In the movie The Dark Knight starring Heath Ledger and Christian Bale, Michael Cane's character sums up the Joker's actions with a single, iconic sentence, saying, “Some men, Mr. Wayne, just want to watch the world burn.” To some degree, my desires mirror those of that green-haired maniac; on some level, I think that the most expedient and the simplest way for us to return balance to our world and to curtail mankind's dangerous over-expansion is to stop trying to control things that are wholly out of our control (such as human economic and moral behavior) and return to a state of blessed anarchy.
Hence, the title of this piece: foxtrot tango whiskey, or fuck the world, which is often abbreviated as FTW. Less a declaration of intent and more a general musing, the roots of this desire to foxtrot tango whiskey stretch all the way back to the anarchist who changed the world by blowing up Prince Franz Ferdinand while that pompous ass was being driven through Sarajevo. Beyond this bold act that tipped the West into its First World War and set the stage for today's Ynki supremacy, I look at the United States of America and our own early anarchism, a bygone state of total liberty that was first truly tested, and first truly crushed, under the jackboot of Northern aggression during the 1860s. Before that time, the federal government had operated as it was designed to operate – as an entity tasked with negotiating foreign trade agreements and with making sure no foreign power invaded our soil. Then, however, a dozen states decided that they wanted to pursue a course other than that of their neighbors to to the north, and they split off from the Union, forming their own nation on this continent's lower half.
Why not let the South split off and follow its own path? Why force it to stay in the Union? Why spill the blood of hundreds of thousands of strong and otherwise productive men in order to try to coerce a people into doing something they had decided they no longer wanted to do? As we saw in the most recent presidential election, the old schisms still exist, with the same exact states that once made up the Confederacy voting overwhelmingly for a religiously and socially conservative candidate who spoke of curtailing immigration and keeping America American (whatever that means) and the remaining states, those of the Northeast and the West, voting for a president who at least seems to be a bit more conscious of the reasons for why our Constitution was drafted in the first place, among them to secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity. I hear in the news talk of secession among a number of groups scattered across the South, and I say let them go, if that is what they wish to do. Why waste more blood and more treasure trying to force people to stay where they don't want to stay? If history is any sort of guide, we can deduce that people will forever yearn to be free, and that the sooner they are granted that freedom, the better off they and their neighbors will be. If we all just fucked the world a little bit each day, I hazard that we would get up in each others' business with less frequency and pass fewer laws to regulate personal and professional behavior, preferring to let inherent human forces work things out than to try and micromanage a nation from giant, gilded palaces built on swampland next to the Potomac. So today, if only for a moment, foxtrot tango whiskey, and help make things better for everyone. Mahalo.
mentiri factorem fecit © 場黑麥
30 November 2012
28 November 2012
men make moans
Recently, while out disc-golfing in a nearby state park, some friends and I came across a guy and his gal being professionally photographed. The couple would walk a few paces, fall into each others' arms, kiss, hug, and lean, generally acting in the manner of drunken fools with smiles plastered on their faces. Then, as we were kicking through the dry leaves trying to find our discs, the man got down on one knee, took the girl's left hand in his, and pretended to slide a ring onto her finger. I have never been married, I do not plan to ever get married, and I don't think much of the ordeal; therefore, I put my head down, kept walking, and ignored the love-fest going on up the hill. Two of my companions, however, an overweight man in his late thirties and his overweight son, upon seeing the man drop to one knee, began to moan and coo and aw, punctuating their girlish behavior by stopping in their tracks and applauding. The love-struck man then stood up and made it clear through a few brief words and hand gestures that he was not in the act of proposing and that he and his betrothed lass were merely having their pictures taken as if they were, which dampened my companions' spirits considerably. When, later, I asked the man and his son why they had applauded the lovers' actions, they said because they thought it was “Nice.”
At sometime in the past, I fell for the lie that I had to express my emotions out loud and show everyone my sensitive side, that my feelings were things that had to be expressed and talked about, that vulnerability was a masculine virtue. I have found the exact opposite to be true: the more I have tried to express my feelings, the less control I've had over them, and the more I've tried to show my sensitive side, the sooner my past girlfriends have left me. In part, I blame modern Western society's lack of manhood rituals for teaching boys how to become men, rituals in which their role in society is explained to them and the dos and don'ts of the self-respecting male are spelled out. I've had to try to figure these rules out for myself, stumbling blindly down one dead-end after the next; I wouldn't have minded being suspended from a tree by hooks looped under my pectoral muscles and beaten with buffalo femurs so long as, afterwards, my uncles had told me what was up. As far as why Western men have begun to act in the manner of women, research points, in part, to our increased exposure to plastics: we eat off them, heat them in microwaves, wear them, sleep in them, and add them to our soaps, poisoning our bodies in subtle yet powerful ways and causing our boy children's genitalia to shrink. In part I also blame our society's obesity rates, with expanding waistlines signaling men's bodies to increase estrogen production, Mother Nature cursing pear-shaped dudes to act as if they were women. (I have no problem with women, or with women acting womanly, only when men do the same.)
Whenever I see couples acting romantically and looking at each other with stars in their eyes, with hands tightly intertwined and cheeks flushing with excitement, I immediately think of Doug Stanhope's bit regarding the ultimate conclusion to every single such instance of foreplay, that being male ejaculation. All the chocolates in the world, and all the bunches of roses, all the time spent talking on the phone, and all the pronouncements such as “I miss you” and “I love you” lead to one thing: the man shooting his sperms into or onto the girl's body. (I am neither gay nor lesbian, and so I cannot really speak to homosexual liaisons.) Since getting in shape, simplifying my life, and putting myself through a number of manhood rituals, I have found it easier to reject the old ways and to replace them with ones that play to my inherent masculine strengths; next time, then, I'll skip the foreplay and go straight to sleep. Mahalo.
mentiri factorem fecit © 場黑麥
At sometime in the past, I fell for the lie that I had to express my emotions out loud and show everyone my sensitive side, that my feelings were things that had to be expressed and talked about, that vulnerability was a masculine virtue. I have found the exact opposite to be true: the more I have tried to express my feelings, the less control I've had over them, and the more I've tried to show my sensitive side, the sooner my past girlfriends have left me. In part, I blame modern Western society's lack of manhood rituals for teaching boys how to become men, rituals in which their role in society is explained to them and the dos and don'ts of the self-respecting male are spelled out. I've had to try to figure these rules out for myself, stumbling blindly down one dead-end after the next; I wouldn't have minded being suspended from a tree by hooks looped under my pectoral muscles and beaten with buffalo femurs so long as, afterwards, my uncles had told me what was up. As far as why Western men have begun to act in the manner of women, research points, in part, to our increased exposure to plastics: we eat off them, heat them in microwaves, wear them, sleep in them, and add them to our soaps, poisoning our bodies in subtle yet powerful ways and causing our boy children's genitalia to shrink. In part I also blame our society's obesity rates, with expanding waistlines signaling men's bodies to increase estrogen production, Mother Nature cursing pear-shaped dudes to act as if they were women. (I have no problem with women, or with women acting womanly, only when men do the same.)
