I want to preface this by saying that I've been drinking heavily, and that no editing will occur at any stage of writing this. What you're reading is what fell out of my head; pure Gonzo journalism.
Hopefully all of you tuned in to the Iowa debate tonight, a fantastic demonstration of useless political backspeaking and nonsense slung out at a camera for baying crowds of sun-tanned farmers who have already made up their minds who they're voting for. The whooping, hollering, and occasional cry for blood that came from the audience tonight seemed premeditated, with Ron Paul and Michelle Bachmann bringing their own herds of creatures to cheer them on after every spoken word. The questions presented were plainly biased, as is so often the case in these kinds of debates. Kudos go to Newt Gingrich for calling the moderator out on his bullshit. Those same kudos get retracted, but we'll get into that in a minute.
First and foremost: who came out of this one smiling? The obvious answer is Mitt Romney, who, as usual, charmed and dodged his way through all questions while defending his Mormonism and going just fringe enough to appeal to some of the more far-right voters while still remaining comfortable to the majority of central-right Republicans. The usual spiel was offered from all sides with the primary focus being the economy, and the song was the same: cut taxes, create jobs. Ho hum, and so much for that. Surpisingly, Tim Pawlenty came out of left field and showed enough fang to impress me. Most of the night was taken up with him sparring Tea Party darling Michelle Bachmann, a pretty but utterly useless sack of carbon who rehashed the same memorized lines time and time again. Pawlenty's last appearance on the debate stage left something to be desired; he was boring, sweaty, panicking, and clearly not ready to play with the big boys. He fell into his humdrum step a few times, but his handler, noted Republican campaign guru Nick Ayers, has clearly been feeding him the right kind of steroids. He almost nonchalantly dueled with Bachmann, putting the outspoken Representative on the defensive and thus robbing her of her strength, which is stringing together words in a loud and emotional manner until everyone goes away.
Ron Paul put on an interesting show, shaming Rick Santorum, a candidate best known for gay-bashing and openly worshipping Cthulhu. Ron looked tired and scared tonight; he knows that he can't win this election, but he wants to give it his best and get a good message out. He certainly succeeded, bringing to the debate the only genuine outburst of emotion, begging the audience to listen to him, to just think...it was almost heartbreaking to see the GOP rebel of 2008 looking like a very old, very tired man just trying to educate the shitheads around him. He held his own, but knows very well that this isn't his game anymore.
The usual suspects took up the same amount of space and said the same things and acted like the same useless strains of chlamydia that they are. Hermann Cain has no earthly idea what is going on around him, and could not justify himself to the world if his life depended on it. Newt Gingrich succeeded in sucking off the ghost of Ronald Reagan more times than a necrophiliac voodoo priest and proving to us all that he is outdated and useless, a dinosaur in the digital age. He couldn't speak without bringing up Reagan, Clinton, hell, even JFK. John Huntsman, former governor of Utah and newcomer to the GOP race, spent most of his time justifying himself, failing to justify himself, and ultimately making an ass of himself. He's mediocre at best and just another thing to hate at usual.
Noticeably absent on the stage tonight were Gary Johnson, former governor of New Mexico who, while faring well in the last debate holds views radically different from that of the mainstream GOP; Jonathon "The Impaler" Sharkey, a self-proclaimed vampire out of Florida who somehow managed to fill out paperwork for GOP nomination and whose most noteworthy policy is getting the Mafia to 'take care of' drug dealers; Jimmy "The Rent is too Damn High" McMillan, the poet out of New York who became an internet phenomenon with his fluid speaking and straighforward, no-bullshi rhetoric, and, of course, Rick Perry. For those who haven't been keeping up, Rick Perry, governor of Texas, declared August 9th to be a "day of prayer and fasting" in complete violation of the US Consitution. Governor Perry has announced that he is seeking the presidency and will be running on the GOP ticket.
To wrap this up: Pawlenty came away strong, Romney came away Romney, and everyone else just walked away. Rick Perry is the only unknown in this race; otherwise it will go down to Romney, who Obama will defeat in a narrow margin come 2012. As for me, until someone impresses me, I'm voting for Jimmy McMillan, because he may very well be Jules from Pulp Fiction grown up and gone into politics.
Thursday, August 11, 2011
Monday, July 25, 2011
Flashback/Introspection
All of a sudden I find myself in the midst of heavy negotiations. Deep talk spoken in hushed whispers about the prices of eighths and o’s, who can and can’t score the good shit, medicinal grade, fresh out of Cali. This is the risk you run, associating with these kind of people. One minute you’re having pleasant conversation with friends and acquaintances, and the next you find yourself trapped in a scene out of The Godfather, wondering who might be concealing semi-automatic firearms on their person.
Everything seems fine and then turns fast, and the next thing you know you’re babbling, pretending not to speak English, answering only in the broken Spanish you remember from high school. You start looking for covertly installed security cameras monitoring your patio, your kitchen--hell, in today’s world a man’s own bedroom is probably riddled with more bugs than the defunct Soviet embassy. Your eyes divert rapidly, checking every car you don’t recognize, looking for strips of red and blue lights tucked away behind the top of the windshield, or the tell-tale spotlight. The yellow license plate is a dead giveaway, but by the time you’ve registered the color, you’re doomed. The police are not a force to be trusted, when you have friends like this. YOU, a law-abiding citizen, a tax-payer, a voter, have no rights when you willingly spend your time with these drug-addled vicious lunatics, these vultures that pick away at your bones bit by bit, forcing the occasional tab of acid down your throat along the way. It’s the spectrophysiological equivalent of marinade, a good dose of LSD; turns your brain into a soft gray mush the consistency of cold tomato soup. Your very soul becomes warped and twisted, bending in and out of dimensions whose existence would utterly destroy everything we assume about our universe and how it works. I have been told that the right kind of drugs add a layer of depth and richness to your consciousness, and I am certain that it was in the context of flavor.
