Monday, January 30, 2017

A splotch from my continuing fiction saga about a terrifying guitarist

Jeevers, heavens, who would look there if someone bothered to mention that wooden well as a place worth taking into thought?   I know what's under that stainless steel cap.   Some fairly simple electric components, and they are dead, dead, dead.  Unusable.  Unsightly, too.  I'll grant the guitarist, singer, entertainer, Mikey Mumbawumba has animal cunning, even for matters of beauty.   The women like this man, and naturally his exceptional height and hair twangs electrifying bent notes of Darwinism, as Mikey has reproduced offsprings far and wide more so than many by way of his music and beastly exotic good looks.   Why, I haven't reproduced none of my own dainty ass, and I can play guitar at least as good as Mikey.   But he's got the height advantage.   I'll concede there is another thing longer than me in this competition for a place in memory and in daily life.

You are always quick on the uptake, and need to know now how I know of Mikey's shit ass soldering.  I was there.  I was there when he was installing the pick up.  He barely noticed that I was in the entourage that evening, though not as a regular item.  I have been in entourages on an itinerant basis, and this accounts for not getting a lot of hits on my blog.  Jesus tits, it is so hard to explain  humanity. It effects the number of gigs you get, if anyone fucking cares.  Mikey Mumbawumba angrily unfolded his hard wood six foot ironing board, pulling it out of the closet like a punk who owed him money.  Then he slammed his sulphur yellow fake Stratacaster on top of it, swearing, sweating and praying all at the same time, also he was fishing tools out of the filthiest used  American Tourist locking hard shell brief case ever similarly jerked out of a filthy, disorganized closet.  We were all smoking like chimneys, but the entourage was otherwise inert as Mikey dislodged, lodged, yanked, screwed and soldered a 1967 Gibson pick up into what used to be a pristine looking cheap ass imported copy of God's divine inspiration, the Fender Strat.  If I was betting on the All Mighty's mood, at the time, I'd say it might have been one of shock and displeasure.

Everyone in the dank ghetto apartment was too downed out to fully appreciate the end result, in all it's many meanings.  This is one reason people still buy business cards, off the internet, that say 'philosopher.' Mikey was a genius, in his cleft footed way, for inverting the goddam stainless steel cap the use to cover the hoojie you stick the quarter inch jack into. The thing looks like he didn't fuck anything up.  It looks unusual, too.  It was an excellent move, and the man always gets an A+ for style.  But I saw what he did with his soldering iron, and as usual, I had to know I'm a better technician than that mean son of a bitch.  For people who look hard at the future, Mikey may have produced an entire generation of people with with deficient technical skill sets.

Doesn't matter just this passing second.  As always, the asshole looks like he is supposed to be on stage,  his band mates aren't fucking up too many runs, he's able to sing better than a hard number of competing hopefuls with shitty guitars and little hope, and there is ample ETOH and some illegal drugs, too, all serving to equalize good, bad and indifferent.  It is worth noting here that members of the audience are unified in their appreciation of Mikey's performance.  Just now it's Fly Me To The Moon.

Friday, January 27, 2017

Re-evaluating Like A Motherfucker

The news feed on FB is raining, pouring, shit-storming with news articles that are scaring the bejeezus out of me and a lot of other folks.  Many people are expressing shock and horror at what is happening re: The Prez.   Seems a lot of people are in shock, and are responding with appropriate concern and outrage.  Some people are in denial of how serious a situation is precipitating.  I'm an opinionated old cuss, but no opinion seems to be the right one.  I hate being irresolute, and right now, it's fucking near my middle fucking name.

So how crazy and how dangerous is our new leader?  News articles are saying a narcissistic personality with the nuke codes could push the button on impulse, or out of spite, or, for more conservative maniacs, on the basis of a long standing grudge.  It's being suggested Trump  could be Mr. WW3 or maybe the catalyst for a domestic quarrel severe enough to fill Rose Lawn a thousand times over.  He may be Simon in a Simon Says game of industrial pollution, if he turns the EPA into a permissive little sewing circle.  It's looking like protesters could be jailed, or harmed, or killed for making a fuss in public. The recent arrest of some journalists covering the protests  isn't encouraging.

One article said that according to the Constitution, the president can't be prevented from firing a nuke at anyplace on the globe.  So it says, once he gives the order, the military is duty bound to obey the order.  Unless there is some type of unknown-to-the-public safe guard, something 'witchy' perhaps, maybe something drastic, like an emergency injection of Haldol, or a forced hospitalization, e.g. News Flash, Our Prez Is Real Sick, Had To Be Rushed To Mt. Sinai, the straight jacket is his idea, it's just a fashion statement, maybe the world is in imminent danger.

