Rama Yammer Drone Dong

I sense that many feel an increasingly dense and debilitating malaise these days, with this piece from priNtin’t’fYT® media corps landing like a hollow thud upon, depending on your proximity, varying analogous bodily organs representing one’s psyche and/or conscience. In spite of the fact that the general policy itself is not new to those following these things, the wanton collaboration of the individual estates of an empire weighs heavy on the souls of those who share an extended DNA with her citizenry at large. Not inhabiting her target range is, remarkably, of little consolation.

But beyond my bubble of emotional resonance, it is tiny aspects of the Times’ piece itself which get bandied about:

The Tone: Chris Floyd says it’s a love letter to death with a “very few dollops of mild criticism”.

Numbers: AriannaOnLine® sees the article as being quite critical of the administration, framing the framing of an old argument over the method to the civilian casualty count as a main point of contention.

And while Floyd certainly maintains a critical view of the war policy itself, the AOL bit reminds me of reportage of a “was it really 6 million Jews” argument.

———Which brings me to a Segue Alert———-

In my opinion, the ultimate implication of Godwin’s Law of Nazi Analogies is that, if one is to be taken seriously, one should avoid comparing his own government to that of Nazi Germany. Godwin said that valid comparisons lose their impact in a world where such comparisons are constantly made. [Godwin is an American. I did not interview him for this entry.]

In case it’s not obvious, I ponder a general question, but especially as it relates to the United States: I wonder just how much like the Third Reich a nation must be before one is reasonably allowed to say something along the lines of, “I imagine that’s how the citizens of Germany felt at the time.”

Must the number of tanks be the same? Headed in the same geographical direction? Should the invading and invaded countries be continentally contiguous? Must the Fuhrer be a vein-bulging screamer and his rhetoric identical? Do we have to have video footage of families being ushered into chambers of death?

Well, technology rules the first question relatively moot. The geological configuration of the US would preclude affirmation of the next two. The Fuhrer, as it were, is just a sweetheart and far too politically savvy and with the times to let his emotions get in the way of his country’s policy on national insecurity. As to the last one, there is that unreleased Jerry Lewis movie*.

But, seriously: It seems that simply “saying what something is” is just as much open to interpretation as absurd comparisons are. Just read the comments at NYT’s article. Considered against more recent times, they are no different from the ones leading up to Bagdad 2003, the perspectives of which, by the way, were not limited to the question of whether or not that particular Fuhrer had possessed weapons of mass-destruction. Indeed, it had just as much to do with the acceptability of unprovoked attacks and preemptive war.

Framed more simply: Should “suspects” face the death penalty? History shows us clearly that one of the answers to that question will always be “sometimes” – no matter how questionable the guilt of the suspect, or how extreme the execution.

Apologia for the current American administration’s World War policy ranges from “This isn’t happening” to “This is an inopportune time to be having this discussion”. But the extent to which a discussion is taking place at all is also open to interpretation.

* [Since the original publication of this entry,
the formerly linked cinemavirtualis.com/clownspy.html
is no longer available at that location.]

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Casus Belli Ab Intra!

First the lazy Greeks, with their siphoning of hard-manufactured euros, now some shifty goombah is busted, having rifled through the pope’s underthings! Could their trademark boundless faith in humanity’s strategic trade partnerships and trust of the hired help be the Germans’ undoing, yet again?

Babies

After our broadcast Tuesday evening, my lovely co-host expressed the view that some might feel our show lacks things political. My immediate response is best summarized as, “To what end?”

And not to belabour the point, as I can likely count on my thumb those who hear my occasional snipe, re: a comment I made that night about my perhaps unwarranted perception of an old Beeb host’s predilections: Adults have the natural tendency, as unwitting as not, to visit their biases upon the children who’ve yet to develop any. Everybody has an agenda.

I’m not nihilistic in the sense that I shun the propagation of a species. But I am anarchist insofar as I find heretofore states’ organized agendas indefensible. Particularly troubling is how easily good people of the court spend time and currency lauding the king in such a way, that at the end of the day, it amounts to nothing more than a defence against the one who would be king. The only standards that remain for consideration have to do with an iota of identity and nothing to do with any meaningful standards. Children, who have yet to develop any, feed upon this void. This breeds nihilism. There is nothing more cynical than that future.

It is a great fortune, then, that those who I know personally, who also happen to be feeding babies, will not dispense my misanthropy, nor to any extent the cynicism of the state.

I, Vagabot

Sunday Rag for the Homeless
. .. . . . . . G.N.A.S.H.I.N.‘ . . K.N.E.L.L . . ..

