http://www.sendspace.com/file/fofdez
Friday, May 30, 2008
THE GOOD BOOMERS
It's easy to forget amongst all of the self congratulatory 60's retrospectives and reductionist nostalgic crap that's floating in our flickering medias that some of the Boomers were in fact, serious fucks.
Easy Rider features a lot of real serious fucks, but a lot of them are fictional. I think anyone who sees this movie will no longer be under the impression I know I had growing up in the Clinton era about hippydom: dated, and gross at it's most sinister, but usually just gray long hair on a dude, some tie dye, a black vest, maybe even the 70's have a nice day smiley. And a disco ball. With a tie dye background. Austin Powers did not help things. But, really, who can blame us for our vapid revisionism when the styles are recycled so many times over by now, the 60th annual cycle of totally renewed lines of consumer products and lifestyles to associate with them?
No, Hollywood serious fucks are revered by the same who program XL radio stations in places where old men drop benjis. Beach Boys, Doors I can understand, but the fucking Velvets, man? I like to think the man checking my stereo in to get repaired at Magnolia Hi-Fi just doesn't think about the music. If he did, it might occur to him that pushing expensive black boxes of nostalgic dream recreation would be a totally valid job description to put down on his resume. Maybe that's how people actually score jobs at head shops and pot clubs.
The serious fucks I'm talking about are all beginning to die. The dude who I would most want to talk to about all of this is already dead, he croaked at the Hospital down the street from my house when I was seven. In the TC Boyle book Drop City he is introduced as old. Thirty, maybe even late thirties. He was a professor in musicology, jazzy Beardo, musician poet, modern utopian, and legal visionary. This was before reggae music, by the way.
Like most Americans, I first discovered Morning Star, off of Coleman Valley Road near Occidental, in the Time Magazine article about the hippies from 1967. Unlike most Americans, this was on the internet three months ago, and I have been living within twenty miles of Coleman Valley Road my whole life. I asked my dad if he had any memories of the era, my parents having moved to Sebastopol in the early 1970s. He mentioned he was friends with a man who wanted to be a writer, whose mom had died in the Spanish civil war. Thanks to the internet, I now know this man to be this man. I should remember to tell my dad that he is a published writer. More importantly, I should write this guy and talk to him, I mean he's clearly a serious fuck.
Hippy aesthetics were sort of the easiest thing to take down when Reagan directed the Right at their culture war zenith, dopiness does not get money. Looking through the First Edition copy of the Morning Star scrapbook that my mom told me to look for in the house, they do seem awful naked. I'm hearing the Royal Trux song On My Mind were Neil Hagerty finally gives up, "Yeah We're a bunch of long hairs, what about it? What'da I care? What do I care?" and Jennifer Herrema is black and asks if we can feel it. The bubble gum pops, and it's the roller skate girl with the orange afro in NASHVILLE from Los Angeles who done the poppin'.
But the values were in the right place. I can't help but think of Alan Watts when I read the religious chants, the interpretations of Eastern theology so focused on the idea of expansive openness and intangible warmth and blue love. They sat next to doodles of naked men and women, their eyes closed, taken out of the comics of the New Yorker and finding themselves totally at peace in their voluntarily primitive surroundings.
One of them tells you how to shit. The description for preparing the earth is one part soil as vaginae metaphor, one part very funny to somebody who just read about the Korean war and all the human shit Americans encountered in that totally unfinished international dispute. But then that was the talk they talked in these yellowing pages my parents had kept for all these years between some book on The Sacred Pipe and another on California's Wild Coast.
Easy Rider features a lot of real serious fucks, but a lot of them are fictional. I think anyone who sees this movie will no longer be under the impression I know I had growing up in the Clinton era about hippydom: dated, and gross at it's most sinister, but usually just gray long hair on a dude, some tie dye, a black vest, maybe even the 70's have a nice day smiley. And a disco ball. With a tie dye background. Austin Powers did not help things. But, really, who can blame us for our vapid revisionism when the styles are recycled so many times over by now, the 60th annual cycle of totally renewed lines of consumer products and lifestyles to associate with them?
