The Unforgiving Nature of Trample-Down Economics

For what does it profit a man to make his way along promptly plowed pavement safely to his office building only to slip and crack his head open on the sidewalk below?


The competitive engine of economic growth drives a cultural obsession more than growth itself. Why not shut things down a bit as long as we are buried, why not hibernate?

The answer, naturally, is that we, whoever that is, would fall too far behind in a game comprised of an unwillingness to forgive debt/rent/mortgage/utility bill, borne out of an inability to get someone else to do the same.

The arbiters of the rules of the game are so large and in charge as to be in a permanent state of paying themselves back for the money they borrowed. Self-lent lucre means never having to get back on your feet, just using them to stomp upon all but your initiates.

Accordingly analogous is the urban desperation evident in the removal of calamitous snowfall, which fuels loads of apocryphal stories like the one that Jane Byrne’s mayoral bid in Chicago came down to her predecessor’s untimely failure to clear the streets.

I guess what I am saying is that, if debt should be passed, it should be upward first; and all energy should be spent pushing the snow off of the walks and into the streets. What good does it do to clear them, lickety-split, if in the process you’re just burying the cars on the side of the road until April Fools’? Move more slowly from December to March — or whenever the march back to the end of the year reveals itself… more naturally.


I love the Sun, though in the summer I can’t make a move without considering to what extent I’ll be in a direct path of its unforgiving rays. I don’t worship it, though I recognize it as the true capital of this solar system, hence, life on this planet. It is the star to which the greatest central monuments aspire yet pale in comparison.

The Sun is nature, not science or religion. It is so powerful as to be observed religiously, yet not awe-inspiring enough to leave modern science geared to its every move, winding in its wake. For science is under the constant threat of a dogmatic faux-science that has dominated Earth’s population since not too long after genus homo went all erectus.

I am not talking about woo-world paganism or fundamental creationist philosophy, even those that would banish empiricism from the temples to the Sun or sons of gods. No. The primary corruption and oppression of the discipline that might otherwise be arrayed for the improvement of the quality of life comes rather from those whose methods are for the advancement of the few over the many.

Science predicts that long after humankind has succumbed to Earth’s harshest conditions, the Sun will still be there, providing energy for whatever remains.

Matratzen Concord in der Sonne – Berlin-Friedrichshain – 2015


Cloudy Skies w/ a Chance of Crumbs

“The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation. What is called resignation is confirmed desperation. Most of the luxuries, and many of the so-called comforts of life, are not only not indispensable, but positive hindrances to the elevation of mankind.”


The call came several times last week.  By last week I mean Tuesday afternoon and by several times I mean again & again within a short span, but more importantly most inconveniently a period during which I was otherwise engaged.

“Maybe it’s important,” she said, after I’d already told her I do not interrupt these sessions so. There is nothing wrong with building boundaries around engagement; in point of fact, the building we were in was not strong on mobile reception, this room, this moment, sadly an exception. I insist on dedication, though it’s now clear the distraction is testing me.

My dedicated insistence says it would be inconsiderate to allow my consideration to be directed away from here, though it is clear above all else I don’t want to go there.  So, yeah, it’s me.

I am projecting my micro-motivations mirrored upon the invisible inquisitor.  I want to answer the inquiry on my terms, in my time, and with my own carefully crafted weasel terminology just in case they intend to preempt my bluffs or set me up.

Also, and on an additional hand, disembodied speaking requires the kind of improvisation I was never fond of, the kind that carries the conscience of reacting at someone else’s expense. But, sure, it’s my own fault if I cannot say no to the sound of a voice.  So I say no for now by not picking up.

That there even came a call carries with it an overtone of required rapid negotiation, a flow chart of potentialities too long for two-thumb typing, a clamorous buzz that says, “Had you only answered that email. Like, immediately.”

There is a device that would allow me to read the inquisitor’s questions in near real time, but tethered, as it were, to theirs forever, for forever is not just now into the infinite, it is foremost always now.

Once you decide to engage in the cloud, and then precisely at that moment when you have an observable, breathing body in front of you whose eyes and ears will wander away the second you inform them by way of disengaging for the briefest tryst that your consideration is a trail of mist, all bets are off as to where and when and what your engagement will ever be able to be.

