because, well — jobs! So you want to talk economics? Let’s talk pure economics. Let’s pretend nukes don’t exist, and let’s have a rigorous conventional war. Let’s destroy mountains of metal, and mountainscapes of flesh. Blow ‘em up. Blow ‘em the fuck up.

Let’s turn a bunch of adolescent and just-post-adolescent human primate meat into nitrogen, by having it shot to fuck on conventional war-fields. Shoot those motherfuckers right in the head. They deserve it, anyhow, for selling their meat to the glorious vanguard of fighting-for-the-glory-of-investors-in-military-corporations.

So we need a fucking huge conventional war. We do. It will create tons of jobs worldwide — fuck who gives a fuck who wins — let’s just start creating armaments! Think of the jobs, y’all! Build that shit. Build it fast. JOBS. Also: let the kids fighting for the glory of investors get shredded to meat. Fertilizer. This world is overpopulated as fuck. Kill them. Let them dissolve into the soil, and those of us smart enough not to get bullets put through our heads by fighting conventional metal-through-your-head wars will benefit. Supply of labor goes down, price of labor goes up. That’s wages folks. Wages. Bullet, meat. Meat, bullet.

Sweet Dreams!

If you ever find yourself newly consciously minted into a living horrorshow, here is my advice: lift up your arm. You see, fantastic, horrible, nightmarish imagery is the calling card of ‘sleep paralysis,’ a condition of consciousness common among children and adolescents, but far from unknown to the human brain at all life’s stages.

In it, the human brain finds itself temporarily — seconds, a minute or two — stuck between sleep and wakefulness. The ocular function is awake: so there you are, in your safe, warm, snuggly, bed-bug-ridden genital-secretion-laden blanket-fort. Complete with your aging concert posters on the wall and everything.

But the imagery apparatus of the brain is stuck between stations: it lays a freakshow phantasmagoria atop the quite real visualscape, just as easily as your sixth-grade elementary school teacher laid a transparency over the math homework on the projector, leading you to believe, say, a dark, deformed, demon is lording over the foot of your bed, staring at your decumbent, vulnerable body.

Finally, in such an in-between state, your motor skills and kinetic function have explicitly not yet come-to. So the horrifying part, for these seconds-to-a-minute-or-two, is that you are unable to move as lord-bed-demon glares down upon you. Fucked up, right?

So, I say, if things are horrible and nightmarish at any point in your life: lift up your arm. If you can’t, you are either now paralyzed for some sudden and terrible reason — sorry about that — or more likely, you are sitting temporarily in a transient, middling purgatory between your consciousness and subconsciousness. But, but, but: if you can lift your arm, of course, that means the hellish terror you are experiencing is quite real.

Sweet dreams!

The Over-Broad Misapplication of the Noun ‘Rockstar’

The Abuse of Our Language, Part 9,647,342, by Sterling Lambert: The Over-Broad Misapplication of the Noun ‘Rockstar.’

Hitherto, the noun ‘rockstar’ denoted a very specific thing. By applying this noun to more-and-more other things not previously captured by its traditional meaning, we are castrating (or vaginally mutilating — your author does not need masculine metaphors all the time, folks) it and sucking (or licking) all the meaning from it, so it becomes a neutered, cream-of-meaningless-wheat, like its many cousins before it. Words that also once had meaning, and which are now single-ply toilet paper: see, e.g., ‘genius,’; ‘special,’; ‘unique,’; ‘brilliant’; etc.

A ‘rockstar’ is, specifically, a primate who stands above other primates, by way of a raised platform and by the patronage (matronage?) of the lower-standing, non-’rockstar’ primates’ pocket-books, who, through the use of specialized devices, emits electrified noise frequencies approximating the general popular taste-range of the time.

A ‘rockstar’ is not, for example, a corporate tax attorney, no matter how efficient the corporate tax attorney is at finding loopholes to enrich the investors of the fictional legal entity to which he or she is a fiduciary. And there are some very efficient tax attorneys. For example, the corporation that built the iPhone you are now using to view these words paid zero taxes on $74,000,000,000 in income. Thanks corporate tax attorney!

But this does not make our corporate tax attorney a ‘rockstar.’ Instead, a ‘corporate tax attorney’ is a primate who sits behind a desk under white fluorescent light, incessantly, unstirringly, and quietly staring at papers and digital files bearing the familiar numbers that the ancient Indian and Arab cultures created for the rest of us oh-so-long-ago.

A ‘rockstar’ is ‘rockstar.’ Everything else is everything else.

Thank you,


Government, Incorporated

Had never heard of this analyst — Mike Lofgren — ’til I saw him on Moyers. However, he blew me away: the most insightful connect-the-dots-view-from-30,000-feet analysis of the horrible rot at the root of our socioeconomic structure. A twenty minute interview to provide a great deal of clarity — recommended, recommended, recommended.