Whenever I see couples acting romantically and looking at each other with stars in their eyes, with hands tightly intertwined and cheeks flushing with excitement, I immediately think of Doug Stanhope's bit regarding the ultimate conclusion to every single such instance of foreplay, that being male ejaculation. All the chocolates in the world, and all the bunches of roses, all the time spent talking on the phone, and all the pronouncements such as “I miss you” and “I love you” lead to one thing: the man shooting his sperms into or onto the girl's body. (I am neither gay nor lesbian, and so I cannot really speak to homosexual liaisons.) Since getting in shape, simplifying my life, and putting myself through a number of manhood rituals, I have found it easier to reject the old ways and to replace them with ones that play to my inherent masculine strengths; next time, then, I'll skip the foreplay and go straight to sleep. Mahalo.
mentiri factorem fecit © 場黑麥
26 November 2012
what I'm missing
Over Thanksgiving, I took time to watch some TV, something I rarely do. I did this in part because I was invited to by my host, who wanted to kill some time before our feast of turkey and gravy and butternut squash, and in part to see what life is like for the tens of millions of average Americans who make it their habit. As part of my efforts to make myself a better and wiser person, I have been reading books on a wide range of topics and generally avoiding wasteful and IQ-diminishing activities such as the mindless consumption of packaged content, so I was excited to run with the crowd for a moment and check out what TV had to offer. My host and I watched a show about tattoo artists competing to see who could perform best under pressure, best on camera, best before a panel of judges. Thankfully, the show had been taped, so we could fast-forward over the commercials; thankfully, dinner was served before any of us had to suffer through too much of it.
Since taking the first steps toward self-sufficiency by running most of my household from a bank of 4 deep-cycle marine batteries fed by 6 solar panels, I have restricted my personal viewing time to but a few hours a week – I hook up the 750 watt inverter to watch only one movie at a time, whereupon I detach it from the battery, thus shutting everything down. I do not veg regularly on the couch flipping through channels; I follow neither show nor series, episode nor finale, nor do I bring up watching TV in conversation or stick around if someone else does. In short, at the mere mention of television, I become a butt-hurt curmudgeon. And so I was shocked at how stressful watching the boob-tube has become, how stupid I felt afterward, and how many more commercials there seemed to be now than when I watched it regularly just a few years ago. It is as if producers, studios, and networks had baited the viewing public into watching compelling and interesting shows and then switched formats to reflect their ultimate goal, that being to trick the American people into thinking they were having fun when they were in actuality being force-fed one advertisement after the next in bewilderingly frequent intervals, minds rotting while waist-lines expanded, ambition draining away while creativity was crushed under the jack-boot of rerun content.
Before this thankfully brief exposure, I had begun to wonder if I was missing something important, if I had erred in canceling my cable TV service, if I were somehow worse off for swimming against the crowd by not succumbing to TV's mind-numbing allure. Today, however, my curiosity is stilled, my wonder has abated, and I am confident in one thing: I am better off for having avoided television these past few years. As a person who has glimpsed the eternal silence of the Great Vast Crushing Nothingness and lived to tell the tale, I have a decent understanding of the preciousness of human existence; therefore, my decision to try to better myself as a person, as a scholar, as a linguist, and as a writer rather than waste my short life glued to a self-illuminated, talking rectangle appears to be bearing fruit, if only slowly. By no amount of talking, warning, cajoling, begging, demanding, nagging, or urging will I ever convince anyone else whom I care about to join me in ceasing to watch TV, in preserving a shred of self-respect and personal dignity, or in saving the self by switching off the tube; all forms of salvation – even ones that are so simply accomplished – come from the realization that there are always better ways than the current path, that nothing worth its while is easy, and that the hardest things are the most rewarding. So, please, cancel your cable subscriptions, dust off a book, and start living well again. Mahalo.
mentiri factorem fecit © 場黑麥
Since taking the first steps toward self-sufficiency by running most of my household from a bank of 4 deep-cycle marine batteries fed by 6 solar panels, I have restricted my personal viewing time to but a few hours a week – I hook up the 750 watt inverter to watch only one movie at a time, whereupon I detach it from the battery, thus shutting everything down. I do not veg regularly on the couch flipping through channels; I follow neither show nor series, episode nor finale, nor do I bring up watching TV in conversation or stick around if someone else does. In short, at the mere mention of television, I become a butt-hurt curmudgeon. And so I was shocked at how stressful watching the boob-tube has become, how stupid I felt afterward, and how many more commercials there seemed to be now than when I watched it regularly just a few years ago. It is as if producers, studios, and networks had baited the viewing public into watching compelling and interesting shows and then switched formats to reflect their ultimate goal, that being to trick the American people into thinking they were having fun when they were in actuality being force-fed one advertisement after the next in bewilderingly frequent intervals, minds rotting while waist-lines expanded, ambition draining away while creativity was crushed under the jack-boot of rerun content.
Before this thankfully brief exposure, I had begun to wonder if I was missing something important, if I had erred in canceling my cable TV service, if I were somehow worse off for swimming against the crowd by not succumbing to TV's mind-numbing allure. Today, however, my curiosity is stilled, my wonder has abated, and I am confident in one thing: I am better off for having avoided television these past few years. As a person who has glimpsed the eternal silence of the Great Vast Crushing Nothingness and lived to tell the tale, I have a decent understanding of the preciousness of human existence; therefore, my decision to try to better myself as a person, as a scholar, as a linguist, and as a writer rather than waste my short life glued to a self-illuminated, talking rectangle appears to be bearing fruit, if only slowly. By no amount of talking, warning, cajoling, begging, demanding, nagging, or urging will I ever convince anyone else whom I care about to join me in ceasing to watch TV, in preserving a shred of self-respect and personal dignity, or in saving the self by switching off the tube; all forms of salvation – even ones that are so simply accomplished – come from the realization that there are always better ways than the current path, that nothing worth its while is easy, and that the hardest things are the most rewarding. So, please, cancel your cable subscriptions, dust off a book, and start living well again. Mahalo.
mentiri factorem fecit © 場黑麥
23 November 2012
prayers to Baal
By the millions this year, during the days immediately following Thanksgiving, otherwise self-respecting Americans of all religious backgrounds, socio-economic strata, and ethnic heritages will dutifully bow before god Baal, the ancient deity of wasteful excess. Featured prominently in the Christian bible's old testament, Baal seduced the children of Israel while they were waiting for Moses to return from the Mount Sinai; within a short time they went from considerate and caring individuals to rapacious, lustful, and greedy cunts hellbent on grabbing, stuffing, wanting, needing, taking. Intended to be taken more as a metaphor than as an historical event, the seduction of the faithful by Baal was so great, and so extensive, that it caused Moses to ruin the first copy of the ten commandments, whereupon he slunk back up the mountain to obtain – from his jealous and spiteful god YHWH – another set.
The seduction continues this year during the celebrations of excessive and unnecessary consumption referred to in the press as Black Friday, Small Business Saturday, and Cyber Monday. Once again, otherwise considerate individuals will shake off the cruel yoke of frugal moderation in order to buy slightly-newer copies of things they already have, purchase gifts for distant relatives who wanted something else entirely, and generally act as if they were total fucking jerks while racking up personal debt on their credit cards and mortgaging their children's future in order to buy television sets slightly wider than the ones they already have. Once again, tens of millions of self-proclaimed Christians will spit in the face of YHWH, he who demands that all praise be given to him and him alone, he who calls for the death and banishment of those who mock his name, his power, his glory, his and his alone, now and forever. (Failing to follow the clearly-stated directives of one's god amounts to mocking that god's very existence.)
