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Sun Jan 20, 2013 at 02:48 PM PST

All The Guns Are Going To Go

by blueness

Now that it is clear that all the guns are going to go, daily we are deafened by the howlings of the living-in-fear bitter-clingers, who ululate without surcease that any attempt to bring Sanity to the culture of the killing machine shall "transgress the Second Amendment."

This near-literal deification of the United States Constitution has long puzzled me.

Now, it is known that among the wingnuts, there exists the firm belief that Jesus of Nazereth personally inscribed the Constitution—presumably on orders from the Big Guy himself.

But even among those who may harbor some doubt as to whether Adam and Eve really rode dinosaurs to church, knee-jerk genuflection before this aged and anti-evolutionary document as some sort of holy writ, is widespread, reflexive, pervasive, and damn near impossible to stamp out.


Have people ever truly considered who it is who actually wrote the dern thing?

Old dead white men. Dust for more than two centuries. Who had never seen a light bulb. Who conceived not of the automobile, much less the space shuttle. Who were unacquainted with germs. Who were not altogether unconvinced that if someone went Bad, a sulfurous demon upbubbling from Hell should be blamed. Who abjured bathing, because they believed that immersion in water could prove fatal.

Benjamin Franklin, regarded today as a sort of super all-around genius, strongly recommended that his fellow Americans cleanse themselves solely through the method of shedding one's clothing, and then standing naked in the faint breeze passing between two open windows.

Eons would pass between baths for this water-fearing fellow. If the historical Franklin were at this moment to come into your presence, the stench would prove so overpowering you would run from him like Richard Pryor with his body on fire.

Franklin also kept his nephew chained to the floor of a barn for the last 30 years of his life, as such was then considered the most "humane" treatment for the mentally ill.

And gave not a single thought at all to the Reality that his sister, who was every bit as bright as he was, was never afforded even the glimmer of a chance to be what he was.

As Jill Lepore so starkly expressed it:

In eighteenth-century America, I wouldn’t have been able to vote. I wouldn’t have been able to own property, either. I’d very likely have been unable to write, and, if I survived childhood, chances are that I’d have died in childbirth. And, no matter how long or short my life, I’d almost certainly have died without having once ventured a political opinion preserved in any historical record.
From the perspective of 220 years on, the fellows who wrote the Constitution can be perceived, correctly, as the functional equivalent of apes before the monolith. They tried to do their best, but they could not. They saw but through a glass darkly. With their document, they achieved but what Robert Stone's whiskey priest in A Flag For Sunrise identified as "Half moments. Glintings. A little rising of the heart."

And only for themselves alone. These were, without exception, white well-off men of property. Their Constitution was intended only for persons like themselves. They never dreamed that anyone other than white well-off men of property would ever have any say about anything. Most believed, and without even thinking about it, that black people were not really human. Many struggled with the notion that women might possess souls. They considered the native peoples of this continent of so little account that their occupation of these peoples' lands was regarded not as theft, but as manifest divinely-blessed destiny.

They were lost, these guys, every one, in the fog. The human condition.

In retrospect, perhaps the coolest things about someone like Thomas Jefferson cannot be found in his political writings—which include vast tracts on the base and permanent inferiority of black people, scrupulously grounded in the "science" of his day—but instead in other results of that questing mind, such as introducing pasta to North America, and instructing a mockingbird in the language of the White House.

Or the manifold contributions of someone like Gouverneur Morris to the Constitution—which he almost immediately thereafter disavowed, fearing it had gone too far in larding powers to "the mob"—might pale beside the strong and satisfying expression of his life force, when caught by just such a mob in the streets of Paris, during the French Revolution (then, as now, all the best Americans emigrated to France).

Said mob had identified him as an aristocrat, which he was, and in the blood-lust of the day they thought to string him up. Till Morris swiftly unbuckled his wooden leg, waved it over his head, and boomed that he'd lost his natural limb over there in the American colonies, fighting for liberty. Whereupon he became the hero, rather than the target, of those assembled. Though in truth Morris had lost that leg when diving out the second-story window of the home of a favored mistress, upon the sudden and unanticipated arrival of her husband.