Returning to the matter of personal indecision, anxiety, concern, I'm wondering if there is anything Johns and Janes Q. Public can do.  Should we, as citizens, make it our collective job to support an unstable and dangerous ego?  Should people protest, en mass?  Should people adopt political neutrality, and concentrate on their knitting?  Much as public protest may be appropriate, it could be a useless disaster if Trump takes to mass homicide or incarceration.  Perhaps everyone should limit discussion to food, family and any philosophy that omits presidential politics.  I might have to resolve the matter by simply clamming up and toeing the line.  Or by writing about the subject of presidential politics while otherwise clamming up.  Discussion isn't likely to have a positive effect.  At wit's end.  Cheers.

Wednesday, January 18, 2017

How to enjoy life under a fascist plutocracy

When your formerly beloved country devolves into a red headed coke snorting dictatorship, there are a few things people should know.  This one is taking place in a media society.  In a media society, the most important thing in your life is what you look like.   The way you sound on a digital recording is a close second, since it's the only impression you will be likely to make on anyone, since people stopped interacting socially thirty fucking years ago.  We chat on the Internet.

Content only matters if it pisses off the Red Head or his peeps, so it's smart to limit text to  frivolous nonsense.  Adult level nursery rhymes.   Puff pieces about your favorite single malt Scotch.  Or better, the way you made Christmas special for people who actually belong in the US.  But there is the largest contradiction of all to talk about.  There is only one smart move in a fascist fuck hole: do a lot of singing and dancing.

Asinine as this probably sounds, don't forget that during the Great Depression people flocked to movie theaters to watch Shirley Temple boogie down with Bojangles  Robinson.  The very dangerous femme former FBI director, J. Edgar Hoover loved party hats and show tunes.  Also, gala events.  So did Hitler, Stalin and Mussolini.  I hate Broadway show tunes, but prefer not to be jailed or killed by a platinum blond death squad.  They are into bands like Metalica and the Misfits, but everyone else has a Darwinian imperative to play Barry Manilow, Barry White, and Bing Fucking Crosby.  In the event the blond death squads get their marching orders, the way you dress, talk, sing and dance could be the difference between still doing it, and taking a couple clips in the bread basket, auspices of big guns.  In a dictatorship, it becomes wise to amuse and entertain your oppressors.

Protesting won't work.  It's totalitarian.  It's like protesting the moon.  The moon won't go away because you don't care for it's politics or it's diplomacy.  I do.  I love the silence.  But that's irrelevant to a media society that lives and breathes moving pictures and memes.  Diplomacy is completely out of the hands of the public, so there's no point trying to influence the way the US interacts with foreign governments.   Not that it matters to the wee folk, but diplomacy isn't what it was.  No Winston Churchill blowing smoke with a dignified Hitler and Stalin.  Now world leaders form butt buddy relationships, like the one between Trump and Putin.  The North Korean dictator is a butt buddy of Dennis Rodman's.  All diplomats are one of two peole:  Beavis or Butthead.   Nearest substitute, Wayne's World by satellite.  No distinction, no dignity, no useless high-mindedness.  Just business between fascist butt buddies.  It's pathetic, but their people can have you killed, which is why it's best to dress cute, talk sweet, stage gala parties, and for the love of God, post videos on youtube.   Good luck.

Sunday, January 15, 2017

A Resin Pocket Bitch-slapped My Mind

With learning comes shock and pain.  Sure. Most people had to read short stories by Raymond Carver and then discuss, in class, fuck knows where, high school, college,  a county jail in Vermont, the humanizing wonderful nature of learning.  And growing.  In a positive and friendly social environment.  Which is eternally contingent on how sweet or  fucked people are.  Strike eight points from a scale of ten in this slum.  Discoveries here  are as often grizzly as edifying.  I was watching a fine youtube instructional video yesterday afternoon, and learned of a new thing to fret over.

