No Shit Sherlock
2017 08 02 I’ve long hated Sherlock Holmes: and the horse he rode in on. Exploring deductive logic was a good idea, once. It was becoming a masturbatory hobby horse by the time Sir Arthur Conan Doyle went to sleep at the wheel with it.
I was in high school, class of ’56, when I started dosing on Sherlock, but Holes wasn’t all I read: Doyle exploited a bunch of genres that too were already becoming over-exploited: so, I liked him, while I was becoming fed up. The thing I’ve long hated about Sherlock is what suckers the public were, shelling out money to delude themselves far beyond current custom. Before I move on to my point let me detail one particular problem I head. In the middle ’50s Charles Van Doren, my professor’s son, made a name for himself on a quiz show: quick slide into infamy. Suddenly Junior was in our face everywhere, slick magazines advertised that they were commissioning his wisdom everywhere. I one such article Charles regretting having a Sargasso Sea of a memory. He cited Doyle on the subject: the mind is like an attic, it only holds so much, be careful what you clutter it with.
No, I silently screamed at Charles: it’s not like an attic, finite; it’s more like a muscle: exercise it and it will hold more.
OK: point: yesterday I sampled a British TV Sherlock. There perpetrators put Homes and Watson in contemporary London. I’ll say one thng very much in its favor: it stars Benedict Cumberbatch. Now that guy is attractive, very appealing.
Oh, and PS: one thing I never tired of in all the Sherlock decades, a century plus, and counting, is that the franchise perpetually exposes the cops and nincompoops. Sherlock’s England is utterly addicted to civilization: sees that it bumbles but remains a mainline junkie. Cop complacency was put above us by God.
2017 07 31 I’ve been sampling Secrets of Great British Castles, taking my time, becoming incresingly fond of it. Visits to Carrickfergus Castle completes Season 1. I found myself “studying” it, catching errors, surfing off to double check: history is hardly my thing. But it doesn’t seem to be the BBC or this Dan Jones thing either: it skips generations leaves out a king or two. I don’t mind: I’m done correcting other scholars: except on one sore spot. The presenter says that Queen Elizabeth was a Protestant, the population of Ulster was mostly Catholic: “Roman” Catholic goes without saying. And here’s the point: Elizabeth was Church of England; not Roman Catholic. I’ve heard this error all my life, from people to don’t take correction. If there are only apples and oranges in the world then it’s a small error; but in a diverse world it’s an important error. King Henry VIII broke lose from the Roman pope’s authority, but had no tolerance for Protestants. Henry hanged Catholcs for religious errors but he burned Protestants! as heretics!
No, no. Henry declared that the true apolstolic succseeion went from Saint Peter to theArchbishop of Canterbury. The Roman pope was a false pope: they were all Catholic. Henry’s archbishop ran the English Catholic Church. Protestants hid in corners.
It’s one thing to hear this error from Catholics, that’s what Catholics are taught, they’re deliberately wrong: deliberate on the part of Rome. Those Puritans on the Mayflower were running to find religious freedom: they were Protestants, they were protesting the English Catholic authority.
This Dan Jones was born in Whales. Maybe he’s Catholic. But if he’s an historian he should devote a little time to getting it right.
Flat Earth Kyrie
2017 07 28 The basketball player made headlines last month saying the earth is flat. Today Yahoo features a school teacher who fears he’s failed to teach “science”. I’m reminded of what George Bernard Shaw quipped when told the sun was 93 million miles away: “Nonsense: look at it!”
A lot of people, some of them very smart, looked at the earth before any institutions invented a new unanimity on what’s flat, what’s round, what’s near, what’s far.
Kyrie’s version is a common version, it makes sense: it’s based on sense. Science can show it to be wrong, but it is a sensible attitude, sense based.
2017 07 27 Theme park horror as one dead and seven hurt when ride throws people through the air
When I was a kid I loved Cony Island. I didn’t know the beach, I didn’t know the neighborhoods, but I loved the amusement booths: in particular I loved the rides. The Cyclone I loved at a distance (however much I would come to love it up close. The Parachute Jump scared me just to think of it. My favorite was the Wonder Wheel. That ride boasted three tiers. The middle ring of cars combined a Ferris wheel with a roller coaster: the cars circled through space and rolled back and forth while doing it. An inner ring was just a Ferris wheel while an outer ring formed one of the tallest Ferris Wheels in my 1940s world. Me, I always wanted to ride on the rolling cars! Reentering the world was always special to me: the rolling cars would rock and roll over a canal of rent-a-boat, then also over a bumper car franchise. Of course there was color, and noice, and lots and lots of people. I remember being taken on the Wonder Wheel for my tenth birthday. I was already a family tradition by then, so I’d ridden it many times, loving it always: until I clambered for it, got it, looked up from our rolling cage, and saw the wheels and tracks the cage rode on. And suddenly I was terrified. Come to think of it, I’ve post this story before. I’ll find and combine.
Meantime, I want to know: how old are other people when they first notice that their ride is a mechanism? something with materials, physics applies: it ain’t all magic.
Kleptocracy / 2017 07 23 Cops in Minn have reviewed their complicity in the fatal shooting of the Australian woman who called 911 for help, 911 sent a cop, the cop shot her in her jammies, now some other cop, also female! finds the police were negligent but not guilty, not culpably negligent. We’re sorry, anyone should be sorry, but we’re not responsible.
The kleptocracy sucks resources, the evidence suggests guilt, God announces Guilty, but God isn’t in change: the cops are in charge, Satan is in change. Guilty, says the jury; innocent corrects the judge. Infinitely innocent.
Somebody forget to tell the traffickers in Texas. Somebody forget to tell that Virginia judge who maneuvered to extort Allen Iverson in high school.
Dali’s body has been exhumed so the Spanish state can establish Dali’s DNA. If the state establishes that a natural daughter of a woman who worked in Dali’s household is Dali’s natural daughter, then the state, which as it is claims 100% of Dali’s estate will 25% of it to the claimant.
This is all so funny. Dali was a surrealist, one of the original surrealists, a great artist, one of the world’s all-time great characters: look at that absurd mustache. The surrealists were Communists: Commies whose dogma went something like this: Life is absurd, doesn’t make any sense at all, so let’s all becomes Communitsts: steal from the rich, give everything to the poor. (In practice that means: everyone is stupid, therefore, let the stupid supervise everything, totally.
How stupid are we? I’ll give you a hint: When I was in the art business, 1970s (a Dali or two, even a Picasso, another Spanish Commie-billionaire, crossed my hands), I heard that Dali could “sign” his name a hundred times an hour. A publisher named Levine bought a cancelled etching plate in Paris, and Don Quixote by Dali. The cancellation mark mean that the plate had already been run, the numbered “originals” were already in circulation, anything else was a fraud, illegitimate, worthless. Levine ran a hundred of so more from the cancelled plate, took one to Dali in his penthouse at the top of the Essex on 59th Street. Dali said That’s my etching, but it’s cancelled, technically a forgery. Levine said I have a hundred more just like it downstairs in the car. If I bring them up and you sign then, making them original Dali forgeries, I’ll give you 25¢ a signature. Dali was scandalized, But that’s illegal! I am a great artist! and Levine said, I’ll give you 50¢ a signature. At $5 per Dali signed them: all: it took an hour.
The next thing we heard was that dozens of Levine clones were carting reams of blank paper to Dali for signing. The lawyers believed that they were filling warehouses with original Dalis before the images were even decided on. No matter what they printed it was already acceptred by Dali as an “original.” My partners the Bermans in their New Jersey mansion had a framed Dali where the signature was upside down. That is to say the signature was right side up but the image was upside down.
Meantime the Spanish state is endorsing all this fraud as it endoreses a fraudulent daughter.
You know, if we only new enough about the bible, I bet we’d know that that too was near 100% fraud, and every character in it: all the magicians, all the gods.
Serena to the Mac’s
2017 07 18 I just watched a series of dumbass interviews with or about John McEnroe and his vilified comments about distinguishing between great tennis players and great female tennis players. The more the TV people try to clarify a point the murdier the subject becomes. One clown, male, just said something flat out wrong: he said that males will be better an any sport, it doesn’t matter what the sport is. Sorry, schmuck, that is false: there are sports at which females are naturally superior to males: leg wrestling for example. There the girls have the leverage. They’ll lose at arm wrestling but win at leg wrestling. It’s in the hips.
Of course exceptions can be found, but normally that’s the case. It’s structure, it’s biochemistry; it is not sexism.
Step back, and aside, and restep forward. Mac said that Serena was the best female tennis player, the best ever. Is she better than Pete Sampras? Roger Federer? Ah, now that’s debatable, depending on how narrowly you define “great”. Serena could lose the match but win the comparison. There’s more to it than score.
2017 07 15 I’m back to sampling Caroline Alexander’s
The War That Killed Achilles, loving it this visit gathers extra oomph. What especially just thrilled me was noticing parallels between Homeric divine interference in human affairs and divine meddling in the Jewish and Christian bible. I love the pact that Zeus makes with Hera: You let me fuck up Group X, and I won’t bitch next time you want to fuck up Group Y. Are Chosen Peoples universal? How many think they’re favored compared to how many cursed?
In my case, being cursed by God IS special favor. Jesus is the most chosen of all. If you’re on the cross (and you’re the one good guy), then you’re chosen, Buddy.
God is a Contradiction in Terms
2017 06 27, dup @ Monthly, delete there 2017 08 01
If your god is not a contradiction in terms, then your god is not the god the temples and churches and so forth and so on have been quarreling about, killing each other over.
For instance, I’ve long defined my god as the truth, defined god out loud, right her at Knatz.com. Whereas god is normally defined (implicitly) as the magic that renders us superior (the god who in advance determines that we can get away with murder! (He tells us not to kill, but then closes his eyes.)
Serena Mac Sexism Update
2017 06 26 John McEnroe called Serena Williams one of the greatest athletes he’s ever seen. He ameded that to The greatest female tennis players, etc. Now Mac says that if she played on the men’s tour she’d be ranked maybe 700th. That’s very good: has any female player ever been likely to do better than that? It’s a surprise only to those who don’t know or understand a thing about it.
I’m reminded of an interview with Chrissie Everett from decades ago, she was married to tennis player John Lloyd at the time. Lloyd was a pro but was wasn’t top dozen or two. An interviewer asked Chrissie how she’s fare if whe played singles against her husband. “I wouldn’t win a single point,” Chrissie answered.
No. She was just the best female player in the world. The best.
And we fans loved her.
PS Would Chrissie have been around 700 among the men? I doubt it. That’s Serena’s accomplishment.
And of course she would have shellacked Bobby Riggs, the conning old drunk. But until it can be quantified, tested, it’s just bullshit. And “Bobby Riggs” isn’t a real test: he was the top male pro once upon a time, a long time ago. That was tested, quantified. But tests would have to be regular, and unregulated, that is not regulated by church or crown, to be rationally meaningful. I like to see Serena, at her best, say age twenty-five, tested against the top males, the top several hundred males, for lots of money, before we judge whether “700” is a compliment or an insult. I read it as a compliment, but what do I know? same as Mac knows: next to nothing.
There was a story today right on the money where Mrs. Mac said to John Why don’t you and I play mixed doubles together at Wimpledon. Johm replied, But you’re not a tennis player! She responded, “Exactly.”
You need a tradition of quantification, continuous testing.
I’m also reminded of the days when Nixon’s White House was acusing Times journalists of being “self-appointed.” And actual Times journalist mocked, “Hello, I’d like to appoint myself Nixon-critic at the New York Times“!
No, the jounalists are hired and promoted by the editors who are hired and promoted by the owners who are hired and promoted by the advertizers, the university journalism departments. … Right, Mrs. Mac, exactly, you don’t just walk into Wimbledon and appoint yourself to the qualies, then to the final sixteen …
If Mac is right, and Serena would really be able to play @ 70 +-, then where would Martina fit? and where Martina Hingis? and where Margaret Court? Evonne … If there are really difference between males adn females let us know rationally what they are, and not by court of no-data-allowed.
I would really like it if you’re average fan could instantly retort, Yeah, Serena can play at 700; could Martina have played anywhere near 700? or Hingis or Suzanne Lenglen?
PS I was able to track down pix of the divine Suzanne Lenglan because since age 15, wandering MOMA, I’ve been a huge fan of her cousin, Jacques Henri Lartigue.
2017 06 22 Guy buried treasure, lots of people went looking, from Montana to New Mexico. Now two people have died in the search, now the cops want the search called off: matter of public safety. Why should people be safe looking for treasure? People “should” be safe crossing Wall Street or Bond Street to go to work, but not hunting treature, not in sailing from Spain to the New World, not in looking for emeralds and rubies in the Rockies: not snooping around in North Korea, not when North Korea is run by maniacs.
Kung Fu & All That Jazz
2017 06 19 I sample a video or two almost daily on YouTube. The menu apparently customizes itself using your history there as feedback. Thus the base page offers me tennis and basketball, WC Fields and Graucho, Clint and Mitchum …Bruce Lee and Steven Seagal … I just allowed myself to be tempted by a segment of Kung Fu: TV at its most whorish: Bruce Lee conceived it, demonstrated it to the Green Lanturn producers; they thought Hmm, but we can’t have a chink: or, we’ll have David Caradinze play the chink, and we’ll mask his incompetence with slo-motion.