It’s a hard life, being perpetually in Fear of a long-gone enemy. You can’t walk by a back alley without carefully scanning for the glint of a sniper scope. Every step is gentle, searching with the sole of the boot for concealed punji sticks. You take night courses in Vietnamese language and culture on a bogus credit card number, so you can discern the average citizen going about their business from a Victor Charlie assassin carefully trailing you, waiting for the right time to slit your throat with an empty soda can. You give the first sip of your whiskey to your dog, to check for the presence of arsenic or psychoactive drugs.
Then again, there’s something about getting drunk with your dog that adds an element of bonding to pet ownership that most don’t understand. As you sit there, staring at the news, trying to cram as much information past the thick moat of sweet stupidity you’ve poured recklessly down your own gullet, speaking out loud about the injustices of the world and the sheer fucking madness of it all, you can look down at your Doberman, licking its own ass in a blissful alcoholic stupor, and know that he understands you. He sees it too, in the same way that you do, and it doesn’t make any more sense to him than it does to your own advanced and evolved mass of thinking goo you keep in your headbones. Dogs don’t do acid, though. It doesn’t work for them. They exist best on their own plane, and have no need for artificially crafted chemicals to pull off the kind of sideways thinking that a good headful of acid can bring on. Dogs walk comfortably through that crystalline plane, and behave as such. I am convinced that all LSD comes from the glands of fully grown Great Danes, and that is why I no longer buy it. The dogs earned it, goddammit, they developed their own fucking brains in such a way that they Ride their way through life, and we were soul-crushingly dumb enough to live like goats, seeing only what was put in front of our thick, stupid eyes. We have to deal with that. So be it. Leave the dogs alone.
I have no issues with drugs, on the whole. Drug people have put me in a world of shit more times than I can count, but I’ve enjoyed it every single time and wouldn’t trade it for the world. Still, there’s an element of panicky paranoia that comes with being a Drug Person. No one is your friend except other Drug People, not even the drugs. The drugs are the worst, more evil than the most depraved backwater sheriff you can find. You know where you stand with crooked cops; their mindset is not difficult to understand, and if you can think quickly and properly, you can think like them, give the right answers, or at least avoid giving the wrong ones. The drugs have no mentality. They’re virii, blindly charging forth through the temple that is your body to play loud music and add unnecessary expansions where they want. They’re squatters, and they’ll turn on you whenever they damn well please. You think you’re picking apart the meaning of life hidden in a blade of grass, and then the next you hear intense whispering in a language you hope is Korean. You’re now scanning the bushes, back to the wall. Your soldier’s brain is trying to kick in, crafting fast tactical strategies,. coming up with off-the-cuff contingency plans. You try to remember how to say “I’m a journalist, don’t shoot!” and wind up making half-vocalized choking noises. You want to communicate, but you can’t. You try to sound more like a crow, to blend in while you make your escape. And just as you’re ready to make your move, you realize that you aren’t armed, you’re not wearing camouflage, you’re not even in the bushes.
You’re sitting at your own fucking coffee table with your friends, smoking cigarettes, pineal glands reduced to smoldering blobs of goo on the potent trip that you can only get by starving yourself of sleep, feeding yourself dangerous amounts of caffeine, and then spending an afternoon with your best friends, all fucked-up madmen just like you. It’s no life for a decent human being.
I love every single minute of it.
It’s only Wednesday, it’s off-season, and no one has anything to do. If there’s a good life, this might just be it.
Everything seems fine and then turns fast, and the next thing you know you’re babbling, pretending not to speak English, answering only in the broken Spanish you remember from high school. You start looking for covertly installed security cameras monitoring your patio, your kitchen--hell, in today’s world a man’s own bedroom is probably riddled with more bugs than the defunct Soviet embassy. Your eyes divert rapidly, checking every car you don’t recognize, looking for strips of red and blue lights tucked away behind the top of the windshield, or the tell-tale spotlight. The yellow license plate is a dead giveaway, but by the time you’ve registered the color, you’re doomed. The police are not a force to be trusted, when you have friends like this. YOU, a law-abiding citizen, a tax-payer, a voter, have no rights when you willingly spend your time with these drug-addled vicious lunatics, these vultures that pick away at your bones bit by bit, forcing the occasional tab of acid down your throat along the way. It’s the spectrophysiological equivalent of marinade, a good dose of LSD; turns your brain into a soft gray mush the consistency of cold tomato soup. Your very soul becomes warped and twisted, bending in and out of dimensions whose existence would utterly destroy everything we assume about our universe and how it works. I have been told that the right kind of drugs add a layer of depth and richness to your consciousness, and I am certain that it was in the context of flavor.
It’s a hard life, being perpetually in Fear of a long-gone enemy. You can’t walk by a back alley without carefully scanning for the glint of a sniper scope. Every step is gentle, searching with the sole of the boot for concealed punji sticks. You take night courses in Vietnamese language and culture on a bogus credit card number, so you can discern the average citizen going about their business from a Victor Charlie assassin carefully trailing you, waiting for the right time to slit your throat with an empty soda can. You give the first sip of your whiskey to your dog, to check for the presence of arsenic or psychoactive drugs.
Then again, there’s something about getting drunk with your dog that adds an element of bonding to pet ownership that most don’t understand. As you sit there, staring at the news, trying to cram as much information past the thick moat of sweet stupidity you’ve poured recklessly down your own gullet, speaking out loud about the injustices of the world and the sheer fucking madness of it all, you can look down at your Doberman, licking its own ass in a blissful alcoholic stupor, and know that he understands you. He sees it too, in the same way that you do, and it doesn’t make any more sense to him than it does to your own advanced and evolved mass of thinking goo you keep in your headbones. Dogs don’t do acid, though. It doesn’t work for them. They exist best on their own plane, and have no need for artificially crafted chemicals to pull off the kind of sideways thinking that a good headful of acid can bring on. Dogs walk comfortably through that crystalline plane, and behave as such. I am convinced that all LSD comes from the glands of fully grown Great Danes, and that is why I no longer buy it. The dogs earned it, goddammit, they developed their own fucking brains in such a way that they Ride their way through life, and we were soul-crushingly dumb enough to live like goats, seeing only what was put in front of our thick, stupid eyes. We have to deal with that. So be it. Leave the dogs alone.