Fret?  Did I say 'fret?'   Ho ho ho.  I am laughing as if speaking Arabic.  The video was about how to manufacture a beautiful and outstanding guitar, from scratch. The instructor even cut and formed the frets on the fingerboard.  He made every single wooden part, with the care and precision of God.  As he demonstrated the process of cutting out the front part of the thing,  he indicated that there was a resin pocket in the broad expanse of expensive pine.   It wasn't very large, much smaller than a cigarette burn, which, in some households, like this one, is used to guage diameter, e.g. the hole in someone's couch is no bigger than a cigarette burn, hence not critical.  But the maker of great guitars was farther up the food chain than that.  No resin pockets are allowed in the gentleman's guit shop.

Not only had I never heard of resin pockets, till right then, I had a few clear seconds remaining to be unperturbed by the goddam things.  The guit maker explained, patiently, no foul like language (not like some assholes I could name) as long as the resin pocket on his lumber was outside of the pattern he laid over it, everything was just lovely, no problemo.  The resin pocket was teensy, just a blemish, not unlike Marlene Dietrick's beauty mark, and he was able to cut out his piece clear of the offending pine blemish.  Fuck it all, dear heavens, I was holding on my lap a cheap ass imported guitar I got off ebay.  Cost shit. A paltry fifty eight bucks, post paid.  Sounds half decent.  I'm jamming on it. It's not completely a piece of garbage, but it has a resin pocket right the fuck under the sound hole.  The very asshole thing that the superb instructor hated with all his generous, humane and cautious heart was shitting like a giant house fly on my guitar.  The flesh is weak.  I'm Jello.  The resin pocket was worse than a celestial black hole.  It was sucking my goddam heart out.  And all it took for that disaster to occur was learn of the fucking thing's existence, which only bothers me now.

Waging off topic tool drool on a fast run to universalism,  the learning process can throw a wrench in people's lives.  People fly the fuck off the handle.  It can be hell to find out that something is wrong,when everything was fine before you got the message.  We learn of great resin pockets in human history, and we take umbrage for it now.   What if that pocket was some form of stupid ass shit head propaganda?  It may be of no consequence now.  For as tragic as are resin pockets, one can still play tunes on one's guit box.  There is no reason for discord.

Alternative perception is like the sound of breaking glass. No one is comfortable with it.

It's too fucking easy to abhor the electoral college.  Like everyone wishes they had an equal voice in national, global, any fucking where politics.  I used to hate that the popular vote can be over-ridden, the way an errant two year old can have its binky confiscated by an authorized legal guardian,   I used to believe in the rights of the common individual.  Having had dealings with common individuals, though, there is reason to love the electoral college.  Ever notice how the best hunting dogs seem to enjoy obeying their masters?  Kidding.

 One of the reasons for the electoral college is because ordinary people are a danger to their dimwitted selves.   Not that this gets chiseled in too many  cornerstones, the whole concept of a representative democracy implies that dreadfully few individuals can help themselves out of a wet paper bag.  Most elemental, mayhaps one bastard out of Southwestern Pennsylvania  has brains enough to get to Washington and explain there that his/her extended community needs grease and monkey wrenches, to better industrialize.  If each individual in the rust belt was allowed to speak independently, all jillion of the bastards would engage in riots and kill each other.  I'm trying to explain why no one should care who won the last election, or why.

Free market Constitutionalists might yahoo the premise that the yellow rag wasn't supposed to mean everyone was equal.  It was assumed at the time the cultural elites, the founding fathers, were celebrities, like Donald Trump, and common people were assholes.  It's like that now!  The EC protects ignorant share croppers and confused generation Xers equally, by allowing the EC to prevent them from electing, well, the wrong one.  Just in case the popular vote looks like a real bad move, the electoral college can fix  it for us all.  As P.T. Barnum said, "there's a sucker born every minute."  Another sage once said, "No one went broke underestimating American taste."  There are other reasons why it is so necessary to have an electoral college.  Just in case the whole shooting match is rigged.  And the voters are brain damaged alarmist robots.  The election turned out fine.  You should thank the fuckers.

Thursday, January 12, 2017

People are trained seals

I like Steeler's line backer coach Joey Porter and am relieved he's not getting off too rough for roughing up a little doorman on the Southside.  Or for resisting arrest, which gets lots of fellows killed or jailed.  I just heard someone from the district attorney's office, on the news, and it went something about Porter has kids, is from Pittsburgh, and is well liked. Weak arguments for permitting criminal violence, people are sentimental puff balls.  Also, people involved are wealthy enough to make peace.   Using this as an example, Mahatma Ghandi should have been allowed to run people off the road in a HumVee.   Mother Theresa should have been allowed to shoot an endangered species, just for fun.