The Second Amendment, like too much of the US Constitution—see, for instance, Article I, Section 2; Article I, Section 9; Article IV, Section 2; Article V—was intended to perpetuate human slavery.

On this basis alone—that the document not only condoned, but codified, the owning of human beings as property—the United States Constitution should be rejected, by any evolved 21st Century human being, regarded as an outrageous and embarrassing relict of an earlier, more barbaric age, a scrap of odious paper that itself must needs simply be scrapped.

Slavery is gone now. And the Second Amendment, which enabled it, shall go too. Slavery was wrong, and it is over. So too the Second Amendment. It is a museum piece, that amendment, like powder-horns, and tri-cornered hats.

All the guns are going to go. Guns are finished. Humans don't want them anymore. They are an appendix of the age of the warrior, which is finally fucking over. We are in the age of the healer now. Killing is done. We are now about living. And no piece of crabbed and cramped and withered parchment, stained with ink applied by people too afraid even to take a bath, is going to stand in our way.

People who live the requisite number of years experience, and therefore understand, that the child moves on from the parent. And then the child of that child, since become a parent, moves on from there.

For more than 220 years, people in this country have retarded their evolutionary development by continuing to suck at the shriveled empty teats of bewigged bath-fearing ignorant old white men long ago dead as the dust of the ground.

No. That's finished. We sing now our own song


for ala. who went there too.


Without John Huston’s 1963 film The Night of the Iguana, there would not exist today the gringo tourist mecca of Puerto Vallarta.

Before Huston & Co. arrived to transfer the prizewinning play of Tennessee Williams to the big screen, Puerto Vallarta was an unknown, “undiscovered” village just entering the age of electricity. As The Night of the Iguana became one of the most publicized film shoots in the history of the movies, the town was transformed from a sleepy backwater on the heat-plagued west coast of Mexico into one of the most attractive jetset destinations on the globe.

Ray Stark brought the Iguana property to Huston. The rookie producer had put but one film upon the screen when he acquired the rights to the play, believing it “would make a wonderful picture, especially in Mexico. John, of course, was the guru of Mexico. I just got him at a lucky time when he wanted to go back there.”

Huston had shot The Treasure of the Sierra Madre and The Unforgiven in Mexico and had planned to lens The Misfits there until overruled by that film’s writer/producer, Arthur Miller.

Williams had specified Acapulco as the location of his play, but Huston scoffed at the notion of staging his film there. He sought a place more wild and forlorn, one that would reflect the torment of the work’s characters, particularly protagonist T. Laurence Shannon.

This defrocked clergyman, locked out of his church for fornicating with a young parishioner, finds himself adrift, awash in alcohol, reduced to escorting elderly churchwomen on fourth-rate bus tours through fifth-rate sites in Mexico and the southwest US. The Night of the Iguana is, in Huston’s words, the story “of a man, desperate and full of despair, at the end of his rope.”

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George, don’t make no full moves. Please make it quick, fast and furious. Please. Fast and furious. You get ahead with the dot dash system. Oh, oh—dog biscuits! And when he is happy he doesn’t get happy. No hobo and pobo I think he means the same thing. I am a pretty good pretzler. Don’t put anyone near this check. In the olden days they waited and waited. I don’t want harmony. I want harmony. There are only ten of us and there ten million fighting somewhere of you, so get your onions up and we will throw up the truce flag. The sidewalk was in trouble and the bears were in trouble and I broke it up. You can play jacks and girls do that with a softball and do tricks with it. I take all events into consideration. No. No. And it is no. It is confused and it says no. A boy has never wept nor dashed a thousand kim. I am sore and I am going up and I am going to give you honey if I can. Mother is the best bet and don’t let Satan draw you too fast. They dyed my shoes. Open those shoes. I know what I am doing here with my collection of paper. Come on, open the soap duckets. The chimney sweeps. Talk to the sword. French-Canadian bean soup. I want to pay. Let them leave me alone.