What seemed to originate as promised convenience and nifty entertainment has always been but an extension of bread and circus crumbs. Certain as the circuses ring all around me, I don’t want to be responsible to a crumb.


Original notes placed at my feet:

How can I describe these people without sounding disrespectful?  Why, behind their backs, of course.

There’s nothing furtive about desperation.  Not even the quiet kind.

What we’re experiencing and how we’re taking it in is as if we’re watching how we came into existence.

Forget about Satan and your soul, this web is arresting our consciousness.

The Brazen Corruption of Breakfast

When Bo Rama speaks, you can predict the few things that will happen as a result: his biggest admirers will swoon over how smartly informed and refreshingly thoughtful his comments are; his biggest detractors will bluster about the odious treachery of the same; most people won’t pay attention, but when the reactionaries get cranked up, the admirers will be joined by a chorus motivated in just as knee-jerk a fashion by the personality of the reactionaries, though no better informed about the integrity of the comments in question, and with just as deep a disregard for their context.

At the latest annual National Prayer Breakfast, Bo Rama defended Islam from being broad-brushed as extremist ideology by pointing out how people have used the cloak of Christianity for very bad things. In this case, the accuracy of the historical details doesn’t matter. The important point here is that the vague notion of “the Crusades” has been buoyed as a result, as eliciting a trigger as there are opinions about what they were.

A knack for professorial patronization is a benchmark of any president. The degree to which one deploys it should be met with equal scepticism. By restating implicitly that the so-branded War on Terror is a fight against forces who misuse religion for their purposes, Bo Rama advances a basic falsehood that no one in the kindergarten from 5-year-old to faculty is going to question.

The political beauty of the categorical, “Ours is not a fight against any religion.” is that it is absolutely true, even if some may disagree. The big lie, however – that this or any war has anything to do with trying to keep people safe from oppressive ideology – remains customarily unexamined.

Eurotic Literature

A Game of Choke the Chicken
by Paul Krugman
1st grade econymonist

Never shoulda done it, coming together like that.  It was dangerous then, it’s dangerous now.  Always thought so.  It’s gonna come undone.  Just look at it’s coming undone.  But we hafta cling to it. Don’t look now but the money shot is riiiiight… there… and it’s gonna be…

You see, Germany is like the Iceman and Greece is Maverick.  So Iceman goes, “You better give it up!” and Mav is all, “Come at me bro,” dick in hand.  Ice is like, “You’re crazy!” but kind of turned on by the sheer size of Mav’s Goose on display.  The Iceman begins to engage himself in furious friction to the point where there’s just a hint of a droplet forming at his tip.

Unfortunately for the studio – that’d be the European Central Bank – neither one of their actors has quite enough blood coursing through his main vein to be taken too seriously, so they worry that moviegoers won’t be turned on enough to keep returning to the cineplex.  But their job is to force the action, so…

Will Mav pull out?
Looming are the whips & chains!


Barely related link: printiN’ t’ fYT media corps

Amnesty’s Hangover

Did you know that yesterday was do pass go, do collect a click all day?

Yes, you say?

Tho’ I think I’d go w/ Perpetual Change, We Have Heaven is a fine example of a best of something ever, yes, no indifferent, and when you’re tripping, who says they aren’t both ever best of yes.

Would were it be…

And though I just love a poem with an incidental Roswell reference, when I think of yesterdays, I relate to days before, just days ago.  Remember when you popped a can as much for to do something with your hands as spill swill mildly acidic upon the acid that says, “I don’t want this.”  If the fun weren’t so traumatizing, I’d return to it every day.

And do you remember when this guy was within the pale of becoming a goat in the stead of being the GoaT?  Funny how the ball spins.

It takes a certain kind of guts to point out that even the arguments against torture are inherently corrupt, seriously a distraction in fact from the fact… as so often is the case when wading through such psycho shit…  that it’s simply wrong to do what we oh so like to do, and when we debate about it, it is oh so tediously torturous.

Apropos of nothing, save winter, the lack thereof, its return, and poetry, and motion, and giving clicks to the voice, anyberliner wanna play?

Remember Ferguson? Maybe it’s because there is no community, just a short term existence. I mean, fuckin’ A, right?