Do these poor fools realize that they're perpetuating the culture of me-first consumerism that is surely and steadily dragging America down into sad oblivion? Do they see the hypocrisy of driving to their churches in gleaming cars while dressed in fancy and expensive clothes in order to scrape perfunctorily before Jesus – a god who urges them to give as much to the poor as they can bear to give and to live their lives in simplicity, humility, and moderation – when in reality they sit in their single-family homes hoarding greenbacks and coveting baubles? Last year's retail sales numbers and this year's sales projections indicate that millions of Americans believe in Baal above Jesus and in consumption above compassion, that they allow advertising firms to dictate their lives, and that they have succumbed fully to the hollow grasp of their black and twisted egos. No amount of talking about this foul erosion of our nation's erstwhile and honorable frugality will make things better; I rail on this blog against these excesses just as my father once railed against them from his pulpit, all but begging his parishioners to choose love for one another over love for self. But, just as his words fell mostly on dead ears, so I feel do mine, woeful warnings wantonly ignored. If people wish to violate the tenets of their religion in order to save a couple dollars, that is their choice; if they would rather give in to the siren-call of conspicuous consumption than nurture in their hearts a wondrous and peaceful tranquility, who am I to say that they are wrong to do so? And besides, when the savings are this good, it doesn't matter if a few more people get trampled this year than last – it just means less competition. Save sanity, serenity, and soul – boycott black Friday!
mentiri factorem fecit © 場黑麥
The seduction continues this year during the celebrations of excessive and unnecessary consumption referred to in the press as Black Friday, Small Business Saturday, and Cyber Monday. Once again, otherwise considerate individuals will shake off the cruel yoke of frugal moderation in order to buy slightly-newer copies of things they already have, purchase gifts for distant relatives who wanted something else entirely, and generally act as if they were total fucking jerks while racking up personal debt on their credit cards and mortgaging their children's future in order to buy television sets slightly wider than the ones they already have. Once again, tens of millions of self-proclaimed Christians will spit in the face of YHWH, he who demands that all praise be given to him and him alone, he who calls for the death and banishment of those who mock his name, his power, his glory, his and his alone, now and forever. (Failing to follow the clearly-stated directives of one's god amounts to mocking that god's very existence.)
Do these poor fools realize that they're perpetuating the culture of me-first consumerism that is surely and steadily dragging America down into sad oblivion? Do they see the hypocrisy of driving to their churches in gleaming cars while dressed in fancy and expensive clothes in order to scrape perfunctorily before Jesus – a god who urges them to give as much to the poor as they can bear to give and to live their lives in simplicity, humility, and moderation – when in reality they sit in their single-family homes hoarding greenbacks and coveting baubles? Last year's retail sales numbers and this year's sales projections indicate that millions of Americans believe in Baal above Jesus and in consumption above compassion, that they allow advertising firms to dictate their lives, and that they have succumbed fully to the hollow grasp of their black and twisted egos. No amount of talking about this foul erosion of our nation's erstwhile and honorable frugality will make things better; I rail on this blog against these excesses just as my father once railed against them from his pulpit, all but begging his parishioners to choose love for one another over love for self. But, just as his words fell mostly on dead ears, so I feel do mine, woeful warnings wantonly ignored. If people wish to violate the tenets of their religion in order to save a couple dollars, that is their choice; if they would rather give in to the siren-call of conspicuous consumption than nurture in their hearts a wondrous and peaceful tranquility, who am I to say that they are wrong to do so? And besides, when the savings are this good, it doesn't matter if a few more people get trampled this year than last – it just means less competition. Save sanity, serenity, and soul – boycott black Friday!
mentiri factorem fecit © 場黑麥
21 November 2012
on solar elevation
The swift onset of winter caught this whorphan woefully off guard – his solar panels no longer spend time in the sun. Instead of basking and gulping in full exposure, they sip spare photons while lounging in this little house's lengthening shade. While preparing and splitting piles of wood for the wood-stove, he neglected his solar setup; while raking and composing mounds of leaves for the garden, he overlooked the realities of diminished daylight. Oh, how quickly it occurred, how rapidly our planet tilted on its axis, the sun now rising a few compass-ticks south of due east and, after noon, avoiding fully the front yard's short run.
What is a lowly solar farmer to do? Does he relocate his 2 sets of 3 solar panels? In order to do that, he'd have to move the entire battery bank along with both inverters and run some new wire into the house; besides, positioning the panels closer to the drive would put them at greater risk of getting struck by a passing car. Does he raise the sets on bamboo poles clustered and woven together so that they share the weight? This has both advantages and disadvantages. Among the advantages are these: if the panels were raised to a height of eight feet and lashed firmly to bamboo poles, they would be exposed to direct sunlight for a longer period of time during each day (provided the sun were to shine); they would be completely out of the wet grass; they would be at lesser risk of being broken from thrown or falling debris; if run into accidentally by a vehicle, the poles would splinter and bend while the panels above them would remain safe (this is an assumption), whereas if the panels were to be struck by a vehicle directly, they would be ruined totally. Among the disadvantages are these: the panels would face only in one direction and could no longer be manually rotated to track the sun; the wire cables with which they feed electricity to the battery bank would have to be run through a tube or otherwise secured against tripping and entanglement; they would be lashed to bamboo poles, which disintegrate over time, with either rope or some form of metal bracket – either way, the poles and lashings would have to be replaced every few years.
The third option is, of course, to do nothing, to adjust to a diminished charge in the battery bank, and to resign myself to my panels only getting full sun between 0830 and 1030 in the morning. I do not like this third option because it forces me to choose between recharging all my electronics batteries and firing up the 750 watt inverter to watch a full-length movie (a luxury I plan to cut out of my life anyway, as I have seen too many movies of late, and read too few books); it sees me standing by the window each day hoping that the sun will shine when I want it to. Therefore, the third option is off the table; I will raise the panels to a great height, lash them firmly to their mounts, secure all loose cables, wash the mud off my tools, put them away, and go watch Caddyshack for the umpteenth time. Mahalo!
(p.s. Upon further consideration, I have changed my plans. I shall not raise my panels on platforms, and I shall not drag them up to the roof. Now, instead of risking the panels causing damaging to or being blown off of the platform or roof, I have decided to locate them closer to the lane and to cut down a large bush next to the house, so that now the panels are only in the house's shade for maybe an hour, and not all afternoon. Sometimes, the old mantras come in handy; in this instance, I remembered the Latin saying Numquam ponenda est pluralitas sine necessitate, English for Keep it simple, you bleeping numskull.)
mentiri factorem fecit © 場黑麥
What is a lowly solar farmer to do? Does he relocate his 2 sets of 3 solar panels? In order to do that, he'd have to move the entire battery bank along with both inverters and run some new wire into the house; besides, positioning the panels closer to the drive would put them at greater risk of getting struck by a passing car. Does he raise the sets on bamboo poles clustered and woven together so that they share the weight? This has both advantages and disadvantages. Among the advantages are these: if the panels were raised to a height of eight feet and lashed firmly to bamboo poles, they would be exposed to direct sunlight for a longer period of time during each day (provided the sun were to shine); they would be completely out of the wet grass; they would be at lesser risk of being broken from thrown or falling debris; if run into accidentally by a vehicle, the poles would splinter and bend while the panels above them would remain safe (this is an assumption), whereas if the panels were to be struck by a vehicle directly, they would be ruined totally. Among the disadvantages are these: the panels would face only in one direction and could no longer be manually rotated to track the sun; the wire cables with which they feed electricity to the battery bank would have to be run through a tube or otherwise secured against tripping and entanglement; they would be lashed to bamboo poles, which disintegrate over time, with either rope or some form of metal bracket – either way, the poles and lashings would have to be replaced every few years.
The third option is, of course, to do nothing, to adjust to a diminished charge in the battery bank, and to resign myself to my panels only getting full sun between 0830 and 1030 in the morning. I do not like this third option because it forces me to choose between recharging all my electronics batteries and firing up the 750 watt inverter to watch a full-length movie (a luxury I plan to cut out of my life anyway, as I have seen too many movies of late, and read too few books); it sees me standing by the window each day hoping that the sun will shine when I want it to. Therefore, the third option is off the table; I will raise the panels to a great height, lash them firmly to their mounts, secure all loose cables, wash the mud off my tools, put them away, and go watch Caddyshack for the umpteenth time. Mahalo!