Makes me puke. But where is kleptocracy more purely kleptocratic than in Hollywood? Maybe in Tin Pan Alley: whitewashing black music. Jazz in inspired by the clash of blacks and whites on the bandstand: the blacks get some of the money now, but they didn’t for a long time.
Trouble with WASPS is we’re so used to stealing everything we don’t know what’s stolen and what’s paid for. And we can’t tell paying the right contributor from paying royalties to the WASP thieves.
In my case the thefts are state-supervised, the school system, the media explain it away.
2017 06 17 So Cosby got a mistrial, the jury failed to agree 100% on a verdict. Here’s my 2%:
Christian theology has taught for millennia, man is not rational.
Christian theology teaches that God is rational, is true, knows the truth, but doesn’t demonstrate it rationally. I’m not always sure about God, but I’ sure about man: we are not rational.
Never, nowhere, are we less rational than when we claim that the US founding fathers were rational or enlightened. To me it’s ridiculous for legal systems to claim that juries can decided the truth. American epistemology is fully as ridiculous as the epistemology of secular states. I think Stalin, Nixon, Trump should simply say we can’t prove shit, we don’t know if Bill Cosby is guilty or innocent: as Christians we could just decide that everybody is guilty, there’s nothing to prove: kill him. Did he do it? I don’t know. We certainly believe that he — or any one — could have done it: drugged women, then put our fingers in their twat: any doubt? kill him, kill everybody.
But note: Cosby is a great man. Cosby was a great comedian. Cosby’s show where he played Doctor Huxtable is the great family show: it modeled morality, citizenship, love, cooperation … But so, still, the guy could have committed these multiple rapes.
I was in highschool, Friday night beer parties. One night in Don’s basement, half in the bag, one of us played a Cosby LP: Funny? We laughed our ass off. A great talent.
Did he commit all those rapes? Why not? He certainly could have.
But even if he did, should white slave masters, kleptocrats, slave masters, hypocrites, embarrassments to God put him on trial? No, no, no, no, no.
2017 06 08 Jared Diamond, The World Until Yesterday: What Can We Learn From Traditional Societies?, 2013
Inventing New Religions
I dreamed of founding communes as a child, didn’t we all? My mother subscribed to the Book of the Month Club in the 1940s, ’50s. I read the dust cover-spines as they sat on the shelf: War and Peace, Man and Superman. Sometimes Mom read her books with me: The Republic … a book on ideal-religion experiments in America: the Shakers, the Oneida Community. In grade school the teacher told us about Wordsworth and Coleridge and their Pantisocracies … In grad school, after the army, a commune-founding meeting was organized to take place in my mother-in-law’s apartment in Manhattan. Oh, it would be so nice: two or three people with shit jobs could earn enough money to feed a half-a-dozen couples. No body was estimating the number of children we’d soon have, no body was anticipating how couples would soon be murdering each other over adulteries among the members.
Phil was one of the organizers: I remember his Rugers friend Joe Unmasking what it was really about: And there’s Phil, at the bottom of a flesh pile! Actually, that’s exactly what happened: Phil and Carold married, she was hired as a violist by the Toronto Symphony Orchestra: Carol proved to be a dyke once they landed in Toronto: that was OK with Phil at first: the girls were soon piling up orgies, and yes, Phil was regularly the one male at the bottom of the pile: as Joe so perceptively saw: until the unending stream of dykes thought they’d like their orgies better if there were no male, no Phil, down in the orgy basement. Phil got out with his nuts still attached, moved in with girlfriend #2, then moved in girlfriend #2’s sixteen year old sister … Another mess.
Actually the Rutgers group did form a commune around Priceton. Boy, am I glad Hilary and I were never a part of it: what I heard was that Phil was the target of some nasty assessments of the group’s resources … Of course, no body wanted to be the two or three adults with actual money earning jobs.
And I pause right there to identify one of my perceptions about communes these fifty-odd years later: The dreaming was being done by people with graduate degrees but no jobs, no job experience. actually starving any of us might have founded a Fuller Brush company or a WalMarts; but not if there was food on our table no matter what we did.
And we hadn’t worked out the kinks of food and money production. !Kung hunters know how to hunt, !Kung gatherers know what to gather. They know how much huntring and gathering they have to do on average to feed a village of 30 !Kung … We didn’t know shit: we didn’t know how to do anything but sit in a room talking about Hamlet.
Ho boy, talk about impeaching Trump: for dong what he’s famous for: firing somebody. Talk about impeachment should allow him to rest easy: if we didn’t impeach Nixon then we’ll never impeach anybody. [Wait a minute: Clinton got impeached: a pussyfoot impeachment: what I say can be trusted, but not literally.]
Now I itch to tell a story that alas no one will get: Phil was my army buddy, early 1960s. We met when stationed at Whitehall Street, we became inseparable. Nothing was simple, nothing stayed still for very long, we do-si-do’d on a number of things influencing each other in ways even we didn’t perceive, but: in simple: Phil was the moral commie — goods should be shared; I was the moral Christian — EveryThing should be shared, evolution should be respected: existence should have an upward tilt: no, it was not alright to kill all the capitalists, no matter how evil we all are.
Well, we both thought we were moral, we both thought we were on the side of good, God … evolution … enlightenment … But the next thing I knew Phil was meditating, and eating no meat, and touting Jesus to beat the band: while chanting Rama, Rama, while Nixon was smudging fingerprints from bomb-bay-doors all over the world.
Check out my political satire letters here at K. to see what I did about it: I cite where what Phil said that still haunts me today: Phil said that Richard Nixon would forevermore be
That is, he, Phil, said “my”, that is, his, Phil’s, “president”: proprietary irony! Phil, the chairman of public shame.
Yes, very good, me too. Except now I don’t know: anything that Nixon was, power-mad hypocrite, war criminal, mass murderer, evil incarnate, Trump seems to be in spades.
It fits like an old shoe:, an old straw hat, a suit of overalls, to be talking about impeaching Trump.
(It was super comfy the other evening for Jan and me to see Shirley Temple, 1938, with Randolph Scott! The old straw hat is her song.)
2017 01 04 My in-season neighbor Elaine Sutphin snapped my wrinkly pic!
2016 12 24 I’m watching Good Night and Good Luck, Edward R. Murrow vs. McCarthy, vs. J. Edgar: civilization vs. honesty. US establishment is throwing its weight around, calling everybody a Communist, all unconsciounable behavior at best, now the networks are administering loyalty oaths, threatening unemployment, unemployability: only the dishonest need apply. Meantime our institutions, though they see that they’ve been threatened don’t see that they’ve been undermined. But this should surprise no one. Priests in the church get things exactly backwards, they think they represent God, that the Bible is an example of truth, not lies, not at best mistakes mistakes: CBS staff actually believes that yesterday they were clean, today they’re pressured, they have till tomorrow to decide … No, no, it was all decided long ago. Jesus wasn’t the first victim, merely the most famous.
I lived through all of that: the school, the press, the public, standing up for McCarthy, abandoning Christianity, civil values, feeling virtuous as we mislabeled everything. And now we think that there were only a few bad apples, that we survived it. We didn’t. We didn’t survive. Or we changed identity: the evil survived, grew, transformed.
2016 12 19 Do you believe in God? That’s a common questions, is it not? How common is it for the person or group asking the question to be willing (or competent) to define terms, to allow you to be clear? Unheard of, never.
“God” is, among other things, a trigger that guarantees that emotion will overwhelm reason before anything can be made half-clear.
But never mind that: I have a different question to focus on: how literal is your (or the group’s) understanding of the terms?
For example, you can not believe that Jesus is an historical figure, you can not believe that the gospels can be examined with normal reading skills, but still believe that a good man, an unorthodox teacher, someone whose life and teachings stimulated thought got sandbagged by the establishment. You can believe that the justice system, though it might honorably and truly find you guilty of speeding would prove utterly incapable of fairly judging the rebel who turned over the money tables in the temple when the frauds running those tables were cheating the poor: and God, the supposed recipient of the sacrifices. In other words, the symbol doesn’t have be be believed in literally to be believed in symbolically.
Never mind whether I believe in God. Never mind whether I believe in Jesus. Never mind whether I believe that Jesus can reasonably be distinguished from Christ. What I do believe in is human failure; what I don’t believe in is the kleptocratic institutions of civilization:
the institutions that use coercion.
If the school is compulsory it doesn’t matter what its victims believe: or think that they think.
History Will Say
Nixon used to say “History will say …” That’s like Nero writing a poem, reciting it, then reviewing it: repressing all other reviews.
It was exactly like that at the Salvation Army when the fed squirted me from jail, Jesup GA, to a HalfWayHouse in Palm Beach, Salvation Army run. The Salvation Army had a motto posted by the entrance: it reviewed the Salvation Army’s performance in handling prisoners, including political prisoners: the Salvation Army had God at Judgment putting the Salvation Army in heaven, at the top of the class, perfect performance, no improvement possible. Yes, they continued to oppress the prisoners, political and criminal, then elevated themselves to heaven for right action.
You know, what if I really did commit the crime the FBI accused me of? what if their evidence was real instead of concocted? Could any crime I could have committed, or that you could have committed, be half as bad as Nero’s crime in reviewing his own poem?
Stalin wrote his own reviews, Hitler etc. tried to. As is, the school text book are written by school board flunkies: what if they were actually written by Nixon’s staff? As is, history is written by Lincoln’s staff, still extant, still funded.
The revolution I want would erase utterly whatever the last administration’s school board was.
Notice, as always, the main crime is the compulsory nature of the school. If you have to be there, it’s a crime: a crime so severe that all the money in history would not suffice to compensate it.
I don’t want all the money is history; I just want the freedom to find my own fish: and water: and woman. Or to fail to find them.
No luck? Then fuck me, I strike out, so what? it’s not Napoleon’s fault.
Yahoo has long annoyed me, but it’s quite a while now that I’ve used my.yahoo.com as a secondardy home page. Now though I’m driven toward severing all ties. You link to a page, the page starts to draw itself, then pauses, hiccoughs, redraws itself, loops, and loops, and loops, and loops.
Had the public supported the internet I offered in 1970, would things have gone wrong? Certainly. Might I have gotten drunk? Coudl our coders have been asleep at the wheel? Certainly, for sure. And perhaps some of the problems would have been in the unforeseeable nature of things; not greed and stupidity and dishonesty puking over itself, and puking some more.
But the one thing that surely would have gone wrong is infact exactly what did happen. Big government, big, business, big media would have seen that a free football was too slippery to hold onto. That and all of god’s suggestions would have been undone, sabotaged, as fast as god made them. The preachers with original messages will never keep up with the poisoners.
If there were any real Christians amid the Christians, that would have been obvious since before Paul.
2016 03 06 In the 1960s my favorite army buddy, an avid Yankee fan, told me that one reason some Yankee fans didn’t join Casey Stengal’s bandwagon behind Yogi Bera, still an active player at the time, was their discomfort seeing Yogi scratch his balls over the potato salad. Food was out, there were no sneese guards, nobody had ever heard of a sneeze guard, players came and went from the showers, Yogi remained naked for longer than most … I love that image: Yogi dangling his dick over the food. So that was much in my mind when female reporters wanted admission to sports lockers rooms. Women slaves would always have filled the gladiators’ locker rooms, some would have been masseuses; none would have been reporters.
Have women, females, ever had full freedom of movement in any society? “Should” they? In America? Especially in America?! Rhet Butler could walk into the female slaves latrine if he wanted to; the female slave could not walk into Rhet Butler’s poop room: not unless she was summoned, not unless it was her regular job to carry away the slops. Etc. Nineteenth-century members of the House of Lords couldn’t walk into Parliment’s ladies room because through Queen Victoria’s reign there was no ladies room: Parliament wasted no time discussing women’s comforts or needs.
So now Peyton Manning is retiring. Last month we watched him prevail over Cam Newton. Now there’s been a month more talk about Peyton Manning’s age and so forth. And now there’s talk about Peyton Manning rubbing his balls and his ass in the face of a woman who was assisting the medical treatment of his foot. Would the gladiators in Rome have had female medical aids in the locker room? Surely some part of the catacombs the gladiators hung out in before being summoned to the arena could be considered to be a “locker room”. Slaves, whores … doctors … how about reporters?
If the masseuse can come into the catacombs, if the whores can come into the catacombs, can the reporter? the female reporter. Can the reporter get mixed up among the whores? Can Peyton Manning be expected to be able to tell the difference between a slave, a whore, a doctor, a reporter?
I scribbled the above after reading that Peyton Manning is retiring. I surfed around to see what more I could find on the accusations reported above: all washed away! whitewashed!