                                                                               —among the last words of Dutch Schultz

The information we're plugged into is the universe itself, and everybody knows that on a cellular level. It's built in. Just superficial stuff like what happened to you in your lifetime is nothing compared to the container which holds all your information. And there's a similarity in all our containers. We are all one organism, we are all the universe, we are all doing the same thing. That's the sort of thing that everybody knows, and I think that it's only weird little differences that are making it difficult. The thing is that we're all earthlings. The earthling consciousness is the one that's really trying to happen at this juncture and so far it's only a tiny little glint, but it's already over. The change has already happened, and it's a matter of swirling out. It has already happened. We're living after the fact. It's a postrevolutionary age. The change is over. The rest of it is a cleanup action. Unfortunately it's very slow. Amazingly slow and amazingly difficult.

                                                                                                             —Jerome Garcia

It is said that when a Los Angeles classical radio station first played the Symphony No. 3 by the Polish composer Henryk Górecki in the early 1990s, cars could be seen pulling to the side of the freeways, because the drivers’ eyes were full of tears.

                                                                                                               —Gregory Wolfe

Oh! The noise the skeletons make, trying on new bodies.

                                                                                                               —Kenneth Patchen

Especially here on the tubes, human beings most often use language—words—to communicate with one another.

Not everybody thinks this is a good idea.

William Burroughs insisted that language is a virus, and one from outer space, one that is up to no good.

For “a virus operates autonomously, without human intervention. It attaches itself to a host and feeds off of it, growing and spreading from host to host. Language infects us; its power derives not from its straightforward ability to communicate or persuade but rather from this infectious nature, this power of bits of language to graft itself onto other bits of language, spreading and reproducing, using human beings as hosts.”

Leonard Schlain, meanwhile, argues in The Alphabet Versus The Goddess that language rewired the human brain, shifting dominance from the “feminine” right hemisphere to the “masculine” left hemisphere, thereby allowing brutal patriarchies to supplant worldwide more pacific matriarchal cultures.

Schlain’s brainshower seems to fit with Burroughs’ blood-curdling description of how the alien language virus reproduced itself in early ur-humans:

[A]lterations in inner throat structure were occasioned by virus illness . . . This illness may well have had a high rate of mortality but some female apes must have survived to give birth to the wunder kindern. The illness perhaps assumed a more malignant form in the male because of his more developed and rigid muscular structure causing death through strangulation and vertebral fracture. Since the virus in both male and female precipitates sexual frenzy through irritation of sex centers in the brain the males impregnated the females in their death spasms and the altered throat structure was genetically conveyed.
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Sun Dec 23, 2012 at 03:34 AM PST

Hedges First

by blueness

Jesus, he gets the good press, because of the resurrection.

First, it is said, he raised from the dead Lazarus.

And then, so it is further said, he raised from the dead himself.

It is nowadays said, by Nazis like Ratzinger, that Jesus is the only dude who could so, then, and now, do such a thing.

And so, from this, must the frenzied total worship come.

Except that this, like most of what Nazis and Ratzingers say, is a lie.


Because you and I, we resurrect each other, each and every day.

I am so low down, I am so riven, I am so crawling: and then some human, does something, I can't even later recall what it was, but it keeps me scuttling on.

That human was my Jesus.

From him, from her, from them, I am resurrected.

So, too, every day, I endeavor, to be a Jesus, like that, to somebody. Barely, most times, even knowing what I'm doing.

It's true, that it's not a very lovely world.

But every day, even if only unwittingly, I am going to try to show the love that is here, to somebody.

This you will do to me, too.

You keep me alive.

I return the favor.

That's how it works here.

We are all resurrected. We resurrect each other.

And none of any of it, on this planet, is worth two shits, unless that's what we're doing. Warming each other. Resurrecting one another.

Guns: money: presidents:
none of this is Real.

Kenneth Patchen says this:

Don't you understand?

I have arisen not from the dead but from the living.

I am not a voice crying in the wilderness.

There is no winter here. No dark. No despair.

The lights are going on in my house.

I shall not allow the President of the United States to enter here.

There is no darkness anywhere. There are only sick little men who have turned away from the light.

I have all my lights on.

And it is my own face I see in the blazing windows of all the houses on earth.