(p.s. Upon further consideration, I have changed my plans. I shall not raise my panels on platforms, and I shall not drag them up to the roof. Now, instead of risking the panels causing damaging to or being blown off of the platform or roof, I have decided to locate them closer to the lane and to cut down a large bush next to the house, so that now the panels are only in the house's shade for maybe an hour, and not all afternoon. Sometimes, the old mantras come in handy; in this instance, I remembered the Latin saying Numquam ponenda est pluralitas sine necessitate, English for Keep it simple, you bleeping numskull.)
mentiri factorem fecit © 場黑麥
19 November 2012
on freedom's price
Ask most any motorcyclist sporting a leather vest, jacket, or chaps, and he'll say that “The freedom of it” is one of the primary reasons that he rides. Ah yes, seductive and elusive Liberty, she who beckons from near and far, always around us but forever just out of reach, always tantalizingly close yet frustratingly far away, how we love her! We think about freedom, yearn for it, love it, enjoy it, abuse it, and harp on it, speaking of it in hushed tones and genuflecting before that giant copper-clad statue of goddess Liberty standing in New York's harbor to welcome the poor and the huddled masses to these our bountiful shores. Some people among us – the aforementioned bikers first and foremost – seem to be trying to actively execute their right to freedom by riding around on big, motorized machines that pollute the air we all breathe and shatter the quiet we all enjoy.
Everything comes at a price, even Liberty, and the price we citizens pay for the bikers' freedom is higher than most: we arm our young men and women and fly them to sovereign nations in the Middle East and Central Asia where they kill and maim and bomb in order to secure a steady supply of gasoline for all of those in-line flathead v-twin noisemakers; we give Arabian oil sheiks American dollars to pay for gasoline to run all those hogs, perfectly content in the knowledge that some of our money will be used to fund terrorist organizations such as Al Qaida in the Arabian Peninsula and Hamas; we maintain diplomatic missions, puzzle over foreign trade policy, and arrange trade treaties so that bikers might wear t-shirts and vests made by foreign manufacturers emblazoned with the symbols of these United States, Old Glory printed on Bangladeshi cotton, the Stars and Stripes stitched into Vietnamese cowhide; we inhale the fumes of their idling engines and wince with every revving of their obnoxiously-loud tailpipes while wishing they would just all go home, read a book, and think about how downright lame their little scooters are.
Motorcyclists actively decrease their own amount of personal Liberty by relying on complicated machines to move them around; to maintain their little slices of freedom they are beholden to mechanics, parts manufacturers, tassel twisters, carburetors, regulators, and tow truck drivers. If motorcyclists would take a moment to examine the roots of the craze for two-wheelers, they would find the lowly wire donkey, the velocipede, the muscle-powered bicycle. Oh, if only these fools would throw off the chains of slavery to oil-pumping Arabs and wrench-chucking mechanics and return en mass to the device that grants its user nearly unbridled freedom, the crank-powered bicycle. Just think how quiet our world would be, how greatly motorcyclists could improved their health and fitness, and how much less gasoline we would have to kill and maim and bomb for if we could but free Liberty from the demands of endless warfare and disassociate her from mundane pettiness and wasteful sloth. When someone wears a vest upon which is printed a picture of a bald eagle wrapped in the American flag floating above a chopper-style motorbike while riding on a chopper-style motorbike, that person proves only his disrespect for the stars and stripes and his love for redundancy; when he relies on a combustion engine to move him across the face of the earth rather than letting his thigh and calf muscles drag him across that selfsame phaltscape, he puts nothing on display but his laziness and lack of vigor. Please, dear reader, if you love Liberty, value human health, and respect the lungs and eardrums of other people, sell your hog, buy a velocipede, and be free. Mahalo.
© mentiri factorem fecit (場黑麥)
Everything comes at a price, even Liberty, and the price we citizens pay for the bikers' freedom is higher than most: we arm our young men and women and fly them to sovereign nations in the Middle East and Central Asia where they kill and maim and bomb in order to secure a steady supply of gasoline for all of those in-line flathead v-twin noisemakers; we give Arabian oil sheiks American dollars to pay for gasoline to run all those hogs, perfectly content in the knowledge that some of our money will be used to fund terrorist organizations such as Al Qaida in the Arabian Peninsula and Hamas; we maintain diplomatic missions, puzzle over foreign trade policy, and arrange trade treaties so that bikers might wear t-shirts and vests made by foreign manufacturers emblazoned with the symbols of these United States, Old Glory printed on Bangladeshi cotton, the Stars and Stripes stitched into Vietnamese cowhide; we inhale the fumes of their idling engines and wince with every revving of their obnoxiously-loud tailpipes while wishing they would just all go home, read a book, and think about how downright lame their little scooters are.
Motorcyclists actively decrease their own amount of personal Liberty by relying on complicated machines to move them around; to maintain their little slices of freedom they are beholden to mechanics, parts manufacturers, tassel twisters, carburetors, regulators, and tow truck drivers. If motorcyclists would take a moment to examine the roots of the craze for two-wheelers, they would find the lowly wire donkey, the velocipede, the muscle-powered bicycle. Oh, if only these fools would throw off the chains of slavery to oil-pumping Arabs and wrench-chucking mechanics and return en mass to the device that grants its user nearly unbridled freedom, the crank-powered bicycle. Just think how quiet our world would be, how greatly motorcyclists could improved their health and fitness, and how much less gasoline we would have to kill and maim and bomb for if we could but free Liberty from the demands of endless warfare and disassociate her from mundane pettiness and wasteful sloth. When someone wears a vest upon which is printed a picture of a bald eagle wrapped in the American flag floating above a chopper-style motorbike while riding on a chopper-style motorbike, that person proves only his disrespect for the stars and stripes and his love for redundancy; when he relies on a combustion engine to move him across the face of the earth rather than letting his thigh and calf muscles drag him across that selfsame phaltscape, he puts nothing on display but his laziness and lack of vigor. Please, dear reader, if you love Liberty, value human health, and respect the lungs and eardrums of other people, sell your hog, buy a velocipede, and be free. Mahalo.
© mentiri factorem fecit (場黑麥)
16 November 2012
figuring things out
A few weeks ago, after finally accepting the reality of a Mid-Atlantic winter, I dug out my long underwear from the back of the closet. Long had they sat there, unused and forgotten, for last year's winter was mild, cool but not freezing, breezy but not wind-swept. This year, however, things are different: the first freeze came in late October, the winds have been strong and out of the north-west, and temperatures have sunk below freezing every night for the past week – long john weather, to be certain.
Starting in 2002 I spent seven years in California, hunkering last winter in Los Angeles. Therefore, I now ask myself: How do I use the long john? When do I don it, and when doff it? I started out by just wearing it all the time, which worked out great at my job, where I spend a lot of time sitting in the cold because I am too stubborn to turn on the heat; but, being a regular and avid cyclist, I found that the extra layer of insulation caused me to sweat too much, especially when climbing the hills south of town back to my home, from work. And so I put the undergarment back into storage and had forgotten about it until yesterday morning, when I was preparing to do my yoga in a cold, ground-floor room (I do yoga pant-less, for ease-of-movement), and I thought: I need to keep my legs warm during my asana, and, since I write in the same cold room after making my stretching exercises, an extra layer of insulation might mean the difference between frozen toes and a buoyant spirit. Now, after some trial and error, I proceed as follows. I awake at dawn in the warm cocoon of a German down comforter, put on my sweatshirt and pants, go downstairs, take my pants back off, put on my long johns, do my yoga, put on jeans, and do my hour of labor in the yard before breakfast, changing back into regular clothes before breaking my fast, after which I write until my netbook's battery dies. Then, I do more yoga (sun salutations with some core-strengthening exercises thrown in), take the long johns back off, eat a lunch of a half a cup of rice and a few dollops of peanut butter and honey, and gather up my things in preparation for bicycling down into town, for work. If I return in the evening and the house is still cold, I put the long johns back on before doing my asana, leaving them on during the rest of my nocturnal activities and taking them back off again mere moments before crawling back into my nest of blankets on the floor in one of the upstairs rooms.