No, Hollywood serious fucks are revered by the same who program XL radio stations in places where old men drop benjis. Beach Boys, Doors I can understand, but the fucking Velvets, man? I like to think the man checking my stereo in to get repaired at Magnolia Hi-Fi just doesn't think about the music. If he did, it might occur to him that pushing expensive black boxes of nostalgic dream recreation would be a totally valid job description to put down on his resume. Maybe that's how people actually score jobs at head shops and pot clubs.
The serious fucks I'm talking about are all beginning to die. The dude who I would most want to talk to about all of this is already dead, he croaked at the Hospital down the street from my house when I was seven. In the TC Boyle book Drop City he is introduced as old. Thirty, maybe even late thirties. He was a professor in musicology, jazzy Beardo, musician poet, modern utopian, and legal visionary. This was before reggae music, by the way.
Like most Americans, I first discovered Morning Star, off of Coleman Valley Road near Occidental, in the Time Magazine article about the hippies from 1967. Unlike most Americans, this was on the internet three months ago, and I have been living within twenty miles of Coleman Valley Road my whole life. I asked my dad if he had any memories of the era, my parents having moved to Sebastopol in the early 1970s. He mentioned he was friends with a man who wanted to be a writer, whose mom had died in the Spanish civil war. Thanks to the internet, I now know this man to be this man. I should remember to tell my dad that he is a published writer. More importantly, I should write this guy and talk to him, I mean he's clearly a serious fuck.
Hippy aesthetics were sort of the easiest thing to take down when Reagan directed the Right at their culture war zenith, dopiness does not get money. Looking through the First Edition copy of the Morning Star scrapbook that my mom told me to look for in the house, they do seem awful naked. I'm hearing the Royal Trux song On My Mind were Neil Hagerty finally gives up, "Yeah We're a bunch of long hairs, what about it? What'da I care? What do I care?" and Jennifer Herrema is black and asks if we can feel it. The bubble gum pops, and it's the roller skate girl with the orange afro in NASHVILLE from Los Angeles who done the poppin'.
But the values were in the right place. I can't help but think of Alan Watts when I read the religious chants, the interpretations of Eastern theology so focused on the idea of expansive openness and intangible warmth and blue love. They sat next to doodles of naked men and women, their eyes closed, taken out of the comics of the New Yorker and finding themselves totally at peace in their voluntarily primitive surroundings.
One of them tells you how to shit. The description for preparing the earth is one part soil as vaginae metaphor, one part very funny to somebody who just read about the Korean war and all the human shit Americans encountered in that totally unfinished international dispute. But then that was the talk they talked in these yellowing pages my parents had kept for all these years between some book on The Sacred Pipe and another on California's Wild Coast.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Morning Star outside of the meatless freezer section
Deeding land to God is the juridical pre-requisite for building peacefully the society of the future -- a society born of an economy of abundance in which everyone eats and only those who enjoy working may work.
Deeding land to God counteracts that obsolete animal instinct which was been named "the territorial imperative" by removing "No Trespassing" signs from the land and from the human heart. The earth is the mother of us all; and to pay rent will be one day understood as turning mother into a prostitute and hiring her services.
Deeding land to God opens land-access-to-which-is-denied-no-one; land whereon permission to live is not required; land from which no one may be ordered to depart; land from which God is the Casting Director assembling, juxtaposing, and re-tribalizing those human forms he has chosen to help free Mother Earth from the ecologically lethal grasp of exclusive ownership; land on which life becomes an ongoing encounter for the mutual benefit of the participants who are abandoning materialistic goals and incentives.
Deeding land to God establishes laboratories for the definition, defense, and demonstration of alternative life-style consonant with human dignity for the time in the not-too-distant future when leisure will be compulsory due to the inevitable take-over of repetitive labor by our "happy slave" - cybernated industry; laboratories for expanding the bliss tolerance of human beings.
Deeding land to God is an idea which challenges imagination all over the world, because it provides an opportunity to participate actively in the solution of many contemporary problems, ecological, sociological, psychological, international, and theological.
Deeding land to God can prepare refuge for the survivors should respiratory catastrophe strike an urban center. If one day a thousand people die of asphyxiation in a smog filled city, a contingency which is not remote at all, many of the remaining city dwellers will not feel safe anywhere but on Gods land.