This site, sweetly in-the-vein addictive as it is, is an illusion.

There are no parties. There are no pundits. There are no potentates. There are no policies. There are no politics.

There are only sad little humans.

Knuckles dragging.

And, in the sweetest part of themselves, looking for some form of love.

You have no idea, how much power you have.

I would say more, but I am just not into writing any more.

It just doesn't work.

So, as, again, Patchen says:

I opened my mouth to maybe say a bit of a prayer for them.

And it started to bleed again.


Wed Dec 19, 2012 at 08:02 PM PST

Christmas Lights

by blueness

Don’t think that life is somewhere over the rainbow. What you’ve got right now, with your family, your friends, your house: this might be as good as life is ever going to be.

Life is not happening on the other side of the rainbow. We are on the other side of the rainbow.

                                                         —rabbi Shaul Praver, upon Shabbat, for Noah Posner

I’m not mad. Because I have my agency to make sure that I use this event to do what I can to do whatever I can. I want to make sure that my family, my wife and my daughters, are taken care of. And that, if there is anything I can do to help anybody, at any time, anywhere, I’d be willing to do that.

                                                                             —Robbie Parker, father of Emilie Parker

Compassionate wrap-around nationalized health care is where the nation is going, it’s inevitable, and people will be much happier once they get there. In the meantime, all initiatives that arc that way should be supported.

Same with the guns. All the guns are going to go. That’s where the nation is going, it’s inevitable, and people will be much happier once they get there. In the meantime, all initiatives that arc that way should be supported.

The guns, they are done. They are instruments of living in Fear. And Fear is over. It’s no longer necessary. It is a product of the lizard brain. The brain is bigger than that now. The lizard brain peaked hundreds of millions of years ago. Its day is done.

The guns are going even from the police. Back in the 1970s, when police-militarization began truly getting out of hand, Ken Kesey incarnated a lightbringing piece in which he saw that the police need to “lay down the gun.” That’s going to happen.

And there won’t be any guns in the nation’s military. Because the nation won’t have a military. America is at peace with its neighbors, Canada and Mexico. And so no military is necessary.

In the early reports out of Connecticut, I was struck by this:

Connecticut is reaching out to other states to help with autopsies because they don’t have enough medical examiners.
There was no shortage of people with guns arriving on the scene. There never is. But for healers, Connecticut had to go out of state.

That is precisely the opposite of the way it should be. Wouldn’t it be nice if there were always a surfeit of healers, always on hand? But for folks with guns, a call would have to go out to other states?

That’s what’s coming. The age of the warrior is over. Old, and totally in the way. It’s the era of healers now.

Already happened.

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Sun Dec 09, 2012 at 12:58 AM PST

The Wheel

by blueness

(Sunday. Two days removed from the December 7 Sunday observed as Pearl Harbor Day. So let's try this one.)

                                                          ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞

After this world war, the United States and the USSR may unquestionably emerge unhurt when all other nations are devastated. I can imagine, therefore, that our country, which is placed between these two giants, may face great hardships. However, there is no need for despair. When these two lose the competition of other countries in their respective vicinities, they will grow careless and corrupt. We will simply have to sleep in the woodshed and eat bitter fruits for a few decades. Then when we have refurbished our manliness inside and out, we may still achieve a favorable result.

                              —Lord Koichi Kido, to Emperor Hirohito of Japan, December 3, 1940

Isoroku Yamamoto was a gambler. Though cards, and other games that matched him against fellow human beings, were too often too easy for him; shortly after he learned poker, while attending Harvard, he thoroughly cleaned out his classmates.

Roulette was his game. Like most who have become entranced by the wheel, Yamamoto understood that it was there that one may best flickeringly apprehend the ineffable laws of chance, and, maybe, occasionally, fleetingly, ride them. Aboard the wheel, Yamamoto became one of the few people ever to “break the bank at Monte Carlo”: that is, he won more chips than were present at the table, requiring that a black shroud be thrown over the whole works until replacement chips could be summoned. Yamamoto often mused aloud that he would like one day to quit his day job, and open his own casino.