If one were to have asked me three years ago how and when to use long johns, I would likely have responded off-handedly with a snide remark about donning them when one's legs get cold; today, though, I would say that the use of this undergarment depends on a number of factors, including one's level of physical exertion, the average temperature of one's home, one's ability to withstand cold, and one's usual pants-changing rhythm. Things have been going similarly with many things in my life – I find that the more I think I know about a given subject, process, or procedure the less I am in a position to actually pass judgment on it, to talk about it, or to give my opinion about it, and the more damage is done by my talking and opining and judging. Perhaps the central lesson I have learned from this adventure with the long john is to check things out first before dismissing them offhand, and, as always, to keep an open mind. Some day, I'll remember this simple mantra. Until then, mahalo.
© mentiri factorem fecit (場黑麥)
Starting in 2002 I spent seven years in California, hunkering last winter in Los Angeles. Therefore, I now ask myself: How do I use the long john? When do I don it, and when doff it? I started out by just wearing it all the time, which worked out great at my job, where I spend a lot of time sitting in the cold because I am too stubborn to turn on the heat; but, being a regular and avid cyclist, I found that the extra layer of insulation caused me to sweat too much, especially when climbing the hills south of town back to my home, from work. And so I put the undergarment back into storage and had forgotten about it until yesterday morning, when I was preparing to do my yoga in a cold, ground-floor room (I do yoga pant-less, for ease-of-movement), and I thought: I need to keep my legs warm during my asana, and, since I write in the same cold room after making my stretching exercises, an extra layer of insulation might mean the difference between frozen toes and a buoyant spirit. Now, after some trial and error, I proceed as follows. I awake at dawn in the warm cocoon of a German down comforter, put on my sweatshirt and pants, go downstairs, take my pants back off, put on my long johns, do my yoga, put on jeans, and do my hour of labor in the yard before breakfast, changing back into regular clothes before breaking my fast, after which I write until my netbook's battery dies. Then, I do more yoga (sun salutations with some core-strengthening exercises thrown in), take the long johns back off, eat a lunch of a half a cup of rice and a few dollops of peanut butter and honey, and gather up my things in preparation for bicycling down into town, for work. If I return in the evening and the house is still cold, I put the long johns back on before doing my asana, leaving them on during the rest of my nocturnal activities and taking them back off again mere moments before crawling back into my nest of blankets on the floor in one of the upstairs rooms.
If one were to have asked me three years ago how and when to use long johns, I would likely have responded off-handedly with a snide remark about donning them when one's legs get cold; today, though, I would say that the use of this undergarment depends on a number of factors, including one's level of physical exertion, the average temperature of one's home, one's ability to withstand cold, and one's usual pants-changing rhythm. Things have been going similarly with many things in my life – I find that the more I think I know about a given subject, process, or procedure the less I am in a position to actually pass judgment on it, to talk about it, or to give my opinion about it, and the more damage is done by my talking and opining and judging. Perhaps the central lesson I have learned from this adventure with the long john is to check things out first before dismissing them offhand, and, as always, to keep an open mind. Some day, I'll remember this simple mantra. Until then, mahalo.
© mentiri factorem fecit (場黑麥)
14 November 2012
on repeating stories
A phenomenon has caught my interest: that of repeating stories. I was reminded of it recently while having some after-work beers with a friend, when in order to back up a point he was making he began to recount a story from his past, one I had heard from him more than once before. He told the story in nearly the exact manner he had told it the first and second times, pausing for emphasis at the same spots and drawing the same conclusions he'd drawn during its initial recounting.
This vague example, however, is tame compared to the seemingly endless loop-cycle that some stories seem to enjoy. Following an unscientific and completely subjective analysis of such stories as I hear repeated by friends and family, I have concluded that people use narrative repetition to convince themselves of the validity of certain statements or memories, and that they tell certain stories over and over again in order to blur within their own minds the distinctions between fact and fiction. Some stories, I surmise, are repeated in order to protect the ego from feeling as if it were anything less than stellar; others, I take, are repeated to remember past wrongs and to keep hatred for and discontentment with the wrong-doer alive; and still others, it appears, are repeated in order to travel back in time – if only briefly – to exciting scenes long since passed, to tender loves long since lost, to sudden glory long since faded. Among the persons most likely to repeat a particular tale are middle-aged housewives so obsessed with the details of their own lives that they have forgotten about the great flourishing of danger and excitement that occurs beyond their comfortable walls; I have found it counter-productive, however, to point out to a woman that she is repeating herself, for she will with near certainty become deeply offended and spend the rest of the day sniping and backstabbing.
Upon examining this phenomenon of narrative repetition, I find myself engaging in it fairly regularly, at least when it comes to certain stories told at certain times: upon making a platonic acquaintance, I'll give a prepared summary of my life, the words bubbling out nearly subconsciously; upon meeting a potential mate, I'll present a different set of stories tailored to the young lady's apparent interests in hopes of piquing her fancy; and when discussing politics or issues of similar weight I find myself resorting to a specific cache of stories in order to back myself up, stories I use to convince myself of the validity of my own opinions or to cast doubt upon the opinions held by others. I will often not remember having previously told a story until I am halfway through it and my listeners start showing signs of restlessness (because they have obviously heard me tell it before). It is becoming clear to me that my experiences are so few that they can be summed up using only a handful of worn, old tales, yawn-inducing stories best kept quiet; I am becoming resigned to the fact that my brains so poorly remember the past that they cannot even keep track of the most simple of things, such as the worthlessness of my personal opinions and whether or not I have breached a certain topic with a certain individual. It is strange, and beautiful, sometimes, being alive and so forgetful. Mahalo.
© mentiri factorem fecit (場黑麥)
This vague example, however, is tame compared to the seemingly endless loop-cycle that some stories seem to enjoy. Following an unscientific and completely subjective analysis of such stories as I hear repeated by friends and family, I have concluded that people use narrative repetition to convince themselves of the validity of certain statements or memories, and that they tell certain stories over and over again in order to blur within their own minds the distinctions between fact and fiction. Some stories, I surmise, are repeated in order to protect the ego from feeling as if it were anything less than stellar; others, I take, are repeated to remember past wrongs and to keep hatred for and discontentment with the wrong-doer alive; and still others, it appears, are repeated in order to travel back in time – if only briefly – to exciting scenes long since passed, to tender loves long since lost, to sudden glory long since faded. Among the persons most likely to repeat a particular tale are middle-aged housewives so obsessed with the details of their own lives that they have forgotten about the great flourishing of danger and excitement that occurs beyond their comfortable walls; I have found it counter-productive, however, to point out to a woman that she is repeating herself, for she will with near certainty become deeply offended and spend the rest of the day sniping and backstabbing.
Upon examining this phenomenon of narrative repetition, I find myself engaging in it fairly regularly, at least when it comes to certain stories told at certain times: upon making a platonic acquaintance, I'll give a prepared summary of my life, the words bubbling out nearly subconsciously; upon meeting a potential mate, I'll present a different set of stories tailored to the young lady's apparent interests in hopes of piquing her fancy; and when discussing politics or issues of similar weight I find myself resorting to a specific cache of stories in order to back myself up, stories I use to convince myself of the validity of my own opinions or to cast doubt upon the opinions held by others. I will often not remember having previously told a story until I am halfway through it and my listeners start showing signs of restlessness (because they have obviously heard me tell it before). It is becoming clear to me that my experiences are so few that they can be summed up using only a handful of worn, old tales, yawn-inducing stories best kept quiet; I am becoming resigned to the fact that my brains so poorly remember the past that they cannot even keep track of the most simple of things, such as the worthlessness of my personal opinions and whether or not I have breached a certain topic with a certain individual. It is strange, and beautiful, sometimes, being alive and so forgetful. Mahalo.