Deeding land to God is for the defendant appellant a ritualistic offering to the Divine, at once the pinnacle of deeply held religious convictions and the synthesis of privative, medieval, and contemporary devotional practice, fully protected by the free exercise clause of the First Amendment to the U.S. Constitution from legislative and judicial infringement.
But: Deeding land to God is superfluous, is it not? Since God created the universe He certainly "owns" His creations and does not require a grant deed to prove that ownership. I know that. You know that. Everybody knows that. Only the Superior Court of the State of California in and for the County of Sonoma, Departments 1, 3, and 4 does not know that. This court found, held, and reiterated that God, the creator of the universe, omniscient, omnipresent, and omnipotent, does not measure up to certain common-law requirements for a legal grantee. It is from the judicial effects of this absurdity that relief is being sought in this action.
- Sept 9, 1971
Deeding land to God counteracts that obsolete animal instinct which was been named "the territorial imperative" by removing "No Trespassing" signs from the land and from the human heart. The earth is the mother of us all; and to pay rent will be one day understood as turning mother into a prostitute and hiring her services.
Deeding land to God opens land-access-to-which-is-denied-no-one; land whereon permission to live is not required; land from which no one may be ordered to depart; land from which God is the Casting Director assembling, juxtaposing, and re-tribalizing those human forms he has chosen to help free Mother Earth from the ecologically lethal grasp of exclusive ownership; land on which life becomes an ongoing encounter for the mutual benefit of the participants who are abandoning materialistic goals and incentives.
Deeding land to God establishes laboratories for the definition, defense, and demonstration of alternative life-style consonant with human dignity for the time in the not-too-distant future when leisure will be compulsory due to the inevitable take-over of repetitive labor by our "happy slave" - cybernated industry; laboratories for expanding the bliss tolerance of human beings.
Deeding land to God is an idea which challenges imagination all over the world, because it provides an opportunity to participate actively in the solution of many contemporary problems, ecological, sociological, psychological, international, and theological.
Deeding land to God can prepare refuge for the survivors should respiratory catastrophe strike an urban center. If one day a thousand people die of asphyxiation in a smog filled city, a contingency which is not remote at all, many of the remaining city dwellers will not feel safe anywhere but on Gods land.
Deeding land to God is for the defendant appellant a ritualistic offering to the Divine, at once the pinnacle of deeply held religious convictions and the synthesis of privative, medieval, and contemporary devotional practice, fully protected by the free exercise clause of the First Amendment to the U.S. Constitution from legislative and judicial infringement.
But: Deeding land to God is superfluous, is it not? Since God created the universe He certainly "owns" His creations and does not require a grant deed to prove that ownership. I know that. You know that. Everybody knows that. Only the Superior Court of the State of California in and for the County of Sonoma, Departments 1, 3, and 4 does not know that. This court found, held, and reiterated that God, the creator of the universe, omniscient, omnipresent, and omnipotent, does not measure up to certain common-law requirements for a legal grantee. It is from the judicial effects of this absurdity that relief is being sought in this action.
- Sept 9, 1971
Monday, May 19, 2008
Screen Actors Guild (SAG)
http://www.sendspace.com/file/3lyrkc
http://www.sendspace.com/file/lxd4gl
http://www.sendspace.com/file/qxp2xp
http://www.sendspace.com/file/ym664b
http://www.sendspace.com/file/h8zhec
http://www.sendspace.com/file/hczfie
http://www.sendspace.com/file/3pr0xm
http://www.sendspace.com/file/u98pbv
http://www.sendspace.com/file/9keyz5
Traditionally prepared of spinach.
http://www.sendspace.com/file/lxd4gl
http://www.sendspace.com/file/qxp2xp
http://www.sendspace.com/file/ym664b
http://www.sendspace.com/file/h8zhec
http://www.sendspace.com/file/hczfie
http://www.sendspace.com/file/3pr0xm
http://www.sendspace.com/file/u98pbv
http://www.sendspace.com/file/9keyz5
Traditionally prepared of spinach.