We’re so stupid, so selectively blind, we stand like dummies no matter what lies are told us, no matter when “rights” are perverted, stolen, subtracted. Ah, but the sports news is replete with items about the Broncos just loving Peyton! what a wonderful man he is. …
2016 02 21 Now there’s another one. Now demands for gun control will quicken once again. Of course there will be more guns, good for business, but most of the more guns will go to cops, to soldiers, will increase not modify, how far up the federal creek we are. Human nature goes crazy, again. Instead of shouting hurray, this might reduce our toxic numbers, we gang up to defeat nature even further. No, no: let everybody shoot everybody. Soon the guns stores will close, ammunition won’t match, people will be too hungrey to pull many more triggers.
2016 02 05 First French ‘neutral gender’ defends label in court
French court allows gender ambiguous person (mis-)labeled “male” at birth to be designated as “gender neutral”. “Guy” was born with a rudimentary vagina and in tiny penis, no testes: a natural accident: and the guy’s been tortured by the bureaucracies ever since. Billions around the world will be indignant, certain in their minds that God is clear on the subject, nature must be clear also. But nature isn’t clear. Neither is God. Neither is the law.
I know one unequivocal thing on the subject. Jared Diamond, one of the leading great scientists ever says that his field, zollogy make things clear with a simple definition: if the subject has testes, whether developed or not, thw subject is a male. He does not have to have a penis, or a beard, or broad shoulders: he has to have testes. No testes, then the individual is female.
Female is the default development. A guy with testes but the testes nonfunctioning, not pumpiing out testosterone to induce puberty, will develop a “female” appearance. Great subject, some of us have rfinally learned something; but not the law, not the courts, not the governors. The law should be guided, then reguided by science, then by the best science, but it isn’t. And don’t hold your breath.
Science will never rule, but never even be heard from except by a few: not while the world is run, into the ground, by yahoos screaming self-confidence. Motivated by ingnorance, not humility.
2016 01 19 For decades my son has cringed when I use the word “faggot”. It’s a pejorative word, sends political, cultural alarms ringing: bong, crash, aye. I was half-way through college before I ever began using it. I always meant to get people’s attention, risking opprobrium. What happens though is people disconnect their minds and run for the hills. The word faggot come most forcibly into my ken one evening in the West End Tavern, late ’50s, early ’60s, when the Academy Awards were on the tube. The camera focused on Tab Hunter: “faggot, faggot”, began screaming all the queers at the back end of the bar. Leading the riot was Jack, the queer who entered my dorm room and slid his hand under my blanket when I was napping. But by that night in the West End Jack had learned to leave me alone. Or maybe I was irresistible to him when I was eighteen or nineteen, but not long quite so compelling when I was twenty or twenty-one. It was also Jack who had first introduced me to the word “gay” meaning homosexual. I resisted and was offended by that usage then and remain so now. I’d trade Yeats’ poem Lapis Lazuli for all the political correctness in the world. But no one pays attention to me, now even less than then.
Btw there were plenty of dykes in the bar that night (and every other night); but they didn’t scream at Tab Hunter, and Rock Hudson (and sneer hints about Brando) the way Jack and friends did.
(Poor me, I was smitten by Robin, the makeup-less boho chick in the red cape and black boots, she stopped my heart, bull dyke I understood from Jack, and I have seen her singlehandedly coral all the attractive females at a Village party, right from under my yearning nose. Anyway, Robin’s femme was Jan (who looked like she ought to have been the bull): Jan and I became friends. She got a kick out of my infatuation with her lover. At the moment I am pleasantly remember the back-rub she gave me in my mother’s Buick at dawn one morning at the Cloisters. Jan was the first female I ever knew to seem perfectly frank about the erotic behavior of herself and others. If she had wanted a quick bof, no strings attached, I think she would have said so.
Skip: I approach from another angle. I just read Edna St Vincent Millay’s Renascence for the first time since public school. I’d assumed that I’d once read the whole thing. Now I feel confident that I never read more than the teacher, and the teacher read only the dozen or so opening lines. That damn poem goes on and on, more scientifically embarrassing by the phrase. Not as devastating as discovering how superstitious and ignorant classics like The Rime of the Ancient Mariner are.
Skip to my senior year, blurring with the year after: I shared a five room apartment on W 112th, Alan in the five rooms next door took as a roomie grad student Marcia, recently out of Vassar. So one day in bed I’m being very attentive to Marcia’s pussy, and she tells me, “You make love like a woman”. My face must have betrayed now upset I was, Marcia protested that she meant it as a compliment. Then she startled me with tales of the lessie goings on in the Vassar dorms. “It’s the same everywhere”, she assured me: “Smith, Bryn Mawr, Radcliffe …
WordPress told me last week that K. had 20,000 readers in 2015, in 150 different countries: mostly in the US, Germany, UK. Those couple of people who’ve let me know they approve were not heard from in 2015. It’s been nine years since I heard from any such person.
PS: the last such was also in jail. He hailed me as a political prisoner, did not identify himself as such, but: his arrest for whatever was putting him out of business. I bet it had a political dimension: he had had a successful Italian restaurant on a major intersection around West Palm. I was never able to pay rent, this guy had paid rent, lots of it: but bankrupt, out of business, you can’t pay much rent. I bet it was political at least in part.
I keep dozens of scrapbooks here, a dozen or so of them I made (past tense) “monthlies”: that is, I dated them the first of the month, updating the fictional date each month. But now I’ll keep just one: this one. Here I’ll jot notes to be further developed, maybe elsewhen, maybe moved elsewhere. This is, some may promote to modules; others may remain entries in scrapbooks.) Excess will go to a Monthly Archive.
2016 01 22 There are pieces here that qualify as “essays”: they’re “complete”. Some seemed “finished” when I first mounted them. Others get added to, gradually. Such additions may complete some, render others more chaotic. That typifies my work of the last half century. But recently I blurt and post, I rant. It’s “rant”; not “essay”. Again and again I promise to return, to improve. Sometimes I actually do.
This post provides an easy place to blurt. I actually do delete some of it.
Even the casual visitor should be aware that many of my themes are recurrent: points about semiotics, semantics, epistemology, homeostasis … Today’s blurt may be a deal less coherent that how I launched an idea on line twenty-five years ago. Oh well, I’m gettin’ old. Since resources were diverted from me: the enemies of life that run the world recognized me, correctly, as an enemy (of the enemy): and sabotage is old hat to them: the profit seekers, the corporate toxifiers.
Wiki = FLEX Junior
2016 01 08 Last evening Jan and I watched Wikileaks : War, Lies and Videotape. I point out to your now as I pointed out to her last night (and my son this morning): my Free Learning Exchange of 1970 was the precursor of the wiki: a website where the content may be modified by the users. All wiki sites, including wikileaks should be designated FLEX Junior, FLEX III …
FLEX offered to keep community data bases, updateable by the community: FLEX also offered to attempt to coordinate FLEXs worldwide. I did: I corresponded with all the community data bases that sprang up, or tried to spring up, around the world in the wake of Ivan Illich’s Deschooling Society and my FLEX.
This internet is the result of the world’s kleptocracies stealing — but perverting — the idea.
The idea was actually from God, but we all know that kleptocracies are deicides: unrepentant, unapologetic. and very far from truthful.
Polar Bear Rash
2016 01 02 https://www.yahoo.com/news/photos/new-year-s-day-plunge-1451693184-slideshow/
One of a few articles today on New York swims yesterday, New Years: Alec Baldwin in the Hamptons, clubs in Cony Island … The Baldwin article specified that he “braved the chilly waters” – another journalist showing his ignorance, another raft of editors not qualified to supervise. Decades ago I saw a marvelous doc on a Long Island polar bear club. The swimming member was clear:
if you swim in the ocean every day in the summer and keep swimming in the ocean every day as autumn comes, then winter, the water is not cold; the water is warm: at least compared to the air. In summer say the air temperature is 80, the water temperature is say 60. That water seems cold. Comes winter, the air temperature is say 40, the water temperature is say 55. It’s winter, it’s cold, but the water seems warm!
Besides, the polar bears don’t go in for long.
My father loved the beach. When I was a kid we’d go for walks on Jones Beach. We’d run into isolated polar bears. I remember one guy who’d built himself a huge fire on the sand. He’d run into the ocean, swim around, run out, warm himself by his fire. I remember waiting by his fire as he swam: he rushed out, sprinted to his fire: there was a huge chunk of ice in his chest hair by the time he got to the fire and wrapped himself in a blanket. The air was very cold that day, the water froze on his wet chest. Still, I bet the ocean had been warm, relatively.
Regardless, when I skied my beard would freeze on a cold day. One day in Maine I saw my frozen face in a mirror as I entered the SugarLoaf lodge. Wow, I bet I was impressing a lot of fire bunnies. But: my face was not cold: the ice was insulating my face. The ice was keeping me warm.
Obscene DH Porn
2016 01 02 DH Lawrence and his essay distinguishing obscenity from pornography popped into my head. His arguments made the subject important to me, though I no longer trust myself to remember what the points were or to which term they applied. It would have been c. 1957 when I read it. A couple of years after that I was much influenced by GB Shaw’s treatment of freedom and censorship.
It isn’t just aging that erodes memory and erodes meaning: attitudes migrate, sometimes reverse. In 1957 I would have understood “pornography” to be a shameful activity: by 1974 when I told Norman Mailer that his American Dream was the “greatest pornography” I’d ever read, he understood, appreciatively, that I mean the term as praise, art with a possibly high value; it wasn’t an indictment.
If I have it right Lawrence meant “obscene” as an indictment of the culture holding the opinion, never mind how it seemed to evaluate a particular literary reference.
Words drift, meanings drift, the cultures too drift, at varying rates.
2016 03 14 I bet there’s a set of laws akin to physics involved. I bet the math is beautiful. Too bad such intelligence is repressed: what we have is what’s left over after universal (but not absolute) repression.
The people whom the society subsedizes should be grateful to those the society represses for their advantages.
Grass Roots Pill
A bureaucrat has been in the news for refusing to issue marriage licenses to same sex parties. Her religion and the law are in conflict: this woman takes money from the law side of the equation but marches according to the fundamentalists’ reading of the Bible.
Now I was just reading an article by a female reporting how she’s been embarrassed by pharmasists trying to curb her behavior: again, church vetoing state.
Notice: as always: God hasn’t been heard from. Oh the people say they’re representing God, through the Bible, through their thumper preacher; but where’s God in all of it? Put God on TV, let him say what he means. Burn the bibles, burn the churches, cut the tongues of the preachers: let God speak. Then do what he says, or don’t but know you’re not.
So this female writing reports on others’ stories, the fifteen year old girl orders a contraception drug, the pharmacists start to make up the prescription, but mock her the whole time.
If we’re a people of law then the girl should be able to call a cop, close down the pharmacy, sue them while they’re closed, permanently, the pharmacists themselves, personally having to pay the bill.
I’ll develop this further, later.
Humor Alive: and Well
2015 12 31 Happy New Year!
Last week or so I experience Amy Schumer, Trainwreck, for the first time. Basketball cheerleaders are shaking their pompoms, wiggling their tush, Amy calls out, “You’re gonna cost us the vote!”
That is very very funny. She was born yesterday, welcome to earth.
Woody is my age, I’ve known him since the early ’60s, he used to flirt with my girlfriend on Sheridan Square, everybody knows he’s a genius whether they can stand him or not. An early line of his I’d missed, until yesterday:
the schlemiel stands there, holding an old pocket watch. Woody says, “My grandfather on his deathbed sold me this watch.”
What I want you to notice is what they share, the class of joke: the jokes seem to be about one or another thing. The comedian leads you to think that you’re on one track, actually, you’re on a different track.
What they’re actually about is the same thing: stereotypes: politics wearing a mask, culture masking hypocrisy.
Let met note also: Woody is comfortable being an uncomfortable Jew. His Jewishness is confident, he can admit some degree of sterdotype. Amy’s a Jew too, yes? But her schtick isn’t being Jewish; it’s being female, a feminist: a comfortable feminist who can make jokes at her sisterhoods expense! Well, it’s about time. Lose us the vote, that’s priceless.
2015 12 29 Just watching Myth Hunters. Three guys climb Mt Ararat in Turkey looking for Noah’s Ark. The narrative opens by asking if the Bible offers just “stories”, or could the stories actually be true? Fair enough, seemingly: until the next assumption knocks it all to kerphluie: if they find the ark then that will prove that every word of the Bible is true!!! Uh, ‘scuse me fellows, what? If one number in the phone book actually reaches the named party: then that proves that every datum in the phone book is accurate? ??? One thing being true proves that everything is true? If there’s such a thing as a fact then there can be no non-facts?
One thing I love about this balderdash: They name an astraunaut, Irwin, as a member of the team. They also name a Scott. Hold on here now: my girl’s name is Irwin, her son’s name is Scott! So that has to prove anything you want it to prove, eh?
An hour later: I’m still thinking about this Creationist exastraunaut, Irwin. The story goes that the moon rover’s wheels wouldn’t turn, or it wouldn’t steet, or the legs were broken, and Irwin prayed over it, went back to the rocket and slept, in the morning the rover worked just fine. So, God fix it, right?