© mentiri factorem fecit (場黑麥)
12 November 2012
on wood's worth
The other day, out of curiosity, I walked up into the grove of trees south of this rundown little house. As soon as I had secured my footing I started pulling out nicely-weathered and naturally-dried fallen poplar branches and throwing them down onto the lawn. Once I had collected a good number of limbs, I gathered them up by the armful and dragged them over to the barn for further processing. During the last few mornings' work sessions I have sawed these limbs down to usable lengths and stacked them on the previously-looted pile directly under the barn's overhang, rebuilding my stock of stove-burning wood that I will soon cover with a tarpaulin in order to protect it from errant rainfall and casual theft.
Just a few years ago I would have looked upon these poplar limbs as nuisances, things to be thrown deeper into the woods and ignored until they had rotted themselves down to long, low mounds of earth. Now, however, with my newfound understanding of wood as a most efficient and portable vehicle for storing solar energy, and considering my growing appreciation for the many acres of forest that cover this little valley of ours, I look upon these limbs as blessings from the universe. While exploring the southern slope I also came across a number of dead trees that I had hastily and sloppily sawed down a few years ago (using – gasp – a gasoline-burning chainsaw), lumber I shall now move and cut and stack and split, the dense walnut a preferred burning wood because of its density and weight. I am fascinated about how much I have learned from the few organic gardening magazines and self-sufficiency guides I have read over the summer, and just how perfectly-suited this land is for making a go at off-the-grid living.
The next step in my lumber-processing career is to decide whether I should make it my business to sell the wood on this property for cash or if I should just use the wood myself and convert larger portions of the grounds into arable land fit for the cultivation of crops. Given the amount of wood on the property and a glaring lack of industrial wood-processing machinery I think I shall just cut lumber for my own use and grow as much of my sustenance as I can in the cleared spaces. There is something fulfilling about getting out the bow saw and crashing through the underbrush in search of burnable wood; the more I do it, the more I enjoy it. It is also the perfect fitness, since it targets the body's primary muscle-groups while working out the stabilizer muscles in the calves and the gripping muscles in the forearms, combining the acquisition of one form of energy with the expenditure of another. Now is the time to do these things – when the leaves are falling and the morning frosts sting the cheeks – and with any luck I shall have enough fuel to see me through to springtime. I gather wood today for next winter and the winter after that, hard labor that pays off in the end. Mahalo.
© mentiri factorem fecit (場黑麥)
Just a few years ago I would have looked upon these poplar limbs as nuisances, things to be thrown deeper into the woods and ignored until they had rotted themselves down to long, low mounds of earth. Now, however, with my newfound understanding of wood as a most efficient and portable vehicle for storing solar energy, and considering my growing appreciation for the many acres of forest that cover this little valley of ours, I look upon these limbs as blessings from the universe. While exploring the southern slope I also came across a number of dead trees that I had hastily and sloppily sawed down a few years ago (using – gasp – a gasoline-burning chainsaw), lumber I shall now move and cut and stack and split, the dense walnut a preferred burning wood because of its density and weight. I am fascinated about how much I have learned from the few organic gardening magazines and self-sufficiency guides I have read over the summer, and just how perfectly-suited this land is for making a go at off-the-grid living.
The next step in my lumber-processing career is to decide whether I should make it my business to sell the wood on this property for cash or if I should just use the wood myself and convert larger portions of the grounds into arable land fit for the cultivation of crops. Given the amount of wood on the property and a glaring lack of industrial wood-processing machinery I think I shall just cut lumber for my own use and grow as much of my sustenance as I can in the cleared spaces. There is something fulfilling about getting out the bow saw and crashing through the underbrush in search of burnable wood; the more I do it, the more I enjoy it. It is also the perfect fitness, since it targets the body's primary muscle-groups while working out the stabilizer muscles in the calves and the gripping muscles in the forearms, combining the acquisition of one form of energy with the expenditure of another. Now is the time to do these things – when the leaves are falling and the morning frosts sting the cheeks – and with any luck I shall have enough fuel to see me through to springtime. I gather wood today for next winter and the winter after that, hard labor that pays off in the end. Mahalo.
© mentiri factorem fecit (場黑麥)
09 November 2012
on replacement parts
I've just replaced all 4 brake pads on my bicycle. Fortunately, my locally-owned neighborhood bicycle shop had parts that fit the outdated hardware on my nearly 2-decade-old velocipede, which was my father's until he'd gotten too old to ride it. With the pull of a cable and the twist of a wrench, the new pieces were in place, and now my whip no longer squeaks when it stops. This simple procedure came none too soon: upon closer inspection I discovered that the old pads had worn down to the metal in places, digging into the rims, reducing the power and speed of braking, and weakening the smog-sled's crucial elements.
Strangely enough, while I was deciding whether to pair up the 2 still-serviceable pads or just buy a new set, I came across a snippet of text – whether it was in a magazine or on one of the news website I read, I cannot remember – that reminded me of the body's own replacement schedule. The text said that the human body completely replaces the skin every 3 years, the liver every 5 (or vice-versa). Having studied biology extensively while preparing for the Abitur, I was able to picture my body slowly but continuously swapping out cell after cell, cluster after cluster, until these two important organs had been fully reformed. I find it fascinating that our bodies do this without outside input and using only the foodstuffs we shove into our gaping suck-holes; I am always amazed anew at just how good this meat-sack is at keeping me healthy and my systems up and running. While sitting here in the cold and writing this, I just remembered that the body replaces the entire skeleton roughly once every 30 years, which means that few if any of the cells that make up my current body are those with which I was born. How strange it is to think that I am an altogether different person than who I was during childhood – let alone at birth – and that these differences go beyond my train-wrecked emotional state or the cruelly-stunted development of my pitiable moral tableau; as a totally different person, I find that the neuroses and hangups that seem to so strongly define many important parts of my psyche continue to exist, regardless of the fact that most of me is new – probably because some part of me wants or needs them to exist in order for it to exist.
Compared to the body's automatic replacement process, the mind tends to remain subject to the destructive and short-sighted will of the ego far longer than is normally necessary, which compels us to defend our honor, to cling to material possessions, and to do most anything in our power to win arguments so that we can pat ourselves on the back and tell ourselves that we were Right All Along. How nice it would be if we could all learn to wrangle our egos and subject them to the will of nothingness, to the doctrine of non-existence (Wu), something that rarely happens in our modern capitalist society, an artificial construct that thrives only when our egos rule our every move, always tipping the scales in their favor, forever keeping us in self-imposed slavery to petty external needs. The person seeking to shed the ego for something greater, for something worthwhile, might well find relief in the ancient books and teachings; that person is advised to steer clear of organized religion, however, which will prey ferociously upon his ego and try to kindle within his bosom the fires of fearful discontentment so as to bind him forever to the notion of Salvation From Without. As we have seen, however, and as science continues to show us, salvation from death and renewal to life begins and ends within us, and few external forces beyond a bit of food and drink can speed them up or slow them down. (Consuming drugs, including alcohol, by the way, and mistreating the body by smoking cigarettes and denying it exercise will dramatically infringe upon its ability to heal itself.) Be safe, be well, and mahalo.
© mentiri factorem fecit (場黑麥)
Strangely enough, while I was deciding whether to pair up the 2 still-serviceable pads or just buy a new set, I came across a snippet of text – whether it was in a magazine or on one of the news website I read, I cannot remember – that reminded me of the body's own replacement schedule. The text said that the human body completely replaces the skin every 3 years, the liver every 5 (or vice-versa). Having studied biology extensively while preparing for the Abitur, I was able to picture my body slowly but continuously swapping out cell after cell, cluster after cluster, until these two important organs had been fully reformed. I find it fascinating that our bodies do this without outside input and using only the foodstuffs we shove into our gaping suck-holes; I am always amazed anew at just how good this meat-sack is at keeping me healthy and my systems up and running. While sitting here in the cold and writing this, I just remembered that the body replaces the entire skeleton roughly once every 30 years, which means that few if any of the cells that make up my current body are those with which I was born. How strange it is to think that I am an altogether different person than who I was during childhood – let alone at birth – and that these differences go beyond my train-wrecked emotional state or the cruelly-stunted development of my pitiable moral tableau; as a totally different person, I find that the neuroses and hangups that seem to so strongly define many important parts of my psyche continue to exist, regardless of the fact that most of me is new – probably because some part of me wants or needs them to exist in order for it to exist.