Saturday, May 10, 2008
Saturday Morning Experience Show
http://www.sendspace.com/file/j4pkgi
http://www.sendspace.com/file/ubb7vr
http://www.sendspace.com/file/kxb69k
http://www.sendspace.com/file/4lbcox
http://www.sendspace.com/file/al7cyd
http://www.sendspace.com/file/3ki5jf
Chris Donahue's birthday party in the third grade, his dad took us all out to the new Petaluma Century Westgate theater. Half of us went to see Space Jam, and the other half Star Trek: First Contact. I regret that I was in the latter group, even though I had already seen First Contact at least once by this time. I would see it four times. Titanic had come out that year and seeing movies multiple times as affirmation was in the in thing, so as I could tell. To this day I do not know what happened in Space Jam, only that cartoon space aliens and Bill Murray collide over a jam of hoop in da space. I am curious.
I think I also saw The Net there before the theater closed down, as a result of the shitty quality common to all the movies released theatrically during the late 1990s. I think I also saw the cartoon about the space ship and the space apocalypse there as well, but as I can't remember the title, only the vague notion that Drew Barrymore was in it, but I think I may have dreamed this movie.
The lot where the theater used to be is now a KOHL's. It's remarkable in that it's the only place in Sonoma County where even in the wettest parts of January the grass around it is still dead and yellow.
I miss sitting outside of my house sharing cigarettes with my downstairs neighbor, trying to convince her to sleep with me because I was crazy and insightful by talking weightfully in between shorter and more complete puffs. It was the greatest courtship game for me, as my peacock feathers were all degenerate tangents meant to shock her, and if she looked bored it'd be all the more violent.
I'm rarely that comfortable being a top. Something about her being so much older and in such an obvious position of power made me excited and vulnerable. I think sexuality is not warm or comfortable, but strained pop philosophy on a Mission district sloop over cigarettes with phone sexing tooth chipped degenerates. That's why I'm such an easy sell, I guess.
http://www.sendspace.com/file/ubb7vr
http://www.sendspace.com/file/kxb69k
http://www.sendspace.com/file/4lbcox
http://www.sendspace.com/file/al7cyd
http://www.sendspace.com/file/3ki5jf
Chris Donahue's birthday party in the third grade, his dad took us all out to the new Petaluma Century Westgate theater. Half of us went to see Space Jam, and the other half Star Trek: First Contact. I regret that I was in the latter group, even though I had already seen First Contact at least once by this time. I would see it four times. Titanic had come out that year and seeing movies multiple times as affirmation was in the in thing, so as I could tell. To this day I do not know what happened in Space Jam, only that cartoon space aliens and Bill Murray collide over a jam of hoop in da space. I am curious.
I think I also saw The Net there before the theater closed down, as a result of the shitty quality common to all the movies released theatrically during the late 1990s. I think I also saw the cartoon about the space ship and the space apocalypse there as well, but as I can't remember the title, only the vague notion that Drew Barrymore was in it, but I think I may have dreamed this movie.
The lot where the theater used to be is now a KOHL's. It's remarkable in that it's the only place in Sonoma County where even in the wettest parts of January the grass around it is still dead and yellow.
I miss sitting outside of my house sharing cigarettes with my downstairs neighbor, trying to convince her to sleep with me because I was crazy and insightful by talking weightfully in between shorter and more complete puffs. It was the greatest courtship game for me, as my peacock feathers were all degenerate tangents meant to shock her, and if she looked bored it'd be all the more violent.
I'm rarely that comfortable being a top. Something about her being so much older and in such an obvious position of power made me excited and vulnerable. I think sexuality is not warm or comfortable, but strained pop philosophy on a Mission district sloop over cigarettes with phone sexing tooth chipped degenerates. That's why I'm such an easy sell, I guess.
Friday, May 9, 2008
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
Week-end in Fécamp, France. I'm French
I drove the Skyhawk Mountain road today. I hydroplaned on pollen and oak leaves into a parking lot carved out of a Duplo update of the old Lego stripmall. On time!