Or Irwin sabotaged it, then fixed it, then attributed his antidote to God. Which reminds me of how the Church excuses fraud if it promotes faith. Which reminds me of Teillard: a good priest, an inspiring theologian, a cheat in science: all good, if it promotes faith. And I can just see astronaut Irwin patting himself on the back for fraud, for sabotage, for lying.
I don’t say he did do this: I say the story reminds me of … It could have been cheating, could have been planned cheating. All of which reminds me of:
I was raised to love God. I took to it like a fish, I wasn’t the only one. Eventually, I came to love truth. I see that other religious do not. Oh, they pretend to, they’re good at the rhetoric, excel at the pretense … But what it comes down to is an invitation to fraud. Identify the cosmos with God, identify God with truth, then pretend that loving God proves you love truth … Now, trust and love the cheats who switch decks on you mid-trick.
Isabel Rossellini did a wonderful skit on Noah: she mocks the human politics of the Bible’s Noah, thinking everything is male / female, in a world where one survival choice is palmed as Chosen, for all, by authority. Not we’re 92% heterosexual; no, we must be 100% heterosexual, or at least pretend we are, torture the truthful. Isabel has hermaphrodites on Noah’s gangplank. Isabel affectionately mocks the straight-laced god and his bible.
So, decades ago, I chose to keep God and Truth. Mistake. Others didn’t follow, others can’t follow. I was wrong to have tried. But I don’t take it back. My jokes backfired, harmed me, harmed mine. But put me in a unique category. One I wouldn’t trade. For anything.
Accident and Force
2015 12 27 Just absorbing Ken Burns Roosevelts, reading that TR carried The Federalist Papers on safari in Africa. Hamilton etc. c. 1787 or so wrote
|It has been frequently remarked, that it seems to have been reserved to the people of this country, by their conduct and example, to decide the important question, whether societies of men are really capable or not, of establishing good government from reflection and choice, or whether they are forever destined to depend, for their political constitutions, on accident and force.|
Yes, Alex, yes, Madison, that’s it exactly: could governments form rationally, consciously? No, it’s all accident and force. We pretend to do better, but it’s illusion. delusion: accident and force. So sorry.
Thinking of Hamilton, got to repeat story. One morning at Columbia, walking across the quad, passing Alex’ statue, we saw silver footprints, man’s shoe sole, on the statue’s base, and stepping away, north and east. Those who followed the steps found that they led to the statue of Alma Mater, in front of the old Low Memorial Library. There the stops ascended Alma Mater’s base. There there, clear as day, was a man’s handprint in silver on Alma Mater’s copious bosom. Her face however looked the same as always. If she was responding she played it like poker.
Conscience over Constitution
2015 12 26 Church vs. State, Law vs. Inspiration
I’m an anarchist, always have been, by which I mean not that everyone should murder everyone but that I don’t want any authority telling me what to do, say, think. My oldest ethics are religious, not moral: if God is right, if God is the owner, the creator, the blessed, the blesser, then we should do what God says, not what Hitler says. As a child I believed that religious man was capable of hearning God’s commandments, and obeying. I no longer believe that anything we say can be trusted no matter in whose name we’re saying it: I don’t trust what Moses says or the Pope or Billy Graham; I DO trust what God tells me: the problem there is how do I show you that God said it to me? No, no, God has to show you, himself; not Moses, not the Bible.
Anyway, one consequence of my anarchism these days has been that I don’t trust God either: I trust Nature! Laissez Faire: Nature will get rid of the bad ideas: meantime, we don’t need any laws, any cops, any priests: trust to evolution, to Nature: if we’re wrong, as we’re almost certain to be, don’t worry, Nature will get rid of us: clean, healthy, simple.
Laws, and cops, etc. are for cheating. I don’t want cheats to flourish, it doesn’t matter what the papers say.
Thus: if we elect Teddy Roosevelt to be President, and TR swears to uphold the Constitution, then by golly that’s what he should do! Ah, but Bully Teddy thought his conscience told him that the federal government should protect the coal miners, that Teddy’s White House should threaten the capitalists with nationalizing coal mines, with having the military dig and deliver and sell the coal …
The US should never have survived TR’s moral improvisations. The US should never have survived the Great Depression. Teddy, and FDR, should have minded their own business: we’d all be dead, God’s law, that is to say, Nature, would rule.
See? Anarchism, yea!
I love the recent news story of the bureaucrat who put her church’s propaganda over the law she’s sworn to uphold. The law said fags could marry; her church had said, No, they couldn’t. So she put her conscience over the law.
My own favorit personal example: when my beloved patroness, Catherine, was dying, terminal, the nurse came to the house. I showed her Catherine’s Living Will: do not pray over me, do not preach at me while I’m in a coma … Thus I made sure that the nurse kept her religion in check. Don’t preach at Catherine’s helpless dying body, don’t breach her peace at her end.
Oh, the nurses contradicted me, made it plain, she’s follow her church, not the law, not her vows as a nurse …
I called the nursing service and complained. They told me, Sure, I could hire the other nursing company: there were two, only two. If the other company’s nurse also put her church over her duty, well then, fuck Catherine, she can die in torment. Conscienceless conscience.
2015 12 25 Watching Ken Burns’ the Roosevelts. Teddy is campaigning for McKinley, beaucoup whistlestops. Teddy stands in the train’s rear, a fellow veteran of his preposterous charge up San Juan Hill introduces him: Teddy is “the man who led us up San Juan Hill like sheep to the slaughter — and so will he lead you” !!
Teddy led us in beligerence, in imperialism: in godlessness. He wasn’t the first, or last, but boy, was he good at it.
I gotta check: did any hint of Christianity ever creep into his life? or the lives of his family? I don’t mean the delusion that God is going to forgive anybody; I mean the idea of the imitation of Christ. Can you imagine Jesus leading a kamikazi charge?
Well, humans have always been offered leadership in meekness, in mildness; but no hoards get up and salute, leaving their body a smear on the horizon.
Squeeze Princess Leia
2015 12 19 delicious: Carrie Fischer is mocking Hollywood for pressuring her to lose a few dozen pounds for the current Star Wars film. Images filled her baby bottle, images put her in a gold bikini. She was cast as an icon: now icons don’t count. First we should stop caring about images, we should separate appearance from profit; then we should campaign to let the aged icon stay fat.
I do confess: I love Carrie Fisher, I love her mom, I love her nascence. I never game a damn about her father, but the whole family is the essence of our delusory character.
Cage Fight Dump
Speaking of images, Yahoo sports obsession with Ronda Rousey has fascinated me for more months now than I can easily calculate. Here’s this cute blond, not too chubby, kicking people in the chops, letting the camera into her twat, up her ass, showing her holding up belts, joking about immortality, all out of Las Vegas. Exhibition wrestling was always staged, early TV developed hand in glove with fraud. Fine, so what else is new? Then suddenly another cute blond takes Ronda’s belt, then she’s shoved up our nose, day and night. Breathe, breathe again: and what? everywhere you turn here’s Ronda Rousey again: pictures of her twat, splayed open.
Good for her. I still look at the pictures. And now we can invade Holly Holm too.
And the best thing of all? internet images of spayed coo don’t stink, don’t spread cholera, at least not ina any simple way, not the way we’d think. No matter how you stare, there’s no shit on your nose. at least not from the pic.
Speaking of which: News has always been fraud, “news” has always been defined by the powers: but never more blatantly than now. When I was in school journalists pretended to something called “objectivity”: as though gods walked the earth, not men. It didn’t happen all at once, there’s no truthful way to say who done it, the powers never get arrested, until they’re no longer the powers, Hitler and his pals knew exactly what was going on when they turvy-topsied into hunted, not hunters: still, the race to meretriciousness is on, and streaking: news is concocted for the ads. Ads and news used to pretend to be distinct, now there’s less and less pretense. You click this headline link, and get a “news” item; you click that headline link, and get a nest of ads, that you can’t get out of. Pull the plug and start over: except that now your box is filled with malware. The government is protected, with your money, while it holds you helpless, for rape and exploitation. So: you click what you think is a news item, you think an actual article will follow, maybe you’ll get the name and phone number of the pretty girl who lured you in the first place, but it’s Answers.com, and it’s an infinitely slippery pitcher plant slope, sluicing all down into its digest-juices maw.
Anyway, you ask about blood pressure, you get pictures of cheerleaders, then one of the cheerleaders, her bum splayed under your nose, white panties, gold undies … but she has diahreah, and there’s brown stink everywhere … and, if you click that, then you get a cascade of fat black queens with the shits: in your face! Well, then you’ll have blood pressure alright.
And never, ever, forget: it’s you fault! That’s because you didn’t support my Free Learning Exchange in 1970 when I offered a cheap interference-free internet. Together we could have tipped coercive powers into the dump, become free, stood on our own feet. We didn’t. So fuck us.
God saw what we wanted, saw that we deserved it, and gave it to us: exactly the same as he would have done if he didn’t exist!
2015 12 19 I just said to my girlfriend over the phone as she waits for ComCast to correct its signal to her so she actually has a working TV, “Our society is incompetent, and too dishonnest to know it”.
The trouble with protecting civilization and its institutions is that then you’re stuck: with civilization and its institutions: corrupt, hypocritical, dedicated to fraud.
The real killer is we think we’re getting away with it.
Last night I watched a TED Talks, an ant guy, talking, boringly, about diversity. This guy and the audience patiently applauding him have no clue of the dishonesty stacked under their universities: like priests agreeing with their dupes that being priests proves them to be on the side of God, not Evil. Backwards, as always.
My girlfriend knows I’m right but only half-admits it in private, the perception doesn’t reach the public, truth has no allies.
2015 12 16 http://sports.yahoo.com/blogs/soccer-fc-yahoo/abby-wambach-calls-for-jurgen-klinsmann-firing-194103331.html
In the 1960s, early 1970s, my army buddy Phil cracked me up with his prescription for perfect democracy: my perfect democracy was no democracy at all, no government at all, if necessary, no population at all. Phil wanted in contrast a US in which everyone on every committee was irreconsilably at odds. His indelible image for impasse was a bull dyke sitting on everyone’s face. So, here’s Abby Wambach being ugly. The public just cheered her, now we’re stuck.
2015 12 07 I pledge to write something about “sin” as a social concept.
We think of sin as assigned by God, but God too is a social concept: hermit crabs would have no God, no sin, no Bible. Eve’s mother, an ape, couldn’t commit adultery: Eve was the first human, therefore the first to be capable of adultery, not that anyone in her troop but herself could have had any awareness of it.
2015 12 07 Federer says yes to Hingis: Roger will team with Martina for Davis Cup, Wow.
And Lindsey Vonn just swept, again, at Lake Louise: I wish she and Tiger could team: both of them healthy, that is.
And Steph Curry just keeps on going, and he aint’ the only one: every Warrior on a golden roll.
What a time for sports: just as good as when Jordan formed the basketball Dream Team.
2015 11 18 If any of us actually had a legitimate claim on any turf then I might be able to see how those people could define a border and close it, keep others out, defeat other claims in advance; but in a world where there are only two sorts of people, the dispossessed and the kleptocrats, we’re just pigs making noises: grunt, fart, splat.
But never mind that, I have a better, simpler take on further harming the harmed. Do what we want, steal what we want; but remove all the misleading labels from the churches, and from secular institutions too. Subtract all associations between the institution and ethics. Divorce churches from associations of goodness, charity, morality. Let the Christians hog the trough, but deny the Chrisitans any right to associate themselves with God, love, Jesus, or Justice.
Fish in a Barrel
2015 11 13 Paris, the West, France, Christianity, Atheist Kleptocracy Under Attack
Decades ago, after Columbine, the University of London asked me, the deschooler, the cybernetic free market data base person, to comment. I said, that they published, that the state corralling kids into schools is imprisoning them in harms way: what’s convenient for the teacher, and for the parents, and the corporations is also convenient for the terrorists: if the fish are trapped in a barrel of course you can shoot more of them with one pull of the trigger: you don’t even have to aim. In the American Revolution the redcoats all stood in a line where we could shoot them; we hid in the woods! We want to stay alive! Not fair!
If I want to live (which I don’t, not now, not much longer, please), and terrorists are targeting populations, what should I do? go to an NFL game? try to sit on the Fifty Yard Line? or go hide in the woods, don’t make a sound, don’t tell anyone where I am, throw away my cell phone?
2015 11 13 Curry & Co. launch their season with a 10-0 start! Jeez.
When has anybody ever looked so beautiful on the floor? A few times, but only a few.
Another right column click-pic shows a guy fishing from a bank. Along his line there’s an outsized splash as an osprey dives from the zenith to snatch his bass.
I’ve done a lot of fishing in Florida since 1989 but in the 1980s till then, though cycling myself among Florida state parks, I was nature-watching, not fishing. I’ll never forget the hours I spent though watching others fish. In Myakka River State Park fishermen congregated on a bank lobbing minnows under a bobber into the river past the band of hydrilla that buffered the bank. In time the bobber would zoom under, the fisherman would reel a big catfish to the edge of the hydrilla, and there a big ‘gator would emerge its jaws from the weeds and steal the struggling catfish.