I have no issues with drugs, on the whole. Drug people have put me in a world of shit more times than I can count, but I’ve enjoyed it every single time and wouldn’t trade it for the world. Still, there’s an element of panicky paranoia that comes with being a Drug Person. No one is your friend except other Drug People, not even the drugs. The drugs are the worst, more evil than the most depraved backwater sheriff you can find. You know where you stand with crooked cops; their mindset is not difficult to understand, and if you can think quickly and properly, you can think like them, give the right answers, or at least avoid giving the wrong ones. The drugs have no mentality. They’re virii, blindly charging forth through the temple that is your body to play loud music and add unnecessary expansions where they want. They’re squatters, and they’ll turn on you whenever they damn well please. You think you’re picking apart the meaning of life hidden in a blade of grass, and then the next you hear intense whispering in a language you hope is Korean. You’re now scanning the bushes, back to the wall. Your soldier’s brain is trying to kick in, crafting fast tactical strategies,. coming up with off-the-cuff contingency plans. You try to remember how to say “I’m a journalist, don’t shoot!” and wind up making half-vocalized choking noises. You want to communicate, but you can’t. You try to sound more like a crow, to blend in while you make your escape. And just as you’re ready to make your move, you realize that you aren’t armed, you’re not wearing camouflage, you’re not even in the bushes.
You’re sitting at your own fucking coffee table with your friends, smoking cigarettes, pineal glands reduced to smoldering blobs of goo on the potent trip that you can only get by starving yourself of sleep, feeding yourself dangerous amounts of caffeine, and then spending an afternoon with your best friends, all fucked-up madmen just like you. It’s no life for a decent human being.
I love every single minute of it.
It’s only Wednesday, it’s off-season, and no one has anything to do. If there’s a good life, this might just be it.
Saturday, July 16, 2011
Out of the Game
Good morning, sinners. I hope you've all enjoyed your breaks, been relaxing, keeping informed.
Lord knows I haven't.
I'll be entirely honest with you, this is the first time I've even been back to this dirty little corner of the Internet since the last time I wrote something on here. I've been getting caught up in the mundane, involving myself in the day-to-day to the extent that I completely lost sight of the Big Picture, and I have much catching up to do. I'm out of practice; rusty. I can feel it in my joints, in my mind. In my nostrils, for some weird reason, but that might just be the remnants of last night's thing. Trust nothing powdered and Thai in nature, for it is evil and must not be allowed to go unset-on-fire.
See? I'm already providing you with these valuable life lessons. Admit it, you missed me.
I do need to get Back In. I need to remember how to do all this. I can't let myself get so far out of practice that when something massive comes up, something of crucial importance, I'm just left staring dumbly at a computer screen, wondering what to do now. Good journalism, good writing, ought to be off-the-cuff. Polishing can come later, but if you're not shitting at least good hunks of carbon that can later become diamonds, you'll never stand a chance. There's an old saying about ribbons on fecal matter I'll let you look up, but it's the same principle.
In essence I'm making that tired old blogger's promise that I'm actually going to write more often, except I'm not. For all you know, I'm fleeing to Zimbabwe tomorrow, and this'll be the last you ever hear of me. I am the Wind, creeping through the sleeping town. My every word is made of gold. What are you talking about, you bastards? I'm not drunk. I WAS drunk, I am no longer drunk.
Keep your ears open, my little sperm-flunkies. I've missed you, and I might just start talking at you.
-Tambour
Lord knows I haven't.
I'll be entirely honest with you, this is the first time I've even been back to this dirty little corner of the Internet since the last time I wrote something on here. I've been getting caught up in the mundane, involving myself in the day-to-day to the extent that I completely lost sight of the Big Picture, and I have much catching up to do. I'm out of practice; rusty. I can feel it in my joints, in my mind. In my nostrils, for some weird reason, but that might just be the remnants of last night's thing. Trust nothing powdered and Thai in nature, for it is evil and must not be allowed to go unset-on-fire.
See? I'm already providing you with these valuable life lessons. Admit it, you missed me.
I do need to get Back In. I need to remember how to do all this. I can't let myself get so far out of practice that when something massive comes up, something of crucial importance, I'm just left staring dumbly at a computer screen, wondering what to do now. Good journalism, good writing, ought to be off-the-cuff. Polishing can come later, but if you're not shitting at least good hunks of carbon that can later become diamonds, you'll never stand a chance. There's an old saying about ribbons on fecal matter I'll let you look up, but it's the same principle.
In essence I'm making that tired old blogger's promise that I'm actually going to write more often, except I'm not. For all you know, I'm fleeing to Zimbabwe tomorrow, and this'll be the last you ever hear of me. I am the Wind, creeping through the sleeping town. My every word is made of gold. What are you talking about, you bastards? I'm not drunk. I WAS drunk, I am no longer drunk.
Keep your ears open, my little sperm-flunkies. I've missed you, and I might just start talking at you.
-Tambour
Thursday, May 5, 2011
How did I miss this?
I have a Twitter. I don't really post anything there; any ejaculations of my ethereal brilliance are usually aimed right down YOUR quivering gullets. I keep a Twitterfeed around because everyone else has one, and it's trendy to toss out your every thought to the world like some kind of stream-of-consciousness Tourette's. But politicians all keep Twitters, and THEY are the reason I've always got my feed running. They keep me connected and entertained and (very rarely) informed. And I was just caught off guard right now, because I was just told by Tim Pawlenty that the first GOP Presidential Debate is tonight.