Yamamoto was also a conjurer, an adept in feats of magic. His specialty was making things disappear. At a White House dinner in December of 1929, he enchanted down-table aides to President Herbert Hoover by vanishing coins and matchsticks.

In December of 1941, Yamamoto successfully vanished an entire fleet. One moment the ships were in port, there in Japan; the next moment, they were gone. Reappearing some days later, unobserved, off the coast of Hawaii. From this disappeared fleet was launched the attack on Pearl Harbor.

As a gambler, Yamamoto didn’t think much of his country’s imperial adventurings. He pronounced the invasion of China doomed: too much land, too many people. He likewise predicted failure for any Japanese war on the United States: too much wealth, too many resources. While traveling in the States, Yamamoto had passed through oil country in Texas, and there observed in one field more oil than was present in all of Japan. War runs on oil. Japan didn’t have any. Once the US and its allies ceased shipping oil to Japan, the taps ran dry. By December 7, 1941, many of the private vehicles in Japan still on the road were running on charcoal.

But although he thought it a mistake, Yamamoto, at his emperor’s command, devised the plan of attack on Pearl Harbor. And when that attack was over, it was Yamamoto who in the States was made to shoulder much of the blame: the nasty little arch-fiend of a sneak who perpetrated the “day that will live in infamy.”

And thus it was that, in April of 1943, Yamamoto’s spirit disappeared from his body. Departing through a bullet hole in the head, drilled there at the personal command of President Franklin Roosevelt. Who had ordered Yamamoto’s assassination. In “Operation Vengeance.” America much more honest and direct, then, in its operational code names.

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Thu Dec 06, 2012 at 04:39 PM PST

Do The Right Thing

by blueness

(A belated birthday present for my brother, who yesterday would have been some age or other. He always liked this piece, and is identified therein as Tector. He was supposed to accompany me on this journey, but for some reason backed out. I brought him along anyway.

(He never made it to South America. Because when he died identification of the corporeal container was at best a guess, I like to think he actually did, and thrives there to this day. Freed at last of white people, and all the other demons that possessed him.)

                                                              ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞

calling elvis
is anybody home
calling elvis
i’m here all alone

The Feather River delta died years ago below too many goddam dams. The banks of the Yuba/Sutter bottomlands shimmer in that shade of scummy yellow-brown that settles round the throat of the toilet when you don’t scrub the thing very often. In signal-clotted fits and stalls I am following the highway, preparing to cross the river, frantically throwing garlic at the “I YAM WHAT I YAM” messages emanating from the jesusjumping signboard hung above the Yahweh Hotel.

I’m going to Graceland, Graceland West, in Yuba County: I’m going to Graceland. Poorboys and picaros, from felonious families; and we are going to Graceland. My traveling companion is thirty-three years old; he is the child of our father’s second marriage. With that shotgun cross his knees, we will not be well received, in Graceland.

In August the astoundingly anal publication American Demographics published a color-coded map of the entire United States, divided by county and denoting in blinding red those regions most likely to support fanatical clusters of demonically devoted fans of Elvis Presley.

Studying the map one finds an appalling red smear of Elvis running across nearly the entire south, spreading into the Midwest, leaving huge festering tumors along much of the eastern seaboard. As one moves west, however, the Elvirus begins to recede, until, in California, there appears but a single spot of Danger, in Yuba County.

The map reflects the work of Bob Lunn of Direct Image Concepts, a Texas marketing firm. On August 29 a Mean Man on the San Francisco Examiner wrote a story about Lunn and his map, chortling that Facts Now Show that the county of Yuba is home to a bunch of dumb, aging women who alternately drag deeply on menthol cigarettes and fill their jowls with velveeta and spam, all the while crying over trashy TV movies featuring people stricken with horrific diseases. Outside their men patrol the town in CB-equipped pickups, guzzling malt liquor and endlessly searching for something to fell with their chainsaws. Nights they peruse together the National Enquirer, searching for news of the latest Elvis sightings, then flip the TV dial over to their favorite shopping channel, where they order by phone such tasteful souvenirs as the life-sized Elvis torso that spurts liquor from an autographed penis.