Compared to the body's automatic replacement process, the mind tends to remain subject to the destructive and short-sighted will of the ego far longer than is normally necessary, which compels us to defend our honor, to cling to material possessions, and to do most anything in our power to win arguments so that we can pat ourselves on the back and tell ourselves that we were Right All Along. How nice it would be if we could all learn to wrangle our egos and subject them to the will of nothingness, to the doctrine of non-existence (Wu), something that rarely happens in our modern capitalist society, an artificial construct that thrives only when our egos rule our every move, always tipping the scales in their favor, forever keeping us in self-imposed slavery to petty external needs. The person seeking to shed the ego for something greater, for something worthwhile, might well find relief in the ancient books and teachings; that person is advised to steer clear of organized religion, however, which will prey ferociously upon his ego and try to kindle within his bosom the fires of fearful discontentment so as to bind him forever to the notion of Salvation From Without. As we have seen, however, and as science continues to show us, salvation from death and renewal to life begins and ends within us, and few external forces beyond a bit of food and drink can speed them up or slow them down. (Consuming drugs, including alcohol, by the way, and mistreating the body by smoking cigarettes and denying it exercise will dramatically infringe upon its ability to heal itself.) Be safe, be well, and mahalo.
© mentiri factorem fecit (場黑麥)
07 November 2012
America fails, again
America's media outlets fail her People. So widespread is their deceit, and so brazen is their obfuscation, that the 3rd party presidential candidates' debate of 05 November 2012 streamed live only on rt.com, the website for Russia Today. No indigenous source for news – not FOX, ABC, NBC, not even fucking NPR! – has mentioned the name of a 3rd party presidential candidate in the last few weeks, and none of them – not even fucking NPR! – agreed to air Monday night's debate, let alone to acknowledge the existence of candidates besides Barack Obama and Mitt Romney, person such as governor Gary Johnson or Dr. Jill Stein. So deeply entrenched are these media giants – even fucking NPR! – and so fully have they been bought and paid for by the faceless corporations that now control the hearts and minds of millions of once-free ynki, that it is safe to say that this grand experiment of ours has failed. Now, we are following a trajectory similar to that of the Weimar Republic (see truthout.org: “History's Magic Mirror: America’s Economic Crisis and the Weimar Republic of Pre-Nazi Germany”) or the French Third Republic (see truthout.org: “How democracies die”); now, our down-spiral into widespread fascism and state-sanctioned religious extremism is not merely food for thought – it is as certain as death from an Obama drone-strike.
For most of my adult life I have been told that this land's news media is the fourth pillar of government, after, of course, the legislative, judicial, and executive branches; we have seen over the last weeks, however, the true extent of the news-media's sinister power, standing by in silent and docile witness as it corrupted democracy and deliberately destroyed equality and free speech, the very essence of this fragile republic. In that sense, the title of this piece is wrong – it is not America that has failed us, rather we the People who have failed her. I have tried to write about these matters, and I have tried to sound the warning klaxons repeatedly and with growing vigor, but, according to my new slogan: “I write because no one listens.” I could, perhaps, stand out in the cold again holding a sign in protest of or support for this idea or that policy, this notion or that cause, but my efforts would be for naught; just as one can lead a horse to water but not make it drink, so one can lead one's fellow citizens to knowledge but not make them think.
Where does this path we have chosen lead? To the jackbooted and willful destruction of diversity, life, honor, and Truth. This same path is the path taken in the early part of the last century by the people of Germany, who signed away their consciouses for the fleeting security of a chicken in every pot. So vast has our failure become, so readily have we given up our most precious ideals in pursuit of an artificial peace-of-mind and self-enslavement to our material possessions, that we no longer deserve to call ourselves patriots, let alone Americans; real Americans would fight for liberty and not give an inch to petty tyrants ruling from behind the black gates of White Houses; real Americans would demand that all voices be given equal air-time, that all candidates for the presidency be thrown into a room together without make up or polish, prepping or preening, polling or punditry; real Americans would take to the streets in the thousands in order to defend the rights of gays and women instead of shutting off their minds with a click of the television remote. Dear reader, we might have saved a bit of skin by not electing Mitt Romney to the presidency, but our struggle is far from over; indeed, it has just begun. Mahalo.
© mentiri factorem fecit (場黑麥)
For most of my adult life I have been told that this land's news media is the fourth pillar of government, after, of course, the legislative, judicial, and executive branches; we have seen over the last weeks, however, the true extent of the news-media's sinister power, standing by in silent and docile witness as it corrupted democracy and deliberately destroyed equality and free speech, the very essence of this fragile republic. In that sense, the title of this piece is wrong – it is not America that has failed us, rather we the People who have failed her. I have tried to write about these matters, and I have tried to sound the warning klaxons repeatedly and with growing vigor, but, according to my new slogan: “I write because no one listens.” I could, perhaps, stand out in the cold again holding a sign in protest of or support for this idea or that policy, this notion or that cause, but my efforts would be for naught; just as one can lead a horse to water but not make it drink, so one can lead one's fellow citizens to knowledge but not make them think.
Where does this path we have chosen lead? To the jackbooted and willful destruction of diversity, life, honor, and Truth. This same path is the path taken in the early part of the last century by the people of Germany, who signed away their consciouses for the fleeting security of a chicken in every pot. So vast has our failure become, so readily have we given up our most precious ideals in pursuit of an artificial peace-of-mind and self-enslavement to our material possessions, that we no longer deserve to call ourselves patriots, let alone Americans; real Americans would fight for liberty and not give an inch to petty tyrants ruling from behind the black gates of White Houses; real Americans would demand that all voices be given equal air-time, that all candidates for the presidency be thrown into a room together without make up or polish, prepping or preening, polling or punditry; real Americans would take to the streets in the thousands in order to defend the rights of gays and women instead of shutting off their minds with a click of the television remote. Dear reader, we might have saved a bit of skin by not electing Mitt Romney to the presidency, but our struggle is far from over; indeed, it has just begun. Mahalo.
© mentiri factorem fecit (場黑麥)
05 November 2012
protect economic Safety
Persons who respect and read the Declaration of Independence will recognize that the role of government is to serve one main purpose: to bring about our Safety and Happiness. Keeping this in our minds, we look at the banks in this country that continue to steal billions of dollars from the American people, banks that starting in 2008 C.E. (common era) were given hundreds of billions of tax-paper dollars so that their larcenous and short-sighted practices would not drag this country into total ruin, banks that to this day are removing the families of active-duty military personnel from their homes and evicting old and sick persons with the the full support and active participation of armed and role-crazy police officers.
These are not victim-less crimes: We the People are the victims. The very things our government is supposed to do for us – to protect our Safety and provide for our Happiness – it is not doing; the very purpose it is supposed to serve has been supplanted by the practice of protecting those persons who have rigged the system in their favor and ensnared millions of people around the globe in the swollen tendrils of their me-first capitalism. Tomorrow, friends, we go to the polls to elect a new president. Despite the media blackout being perpetrated by nearly all media outlets, including CNN, FOX, NPR, MSNBC, ABC, and their foul ilk, we have more choices that just one or the other, more candidates to select between than just Mitt and Barack: we also have Dr. Jill Stein and governor Gary Johnson to consider, two candidates who are not part of the Democrat or Republican parties, that massive duopoly that has wrapped up our liberties in a strangle-hold so tight that we might soon see freedom snuffed out forever.