I know I said it's a won race, and I'm sticking to that. But I'll be offering a postmortem later tonight, because I have to keep you fed with brainthinks, my babies.
And also, it should be funny as HELL.
I know I said it's a won race, and I'm sticking to that. But I'll be offering a postmortem later tonight, because I have to keep you fed with brainthinks, my babies.
And also, it should be funny as HELL.
Monday, May 2, 2011
I read the news today, oh boy...
So if you've been living under a rock, a team of 12 Navy SEALs found and killed Osama Bin Laden. Barack Obama followed it up with a speech that can only be described as a political masterwork. On the one hand, my red-white-and-blue hard-on is raging massive like God right now. Yes, celebrating the death of a human is bad (or so the hippies tell me.) I felt a twinge of pride that justice had been served. If that makes me a bad person, so be it. I think the fact that I litter my front yard with land-mines makes me a far worse person, but whatever.
The bad news is that I don't have much left to talk about. The election's over, Obama's won it. Donald Trump would have to shit a little of star-spangled kittens that meow "God Bless America" in perfect harmony in order to put a dent in the margins. Talk amongst yourselves, my darling little acid dreams. Think back on these past ten years. For at least a little while, I'll be lurking in the shadows, watching carefully for something new to pounce on.
Tambour
The bad news is that I don't have much left to talk about. The election's over, Obama's won it. Donald Trump would have to shit a little of star-spangled kittens that meow "God Bless America" in perfect harmony in order to put a dent in the margins. Talk amongst yourselves, my darling little acid dreams. Think back on these past ten years. For at least a little while, I'll be lurking in the shadows, watching carefully for something new to pounce on.
Tambour
Monday, April 25, 2011
Whiskey-thinks on the Presidential Election
Understand this. One day you're going to wake up in a bed, or whatever passes for a bed in your world, and you're going to realize that you've gotten old, and that it's all downhill from here. You have already been Young and now your body is going to start its slow decline. You are going to become aware of the aging process and you are going to be crippled by the fear of being Useless and Impotent, of Hurting, and, of course, of Dying. God help you if this strikes you when you're Young, still, around the 20-25 range, when you haven't even hit your peak yet. A thought like that sucks all the Fun out of those years when you still think you're immortal and that you're going to party till well past dawn every weekend for the rest of your life. There's no joy in thoughts like that, and you can get hung up on them for a while.
I've been bogged down in this kind of thinking, that the party might be over soon, that I might have to slow it down. It might have to do with the legitimate line of work I've gone into requiring my services frequently these past few weeks. Jesus, people do that for their whole LIVES, man. Make sense of that and then get back to me, that someone could do the exact same thing in the exact same place for years at a time. I understand wanting to master something, sure, but...catering? Mastering catering is a feat, sure, and the idea of being able to handle a party of any size and difficulty is a cool idea, but not something I'd want to sink my time into.
I've been wanting to write something on the upcoming primary for months now; I've been digging into each prospective candidate relentlessly, trying to come up with point sheets for the GOP. Nothing. This is a piss-poor election. The Right is cowering in the corner, and no one's bothered to step up apart from a few joke candidates and one ex-Governer. Right now all the talk is on Donald Trump—I suppose the New Rightists, all hung up on their Reaganophilia, have figured that Trump is the best they'll get since Schwarzenegger can't run. Not a chance in hell, I'd put more money down on John McCain giving it another go.
No, the GOP is going to have to offer up a sacrificial lamb in 2012, and they understand this. All the serious players are keeping quiet, forming “exploratory committees” and making few statements to the press. This is a careful time for the Republican party. This is the warm-up grounds for 2016, when the Democrats will have to find another worthwhile candidate and the GOP will stand a decent chance at grabbing the Big Seat.
Early prediction for GOP Nomination 2016: Scott Brown, the young Senator from Massachusetts that created a small upset when he nabbed Ted Kennedy's seat. Mitt Romney minus the Mormonism. A Right-Wing Obama. Dangerous. Someone to be watched.
And until then? Yawn at the debates, I suppose. This time in 2008 there were already 12 formally announced candidates, all power-players, all seriously snarling for their chance at the Big Race. Today we have four, five if you count Ole Savior. No one else seems to be. Fred Karger and Andy Martin, both one-trick ponies that won't come CLOSE to putting a dent in the nominations. Neither one will nab higher than 10 percent come Primary season, and I'll take bets on that. Jimmy McMillian, the brief Internet sensation, better known as the “Rent Is Too Damn High” guy. I'll leave his chances as an exercise for the reader.
Then there's Gary Johnson, who I actually like as a candidate. He's climbed Everest, he's pro-legalization of Marijuana. No word on the Three Gs of Neoconservativism (That would be God, Guns, and Gays) but his socially liberal views paint a fairly easy guess: for gay marriage, religious tolerance without congressional backing of a particular religion, and anti-gun-control. His fiscal policies are safe enough to win over the money-minded GOP, but his social views guarantee he'll be eaten alive. Every straw poll taken have candidates winning who haven't said they're running yet. Welcome to America, where ghosts win presidencies.
Ron Paul, Mike Huckabee, Mitt Romney. Romney would be the most comfortable, as far as evil bastards go. He'll be torn to shreds for his constantly changing positions, but so it is. Ron Paul is batshit crazy, and not much else. Huckabee...how long, O Lord, how LONG? Huckabee attracted my attention in the 2008 primaries for being a Republican with a soul, who wasn't afraid to stake out on his own opinions in the face of the Party Line...and yet four short years later he's bowing down to the GOP. Do we need a spineless sellout as a president?
Obama's got this in the bag. The media will try to inject some drama, but all the political journalists are dreading the thought of having to follow these tired old hacks around the country to watch them shake hands. There's hesitation all across the right. I'm not even taking bets, apart from Karger/Martin wager I've already offered. Four more years, and that's not a terrible thing.