I also enjoyed watching the ‘gators’ pecking order: any twelve foot ‘gator could take any three pound catfish from any eleven foot ‘gator. But once a thirteen foot ‘gator appeared in that section of river the twelve footer made himself scarce, free catfish or not. I never say ‘gators fight like hippos: they knew who the winner would be: the smaller reptile yielded.
That year on the Myakka, just south of Sarasota, I saw plenty of twelve footers, and plenty of eleven footers. But since then, the mid-’80s, I’ve seen much bigger: up to eighteen, nineteen feet: on Arbuckle Creek, toward the Avon Park Bombing Range. Then I stopped seeing such: murdered, every one, I don’t doubt: silently, by the authorities, who aren’t supposed to, but do.
2015 11 13 For the last decade or so I’ve used Wikipedia as my default home page, Mail as my second browsing stop and Yahoo as my third. My.yahoo puts my International headlines top left, my sports headlines top right, then my financial news, science news, entertainment news. Throughout the day then I recycle back through yahoo, hating it more and more as the months pass. Now yahoo is a habit I’ve tried to kick, but not valiantly enough to succeed.
I notice that pidgin is increasingly the ruling grammar. English teaching was purged from the universities in the 1960s, right after political theory (and absolutely internet theory, namely my own): who’s doing the English editing now? Chinese?. But I’d until now been of the opinion that a little science was getting more and more broadbased. Uh uh. Fer instance.
For the last week I’ve seen a right-collumn-teaser pic of a gnu with a croc on its back. It says “Click to see what happens next”: and next it shows some hippos zeroing in on the croc! Fine, nice, interspecies altruism. Or was it just interspecies hatred of crocs?
But our Chinese illiterates churn out continuing headlines misidentifying the hippos as fellow-predators! allied with the lions, and hyenas!
No, no. hippos are grass eaters, like the gnu.
Anyway, I got extra pleasure clicking on it a second time in a week or two, the more as I imagined queues of Nature camera crews gawking at the last six preadors and last dozen ruminants crowded into a final shrinking acre of “wilderness”: the support crews all “Chinese” editing each others’ English usage.
Of course the truth will ever-less be told: truthfulness was crucified out of the species millennia ago.
Debi Thomas, Broke Doc
Seek and ye shall find. I clicked on a pic of a skater. Debi Thomas: oh yes, now I remember her. The article reminds me of a few basics: a couple of skating awards I knew, recalled; her becoming a doctor, specializing in knee replacement, having her own practice … was news to me. So the article says she’s living in a bug-infested trailer, broke, no job, with an angry drunk fiance.
What’s the first thing I think? Well, I started watching a doc the other day on how divorce court can bankrupt anybody: the judge sees you’ve got property: Oh, we know how to take that away from them, Ooo, more money for lawyers, less justice for the public, screw the children: take them from the parents, put them in a “home” … I didn’t know that happened to her, I didn’t know what happened to her, but that’s the first thing I thought (obsessed, like King Lear meeting Gloucester and assuming that it’s gotta be his daughters that have ruined him): or like Jarndyce & Harndyce in Dickens: waste every penny in the estate on legal fees …
So what’s the next thing I do? I search the engines on Debi Thomas, find a report: Yes, a ruinous divorce, punishing expenses that will bankrupt even a rich person: not one word that it was all the fault of the angry drunk boyfriend, no hint that it’s all Debi’s fault..
2015 11 05 I’m watching a documentary of biologists searching for coelocanths over the last century or two. It’s cram full of many of the bullshit tricks that annoy me in “science” programming: they pretend to be interested in the subject but the real subject always turns out to be the joes making the movie. Suddenly this doc riveted me: divers, real deep, lose communications.They figure it’s dynamite: fishermen blowing up reefs to harvest some fraction of what they destroy. One type of fishing versus another type of fishing. The science fishermen deploy dozens of millions of dollars worth of cameras, high tech diving stuff: the natives use a boat and a few sticks of dynamite.
We enjoy Audubon’s bird paintings. We forget that Audubon shot those birds with a gun before he sketched them with watercolors. I can imaging the two fishing camps arguing before the UN their right to murder all life on earth: A) it’s so we can eat; versus B) you have to find in our favor cause we spend the most money!
The scientist dives into the trench with $40,000,000 worth of gear, he gets into trouble, he jettisons the equipment. Of course the government should reward the team that wasted the most resources: the dynamite will never catch up.
2015 10 30 Polanski fucking teens and preteens is in the news again. This time the girl he raped when she was thirteen says she’s glad Poland wounldn’t extradict Rolanski to the US for sentencing, she thinks enough is enough, forget about it already. Speedy justice is a fundamental of modern kleptocracies: theory thereof at least. Speedy justice is also impossible, incompatible with accuracy. Enough already, the girl, long now a woman, says.
But I want to remind us of something:
Polanski fucked the little girl. She was underage. Therefore, in law, it’s head always up its ass, it’s “rape”: it doesn’t matter if she solicited him – she could have paid him: it’s still rape, and his fault. We hear “rape”, we easily overlook the details. Civilization requires whole clouds of extra absurdities. Good. Now, let me remind us of something else:
Stage mothers, stage fathers too, used to deliver their little thirteen year olds to Polanski monthly, almost daily. Once or twice it could have been hourly. Sometimes his cute little virgins were delivered like Western Union candy to his hotel room two at a time. Hell, Eroll Flynn fucked two thirteen years olds at a time, why shouldn’t Polanski?
Flynn drank himself, fucked himself, fought himself to death before he ever went to jail for it. No body was after Flynn, were they? But Polanski is a creep, a rat; not just a genius, artist, great film innovator.
I’ll never forget the first time I ever heard of Polanski. 1962. I was stationed in the arty at Whitehgall Street: my best buddy was Phil. I was the movie buff, but sometimes Phil beat me to something. It was Phil who returned from a jaunt to a Polish neighborhood in Manhattan having just seen Polish films in Polish, no subtitles, except for him strictly a Polish audience. Phil was excited: there was a student film, some guy named Roman Polansky: they showed his thesis film: Two Men and a Wardrobe: shot of the beach, the surf, two men emerge from the waves carrying a wardrobe! Holy Mackerel, that’s serious craziness. The next thing we knew Knife in Water came out. Next thing, Polanski was making lavish porn, Roman orgies, bare tit. Then he married a beauty, then that beauty was murdered. Weirdness followed this weirdo.
And tons of teeny pussy: girls dying to let the creep violate them.
In the Godfather some cute little blond, dressed like a doll, is delivered by her mother to the horrible Hollywood creep: the one who finds his horse’s head in his bed. The little blond had been crying: mama didn’t care: the audience seethes: goddam pervert. Happens everyday, long has, if not always.
So, if you can’t behead Flynn by the time he’s belting down the day’s third quart of gin, while he can still get it up for a twelve year old, then forget it: civilization missed the boat: don’t still be extraditing him decades later.
Hey, how come Polanski is even still alive?
2015 09 13 Even a monk like me — however over-sexed I’m still basically an ascetic, gave up worldly concerns many decades ago — can’t escape from yellow news. Maybe the assaults of journalism would reach me for only the few minutes it took me to check out of the supermarket, still, that was more than enough time to see claims that Elizabeth Taylor was a vampire, Richard Burton actually a dyke with bad skin. Now I flick on the Mac, the Mac picks up a WiFi signal: I ask for my mail, then I click OK, take me to the set of news feeds known as Yahoo. There headlines are stacked by category, and, by golly, they even allow me! to CHOOSE! which feeds come first: Sports, Science, Entertainment … but ringers abound: headlines, pix, that don’t belong in the advertized category. I want tennis scores: and I get tennis scores, but I also get stock market advice, warnings about cannibal zombie invasions … I coulda stood on the supermarket line and been no worse off.
Today I just learn that some DJ is suing Taylor Swift — if it weren’t for Yahoo yellow I wouldn’t likely have ever heard of Taylor Swift, let alone had a clue what Taylor Swift looks like: yellow intrusions, if they don’t intrude a pic of Lindsay Lohan looking like an OD’d zombie, they shove some girl with oversized mammaries in your face, or, a shot up into some blond bimbo’s crotch … Blah, blah. Anyway it seems that some DJ is suing Taylor Swift because he was fired from some station after Taylor Swift said that he kept groping her butt.
See? If it weren’t for yellow Yahoo, I’d know the tennis scores, information I want, information I requested, but it’s extremely unlikely I ever would have heard of this DJ grabbing some on-stage ass. But that’s just one detail. Yesterday I learned that some woman is suing Bill Cosby, accusing him of forcing his dick up against her mouth: she instinctively opened up, and comic Bill, he’s so funny, made a disgusting mess all over her! Now we all have to know about the law suit.
Is that nice to force your dick into a woman’s mouth, the woman apparently thinking she’s on a job interview? No. Definitely impolite.
How common is such behavior? If you read Dickens, it never ever happens. If you let Yahoo into your Mac, then it happens everyday.
But let me insert an important consideration: There stories aren’t about butt squeezing or coming all over a job interviewee’s face nearly so much as they’re about money. The DJ is suing Taylor Swift because she’s got some bread. Lawyers would want all their fees and court costs up front if she didn’t have lots and lots of bread, and then they still wouldn’t take the case, no matter how she’d sabotaged your career. Ditto Cosby. Who ever made more money from sunny family TV than Cosby?
While we’re at it, also notice: there’s a threshhold. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday the lawyers won’t hear a word against the Dr. Huxtable black-American family guy. Then Wednesday PM a crack appears in the dam. Thursday the lawyers are calling you: calling everyone who ever had a job interview with the Temple star. By Saturday eve the lawyers are renting billboards advertising their willingness to sue blow job rapists and ass grabbers.
In parallel let me add, the ass-grabbing part I understand. I’ve never seen Taylor Swift, not in person, but if I did I might not be able to refrain from grabbing her ass myself. But I’ve never been tempted to ram my dick against any woman’s teeth, no matter how luscious her ass.
Wait: another oblique note demands to be heard here: Whatever it looks like, however tempting, you don’t know if said ass, up close and personal, is luscious or disgusting: you need to be right in that air space.
There’s so much to consider, I expand further:
I’m not an ass grabber, though I’ve done it: and been much more often tempted to do it. And I have done it, and my grope has been enthusiastically welcomed by almost as many women who have simply ignored me, went right on about their business.
In the army, sub-waying to Whitehall Street Induction Center every Monday to Friday, and some Saturdays, I became aware of the number of accidental contacts female commuters had between their haunch and the back of my hand. Once I realized they were coming to me whether or not I had willed them to come to me, I realized they were coming to others as well, and many of those others were coming, aggressively, to them! The subway was a festival of ass-grabbing.
OK, now further:
There have been times when I was seriously considering fondling the heinie of the young woman standing before me, when, believe it of don’t, she reached around, fondled my ass, lifted my buttock! She did, the woman!
And further, winding up now, I knew a bunch of TV and media studs who would stand before you, seriously conversing, then gently grab your ass, man fondling man!
So I know the female-side of the equation. I know: the normal reaction is to do nothing! not let it register!
How can we sue anybody about anything in a culture where there are no facts? it’s all too embarrassing.
Moral: Sue Bill Cosby all you want now that the weather is ripe for ganging up. He’s got the money, or did have.
That’s another thing: John Grisham handled this one beautifully: the lawyers can prove that the corporation has $400 billion before the jury finds for the plaintiff to the tune of $100 billion: but before a penny is extracted, that corporation may move to Nigeria, go bankrupt in Miami …
By the time the lawyers are advertising on the billboards, play your cards close to your vest.
2015 09 03 Drowned kids washing up on Turkish beaches. Turk blames Europe. Where are these migrants from? Why don’t they go home? Why doesn’t everybody stay home?
Ah: home isn’t always so easy to figure out. Why didn’t the Carib Indians stop Columbus from landing? Well, Columbus wasn’t a migrant, he was a captain of the advance guard of the flood of pirates about to arrive. If Montezuma had known a bit more about Spain, would he have cooperated one inch with Cortez? Should Crazy Horse have invaded England before the Mayflower sailed?
If we’re here, what right do we have to say that somebody else can’t come here? What right to we have to laugh at theTrump and his foreign-o-phobias?
I must expound of the concept of primogeniture and its victories (and the costs of its victories): give all properties to the eldest male, give privilege — non-property privilege — to the second oldest male: and screw everybody and everything else.
Hikers Behaving Badly: Trail Partying Raises Ire
2015 09 01 https://www.yahoo.com/travel/hikers-behaving-badly-trail-partying-raises-ire-128034755747.html
In the mid-1950s my clique had beer parties every weekend: every Friday, many a Saturday, and plenty of Sundays too. We were fifteen, then we were sixteen … Come spring we’d move the bash to any beach along Dune Road in the Hamptons. We’d fill a drum with beer and ice and start drinking. Other gangs would come out and visit. By Saturday we were not only all drunk but naked. A man walking with his wife along the surf edge would soon wish he’d chosen a different stretch of beach when we’d rear out of the sea at them, screaming gibbering teen drunks.