In order to rein in our government and help it to actively create our Safety and Happiness; in order to stop the greed-based actions of giant banks and tax-payer funded bailouts; out of an honest belief in the idea that liberty thrives only when the adult citizen is entrusted with the enormous responsibility of being able to decide to live a life free of ill health, wage-slavery, and police oppression; for these reasons and out of abiding love for the generations yet to come, please vote for a third party candidate this Tuesday, ignoring the ill informed fear-mongers among us warning us to choose between the lesser of two evils. Perhaps one day we might all be as brave as Gary Johnson, who said he would rather die than vote for ass or pachyderm, or as fearless as Dr. Jill Stein, who was just last week arrested for trying to bring food to a group of persons using their bodies to stop environmental degradation in Texas; perhaps one day we might realize that by voting for establishment-sanctioned candidates we dishonor the covenant established by the Declaration and violate the sanctity of our most precious document, proclaiming boldly to a candid world: ”We deserve neither Safety nor Happiness because we have sacrificed the latter in hopes of getting the former.” The only path that leads to true Happiness runs along the violently-rushing brook of full and total liberty; the only candidate courageous enough to take us down this path – and who will gladly get his or her feet wet in the process – belongs to a third party. Demand Safety, create Happiness, and say no to politics as usual! Mahalo.
© mentiri factorem fecit (場黑麥)
These are not victim-less crimes: We the People are the victims. The very things our government is supposed to do for us – to protect our Safety and provide for our Happiness – it is not doing; the very purpose it is supposed to serve has been supplanted by the practice of protecting those persons who have rigged the system in their favor and ensnared millions of people around the globe in the swollen tendrils of their me-first capitalism. Tomorrow, friends, we go to the polls to elect a new president. Despite the media blackout being perpetrated by nearly all media outlets, including CNN, FOX, NPR, MSNBC, ABC, and their foul ilk, we have more choices that just one or the other, more candidates to select between than just Mitt and Barack: we also have Dr. Jill Stein and governor Gary Johnson to consider, two candidates who are not part of the Democrat or Republican parties, that massive duopoly that has wrapped up our liberties in a strangle-hold so tight that we might soon see freedom snuffed out forever.
In order to rein in our government and help it to actively create our Safety and Happiness; in order to stop the greed-based actions of giant banks and tax-payer funded bailouts; out of an honest belief in the idea that liberty thrives only when the adult citizen is entrusted with the enormous responsibility of being able to decide to live a life free of ill health, wage-slavery, and police oppression; for these reasons and out of abiding love for the generations yet to come, please vote for a third party candidate this Tuesday, ignoring the ill informed fear-mongers among us warning us to choose between the lesser of two evils. Perhaps one day we might all be as brave as Gary Johnson, who said he would rather die than vote for ass or pachyderm, or as fearless as Dr. Jill Stein, who was just last week arrested for trying to bring food to a group of persons using their bodies to stop environmental degradation in Texas; perhaps one day we might realize that by voting for establishment-sanctioned candidates we dishonor the covenant established by the Declaration and violate the sanctity of our most precious document, proclaiming boldly to a candid world: ”We deserve neither Safety nor Happiness because we have sacrificed the latter in hopes of getting the former.” The only path that leads to true Happiness runs along the violently-rushing brook of full and total liberty; the only candidate courageous enough to take us down this path – and who will gladly get his or her feet wet in the process – belongs to a third party. Demand Safety, create Happiness, and say no to politics as usual! Mahalo.
© mentiri factorem fecit (場黑麥)
02 November 2012
tenacious Republican terrorism
Western newscasters are quick to call any Arab suspected of committing acts of violence a terrorist, a practice that appears to have blinded them to the true extent of terrorism right here in America. He calls himself Mitt, and his last name is Romney, and he and his party are pushing a terrorist agenda. Hidden in plain view in the Republican party's presidential platform is a plan to terrorize the homosexual humans living in America, a plan that would turn them into citizens with fewer rights than their heterosexual neighbors, a plan that can have as its only consequence a surge of state-sanctioned violence and hatred against these our same-sex-loving brothers and sisters. Governor Romney has stated openly that if he should become president he would amend our secular Constitution for the first time in nearly a century, adding to it rules found only in the old testament of the Christian bible (see Leviticus 20) that mandate among many other horrible things the murder of gays and the killing of young women who lose their virginity before they are married; the only purpose such an amendment serves is to strike fear in the hearts of the Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, and Trans-gender (LGBT) community and to cause these peace-loving and innocent persons to live their lives in constant fear of reproach, disenfranchisement, and assault.
There is another group in the world that encroaches upon the rights of its citizens (be they Women, Gay, Colored, or otherwise), that disenfranchises them, that assaults them, that stands by as their rights are stripped away and they are raped, beaten, and murdered – the Taliban. The Republican party's plan to strip away the rights of homosexuals and to encroach upon the equality guaranteed them in our Declaration of Independence puts the Republican Party in American (RePIA, pronounced “rape-ya”) on equal footing with the Taliban; it exposes the RePIA as a threat to the Safety and Happiness of the American people equal to or greater than the threat posed by other terror-promoting organizations around the world, be they al-Qaida, Hamas, or the Haqqani Network (which continues to hold an American serviceman hostage, see here.)
To vote for RePIA this November 6th is to elect terror; to support Mitt Romney in his drive for our nation's highest office is to spit in the face of lady Liberty, to shit on the Constitution and the Declaration of Independence, and to declare oneself so ignorant of the ideals of equality and freedom that our ancestors once fought and died for as to be unworthy of calling oneself an upstanding member of society, let alone a patriot. To effect true change, to protect our own dreams and aspirations and those of the many generations to come, to take this country back from greased-up bankers and fat-backed politicians, vote for a third-party candidate such as Dr. Jill Stein or governor Gary Johnson. The newscasters won't stop calling votes for third-party candidates wasted votes, so let's all waste our votes on a person who will stop federal oppression and end the wars on drugs and in Afghanistan, a person who will ensure freedom and equality for all citizens regardless of their race, belief, sex, or sexual orientation. Vote green, or vote yellow, and help us liberate America from the cruel lash of mindless hatred, from the heavy yoke of unchecked greed, and from the rusty chains of perpetual strife. Be well, and mahalo.
© mentiri factorem fecit (場黑麥)
There is another group in the world that encroaches upon the rights of its citizens (be they Women, Gay, Colored, or otherwise), that disenfranchises them, that assaults them, that stands by as their rights are stripped away and they are raped, beaten, and murdered – the Taliban. The Republican party's plan to strip away the rights of homosexuals and to encroach upon the equality guaranteed them in our Declaration of Independence puts the Republican Party in American (RePIA, pronounced “rape-ya”) on equal footing with the Taliban; it exposes the RePIA as a threat to the Safety and Happiness of the American people equal to or greater than the threat posed by other terror-promoting organizations around the world, be they al-Qaida, Hamas, or the Haqqani Network (which continues to hold an American serviceman hostage, see here.)
To vote for RePIA this November 6th is to elect terror; to support Mitt Romney in his drive for our nation's highest office is to spit in the face of lady Liberty, to shit on the Constitution and the Declaration of Independence, and to declare oneself so ignorant of the ideals of equality and freedom that our ancestors once fought and died for as to be unworthy of calling oneself an upstanding member of society, let alone a patriot. To effect true change, to protect our own dreams and aspirations and those of the many generations to come, to take this country back from greased-up bankers and fat-backed politicians, vote for a third-party candidate such as Dr. Jill Stein or governor Gary Johnson. The newscasters won't stop calling votes for third-party candidates wasted votes, so let's all waste our votes on a person who will stop federal oppression and end the wars on drugs and in Afghanistan, a person who will ensure freedom and equality for all citizens regardless of their race, belief, sex, or sexual orientation. Vote green, or vote yellow, and help us liberate America from the cruel lash of mindless hatred, from the heavy yoke of unchecked greed, and from the rusty chains of perpetual strife. Be well, and mahalo.
© mentiri factorem fecit (場黑麥)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)