Jesus, I'm rambling. I've been thinking of moving into more local politics, as I've got much easier access to the local suits than anyone on Capitol Hill, and getting my information second- or third-hand is starting to wear thin on my nerves. The implications give me the charge, slake my thirst, but Christ, finding things out from Al Jazeera and Reddit isn't the same as hearing the words. I want to dig in and see them sweat. If I do, I might not put my scribblings up here; I doubt any of you give half a shit about Treachery and Treason and Politics in South Florida. Still, if you want it, I will deliver. I spread joy and wisdom like aerosolized rabbit semen. Write me, strangelings, and ask me questions.
I've been bogged down in this kind of thinking, that the party might be over soon, that I might have to slow it down. It might have to do with the legitimate line of work I've gone into requiring my services frequently these past few weeks. Jesus, people do that for their whole LIVES, man. Make sense of that and then get back to me, that someone could do the exact same thing in the exact same place for years at a time. I understand wanting to master something, sure, but...catering? Mastering catering is a feat, sure, and the idea of being able to handle a party of any size and difficulty is a cool idea, but not something I'd want to sink my time into.
I've been wanting to write something on the upcoming primary for months now; I've been digging into each prospective candidate relentlessly, trying to come up with point sheets for the GOP. Nothing. This is a piss-poor election. The Right is cowering in the corner, and no one's bothered to step up apart from a few joke candidates and one ex-Governer. Right now all the talk is on Donald Trump—I suppose the New Rightists, all hung up on their Reaganophilia, have figured that Trump is the best they'll get since Schwarzenegger can't run. Not a chance in hell, I'd put more money down on John McCain giving it another go.
No, the GOP is going to have to offer up a sacrificial lamb in 2012, and they understand this. All the serious players are keeping quiet, forming “exploratory committees” and making few statements to the press. This is a careful time for the Republican party. This is the warm-up grounds for 2016, when the Democrats will have to find another worthwhile candidate and the GOP will stand a decent chance at grabbing the Big Seat.
Early prediction for GOP Nomination 2016: Scott Brown, the young Senator from Massachusetts that created a small upset when he nabbed Ted Kennedy's seat. Mitt Romney minus the Mormonism. A Right-Wing Obama. Dangerous. Someone to be watched.
And until then? Yawn at the debates, I suppose. This time in 2008 there were already 12 formally announced candidates, all power-players, all seriously snarling for their chance at the Big Race. Today we have four, five if you count Ole Savior. No one else seems to be. Fred Karger and Andy Martin, both one-trick ponies that won't come CLOSE to putting a dent in the nominations. Neither one will nab higher than 10 percent come Primary season, and I'll take bets on that. Jimmy McMillian, the brief Internet sensation, better known as the “Rent Is Too Damn High” guy. I'll leave his chances as an exercise for the reader.
Then there's Gary Johnson, who I actually like as a candidate. He's climbed Everest, he's pro-legalization of Marijuana. No word on the Three Gs of Neoconservativism (That would be God, Guns, and Gays) but his socially liberal views paint a fairly easy guess: for gay marriage, religious tolerance without congressional backing of a particular religion, and anti-gun-control. His fiscal policies are safe enough to win over the money-minded GOP, but his social views guarantee he'll be eaten alive. Every straw poll taken have candidates winning who haven't said they're running yet. Welcome to America, where ghosts win presidencies.
Ron Paul, Mike Huckabee, Mitt Romney. Romney would be the most comfortable, as far as evil bastards go. He'll be torn to shreds for his constantly changing positions, but so it is. Ron Paul is batshit crazy, and not much else. Huckabee...how long, O Lord, how LONG? Huckabee attracted my attention in the 2008 primaries for being a Republican with a soul, who wasn't afraid to stake out on his own opinions in the face of the Party Line...and yet four short years later he's bowing down to the GOP. Do we need a spineless sellout as a president?
Obama's got this in the bag. The media will try to inject some drama, but all the political journalists are dreading the thought of having to follow these tired old hacks around the country to watch them shake hands. There's hesitation all across the right. I'm not even taking bets, apart from Karger/Martin wager I've already offered. Four more years, and that's not a terrible thing.
Jesus, I'm rambling. I've been thinking of moving into more local politics, as I've got much easier access to the local suits than anyone on Capitol Hill, and getting my information second- or third-hand is starting to wear thin on my nerves. The implications give me the charge, slake my thirst, but Christ, finding things out from Al Jazeera and Reddit isn't the same as hearing the words. I want to dig in and see them sweat. If I do, I might not put my scribblings up here; I doubt any of you give half a shit about Treachery and Treason and Politics in South Florida. Still, if you want it, I will deliver. I spread joy and wisdom like aerosolized rabbit semen. Write me, strangelings, and ask me questions.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
The End of the Road: On Doomfreaks
“The future is an inherently good thing. And we move into it one winter at a time. Things get better one winter at a time. If you're going to celebrate anything, then have a drink on this: The world is, generally and on balance, a better place to live this year than it was last year.” -Spider Jerusalem, Transmetropolitan
The word of the day is “doomfreak,” and there are many clogging up the thin-walled arteries of the world these days.
People have been talking about the End of the World since the idea came up that it might have an end. Talk of Divine Wrath and swarths of fire purging the land of all living things and (my personal favorite among the lot) all the Gods in the heavens strapping on their best armor and kicking the shit out of each other just because they decided it might as well be now. Ragnarok is a hell of a story to read, but depressing on a fundamental level. Fatalism never sat very well with me.