If you read here enough, you know I am partial to ripping on those whose community are wont to claim for my own (make sense of that if you will). Wingnuts and Nazi-brand Nazis are but low hanging fruit, even self-evidenter than the lesser enablers who are full of love for how much lesser enabling they do.  Oh they do!  But I ramble in my distraction, which reminds me why I started this paragraph: to quote a quip about these self-annointed lesser enablers, which, truth be told, is always almost left unsaid:

Shitting on America’s reprehensible past is acceptable among progressives, but only if it proves the point that America is capable of becoming more just, more equitable; only when it buttresses the story of America coming ever closer to its mythological ideals and the stories which it tells about itself and its white people.

Gots to click to read the whole thing. Come on, now. Don’t miss the point of this exercise, which is why they open in a new window.  You can come on back, or open them all as you read through, and read ’em at the end.

Do this just once and you get an acuter appreciation for the kinder BLCKDGRDes of the wwworld.  Me, I was always worried about diminishing returns.  Well, BLCKDGRD pulls and pastes them so you don’t have to scroll, necessarily, though BLCKDGRD’ll remind you they’re there.  Their there is there.  You know, in the sidebar. Read them. That’s the point of this exercise.

Do you read them as you go, or wait ’til the end?  Or have you already given up? Me? I recommend doing them one at a time if your computer slows up.

Also, if you’ve read me of late, or know me at all, or just know Jack, you Gno how I tend, so many still land here through The Crow’s Eye (it’s clear it is being checked and used as a goto) though Crow no longer updates; I choose not his latest, but this one on overlay.

First on the list of non-blogrolled linked links — that is, non-shamelessly reciprocation-ally link linking  (the shame is all mine, trust me) comes this buried analysis of a story about what went down in and around a place called Selma and what gets lost amidst all the talk about what was with it, wrong or right. Fuck LBJ. It’s just the continual killing of King for fuck’s sake. Oprah’s narrative ain’t helpin’ shit.

Look at Caldwell on Baraka on Jones and poems and think about your cultural address.

Digging deeper toward death, inching ever closer perhaps, or looking at it all around you, how could you not wanna ask?

He just came in and told me, the new Friedrichshain calendar is around the corner.  I had assumed since my bookstore had closed, and I was late to the game of finding a new source, that I’d missed out this time.  Maybe I’ll get one and continue the series (viewable by you by clicking on Friedrichshain-Vergleiche in the side column).  Until then, from him, newer camera, newerer pictures.

And a once reciprocal no longer
since he killed his old to public purview.
Would you believe that it was longer
than any other responsible
for most of th’times people’ve clicked through?
It’s true.
I won’t betray it’s name, for he’d seem
to’ve opted to pull that connection.
For the record, I thought
that mystery of an aesthetic certain.
Due to his opting, of new, to word schemery, this comes with a WARNING: No verse!

And though, what’s the point of a general link to someone else, who may’ve moved, I don’t like to think, to get away from the likes of me? No matter, I spun his music many a month at my deejay gig, also dead. And he’s the only one of whom I’m aware who name-checked my fake twat, made one in his own image, if only just unlike.

Did you know that Hollywood didn’t begin with the CIA? They got a longer history than that, if only barely and this is just an excuse to link to Alex Cox.

There’s still more in the sidebar. Always more, with the newest at the top.  Check tomorrow.  Or the next day.  Or never.  But they might take the Internet away.

Soup or Sundae?

Perusal gives me the sense that the #USAsuisSeattle. This might represent the last vestige of interest paid to a spiel otherwise not of interest: not rooting for someone’s win, but someone else’s loss. I am familiar with this, um, sentiment, having attended the Indy 500 over a dozen times: when the driver of your dedicated fandom is out of the race before your third pig-meat sandwich, you start grasping for anyone… until the bitter, final turn when you just hope, “Please, God, anyone but Rick Mears.”

(It’s the final lap in American racing when the white flag is waved.)

On the occasion of today’s invocation, I ask which American denial is greater: That their biggest cash-sow sporting spectacle of the year has completely run its course, equal in magnitude of worthiness morally, aesthetically, or even as mindless entertainment indirectly proportional to how much is paid to advertise the whole damn day & night… or that New England just might win this motherfucker?