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Thu Nov 29, 2012 at 05:55 AM PST

Shimmering And White

by blueness

I became Old Man Shouts At Cloud at a too early age.

In my very early 20s. When I was first assaulted by the word “facilitate.”

To this day, I do not know what that word actually “means.”

And that is the problem. For the word doesn’t “mean” anything. It is a no-word. A word invoked solely to cover Crime.

From its first appearance in my life, to its last, it has functioned but as a signal that I am about being Robbed.

Of money, or, most often, of the space to create.

Through a series of no coincidences, that it would be too much of a tangent to here relate, I had, very early on, read my Orwell—the Real stuff, the essays—and so was attuned, long before “facilitate” was thrust in my face, to the mustering of words to conceal, like squid-ink, Assaults.

“Facilitate” just means that somebody—I suspect a sort of machine, having taken human form—is about stealing from me.

Next, not too many years later, came “mic.”

This, a product of knuckledragging. De-evolved ’80s drooler musicians who, perceiving the English-stamped imprint above one of the holes in their amps—”mic”—believed that to be the proper abbreviation for “microphone.”

No. There had emerged, decades before, a perfectly serviceable, and apt, abbreviation for microphone—”mike.”

I know that this—the fuggin amps—is where the pre-monolith “mic” came from. Because I had played off the same sort of goddam amps for years.

But this was the era of “punk.” When it was actually a Crime to, say, be able to play your instrument.

Once, I recall, when reviewing a punk band, I made the mistake of observing that a woman had mastered the guitar.

When my piece appeared, she was summarily heaved out of the band. Run out of town like a three-legged dog. While letters flowed into the paper suggesting that I be lynched in the County Square.

Similarly, familiarity with the English language was considered so “uncool” that anybody who even spoke of such a thing needed to, at the very least, be dropped down a well.

Thus, “mic,” drooling, knuckles dragging, displaces “mike.” So that, today, imbecility and illiteracy has so overrun the land, that, now, these days, “mic” is considered the appropriate abbreviation for “microphone.” While “mike” makes the majorly portion of English-speaking humans just scratch their heads.

“What dat mean?”

And I—I, am a man without a language.

For, to this day, whenever I encounter “mic,” in any piece of writing, I immediately turn the page: that piece is dead to me.

There are many more such examples. But I will not bore you with them here. For no one likes to listen to an old man, shout at clouds.

However, in an attempt to try to coerce you past the squiggle, I will say that, therein, lies fevered jeremiads against two word-formations that have metastasized across the nation, since the re-election of the black man: “pivot,” and “fiscal cliff.”

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Sat Nov 24, 2012 at 06:13 AM PST

Yet Shall We Be Merry

by blueness

Dark wizard Albert Grossman deliberately assembled the folk-singing trio Peter, Paul, and Mary to rake in coin amid the urban folk-revival of the early 1960s. He wanted “a tall blonde, a funny guy, and a good looking guy.” That’s what he got.

But Peter Yarrow, Paul Stookey, and Mary Travers proved to be something more than a quick milk of the cash cow. They introduced millions of people, including myself, to significant forms of roots music. Their smooth and engaging arrangements allowed folks to enter them, as through a door, and out the other side they encountered lifetimes of music that, without that trio, they might never have known.

I had not thought much about the group for many years until the “tall blonde,” Mary Travers, passed away in September of 2009, of leukemia, at age 72. Just as Peter, Paul, and Mary became more than what Grossman had intended, so too did Travers. ”This was not,” recalled producer Phil Ramone to Rolling Stone, “a girl who was just going to be cutesy like lead singers had been in bands. She created a much bigger role. She took no prisoners when it was what she believed in.”

In the weeks and months following Travers’ death, the tubes rang with reprises of the group’s music. But nobody seemed much moved to post or discuss the Peter, Paul, and Mary song that had long most entranced me. So I'm going to gas on about it myself, there beyond the squiggle-dee-dee.

Wherein we shall plunge down the thousand-year-old rabbit hole of wassailing.