Now we have two groups of neo-fatalists gearing up for the Great Fuck-All. Among the New Agers and burnt-out hippies and the fashionably spiritual but most CERTAINLY not religious thank-you-very-much we have the folks who cry out “2012!” The whole idea is based on the dated speculation of Michael Coe, an old Mayan scholar who noticed some scribblings talking about the end of a Great Cycle. A few calculations later and Coe found that the Great Cycle would come full-circle on December 21st, 2012, and he noted that the end of the Great Cycle had a kind of apocalyptic quality to it. Current Mayan scholars tend to agree that Coe, while significant, was, in academic terms, completely fucking wrong. The Great Cycle holds, they say, either not much significance or it acts as some big festival. Looking into the 2012 ideas a little more, useless and frightening phrases like “galactic alignment” and “timewave zero” crop up. The ideas are shaky, based on facts pulled out of the ether found only in the topmost portion of the human rectum. There is also talk of a new magnetic alignment, of global catastrophe, and so much forth. Doom, gloom, madness, mayhem, and none of it really worth thinking about.
The ones that have been lighting a fire under my ass the past few months are the followers of Harold Camping, a mummified radioman who felt like beating the rush and put forth the idea that the Rapture, a concept among Christians that the Truly Faithful would all be taken into the Heavens so they could stuff their faces with celestial popcorn while the world they inhabited not too long ago shit itself to death, would take place in May of 2011. Harold, in addition to being a favorite of the more rambling and senile school of Biblical teaching, is notable for claiming that the Rapture would occur sometime in 1994. Over the past 15 years, he's been re-examining his “math” and discovered his error. He is absolutely positive on this date, something that all of you should find and record evidence of, for when your more gullible friends want their money back. Mr. Camping puts his justification for all the world to see on www.ebiblefellowship.com and I openly invite all my readers to try and make any fucking sense of it at all. I've been staring at it for what feels like months now, and it always comes out the same way; pull numbers out of ass, throw at Bible, get Doomsday.
But what bothers me so much isn't these people playing on the fear and stupidity of others; for shit's sake, I follow politics like it's the goddamn football season. What bothers me is the attitude of not even ambivalence, but mean, malicious delight at the thought of our planet going up in flames. This was one of my original beefs with The Church, and it hasn't changed much over time. For people to talk about the Boundless Love of the Creator/Father/SkyDaddy one minute and the absolute and never-ending shitrain you will find yourself in if you don't start loving Him right fucking now the next is inherently Wrong on a deep level, but to look at the world today and think “It'll all be over soon, and this whole place will burn to the ground,” and leave it at that? We are aware today to a degree that even science fiction writers wouldn't speculate on fifty years ago. We have developed by leaps and bounds not only in terms of what we have created, but in terms of our ability to create, and to destroy, and to COMPREHEND. We, as a species, are finally Getting It. The right amount of Fear has married with the right amount of Understanding and Awareness to start the gestation of a genuinely good place for the first time in centuries, if ever. The fact that, at this very moment, we have instantaneous access to the collective summation of human knowledge astounds me to a degree that I can't begin to put into words. No one, myself included, would think to argue that the world doesn't have its problems. But the activities in Libya, in Egypt, in Wisconsin and Bahrain and London make me think that we KNOW these problems, and that, since we know, we can conquer them.
And you want to leave it to burn?
Humanity is a beautiful thing. We have done great damage in our time here, but we have also made great beauty. But none of that matters. No, see the problems and then close your eyes and wait for reality to go to sleep forever. By no means better what you see. By no means try and solve a problem. No. Stand there. Stay very still. Wait for the signal. Do nothing in the meantime. And give me money, so that I may continue to spread this message and buy a new fucking Corvette in the meantime.
I don't give half a shit for the justification these doomfreaks shoulder. This bleak Messianic fuckheadery is the most poisonous, most foul, most fucking sick line of thinking out there today. Even the deep-fried thrice-inbred backwater types who think that all the A-rabs ought to be blown back to the stone age are at least of the idea that something ought to be done. The tragic misguidance there is nothing unlimited access to a public library and maybe a good chemical castration can't fix. But to sit there, knowing that things are fucked, knowing that we May Be Doomed, and DO NOTHING ABOUT IT, and look forward to the day it all closes shop? That, dear readers, is what's wrong with the world today. Have your Paradise when you're dead if you want, but in the meantime, leave your mark and help clean up, for the young kids who have to shoulder the burden you feel like passing.
So much for all of that. You know, I could talk on about how these people are wrong, and why they're wrong, but that's all besides the point. This is our world now. We have taken it as our responsibility, for better or for worse, and I see out of all the sick twisted news a growing thread of hope that maybe, just maybe, we might be getting better at this. And if God Himself wants to step down from On High, Rod and Staff in hand with a choir of fat, evil-eyed Cherubim cheering Him on as he looks down on the Earth and says “YOU'VE HAD A GOOD RUN, BUT IT'S TIME TO PACK IT UP. YOU LOT, COME WITH ME, THE REST, I'LL BE BACK IN A BIT,” I think our reaction should be fairly clear. We, as a species, as one entity that is HUMAN, should band together, break down national and cultural barriers, combine every resource we have, and...
Kill Him. Kill the motherfucker where he stands. This is our world, and I will proudly go for the throat of God to keep it that way. Fear no evil. Be proud. Walk tall, and kick ass.
-Tambour
The word of the day is “doomfreak,” and there are many clogging up the thin-walled arteries of the world these days.
People have been talking about the End of the World since the idea came up that it might have an end. Talk of Divine Wrath and swarths of fire purging the land of all living things and (my personal favorite among the lot) all the Gods in the heavens strapping on their best armor and kicking the shit out of each other just because they decided it might as well be now. Ragnarok is a hell of a story to read, but depressing on a fundamental level. Fatalism never sat very well with me.