One summer we moved the bash to Sinnecock Inlet. Cops came wondering about the camp fires. The story went that Almer took one cop’s gun out of his holster before the cop realized what light fingers, lightning quick, were doing. But those cops understood that we were lawyers’ sons, stock brokers’ sons, Wall Street partners’ sons, and they kept a very easy pedal far from the metal.
Had any cops ever raided our original bash site, back at Almer’s, he would have found in a trice where the fancy cabana club signs, the Sands and so forth, had disappeared to: any of those signs would have cost thousands to erect in 1954: soon as they were up, they were gone. Decorating the walls were also “death masks”: plaster casts we made of ourselves while drunk. Mine got misplaced, then busted: everybody hated me: I disapproved of all the kleptomania.
The sixties were a very different atmosphere, I had nearly nothing to do with my high school people. I wanted only to ski: and for spring skiing I camped at Tuckerman’s Ravine on Mount Washington. First we just dumped alpine tents anywhere in the woods, built a fire, pulled out the scotch, and roughed it. But soon rangers made their presence felt, suddenly all sort of rules changed how we did things. Campers abusing campfire safety (and nature conservation) were to blame: they burned living trees as well as dead logs. (True!) By 1970 we were forced to camp in the state-made shelters. Bummer.
But: I admit: as skiers we were hard to separate from my high school people as beach party beer drinkers. We were drunk and destructive, not good scouts.
What’s the difference now? In 1954 you could lose a dozen teens on Dune Road and never miss them; now the partiers are wall to wall, tree to tree, sand grain to sand grain.
I was shocked the weekend John and I drove onto the beach at Nausset, the Cape, and sank our wheels into the sand, immoveable, before typing a striper-swiper onto the surf rod’s line. The cops came, and didn’t indulge us a bit. It’s been a while since I’ve been on Dune Road, or anywhere in the Hamptons. In 1954 you could drive for miles without seeing a dune house; now I bet they’re wall to wall: $x, y, z million.
What if Genghis came around today? where would he raid? he’d have to stand on line first at WalMart.
Victorian Spend A Penny
2015 08 21 I’ve commented more than once how Victoria’s Parliament had no ladies room because ladies’ need for a ladies room could not be brought up before Parliament. For the same reason, though homosexuality was illegal, capital as a matter of fact, lesbianism was not: once again, the existence of lesbianism could not be mentioned to a female crown.
This morning’s Yahoo linked me to a post by a woman reporting having been given a hard time by public facilities and by the public when her menstrual cycle asserted itself.
I found the ironies tedious and didn’t read far but I nevertheless yield to the temptation to mention a bathroom absurdidty of my own: yesterday, at the VA medical complex in Bay Pines FL. Bay Pines has rest rooms all over the place, I never have difficulty finding one. They’re clearly marked, usually sside by side, always near by if not side by side: Men here, Women there. I do int o the Men, no mistake. And there above the toilet is a sign:
|Please do not flush
Sanitary products down the toilet:
Use the special container provided.
Sanitary products? What sanitary products were associated with a men’s room? toilet paper? We weren’t supposed to flush toilet paper? Maybe they meant condoms. Sometimes mens rooms vend condoms. But there were no vending machines visible. And I saw a waste basket for paper towels. But there were no other waste containers.
Maybe the sign placer was worried that a woman might come into the mens room, want to flush a tampon, and be tempted to use the toilet for that purpose too: but there was no container!
Just the government wasting public funds, again.
But of course there are no public funds: all funds are owed to the state.
When I find my spend-a-penny comments I’ll relocate this.
2015 08 03 In Frida Diego Rivera brags that his wife Frida’s paintings are not only getting noticed, they’re getting bought: “By that gangster,” he says, “Edward G. Robinson”. Yes, Edward G. Robinson, the famous gangster. Edward G. was our much loved actor of gangsters, and other roles. He became rich, he bought paintings. He had good taste. It was synergetic: everything in the circle promoted everything else in the circle.
Let me tell of the time that famous gangster bumped into me.
MOMA. Late 1950s, a big Cézanne show. 1959? Very crowded. I was planted in front of a small watercolor: landscape. Man oh man: Cézanne. I was focused on a tiny section, brush stroke scale. Then I wanted a perspective, zoom back. Like a dancer: zoom. Kerpow. Edward G. Robinson has chosen that moment, at a centimeter from the same spot on the floor to zoom foward! Puff! a collusion.
No damage. He absorbed me like a big marshmallow.
As I rotated my look, I saw him, recognized him, knew that he was a collector, smelled his after shave; but he didn’t see me, he saw only the Cézanne! Good gangster.
Women in Sports
2015 07 28 News, sports: over- and under-reported
photo of Jackie Mitchell with Babe Ruth & Lou Gerig: she struck ’em both out in an exhibition game!
I’m 76, I never heard that until yesterday. I’m daily aware of true things that still haven’t been allowed to surface: some things don’t surface ’cause they don’t surface, other things, many other things, get sabotaged.
The New York Times has obits on major figures already written out, 99% ready for press: all they have to do is fill in the date, time, maybe name a mortician. The Vatican’s the same, any big shmear organ. And they’re got alternate obits, ’cause you never know when the political weather is going to change. One year the Times won’t mention Babe Didrikson; but don’t think they don’t have multiple-choices of laudatory homiles: and muck-rackings too.
Lies can be built from truths.
The Vatican library can release reactionary balderdash one day, and treacle it over the next. Now even Podunk News has Babe Didrikson propaganda on tap. And stories proving that George Washington was a bull dyke.
Nevertheless I am very pleased to still be alive amid a yes-let’s-be-less-unfair-to-women-and-other-minorities storm. And I ain’t the only one: look at the pic of the NBA stars of yore applauding a woman coach, David Robinson grinning like a bandit. Wonderful. Wonderful to see the old guys, wonderful to see a couple of gals too.
2015 07 19 Lines I just wrote in another blog I must further develop here:
|The tribe rules, not rationally.
Freud has Oedipus backwards.
2015 06 22 https://gma.yahoo.com/holly-madison-reveals-details-life-playboy-mansion-165920716–abc-news-celebrities.html
A Playboy whore lives in the mansion, finds a Hef document declaring that if at the time of Hef’s death this girl is still living in the mansion, she will inherit $3M. She’s indignant. What? Does he think he can buy me??? Honey, I think he did buy you: top to bottom.
You have no business understanding my attitude to Playboy and the whole schmear unless you know that Playboy turned my Puritan stomach from its first issue though to today, two thirds of a century later. I read Esquire, posted Esquire calendars, but still in the early 1950s gave that up too.
Don’t get me wrong, this Puritan fucked a jillion women of my own. So it’s a different kind of Puritanism.
2015 06 06 I’ve lived through lots of horses winning the Kentucky Derby, then the Preakness, only to gasp and fade at the mile and a half of the Belmont. I’ve long heard this and that reason for it: to cite one example, the competitors aren’t compelled to race all three races, but to win the “triple crown” the horse must: run all three, win all three. It’s only these past few days that I heard a reason that should compel attention: it takes a horse three weeks to recover from a race of a mile plus: running the horse sooner is like asking Frazier to face Ali again while he’s still black, blue and purple from the last battle: like getting Shakespeare drunk after the premier of Hamlet, then urging him to rite Lear the next day: not just hungover, still drunk.
Betting which branch will produce which twig to produce which leaf which will first touch the roof doesn’t do much harm, though anyone should understand an argument that the difference is arbitrary; which plant is the better photosynthesizer, which plant digs deepest for water, these are real differences: nature and evolution related. Meantime: I agree that the Triple Crown, silly as it is, would be less silly if the three races were spaced three weeks apart: run the Belmont in July.
2015 05 28 email to theMarcus:
|a word further on A Thousand Months:
I do not recommend you see it, but: a detail followed hard on the detail I already mentioned: priceless:
The kid loves his father, he’s told the father is off in France, not true, the father is in jail, along with practically all the other males, political prisoners.
The women line up to visit, haven’t seen their men for a year, no trials, all very “illegal”.
The Nazis announce that all visits are cancelled, Go Home.
Our woman wants to know Why: she’s knocked down, dragged away by the cops.
Grandfather tries to plead with the thugs, he crawls on his knees, begging, imploring, Forgive her, forgive her, trying to cling to the cop’s robe: praying to the cop, all peasant-to-shah body language. The cop beats grandpa while grandpa persists in trying to pray to the Nazi!
One other word: the kid is special, he gets to carry the teacher’s chair. Throughout the film this kid is carrying the chair.
Americans don’t know what a chair is traditionally, can’t have it explained, from a totally alien universe: chair does not mean comfort, does not mean convenience, it means Authority!
The king, the pope, sits: because he’s in charge; not because he’s tired.
School, Lies, Myth
2015 06 22 One of those infuriating popups, top ten, top twelve, this or that: there’s one today on lies told by schools. First it says that Van Gogh didn’t cut his own ear off, Gaugin cut it off with a sword in a duel. Maybe: but a mistake in fact is not a lie: not until it’s deliberately repeated as a falsehood. It goes on with a bunch of bromides like Columbus didn’t discover America, the Greeks “knew” the earth was not flat … Then Lincoln and slavery is addressed: where some falsehood is diminished to a “myth”. No! Myth and fiction are not synonyms. A lie is not a myth, a mistake is not a myth: not until the culture has lied to itself and mistaken everything for a long time: then it’s myth.
Like ferinstance: it’s a myth that women, females, are, and always have been, the source of all evil. First you have to swallow forged biblical documents, generations of false scholarship.
School wouldn’t be so evil if we weren’t forced to go to it: for our daily propaganda diet. Some little Baptist church elevating lies to divine messages aren’t nearly as bad as a universal catholic church draining whole economies into its monopolist maw while it deceives us one and all.
2015 06 22 apropos: Seattle: “demilitarize” the police and produce officers who think of themselves as guardians of their communities, not members of an occupying force.
Really? That’s nice; but: to me it’s all like the Nazis remaining in power, promising to do better. I don’t believe us. Governments, states, have no right to survive exposure.
If the earth gives us another chance, if god gives us another chance, if Jesus says, OK, one more try … No. I don’t think we should have another try, not without paying a debt or two first.
First the civilization makes it impossible to establish true facts: then it promises to do better: still without knowing the truths it’s suppressed.
We want to keep Jesus crucified and reform the world.
Third Grade Pop
2015 06 22 A news & comment article yesterday said that pop music hit the charts at a third grade reading level, barely literate and getting dumber. I remember from decades ago hearing a tinpan ally veteran say that it never took him more than a few minutes to scratch out the basics for a popular song. He was not saying that the song was stupid, he wasn’t saying that his audience was stupid: I understood him to be saying that what he wrote was basically human, that we had all already adapted to it. Maybe there were profound parts, but few hard parts.
Yesterday’s article had the opposite tenor: as though civilization should be a test that most fail.
I can see points both ways. But I remind us of a third tangent:
Any twelve year old who wants to channel Shakespeare immediately speaks awkward nongrammatical diction with a preposterous voice. It’s true you can find passages in Shakespeare that seem stilted, awkward, not at all modern, damn hard to understand; but check out Lear’s speech as he carries in the corpse of his dead daughter Cordelia. It’s third grade level at best. It’s so simple it could pass for prose. It’s the greatest poetry ever uttered, totally simple. There isn’t anyone who doesn’t get it.
It’s not Nazi-vertical; it’s common humanity broad-based.
I loved the news interview where the expert declared that there was nothing new about the vilence of the bike gangs, he said they’d always been like that, always killed each other, always ignored the police presence.
I’m reminded of the Cuban draftees I was interviewing for the Army in 1962, 63. They told threilling horror stories about the bandits in the mountains of Colombia, capturing people, cutting off guys’ dicks, castrating them, sticking their dick back in their mouth, sewing their balls closed over their dick. Jeez, I said, how come we don’t do something? You can’t, the Cuban answered, they’re wild men, mountain men. But if you caught them, put them in school, it still wouldn’t change them:
They like to kill!
Yeah. I believed it then, I believe it now. Kleptocrats, centralizers are so naive.
This file fills up fast, I empty it now and then, moving stuff to more specialized scrapbooks, promoting stuff to unique modules … I’ll make a Monthly Archive for excess.
2015 05 12 newsitem, “that laws intended to protect everyone are often used to hassle certain citizens but not others”.
I challenge the word intended as naive. Additionally I task the naivte as at least partly deliberate. Kleptocrats know well what they’re doing, just as magicians do when they declare the trick deck to be “a perfectly ordinary deck”. Of course the Nazis know tht they can use the law to persecute Jews, fags … Of course the Texas cops know they’re going to abuse the law to suppress niggers.
Marriage (and Other Blithe Blind Institutions)
2015 05 02 Gay: it’s true, we needed a simple word, one syllable if possible, for homosexuality: but how dare we borrow a word like “gay”? perverting it forever! (How can we ever again read Yeats’ great Lapis Lazuli with a straight face? without a guffaw?)