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Mon Nov 19, 2012 at 03:58 AM PST

I Want You To Leave Them Alone

by blueness

November 19, 1863, and the newshounds burdened with receiving those remarks of Abraham Lincoln that would some time thereafter become known as "The Gettysburg Address," had no tape recorders, no video machines. They had but pad and paper; fingers, ears, and brains. With the latter trio not working at all well.

For while sobriety has never really been a virtue prized among American newspeople, on this day drink had definitely cast down these reporters into nearly Job-like suffering. Because the night before, they had consumed truly massive quantities of whiskey, enough to today fell even a human ox like Keith Richards. Too, they had compounded their enervation by goatishly disporting in various and sundry other Petraeus-like ways.

The dedication of the National Cemetery at Gettysburg would, for these men, then, be a balloon-headed, sweat-pouring, limb-palsied, throat-clenching, world-spinning ordeal.

All of their powers, would be required, simply to live.

Before Lincoln took the stage, these wraiths already had been subjected to shriekingly loud horn-band music, the somnambulent drone of prayers, and a two-hour-plus oration from Edward Everett that is now regarded as one of the most thuddingly dull assemblages of verbiage ever inflicted upon a living audience.

And Everett was not the featured speaker. Lincoln was. So, it was expected that the president would pour forth even more words than had Everett.

Having barely survived the blatting din of the horns, the rousing god-flogging, and Everett's boundless oratorical crematorium, these men, watching Lincoln stride to center stage, dejectedly concluded that yes, truly, they might slide into unconsciousness, before ever they could awake.

Little wonder then that some among them might have misapprehended the first words out of Lincoln's mouth as something along the lines of "Four sores, and seven beers ago . . . ."

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Fri Nov 16, 2012 at 06:04 AM PST

Positively Fourth Street

by blueness

It is wonderfulness, that the Daily Kos people, they recognize that the nation is changing, that people of color, and other traditionally downpressed peoples, are ascendant.

Wonderfulness that they, the Daily Kos people, chortle and smug, that Captain Underpants, the Loser, he drew votes basically from white people.

Except—just sayin'—that while Underpants pulled in 59% of the white vote, some 85% of the Daily Kos people are white.

And—more wonderfulness—that the Daily Kos people recognize that Captain Underpants, and all his works, are hell on wheels for women.

Which is why Underpants drew but 45% of women voters.

Except—just sayin'—that some 75% of Daily Kos people are male. With but 25%, being wimmins.

And so. Underpants, he attracts 59% of white people.

While 85% of Daily Kos people are white.

And Underpants, he attracts 45% of women.

While but 25% of the people who can stomach Daily Kos are women.

So what, from this, may we conclude?

Pot: kettle: black.

Sounding now loudly across the land, not least from the smug chortlers of Daily Kos, cries that the GOopers, with their 59% white folks, and 45% wimmins, must broaden, stretch, and reach.

Et tu, Daily Kos: 85% white folk, 25% women?

Previously, when were set forth these sorts of inconvenient truths, there then commenced frenzied foaming ululating that the messenger—that is, the statistical source, Quantcast—should be shot in the head. And, thereby, the message obviated.

Too bad that Markos himself, he hugs Quantcast to his bosoms.

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Wed Oct 31, 2012 at 09:20 AM PDT

Code Unknown

by blueness

Ten days or so ago the spirit vacated the corporeal container known as "Russell Means."

This is what his Kossack companero, cacamp, had to say here about Means:

Russ was my brother-in-arms

He and I were both AIM leaders and led our people together in many fights and struggles. We stood shoulder to shoulder all across our great land, we had many hard times but also the most wonderful times of our lives. Russ was an independent man who walked his own path and often surprised even his comrades like me. But he always put his people first and did what he thought was right.

Russ was also a brave man who was always willing to put his life and freedom on the line for a just cause. He was a warrior who inspired us all and a beloved figure in our community. Today Indian Country is in mourning even though we knew this was coming. Russ will be missed by his family, Oglala Tribe, AIM and all who knew him.

In 1980, Means delivered what I consider to be the most important "political" speech of my lifetime. Find it below the fold. (No. There are no "copyright" problems.)
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