Philosopher Immanual Kant was in many ways just another common buttwipe.   Seems he did a lot of reading, books, no doubt, no one gives a shit about now.   Maybe he specialized in low circulation papyrus smut.  I hope he did.  It would make him more interesting.  

I was thinking about the concept of presuppositionless thinking, and it was on IK's long screechy chalk board.    I'm extending myself in recognizing the purpose in identifying cultural contexts, all fat shitloads of them,  and clearing one's mind of said same.   Jettison all cognitive and mnemonic  flotsam.  It's what loads people's heads like knotweed.  

 One clears ones mind of all that is already known.  Do that first or you're an asshole, then allow yourself to perceive and think like a very brainy weightless tiny mass of nada, diddly and crap, drifting aimlessly through space.  Feels good when you get there.  Did I mention that it never fucking worked.  Bigger heads than mine caught on a long time ago that Kant was jerking the gherkin.  It is impossible to achieve presuppositionless thinking, no matter how big he was where it counts.  Kant was an asshole.  Thanks for reading.

Why Pretend The US Presidency Is Still Necessary?

 The point of this post is to broach a subject no one I no of is talking about, or thinking.  Maybe the US presidency is outmoded.  Past it's day.   Maybe instead of election presidents, vice presidents, and what ever dross comes with that package, what if voters voted, instead, for a committee made up of individuals who might govern together more responsibly than can one  deeply beholden and harried individual.  

Think of it like this:  monarchies still may exist but are outmoded as a form of government.  No one takes the British monarchy seriously anymore.  They're adult teeny-boppers.   Now it's looking like American hope for democracy is sucking ass.   The voting public is poorly informed and is too distant from national leadership to call this country a representative democracy, with a president at the top of the pyamid.

Don't vote for a president, vote for a politburo.  A team of individuals all vetted, open and transparent.  Presidents of the United States are dinosaurs.  

Flash fiction: Remember to Shut Up

I was shopping for I don't know what, at Burlington, when someone crowded my space in the shoe aisle. He was talking to himself and maybe God about crepuscularity. I had to cut in on the conversation if it was one. In case it was one. There would be greater chance God would hear my side of ontolology. I'm entitled to an opinion, especially when a person with really bad skin is too close to me, reaching across me to pick at cut rate shoes in garish colors and patterns.

Crepuscularity, in deed. He had bags in his ear lobes from wearing unclean grommets. I don't care if his ears rot completely off. I'm not doling a cent towards his reconstructive surgery. I doubt he will either. These people don't live very long outside a modern institution. The man was like canned ravioli, pustules all over, and he was in my space, wiggling like a spirochete. A flourescent tube overhead was going out like Ethel Merman on Broadway, except it was the last while that tube would trade juice for artificial, unwholesome, unflattering light. The man was all crepuscularity, and no soul. I got nothing for having interloped. I said, "you are one tenebrating ass motherfucker."

Remember when people gave a shit about gurus?    They grew like  crown vetch.  It's like people are looking for extra-ordinary things, extra-normal intelligence, a kind of spirituality that doesn't suck like a case of the 'roids.   Respite from extreme stupidity and ugliness.   These days, you fucking near have to beg republicans for spare change, so you can spend a week on a cruise ship.   People some how were lead to believe there are people at large who can improve the lives of others.   

'Seekers' were a big deal, way back when.    Now that all cities world wide are shit holes, and few Americans know people 'on the Continent' well enough to beg a few free nights on their Danish Modern couches, it is as if there isn't anything to look for.   Nor a person with knowledge worth acquiring.  It's like, "please don't teach others how  to be a piece of shit, like you."

Seekers and gurus.   Playing Twister together in Hell.  Jeez, I'm in a rotten mood this morning.  Thanks for reading!

The Big Bong Theory...nothing to do with drugs. People inhale the gestalt, or the elements there of. then blow it out their shorts...

The Summer of Five Dollar Shoes:   

This is a riveting analysis of metaphor, me to a very old Black Woman who, I noticed last year in August, wore thin spandex beach shoes most certainly acquired at the Five Below store downtown.   I had on the exact same shoes, no socks for me, thank you, and Miss Liz wore thick purple synthetic knee socks and her black, with gray trim, spandex shoes.  Five bucks a pair.  We talked one afternoon, and the things people have in common can be in the making before the chat opens apprehension the way two ice cubes will open single malt scotch.  Miss Liz is a live wire, like a pricey bottle of Glennfuckit.     Some of the things Miss Liz and I have in common were, in my case, yet  to be realized, and maybe only for having seen it in a person other than myself.   

Not mentioning the shoes, we got to the subject of how it was downtown in the 1990s.  That's as far as I go back with the former steel sub-metropolis.    Miss Liz moved here not too long after the Great Depression.  Had many go rounds with our metamorphic multifarious city administrations and business districts, each an amoeba taking in goods and expelling services, an economy with stone and at the same time elastic walls.  Our shopping centers have been ever morphing.   Thin walls are removed and placed elsewhere otiose and never exciting.   The downtown business establishment was knocking itself out when I first got here, to seem vital, and I've come to adore, from a safe distance, the way expendable people work so hard to maintain appearances when a place lost it's soul decades earlier on the fat prick that is a time line.  

When I mentioned to Miss Liz that before the Smithfield Street McDonald's closed in 2019, back in the 1990s, people used to get lunch there dressed in cheap but fairly well fitted business suits, shirts and neck ties.  Miss Liz smiled warmly, alertly, triumphantly, and said, "they all dead."

That's one of the things I had, in transition, in common with her.   It took a few years for the lime gelatin and vodka to solidify.  Jello Shots, a party fave, goes down same as regular lime Jello, but it's fifty proof if you do it right.   The Jello, in this case, Lizzy and myself, is joy in knowing lesser mortals croaked, and we are still alive.  People aren't so fucking great in Pittsburgh.  It's a truly second class city.  Why should that be bothersome to anyone?   Lizzy had it already, and I gained it eventually.   It's an element of bliss.   Shitty people are kind enough to bite the dust, leaving more room for Miss Liz.   Me, too.