Now we have two groups of neo-fatalists gearing up for the Great Fuck-All. Among the New Agers and burnt-out hippies and the fashionably spiritual but most CERTAINLY not religious thank-you-very-much we have the folks who cry out “2012!” The whole idea is based on the dated speculation of Michael Coe, an old Mayan scholar who noticed some scribblings talking about the end of a Great Cycle. A few calculations later and Coe found that the Great Cycle would come full-circle on December 21st, 2012, and he noted that the end of the Great Cycle had a kind of apocalyptic quality to it. Current Mayan scholars tend to agree that Coe, while significant, was, in academic terms, completely fucking wrong. The Great Cycle holds, they say, either not much significance or it acts as some big festival. Looking into the 2012 ideas a little more, useless and frightening phrases like “galactic alignment” and “timewave zero” crop up. The ideas are shaky, based on facts pulled out of the ether found only in the topmost portion of the human rectum. There is also talk of a new magnetic alignment, of global catastrophe, and so much forth. Doom, gloom, madness, mayhem, and none of it really worth thinking about.
The ones that have been lighting a fire under my ass the past few months are the followers of Harold Camping, a mummified radioman who felt like beating the rush and put forth the idea that the Rapture, a concept among Christians that the Truly Faithful would all be taken into the Heavens so they could stuff their faces with celestial popcorn while the world they inhabited not too long ago shit itself to death, would take place in May of 2011. Harold, in addition to being a favorite of the more rambling and senile school of Biblical teaching, is notable for claiming that the Rapture would occur sometime in 1994. Over the past 15 years, he's been re-examining his “math” and discovered his error. He is absolutely positive on this date, something that all of you should find and record evidence of, for when your more gullible friends want their money back. Mr. Camping puts his justification for all the world to see on www.ebiblefellowship.com and I openly invite all my readers to try and make any fucking sense of it at all. I've been staring at it for what feels like months now, and it always comes out the same way; pull numbers out of ass, throw at Bible, get Doomsday.
But what bothers me so much isn't these people playing on the fear and stupidity of others; for shit's sake, I follow politics like it's the goddamn football season. What bothers me is the attitude of not even ambivalence, but mean, malicious delight at the thought of our planet going up in flames. This was one of my original beefs with The Church, and it hasn't changed much over time. For people to talk about the Boundless Love of the Creator/Father/SkyDaddy one minute and the absolute and never-ending shitrain you will find yourself in if you don't start loving Him right fucking now the next is inherently Wrong on a deep level, but to look at the world today and think “It'll all be over soon, and this whole place will burn to the ground,” and leave it at that? We are aware today to a degree that even science fiction writers wouldn't speculate on fifty years ago. We have developed by leaps and bounds not only in terms of what we have created, but in terms of our ability to create, and to destroy, and to COMPREHEND. We, as a species, are finally Getting It. The right amount of Fear has married with the right amount of Understanding and Awareness to start the gestation of a genuinely good place for the first time in centuries, if ever. The fact that, at this very moment, we have instantaneous access to the collective summation of human knowledge astounds me to a degree that I can't begin to put into words. No one, myself included, would think to argue that the world doesn't have its problems. But the activities in Libya, in Egypt, in Wisconsin and Bahrain and London make me think that we KNOW these problems, and that, since we know, we can conquer them.
And you want to leave it to burn?
Humanity is a beautiful thing. We have done great damage in our time here, but we have also made great beauty. But none of that matters. No, see the problems and then close your eyes and wait for reality to go to sleep forever. By no means better what you see. By no means try and solve a problem. No. Stand there. Stay very still. Wait for the signal. Do nothing in the meantime. And give me money, so that I may continue to spread this message and buy a new fucking Corvette in the meantime.
I don't give half a shit for the justification these doomfreaks shoulder. This bleak Messianic fuckheadery is the most poisonous, most foul, most fucking sick line of thinking out there today. Even the deep-fried thrice-inbred backwater types who think that all the A-rabs ought to be blown back to the stone age are at least of the idea that something ought to be done. The tragic misguidance there is nothing unlimited access to a public library and maybe a good chemical castration can't fix. But to sit there, knowing that things are fucked, knowing that we May Be Doomed, and DO NOTHING ABOUT IT, and look forward to the day it all closes shop? That, dear readers, is what's wrong with the world today. Have your Paradise when you're dead if you want, but in the meantime, leave your mark and help clean up, for the young kids who have to shoulder the burden you feel like passing.
So much for all of that. You know, I could talk on about how these people are wrong, and why they're wrong, but that's all besides the point. This is our world now. We have taken it as our responsibility, for better or for worse, and I see out of all the sick twisted news a growing thread of hope that maybe, just maybe, we might be getting better at this. And if God Himself wants to step down from On High, Rod and Staff in hand with a choir of fat, evil-eyed Cherubim cheering Him on as he looks down on the Earth and says “YOU'VE HAD A GOOD RUN, BUT IT'S TIME TO PACK IT UP. YOU LOT, COME WITH ME, THE REST, I'LL BE BACK IN A BIT,” I think our reaction should be fairly clear. We, as a species, as one entity that is HUMAN, should band together, break down national and cultural barriers, combine every resource we have, and...
Kill Him. Kill the motherfucker where he stands. This is our world, and I will proudly go for the throat of God to keep it that way. Fear no evil. Be proud. Walk tall, and kick ass.
-Tambour
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
An Open Letter to the World, by Anonymous
We stand at a unique time in our history, the rise of the internet and computer technology have contributed to an unparalleled rate of prosperity for the First World.
We have created for ourselves and empire unlike any other, a global network of constant trade and communication, a new age of technological advancement. We have come a long way from our humble roots in the Industrial Revolution and the days of Manifest Destiny. We are now pioneers on new digital frontiers expanding our domain from the quantum world to the far reaches of space.
And yet, the empire faces a crisis, a global recession, growing poverty, rampant violence, corruption in politics, and threats to personal freedom. As it was before in other times of crisis, the old stories have begun to repeat themselves. The half truths, this time repeated nightly on cable news and echoed through a series of tubes onto the internet: the empire is strong, change is unwise, business as usual is the answer. In times of uncertainty there are those who seek to add to the confusion, to prey on our insecurities and fears. Those who would seek to keep us divided for their own gain. The pervasive strategy takes many very convincing forms: Liberals and Conservatives, Christians and Muslims, Black and White, Saved and sinner.