Nothing wrong with pro jocks getting preferential treatment from the authorities.  They're all just a bunch of sentimental saps.  They love the Steelers.   Ted Bundy got the death penalty, but that was for whacking people, and no one liked Ted.  He was a loser.

Monday, January 2, 2017

Won't this plan depress the real estate market?

Fucking aye hope so.   The price of real estate needs to go down.  Prices rose independent of household earnings, reducing the quality of life to pure stress and desperation.  My suggestion is to construct shitloads of cheap rent high rise apartment buildings, to house the working poor.  Still thinking a lot. it occurs that this might force rents down across the board.  Think of the new high rise wave as Housing Walmart.

Cheap consumer goods made in China has depressed consumer prices here.  American manufacturers  can't compete with cheaper imported goods.  Walmart distributes the goods.  One can't import real estate.  One can allocate it, establish policy regarding it, and price it to fit the needs of people earning the minimum wage.  If done, it may have the same effect on on real estate as Walmart has had on consumer markets.  At first glance, this sounds mighty bad.  Not so.   If real estate prices go significantly downward, the shift in cash flow could revitalize the economy.  More spendable income in the hands of the working poor.  And the middle class, as prices go down in the upper rent districts.  Which will be competing for occupancy with the cheaper high rise apartment.  The plan could force competition in business where none, at the moment, appears to exist.

Sunday, January 1, 2017

Orange Histrionic Goodness

The DSM IV, beddy-byes page turner that it is, holds some damn fine wisdom about the American presidency.  Antisocial personality disorder, in all it's togs, ensembles and provocations, is in the book.  Borderline personality disorder is listed there, telling us all that some people lie, engage mental cruelty, have a history of mental illness other than the one up top of the page, and are dangerously manipulative. In both disorders, the level of emotional maturity within the personage ranges from near normal adult to very shitty infant.   Tossing in the air the red covered bible of mental problems, the book lands clumsily, grandiloquently  open to 'histrionic personality disorder.'

Today's shit storm in words is the relationship between histrionics, and a seemingly bothersome electoral victory, orange rose pedals raining on the blue suit shoulders of  The Donald.  He won the electoral vote mainly because he is more entertaining than Hillary.  Neither candidate was comprehensible or tolerable to persons hooked on Immanuel Kant's pure reason.   In a media society, Kant is invisible or reduced to inert media fluff.  Any decent student of philosopher Edmond Husserl would be pissed right now that no one is noting election time points relating to his 'da sein' and 'mit sein,' These two deadly fine concepts of place reference and validation by material ownership don't have a fiddler's chance of clarifying  incoming reality.  There isn't much an individual can do to alter the last or the incoming government.   One pick pick gnat shit out of pepper.  Or orange pedals from brutal facts.  Maybe I should turn my long steel flashlight on the voting public.

I'm seeing a regular Gong Show style media freak show on the internet and on television.  In print as well, though I don't see much of that costly reader's pal.   Ordinary folks, by the thousand have been engaging in public and private histrionics.  But celebrities have been going farther.  One of the prevailing theories is that West Coast film business is complicit with the New World Order, and Hillary was their girl, thus many popular media personalities are in lurid professional mourning over her loss.  A rivaling explanation is that entertainers tend to be histrionic personality types, some to the point of total dysfunction, which is the whole point of printing the DSM IV, which is to fix what's wrong with people.  The book reads like an automobile repair manual.  A computer print out of a mental patient's psychiatric evaluation reads in precise parity with a computer print out of your Cadillac's or Ferrari's state inspection.

So the histrionic candidate best gets elected by being the best media product between the two.  If there is any substance in it, the winner is better able to serve diplomacy, which, at current techno-socialization, is like negotiating talk show to talk show.  Late Night With Donald will chow down and talk with the Korean Dictatorship Comedy Hour.  No more Winston Churchill hunkers down with Stalin, Hitler and Cary Grant.  History had all that that it wants.  Now history is is a digital recording, and can be sent anywhere on the Internet.  Thank heavens people no longer have to meet, choke on each other's halitosis, and fail to arrive at an agreement.  This is the very coronation time for a great and wonderful histrionic soul.  People should quit trying to fuck it all up, and groove on it.  It can't be successfully defeated.  It can't be reasoned with.  But people can still be fairly fucking cool until further notice.  Things are dicey.  No reason to be a total pecker-head.   You can still read Kant.  And behave like a histrionic personality, as described in the DSM IV.  It too fucking grand.