It’s impossible for populations (or experts) to discuss institutions — like you can’t look at the earth from the earth, not and see it whole, not and see it balanced, not and see it objectively; but it’s impossible to tell kleptocrats that they lack objectivity: on anything!
One quick point: marriage is a fundamental institution: it’s been selected preferencially, over and over, coninuously, for centuries, millennia … it’s impossible to see the whole of its advantages. Definitions are kneejerk, not rational. And the supporting institutions (church, Bible) are utterly unreliable, dishonest, fictions.
Same sex couple are getting “married”? so what? what’s the fuss?
They want not acceptance but preferment! preferential tax treatment, default assumptions, deference …
Importance can’t be overstated, I’ll try to return for more.
Femalicide: Jimmy Carter: still causing a storm in his fight for women
2015 05 01 Jimmy Carter addresses problems of codifying basic human laws: How do you get the Chinese, the Indians to oppose the abortion of female fetuses? the killing of infant girls?
“These countries pass laws that prevent these abuses, but people just ignore the laws and the government looks the other way.”
That’s right: “law” reverts to tradition, democracy, but pushing does change things.
Politicians thinks it’s OK to impose standards; this anarchist does not: though I too have devoted my life to trying. My Free Learning Exchange expresses my attitudes on the subject: mind your own business, minimize regulation …
Free Learning Exchange
Moses came down from his mountain with ten Commandments, said they were from God. There still n universal acceptance of a singe one of them!
What if Moses had issued his Commandments one at a time? would #1 have been accepted yet? modified? rejected?
Anyway, note: it doesn’t matter what the God said, or the Moses, or the Church: human behavior, human prescriptions, evolve: and so far nothing rules unchanged.
2015 04 29 Woman uncovers two-way mirror in a bar bathroom
Cigar and Stripes bar in Chicago seems to have a full length two-way mirror opposite the toilet of the ladies room. The bar owner says This is a fun house: no one’s right to privacy has been violated. Translate: women have no right to privacy; or, rather, they do but only if they think to examine the false mirror before they sit down with their pants down. The door of the secret spy-place isn’t locked: therefore … In other words, where the culture has no integrity, the culture has no integrity, and isn’t entitled to any!
With bad faith on all sides all discussion of law is nonsense.
2015 04 23 I’ve said it before, I’ll say it now: I bought a William Saroyan paperback in the early 1950s, read it, loved it, loved him, came to love his people, his culture, came to know a little about their victimization. The next time somebody tries to shove the holocaust up your nose, yes, remember the Jews, remember the Nazis; but remember the Armenians too: and the gypsies, and the queers … Nazis kill more than one type.
Oh, and remember also: there a half-a-dozen-billion humans on earth: I believe we’d be much better off with a half a billion instead: a half a billion that wouldn’t climb right back up to a half-a-dozen-billion humans, and counting. So: there’s something to be said for Nazis, and Stalin, and murderous tyranny, and state terrorism …
When people fear Stalin they cower in Hitler’s shadow. The hell: we should have cowered in Caesar’s shadow should have listened to Jesus. We didn’t. Now we should have no complaint no matter what happens.
Mad Hat Dance
2015 04 21 For years and years I’ve had a favorite fishing hat. Soft and floppy you can wad it in a pocket. The brim goes all the way around, keeps sun off your neck and your collarbone. I fish in it, but I also garden around Jan’s property, especially her lake front: and I wear that hat for all such purposes. Until: my hat went missing. Months ago now. I kept repeating that it could show up again, one never knows; Jan says, No, it’s gone, you’ll never see it again … And the other day, after lending her Tilly hat to her son for a vacation, she hands me a package: a brand new, really neat outdoors hat: adjustable, comfy, wide all around brim, adjustable anchor under the chin, roll down / roll up neck shield … So, for a week, I’ve worn, and loved my new hat, feeling half Aussie …
Until: I’m in her shed, putting tools away, and there, hanging on a hook, over the shed window, is my fishing hat! It’s never been missing, it’s been hanging right where it belongs: only I can’t see anymore, and I guess she can’t either! ’cause she’s been in the shed too.
Gregory Bateson explained to his daughter in one of his famous metalogues, that the knicknack on the shelf has a few points where it belongs and an infinity of points where it doesn’t belong. I think of that distinction often. My glasses: belong on my face, or in my pocket, on in the glasses case in my pocket, or on the counter, upper frame down, while I wash my face … or in the glove compartment … or, or, or … There are several sets of points where my glasses belong, and an infinity of points where they don’t. Same, or similar, with my hearing aids, with my car keys.
If my keys aren’t where I think they ought to be, then I know a series of candidate places they might be, before I declare them lost.
If you don’t need glasses, if your vision is 20 20, and you mislay your glasses, then you can find your glasses, probably easily, because you can see! But if you need your glasses to see, if your getting on in years, then … N’est ce pas?
Well: here’s one detail on my hat:
My hat had a series of right places, places where it belonged. Inside her back door, hanging on the director’s chair. on my head, in my hand … on the back seat of my car, in the hat box in my closet … The hook over the window in Jan’s shed was a legitimate place, but one only rarely used. Why had I used it that time? Ah, I bet I can guess: ’cause it was rainging that day, the hat was soaked. I wasn’t fishing, I was putting gardening tools away. I hung my dripping hat from the hook over the window.
And we old, and we can’t see very well anymore, and we’re used to getting along without seeing very well, and often, in Jan’s case, don’t wear our glasses no matter how much we need them …
I never wore hats: till I played tennis. Then I needed something with a peak, an eye shade. (Then I looked at the tennis greats: they played witout hats, they served, staring the sun down! Then I needed warmth for skiing, wore woolen hats. Etc. Then I spent time in Florida … that’s when hats became important to me: 1982, 1983 … I spent 1983 wearing a safari hat, it became my emblem, my logo. One day in a mall in Fort Lauderdale I took my hat off, went in to see my customer. “Where’s your safari hat?” he asked.
2015 04 21 There’s a news article today reporting that a FBI exec said something about evil and the holocaust that offended some Poles or Czechs, whoever. I can seldom calmly follow the logic of such articles but here I read far enough to satisfy myself that the speaker had spread the guilt, the objectors wanted it concentrated: as in, Nazis were “evil”; those not belonging to that party were “good”. I’m in the camp, however small, that believes that nations are all evil, that history cannot be reasonably divided that way.
If you hid the Jew in your closet (and kept silent as the Nazis hauled your children away in punishment), then you were not guilty of the holocaust, not at all; if on the other hand, you paid your taxes, didn’t laugh at the papers, the brownshirts, then you’re among the guilty.
But: it doesn’t matter what I think, it doesn’t matter what the Times says, it doesn’t matter what history says … or what you think! only the truth matters (though it also matters that we have no claim to the truth!) Only god, the god of truth, matters; other Gods, not at all.
2015 04 20 Pee-power toilet to light up disaster zones (headline)
That headline brings back fond memories. As a child I held the conveniences of civilization in contempt. I wanted freedom. I didn’t want to have to go to school, or church, I didn’t want to told what to pray for, what name to summon God with … I, like so many of us, was a “Romantic”: I wanted things “natural” …
I was in my second of two years drafted into the army when I discovered skiing. I took a weekend job to wait tables in Sugarbush to earn money. The “friend” who got me the job betrayed me: there was no pay: the pay was room and board: and access to the ski lifts. Screwed out of my money, I took the ski opportunity: and the rest was history: I was hooked, deep, ecstatically. Next thing you know I can[‘t ski enough, can’t go far enough away, find deep enough snow, brave a steep enough piste … So: by the time I was in my late twenties, I was spring camping on Mt. Washington, climbing up the headwall of Tuckerman’s Ravine … skiing through Memorial Day. Which meant camping in snow, learning to keep warm, to carry dehydrated foods … And one of the thrills of such “primitivism” was seeing in the dark by the aid of carbide-fueled head lamps, like miners’ lamps. One of my favorite details: you put the carbide in lamp’s well, add moisture. the moisture released the a gas, the gas burned, and lantern threw a beam. … Now did it: pee worked plenty well enough: you carried the water, you drank the water, you peed the water, you fueled the lantern. Marvelous.
2015 04 19 Last night Jan and I watched Madam Bovary, the 1949 MGM version with Jennifer Jones. (James Mason plays Flaubert, on trial for obscenity, wow.) Madam Bovary was one of the classics that transformed my life as an undergraduate: I became almost as obsessed with Flaubert as I had been by Nietzsche, or, more relevantly, by Ibsen. My reading of the paperback ended in an esthetic tantrum in which I swore aloud, hurling the book, that I would never read again. Within the minute I had picked the book back up and was rereading it.
But: I never read anymore Flaubert, then or now! (Neither had I read much more Nietzsche! I went right on collecting obsessions!)
In any event the perception that hit me between the eyes in 1958 or so returned to me vividly in watching the movie: Emma Bovary is a bored housewife who automatically compares her provincial life with the “romance” of the trash novels sneaked to her as a girl in a convent. She dreams away her mental life in the romances, ignoring the inconveniences of her actual life. She gets into trouble, of course, the fool, and takes the romantic mid-Nineteenth-Century way out: she commits suicide, by arsenic.
Fine. All ordinary enough. But: Flaubert did his homework. He takes the reader detail by detail through her mortal suffering at the confluence of arsenic and her biochemistry: she suffers like a chemistry lecture! The reader is almost ready to do forensic autopsies.
Wow. Madame Bovary finally ran into reality!
Had I done a better job reading my Cervantes as a freshman or sophomore I might have been less impressed by Flaubert as a sophomore or junior; but I didn’t really read Cervantes till this past decade, and Flaubert had hit me like a sledgehammer: like he hit Mme Bovary!
This is a movie note, I should add: I’m extremely frustrated at not being able yet to rent a DVD of the James Mason / Carol Reed Odd Man Out. Jan hasn’t objected: she does’t know it. You don’t know it either? then you don’t know movies.
I ordered Odd Man Out five, six years ago from Netflix: they didn’t have it. So I ordered it from Blockbuster. Ditto. Then, back with Netflix again, I ordered it again, failed again, waited a year, two … failed again. So I just ordered it yet again: and lo and behold, Netflix says it’s available! Time will tell.
2015 04 17 Last evening there was a huge roar overhead, low flying monster plane: Howard Hughes’ Spruce Goose lining up to land on my trailer roof: rumble, shake, went on and on.
I just sat there, playing my game, didn’t budge. And I remember being blasé about overhead terror when I was a toddler in WWII. The first couple of times we got shook by mechanical thunder overhead we ran around, wildly searching for “cause”: after a few such, we ignored the war, the danger: there was no terror: just civilization as usual.
Answers, Then & Now
2015 04 16 You know these pesky pop up links that tempt ensnarement in a web of ads with teasers such as The Lucy Show, Then & Now? Taxi, Then & Now? I just spent a minute getting run around Answers.com over Farrah Fawcett, Then & Now? And of course there was an image! Jeez, what a mug she had! Irresistible. But I can never see references to her in her prime without remembering, with vivid embarrassment, an exploitation of her physiognomy that I wish she had been able to sue over: if not jail the image rapists. It was an Art Expo, later 1970s. My PK Fine Arts, Ltd. had a couple of booths. My customer, Richie, shop in Lake Success, had a big spread. Richie himself was big, fat, puffy, a financial marshmallow. He had people walking around the expo that time in body paint: silver boobs, silver bush. That was OK, the models were paid, I don’t think they were drugged. But one of Richie’s clowns, his expo performers, carried a sandwich-board-size re-pro of Farrah’s fantastic face, with the mouth drilled out. He’d set the prop on the floor, show the gaping mouth, then shove his pelvis against her printed face: giving himself a Farrah blowjob all over the Columbus Circle Coliseum.
Later I heard that the FBI lurking about that year to arrest Richie for forging certificates of authenticity for fake Miros. They were supposed to be lurking for Ted too, my girlfriend’s husband. But not much happened.
Something must have happened because I heard Richie moaning about presumption of innocence. …
Jeez, if anybody ever should have been presumed guilty, not presumed innocent, it was Richie!
But I shouldn’t rag Richie, especially not after thirty-seven or more years. Richie I now believe was actually a shade more honest than most of the bastards I dealt with. He only told the lies you insisted on hearing, and his checks actually cleared. Those two things along elevate him toward sainthood.
Ted never did get nailed that I heard of, but his reputation was pure toxicity.
(Some of the things rumor charged me with came true even if they started out false: when you’ve been robbed blind, it’s hard for your checks to keep clearing.)
2015 04 08 Christianity is the major religion in the world in terms of which civilization is the major religion of: Christianity is the major religion of the industrialists, of the capitalists. Christianity is the major religion of the homes of the major Foture500 corporations.
Now, note especially: Christianity is the major religion of the idea of forgiveness. God sent his son, let us torture him to death, lie about him, betray him, not get a single thing right: so that God can forgive us!
If we do the rituals right, God has to forgive us, he has no choice in the matter. Religion here is the matter of giving choice, free will, to the God killers while taking free choice away from God himself. Will God get a word in edgewise at Judgment. I hope to see him try. But I’m not holding my breath. The evil magicians will never let an honest magician onto the stage, never let him hold the mic for as long as the seven-second-delay.