When you’re alone, the cops tend to leave you that way. But the interest drawn in the Blockupation made it hard to find a place to sleep in the tEUtonic banking capital over the weekend. If you managed to escape being rounded up and caged with the rest of the rabble, they’d already shut down every other Frankfurter flop.

.. . . . L.O.W .. . C.U.L.L . . .. . . .. . . . . ..

A townie knows that when they say it starts at 9:30, anything before midnight is optimistic. If it’s slated past 8pm, then it sure ain’t the O2 – with cheese-jerk charters to cover costs.

No surprise that Berlin’s attempt at monstrous transience would lead to delays while fabricators got their fudge straight. Not even by the coming winter could one count on such an opulent crash-pad.

.. . W.H.I.R.L.’.D . . . . . . .. .. . .. . . . . .

Whether you just knew all along that the UFOs were remote, or not, what goes around and around is comin’ to your town. And the banished believer brigade will now include dronespotters.

..H.U.E.. . . M.U.R.R.E … . . .. . . ..

What’s in a think tank?

A think navigator and a think gunner.


A.. C.O.N, .. A.M.I.E . . . . .. . ..

“Hi!” Coup
. . . . .. . … . .. . .. .. .H.I.G.H . . C.O.O …
At home or online?
Only friends, lonely strangers?
Cold? Close the window.

Fripp’s Sixty-Six

As observed here. Also, a new recording came out a few weeks ago. The six pieces on The Wine of Silence are orchestral arrangements by Andrew Keeling from transcriptions by Bert Lams of soundscape performances by guitarist Robert Fripp, which were performed by the Metropole Orkest in 2003 and subsequently “re-imagined” by David Singleton, co-producer of Fripp’s Soundscapes recordings thusfar.

Pie Jesu (R. Fripp) from The Wine of Silence

[blip.tv http://blip.tv/play/AYLu%2BgYC?p=1 width=”450″ height=”366″]

The last time I saw Fripp do an entire concert of soundscapes was in 1998 at Chicago’s Park West, a recording of which just happens to be available here.

I won’t exaggerate: It was an arm-hair-raising, belly-tickle-like breathtaking exposure. Nevertheless, I wouldn’t’ve imagined that synth- & loop-based guitar compositions would translate to orchestra so well.

To highlight the album’s release last month, The Wine of Silence was performed again by the Metropole Orkest on the 6th of May, which also occasioned a discussion with Lams, Keeling, and Singleton about the process of transcribing the work, which, along with excerpts, can be accessed here.

Make Yours His Story

In the US, each private individual is allowed to donate up to $2,500 to as many political candidates as he or she chooses this year. If you like, you can give each presidential candidate two-and-a-half grand. You know, if you wanna be fair.

I assume anyone contributing that amount to a political campaign is doing so with the hope that their bread will, however modestly, feed the poor indirectly influence the outcome of the election. How many votes do you suppose $2,500 would buy?

How many campaign posters would it take, for example, before somebody said, “Hey, that’s my guy!” who hadn’t already? How many of the several million viewers of Hawaii Five-O (seriously, it’s a show again, I looked it up) would be moved to grease the screen for the proantagonist of a television ad that cost at least six figures to reel them in?

I don’t know. But if I were gonna give somebody my monetary support, I’d want a breakdown of what it would get me, and I don’t mean a sporty Bo Ramney tote bag to carry with to Trader Joe’s. I mean, like, those and for this amount you can feed a child for twenty-eight minutes kind of things. Donate to this PAC now and we’ll guarantee Arizona! for example.

I’ll tell you what, though: For likely much less than the allowed max, I’m all yours.*

*fake marriage licenses sold separately

₫-mar-kr-€-C$-¥, part 6 << >> ₫-mar-kr-€-C$-¥, part 8

A Ball in Your Court

There are at least seven metaphors in the headline of today’s Sunday Paper and well over 72 in thishere first sentence, which, at the current rate of accumulation, won’t need meta-me to usher today’s diary-entry beneath, between, and behind Sunday’s jumble:

If not mired in meaning,
stripped of specific significance,
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . out of bounds
beyond interpretation.
The extent to which the ball in
question can bounce
is deflated in substance,
relayed from implication to inference.
No wonder the meaning of a dream confounds.
It is what it is in words.
But what it was was what it was.
Cellular communication,
telepathic,
biochemical and electromagnetic.

Take words to codify what’s self-evident, but know that your declaration’s as dead as the paper it’s written on. (That’s a simile following an imperative punctuated with a metaphor for something that’s supposed to be profound.)

Profundity punctured by its depth of penetration.