Conservatives want to believe the rot is government, with its corruption, overreach, taxation, and foreign policy; liberals want to believe the rot is corporations, with their corruption, lobbying, outsourcing, and nihilistic profit motive leading to illegal and recklessly dangerous behaviors. Thing is, *they’re the exact same thing.* Our government *is* the corporations, and our corporations *are* our government. (Coincidentally, Mussolini himself would define the current United States as a shining example of a fascist state.)

The premise in the Lofgren interview is that Government, Incorporated uses its tax power to take money from us morlocks, and then redistribute it to the corporations, particularly those with a military manufacturing bent, in outrageously bad deals to engorge their coffers. For instance: for the entirety of the Afghan war, it cost — wait for it — *four hundred dollars* to put *one gallon* of gasoline in the field. And our private contractors were more than happy to oblige for the dozen or so years this fee was available.

Our current Government, Incorporated has shoved a blood-letting spear into our side. As the body — the nation — exsanguinates towards death, a few terrible dickhead assholes sit at the bottom of the let, licking and slurping up the iron and nutrients as the blood flows into their mouths. Fuck Government, Inc. Fuck it to hell. Oh, by the way, NSA, hello! Hope you are having a good one!


The Joy of Being an American Consumer, Part II

Thoughts on our completely rotten, fucked-beyond-repair economic/corporate/consumer system in this hell-hole-of-a-crooked-casino we call a “nation,” part two: New York is considering a law that would require a “kill switch” in smart phones. So if you get your shit jacked, you can “cancel it,” like a credit card. Shit just doesn’t work anymore. Idea is if you deprive it of black market value, you kill the incentive to (sometimes violently) steal it. Like they did with car stereos in the 1990s, which worked. Simple economics, incentives and all that, right?

But HANG THE FUCK ON, hang . . . the . . . fuck . . . on. The cell phone manufacturers *oppose* this. They fucking OPPOSE it! They, after all, will *lose money selling you fucking replacements.* Read: the cell phone manufacturers *want* you to (sometimes violently) get *accosted and robbed.* Fuck . . . this . . . decaying shithole. — Dear Father Profit Motive, thou great a priori economic engine in heaven, please bring a merciful asteroid upon us devilish monkeys, post haste; I will pay you 750 basis points in interest. Amen, Father —

By the way, anyone looking to buy a slightly used Samsung Galaxy S3, Apple iPhone 4S, or Google Nexus 4 I happen to have hanging around?


The Joy of Being an American Consumer, Part I

Being an American consumer is so satisfying, isn’t it? You pay for two services — your ISP, with its putatively beefy broadband capacity, and Netflix, to stream content over the wires for which you have already paid. But thanks to yet another terrible federal court decision, this one ending net neutrality, you get to watch a spinning ‘buffering’ circle, because the two services — again, both of which you have paid for — are hashing out their new profit model behind the scenes, in the wake of the court decision.

One restricts throughput speed on the other as negotiating leverage — something that has nothing to do with you, the paying consumer — yet you get the pleasure of dealing with the degraded service. Again, of two services for which you’ve paid, and for reasons that have nothing to do with technical limitations. Watching spinning circles on your television screen as your bank account gets auto-debited monthly.

It’s like buying a car and filling the tank with gas, but thanks to a new legal framework giving the car manufacturers leverage over the oil companies, the car manufacturer activates software in your car dropping your gas mileage to 5 MPG, until the oil companies give in to extortion. And you get the pleasure of driving a car at 5 MPG until that happens, even though you have paid for a car that was advertised as getting 30 MPG.

The American political economy is wholly broken. We consumers suffer the consequences in the form of shitty and unreliable services, inflated prices, poor or non-existent customer service, shitty products, planned obsolescence, arbitration clauses to deny legal redress, toxic chemicals in our goods, and genetic modifications without longitudinal studies as to possible harm in our food.

Who can we preemptively bomb to fix this?

Fantasia and Psilocybin

I hold this truth to be self-evident: with the exception of ‘The Wizard of Oz,’ Walt Disney’s ‘Fantasia’ stands unparalleled as nutritious food for psilocybin eyes. Also, tangentially: in 1940, cinema-goers were viewing an intellectual discourse, with audio-visual examples, on the synesthesic experience of sound. Also also tangentially: these same persons went on to win the chief example of a morally-justified war, became a college-educated society in an unprecedented fashion (in many colleges that were still fully-paid for by a progressive income tax, before Saint Reagan dashed his holy sword upon that), and proceeded, through the organization of labor and a belief in some strange thing called a ‘social contract,’ to bring about the healthiest middle class and distribution of wealth our country has ever known.

Us? We have ‘White House Down’ with Channing Tatum and President Jamie Fox shooting automatic weapons at cartoon villains. (No offense to Mr. Tatum or Mr. Fox, who seem to be nice fellows.) Now please just throw some bread at me and let me watch the lions eat the Christians in ravenous peace.