2015 04 08 I’ve told fragments of this (set of) story(ies), but I can write it separately fast, incorporate only laboriously: time running out.
Joining two threads: why pk is such a piss-poor piano player, why pk’s background is chronically impoverished.
I’m told I was taken for piano lessons when I was three. Most of the hour was spent trying to build a pyramid of telephone books on the stool, already cranked to its highest reach, so that my tiny hand might reach the awesome keyboard. Once there, teetering, my mother holding the improbable pile somewhat steady, the teacher told me to put my right hand fingers, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 on the keys: thumb, pointer … middle C, D, E, F, G. No way could my hand spread five keys wide. “Bring him back when his fingers can spread to five keys”, said the teacher.
But the second beginning of my piano education never commenced. Mom threw Dad, the drunk, the philanderer, out. Dad thought, I’ll show her: and that was the last money we ever had from him.
The law said it could make him pay, but it never did. (I know, in parallel: the law told my wife that it could make me pay; not if I don’t want to pay, I said: not so long as I’m willing to remain unemployed for my whole life) (thereby also not paying to bomb Asians).
Anyway, the August Paul Knatz Senior marriage started to unravel (in this following version of the story) when Mom was at a party. She was introduced around as “Mrs. Knatz”. “That’s not Mrs. Knatz”, some woman volunteered; “I’ve met Mrs. Knatz”. Apparently Dad was going around registering himself with every girlfriend he’d ever had in Brooklyn as “Mrs. Knatz”. Every hotel in NYC knew a dozen “Mrs. Knatz”s; none of them my mother.
Ay yai yai, so many threads I’m trying to weave: I’m forgetting them. But I have managed to tell of my three year old childhood.
Note: we had a baby grand piano at home. But it was in execrable tune. I sat at the keyboard as a child, pressed a key, pressed another key. It was awful, no chord sounded anything but awful. In contrast it was so easy to put a record on the player, hear Bach, Chopin … Eventually I’d be hearing Dixie, and then jazz: and there, in addition to Bach, was my obsession for the next couple of decades.
2015 04 09 You know I want to bring up another consideration: the piano has been our default instrument for centuries, but that’s recent. The piano is the familiar even-temperament instrument: it can sort of play in any key, only-sort-of out of tune: the blue note doesn’t exist on the piano, however natural it is to the voice, to the violin, to the sax … Several modesties kept me from expressing my natural voice, but it was pure poverty that kept me from the sax, or the bass.
Anyway, the first instrument I took up as an adult was the recorder (the straight up and down wooden (or plastic) flute). But the recorder only had two octabes: I wanted to play a Miles / Zawinull thing from the Real Book, I needed a Bb below middle C. So I got a regular flute: only to learn that the flute also didn’t have a Bb below middle C! Pleanty of higher notes, but no lower notes. But I also soon encountered advice to play a chord instrument in addition to any melodic instrument: want to improvise on sax? learn piano! or guitar!
So I bought a cheap keyboard. Wow, did the value of that $100 stretch on and on, for years, decades.
And no I’m so used to keyboard, I no longer mind that there’s no blue note: I can get around that the same bunch of ways thousands of others have: blurs, slurs, slides …
Yesterday I sat at my Roland keyboard, self taught since the 1980s, Stella By Starlight on the music stand, and tried, as I do every day, to coordinate the melody (beautiful, simple, easy) with the chord progression (highly counterintuitive: pure jazz, going from Em7 b5 for the first measure to A7 for the second measure: to Cm7 for the third measure, to F7 for the fourth measure …
But I know from a million playings, over decades, the key is BbM7! How does BbM7 launch from Em7b5?
The Em7b5 / A7 is oh so familiar in jazz: it signals that you’re in D minor (which is often actually C!)
But where’d the Cm7 / F7 come from? And what’s next? Fm7! Bb … insane.
Note: I just drafted that all wrong: confusing Beautiful Love, which also launches from Em7b5 / A7: and is Dm!
How many others has that diminished second confused?
Secret Typer: To Type or Not to Type
2015 04 18 I taught myself touch typing at age twenty-one. I went from hunt-and-peck typing to touch typing in 24 hours, 24 continuous hours, no breaks, brief meals only: in 24 hours I achieved moderate speed, better-than-average accuracy. When I invite my beloved Jan to type something she repeats that she can’t, she doesn’t know where the letters are: and, at eighty-three, coming up on eighty-four, her sight long since short of 20/20, searching might help but only very slowly, too slowly to make sense for messaging: it does no good to crunch a bunch of numbers to predict tomorrow’s weather if the crunching takes a millennium or more to attempt: it’s easier just to wait till tomorrow, and see.
So: I type, very fast, more than accurate eough, Jan doesn’t type at all, blazons it if cornered, and …
I remember vividly, and sympathetically, why Etta (Hilary’s mother) concealed what typing ability she had: she was a woman! employed (as an economist) by the United Nations, and she knew, knew in her marrow, that if the UN heard she could type, being a woman, they would naturally flood her with typing. She would be given less and less economics and more and more typing: and somehow they would find ways to stall her salary, trying to decrease it to what the kleptocracies of the world paid typists: as little as possible.
I had a good reason for teaching myself typing when I did: I had a paper due. The paper was actually fifty-one weeks overdue. I hadn’t done it when it was due, I’d missed graduation. Columbia let me attend the graduation ceremonies, invite my family, etc., but it came from on high, way below the belt, that I had one year, and no more, 52 weeks, not 53 weeks, to submit late my senior seminar paper: otherwise, throw my four (now five) years of Columbia away. Instead of graduating, I’d stay fallen in the dust bin.
So: the paper was due, I hadn’t written a word. Now I had one week to do it. It could be a year late, it couldn’t be a year and a day late.
Now: I wrote my papers on the typewriter, had since age ten. Hunt and peck. I believed that if I had only 24 hours left to write the paper, think the paper, proof the paper, submit the paper, I’d do it, just squeaking by, Knatz-style.
I knew since age ten that I made myself dizzy by looking at my source material (say, Leaves of Grass when quoting Whitman) then looking at my keyboard — then looking back to the Whitman … I knew, sudenly of a certainty, that I’d work with less headache if I could touch type, save looking back and forth. So I did. I learned touch typing to procrastinate on a paper I’d already procrastinated a year on. Actually you could say I’d already procrastinated more than a year: I know students who would have submitted the finished paper at least six months before the due date.
Silly: Whitman is the wrong souce to cite: I quoted Whitman in high school, I’d forgotten Whitman in college. All my materials that needed copying were on Bunyan: Pilgrim’s Progress.
So: I learned touch typing, and did squeak the paper in at the year-past-due second-and-last deadline. The result was reported elsewhere.
2015 04 07 I’ve been dipping into Pandora’s Promise, an egregious screen on nuclear power: dangers, harms have been exaggerated (I don’t doubt that’s true), dangers, harms are routinely misdiagnosed in our ignorance (I don’t doubt that’s true) … we need more power to continue to aim at prosperity while growing out populations (I don’t doubt that’s true) … It shows “environmentalists” caught in convictions that didn’t pan out … blah, blah … all as though nuclear power were safe, sane, understood … known. Balderdash.
At no point this this propaganda come within a mile of the concerns that I see as relevant: is civilization a sustainable enterprise? Can we grow our nations into the billions, and then double them, then double them again and continue to hope to live? and not continue to be ass-out ridiculous?
Reagan understood correctly that you could derail any pursuit involving reason if you threw in a consideration of continuing or growing prosperity. Don’t ask people if they want surviving grandchildren; ask them if they have $1, do they want $1.10? (or $2.00)? Greed, optimism, will displace reason every time.
Right now, as to date, rational discussion is not possible. Politics will undercut examination. But: that doesn’t mean that consequences won’t be whatever the consequences are, regardless of what consequences are imagined (or are failed to be imagined). If smoking is cancerous then people who smoke, regularly, will get cancer: it doesn’t matter what they see coming.
The consequences of the train wreck will not be limited by dangers the passengers discussed before the train wreck.
We see greed for power as having disagreeable as well as agreeable consequences. we argue that we’ll be fine so long as examination never becomes intelligent, that politics will remain powerless to discuss optimum populations … then, there’s the train wreck, or the ecstasy … Will we be alive? oh, not us, but our granchildren? will anything we care about be alive?
and never mind how much is in the bank. never mind whether the corpse got a raise that it can’t spend.
In my mind we can’t afford any of the means of power production: it ain’t just nuclear.
PS K. has yet to mention: pk in the early mid-1970s worked for Stone & Webster, engineering. What did Stone & Webster specialize in? specifically? we build nuclear power plants! I was the Assistant Director of Continuing Education: I had to see that the engineers stayed informed in their skills.
Did they? Not that I could tell.
2015 04 07 Jan’s friends include a family with Lexi Thompson, the golfer, as a granddaughter. Golf Digest put Lexi on a cover, covering her mammaries with a towel instead of a top. Now we’re in Sex & Society Digest; not Golf Digest. Some clown writes that he’d take up golf if more women dressed like that on the golf course, but instead of yelling ‘Fore he’d yell Two!
Some mag puts Tiger on the cover, he’w wearing pants: underneath his pants he’s got a pair of balls, so what? We don’t look at the cover and think “UghGugGugGug, balls!”
Lexi is female, she’s striking-looking, she can play: she could model too, so what?
Anyway, I find it offensive for Golf Digest to shun covering women’s golf, blacking out women from the golf universe, and then suddently showing “c-” on a cover, or boobs: same difference, almost. (Joan Rivers had a shtick on that, re: her daughter: Joan screaming, “Show them your c-!” (but not until the price is right.))
It’s like the Royal and Ancient keeping woman from their membership as well as they ignore wogs — women, wogs, same thing — Then suddenly offering competition to Playboy, and Penthouse.
What’s parellel? I’ll tell you: Imagine the Temple of Solomon News putting Jesus on their cover, after they’ve crucified him! First, they murder him so he’ll shut up; then they want to manage his resurrection, claim agent’s fees.
Like white people sabotaging blues, then pretending that they were a major stock holder all along. Watchout, the people claiming authority from on high, never have any. It’s always pure chutzpah. like the FBI knocking me down so they can supervise the internet they stole from me, perverting the loot: and supervise me on the internet: that is to say: censor me.
Golf Digest has no right to Lexi, or to women, or to golf. Ah, but they can publish a magazine, controlling markets.
In the 1980s I knew the guy who founded Golf Digest. He wrote for Golf Magazine, had sold Golf Digest, made a pile of money … He had nothing good to say about Golf Digest then: I doubt that he’s alive to say anything of any kind now. He also loved Beethoven: and lusted for my girl friend.
He’d ask her to dinner: “Oh, and can Paul come to?” she ask.
I’d actually get a free dinner!
2015 04 06 Everybody has weird dreams, right? But did you ever have a dream about a painting? An abstract painting?
I recently found myself in a dream centered on Piet Mondrian’s painting Boogie Woogie!
Broadway Boogie Woogie
As a kid, fifteen and up, I spent plenty of time in front of this painting, in MOMA of course. I haven’t been in MOMA since the middle 1960s: regardless, I never imagined dreaming of it.
There was no plot in the dream: it just centered on (an impression of) the image.
Ah, but a minute later I realize something: there’s a movie titled Boogie Woogie: with Amanda Seyfried. I like her, have ordered it, it’s on my queue. Still: why should I dream about the painting itself?
HierCon stories, Highlands Co employment
I’ll sketch some personal stories here, illustrating how society gangs up on me, sabotages my ability to live.
2015 04 05 When I was a kid the Yankees always won, the Dodgers always lost: year after year, October after October. The Yankees are still New York, sort of. But the Dodgers stopped being Brooklyn a long time ago: proving that they never were; but people in Brooklyn thought they were: as the team owners knew they would think: many of our fantasies being orchestrated (the orchestrators having little idea how orchestrated they themselves are). Anyway, Brooklyn would lose, Brooklyn would go crazy: there’d be riots, looting, arson. So finally, was it 1956, the Dodgers finally won! And that night Brooklyn really burned.
Now these contests were called a World Series. The “world” was “New York” (in this case, the Bronx) and Brooklyn. New York was preordained to be the winner. It was after all the Empire state! Brooklyn, however rich in native genius, was bush, boondocks, not the empire builders, not Doctor Livingston; Brooklyn was serf country. And of course even I thought those heroes were from those places: Babe Ruth was from the Bronx, Joe Dimaggio, from the Bronx … Jackie Robinson was from Brooklyn … We thought just what the owners thought we would think, planned for us to thing, budgeted our thinking …
So were was Kentucky? Kentucky didn’t exist. Kentucky existed somewhere way way way way after Brooklyn, the famous farm for serfs.
Well this year, like last year, it was Kentucky that was supposed to win. Kentucky had the biggest budget, the fewest scruples. Kentucky was the most professionally amateur. Kentucky was coached by the biggest loudmouth, the guy with the chip on his shoulder the size of Pittsburgh.
And now they’ve lost! to Wisconsin! And last night, and today, Kentucky burns.