Belichick & Brady didn’t suck the air out of this thing.  The blimp’s been deflated since the first time somebody said, “Well, that kind o’ sucked.”  At least since Nipplegate-gate.

That halftime show (of yet another victory for “The Patriots”) had the FCC, NFL, CBS and almost all of their advertisers trying to out-jockey each other with pedestally stated concerns for the purity of wholesome family entertainment.

(Parenthetically I can eulogize ex Pro Bowlers who shot themselves in the chest so somebody could see what happened to their brains, if not the first time a player had his knee blasted to re-repeatable replay (not that this is about da Bears but, yeah, some sentimentalities die the longest deaths.))


Thirteen years ago I wrote the following in my leather-bound diary, twenty-four days before Super Bowl Roman Numeral Number Thirty-Six, the first gladiatorial victory for the same New England coach and quarterback:

10 January 2002,  Brussels

Who are these? From where have they drawn their strength to go on living their boring lives? Is it talking they love? They really don’t like to listen all that much. But they had to have lived. If only by default. Time creates memories of experience. For Gretje, the things she’s learned about history. For Ursula – a different history – somewhat different attitude. What is she running from? What does she conceal? They reveal something in their speech. Gretje’s wariness of anything but the Post Bank. Ursula’s insistence that rich white Jews did more damage than the Nazis – and of course the fact that so many Nazis were “Yeeews”.

“Isn’t that right, Henri?”  “Yuhhh…” Henri is her husband of thirty years. A retired nuclear scientist. Ursula a doctor. If you believe anything she happened to say.  “Eef dey don’ like my wules – dey shoult stay et da yoot hostel. See how dey like de wules et da yoot hostel!”

I could say a lot more about Ursula, the little old runner who snagged T & me from the main station in Amsterdam to offer us cheaper room & board.  On the way to her place on the tram, we had just rounded a corner past Anne Frank House when she leaned over in confidence to inform me that Simon & Schuster had written that diary, as “that girl” wouldn’t have used the outdated language contained therein.  “It goes to show, there are two sides to every story.” she said, before refocusing her gaze forward, leaving me to ponder how wise it had been to take her up on her offer.

Suffice it though now to say that she is pasted here to exemplify how denial of one thing in no way affirms anything else. The mistake she made was in continually revealing her, um, sentiment.  Even if that first of Roman numeral enumerated conflicts had had a pentagonal number of interests, it was clear what side she was angling for.  From a psychological perspective, it’s not impossible that she was created as a result of her desire to relieve herself of the culpability she’d felt projected upon her by those who continue to insist that her history created the world’s greatest spectacle of evil.  Still, you can’t tell me that all the advertising money came from Jews.  It just ain’t true.

And this is precisely how having two sides in a competition simplifies and falsifies:  you just cannot speak cynically of the origins of WWII except to affirm that the Nazis were evil.  This in spite of the fact that “the greatest generation” was infested with upstanding citizen-champion, masters of industry who continued to profit from that evil when it was clear that there was no dancing in the end zone. 


“For all those folks in America who don’t have these kinds of opportunities, films and TV are often the best way we have to share those stories.”  Said who?  And about what opportunities?  Why, it was The First Lady talking (as diplomatically as possible, of course) about a complex, emotional depiction.

She was speaking of the film about an admitted murderer that she’d watched on her way to pay her respects to another admitted murderer, dearly departed.  Keep in mind that speaking diplomatically is not always just about being careful not to be insensitive to others, like the murderers’ families, for example.  In the case of the politician, and by extension everyone in their royal houses, it means a spineless striving not to speak the unvarnished truth, or shamelessly furthering a nation’s war propaganda.

But who would she be to judge?  She sleeps with a guy who orders murders every week, if we can believe the official accounts.  As Robert F. Floyd II recently put it: “People fake morality as a cover for evil all the time.”

The Super Bowl does all of these things.  You’ll see it when everybody in the stadium puts their differences aside and pays respect to American snipers of all stripes.  You’ll see it in commercials for the Marines.  You’ll hear it when somebody says something about having put something else behind us, turning a page, closing the chapter and book.


related link: American Fan by Dennis Perin
BTW: did you know it’s Blogroll Amnesty Day?
That means read all the blogs in my sidebar by midnight or the Internet dies.