But something unexpected is happening. We have begun telling each other our own stories. Sharing our lives, our hopes, our dreams, our demons. Every second, day in day out, into all hours of the night the gritty details of life on this earth are streaming around the world. As we see the lives of others played out in our living rooms we are beginning to understand the consequences of our actions and the error of the old ways. We are questioning the old assumptions that we are made to consume not to create, that the world was made for our taking, that wars are inevitable, that poverty is unavoidable. As we learn more about our global community a fundamental truth has been rediscovered: We are not so different as we may seem. Every human has strengths, weaknesses, and deep emotions. We crave love, love laughter, fear being alone and dream for a better life.
You must create a better life.
You cannot sit on the couch watching television or playing video games, waiting for a revolution. You are the revolution. Every time you decide not to exercise your rights, every time you refuse to hear another view point, every time you ignore the world around you, every time you spend a dollar at a business that doesn't pay a fair wage you are contributing to the oppression of the human body and the repression of the human mind. You have a choice, a choice to take the easy path, the familiar path, to walk willingly into your own submission. Or a choice get up, to go outside and talk to your neighbor, to come together in new forums to create lasting, meaningful change for the human race.
This is our challenge:
A peaceful revolution, a revolution of ideas, a revolution of creation. The twenty-first century enlightenment. A global movement to create a new age of tolerance and understanding, empathy and respect. An age of unfettered technological development. An age of sharing ideas and cooperation. An age of artistic and personal expression. We can choose to use new technology for radical positive change or let it be used against us. We can choose to keep the internet free, keep channels of communication open and dig new tunnels into those places where information is still guarded. Or we can let it all close in around us. As we move in to new digital worlds, we must acknowledge the need for honest information and free expression. We must fight to keep the internet open as a marketplace of ideas where all are seated as equals. We must defend our freedoms from those who would seek to control us. We must fight for those who do not yet have a voice. Keep telling your story. All must be heard.
They said it better than I could, so today you get their words and none of mine. Mahalo, my digital Sandinistas.
-Tambour
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Leaving Libya, Part II
Yesterday I made the offhand comment that a couple colonels got orders to bomb civilians, jumped in their planes, and hi-tailed it to Malta. Five hours ago, a Libyan warship pulled into Malta after refusing to shell the city of Benghazi. As of a few hours ago, a second Libyan warship is heading in the same direction.
Now the UN Security Council is meeting after officially condemning Kadafi's actions. Their decision should be simple: let the Libyans oust their own dictator, eviscerate him, celebrate, and then send a small pecaekeeping force in to make sure that in her own excitement Libya doesn't manage to set herself on fire.
Something to mull over: Libya, under Kadafi, the man who saw protesters chanting in the streets for a change of government and decided the optimal solution would be to blast his own fucking country into the stone age, is on the UN Human Rights council.
Enough politics. Tomorrow we talk religion, because I haven't taken a potshot at a preacher in too long. Keep to the streets.
Mahalo,
Tambour
Monday, February 21, 2011
The whole Middle East is on fire right now, and it's spreading fast. Tunisia, Egypt, Bahrain...all of them decided (seemingly spontaneously) to overthrow their respective autocracies. Then Libya joined the fight, and right now innocent peaceful protesters are getting the ever-loving shit blown out of them by their own military...but even their military, much like Egypt's, is starting to side with the Rebellion. I read a newsflash today that two colonels who had received orders to bomb protesters took to their planes and flew into Malta, requesting asylum. Not quite the display "Crazy Ivan," a Russian troop commander in World War II who shelled his own HQ until they gave him more vodka, would pull off, but it's a damned solid start. Gaddafi and his son are madmen, and everything is turning against them. Images of massacred civilians are flaring up all across the Internet. And you know what? It's perfect.
I'm damned proud to be a human being right now. And so should you.
Saturday, January 1, 2011
Not a Glorious Return
Just creeping through the door at the ass-end of early, trying not to wake the wife.
2010 has come and gone.Thank god for that. It was a miserable fucking year, as far as comfort goes. I made some of the biggest mistakes of my life in 2010, learned some of the hardest lessons, and managed to pull my head out of my ass long enough to get back on my feet. Just in time for the new year. Resolutions? Fuck 'em. Why make promises when I've got something I can look at and be proud of? Quit smoking? Fuck you, I like to smoke. I LOVE to smoke. I'll quit sometime, but when I'm good and ready, and not because I have to buy another calendar. Lose weight? Double-fuck you. I look fantastic. I am the paradigm of masculine beauty.
To hell with resolutions. I'm still alive, and I'm smarter. I'm older, and I've got some experience under my belt. I'm an honest-to-god contributing-to-society type. And, from time to time, I verbally crap onto this blog, hoping that people will read it. Sometimes people do. Good, selah, and so much for that. I have a lot of fun on here, when I get the time to be myself. But, you know, being me isn't easy. Especially when I'm the one that has to do it.
My name is Tambour Inmann. I'm a bastard, and I'm okay with that. I'm honest And I am fed up with the bullshit. The mystique, the half-lies, the delusions, the sick and twisted shit they'd like you to believe. Fuck it all.
Happy New Year. Make it a good one. And have a drink on me.
Tambour
To hell with resolutions. I'm still alive, and I'm smarter. I'm older, and I've got some experience under my belt. I'm an honest-to-god contributing-to-society type. And, from time to time, I verbally crap onto this blog, hoping that people will read it. Sometimes people do. Good, selah, and so much for that. I have a lot of fun on here, when I get the time to be myself. But, you know, being me isn't easy. Especially when I'm the one that has to do it.
My name is Tambour Inmann. I'm a bastard, and I'm okay with that. I'm honest And I am fed up with the bullshit. The mystique, the half-lies, the delusions, the sick and twisted shit they'd like you to believe. Fuck it all.
Happy New Year. Make it a good one. And have a drink on me.
Tambour
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