The job interview for the barista position at the Filipino boba tea and free trade coffeehouse to be went well. While buying drugs, another customer maybe twenty pounds my junior with dreadlocks composing the nemes to his fitted trucker hat double crown showed up, and he talked really fast without pausing between ideas or sentences. He wore a Crystal Castles shirt, checked van slip ons, tattered jean shorts, and really wanted me to like him, to the effect of telling me my shirt was a name I didn't recognize.
I felt smarter than other people. That said, earlier I ate a once frozen New Zealand leg of lamb for dinner, tummy bummers.
Selfish always seemed as appropriate next to me as it was next to the word shellfish. I'm hot when I don't take off my coat. The wind was picking up as I was walking to my car, remembering my biggest fear is to be cold. It's just dreadful. I also hate whenever my body is an instrument of unpleasant realities. All encompassing bummers.
Jumping dubplate masters serenade down from Minarets. The Mayans killed themselves through massive deforestation hundreds of years ago. Apparently there was A disconnect; their thinkers were in tune with the riddim of the earth enough to make a precise calendar, not enough to understand their inability to transcend their environment. There is no metaphor in their writing, just tree stumps and lime powder.
The job interview for the barista position at the Filipino boba tea and free trade coffeehouse to be went well. While buying drugs, another customer maybe twenty pounds my junior with dreadlocks composing the nemes to his fitted trucker hat double crown showed up, and he talked really fast without pausing between ideas or sentences. He wore a Crystal Castles shirt, checked van slip ons, tattered jean shorts, and really wanted me to like him, to the effect of telling me my shirt was a name I didn't recognize.
I felt smarter than other people. That said, earlier I ate a once frozen New Zealand leg of lamb for dinner, tummy bummers.
Selfish always seemed as appropriate next to me as it was next to the word shellfish. I'm hot when I don't take off my coat. The wind was picking up as I was walking to my car, remembering my biggest fear is to be cold. It's just dreadful. I also hate whenever my body is an instrument of unpleasant realities. All encompassing bummers.
Jumping dubplate masters serenade down from Minarets. The Mayans killed themselves through massive deforestation hundreds of years ago. Apparently there was A disconnect; their thinkers were in tune with the riddim of the earth enough to make a precise calendar, not enough to understand their inability to transcend their environment. There is no metaphor in their writing, just tree stumps and lime powder.
Friday, May 2, 2008
Crescent City, CA.
http://www.archive.org/details/Derrick_Jensen_Vancouver_April_18_2007
he's all about the thresholds.
he's all about the thresholds.
Hard Times
My mind receives the data. A pattern is recognized, through the tubes electric signals fired. "I've heard this one before, it's, uh,"--
Not important.
They say that a recession is either on it's way, or that we're already in one. A recession is defined as the process by which a market adjusts itself to take into account the fact that much of what was reported as earnings doesn't actually exist.
It's not that we're making less than we were before the recession, it's not that less work is being done, it's that the rest of the world no longer believes the values we assign to ourselves on paper, or to our paper.
it's dangerous to not tie the worth of your currency to anything real, to give most of it away for cheap plastics and a war or two. The privatization of all aspects of American life are beginning to mean what privatization traditionally means in the third world, foreign ownership of national infrastructure and shrinking access to society for the lower classes.
The Chinese and the Arabs aren't even interested in profitability at this point. Owning America is just a burden assigned to them by virtue of all of the increasingly useless dollars we've stuffed them with for the past thirty years. They inherited a country without a functioning infrastructure or clear role to play in the world economy, now that simply being consumer #1 is no longer a viable economic model. The previous owners were more than happy to give it to them, convinced as they were that nothing good could ever come of the place anyway.
Imperialism required a historical narrative in which this country had achieved perfection, and was therefore left with nothing to do but spread said perfection like a cool margarine all over the globe. That historical narrative rings true to many a fucker, and it's for that reason the language of black dissent as expressed by Jeremiah Wright might seem threatening or hostile. It is a narrative that we must do everything in our power to destroy as it is the main obstacle to progress.
It allows the status quo to paint reformers as trying to subvert something worth saving and emulating. The expression of grievances and the articulation of wrongs is the first step in their correction. It should not require overcoming personal pride, getting people to express disappointment in America as it exists vs America as they understand it to promise.
2001, 2002, 2003, 2004. Liberals, democrats, were right about things because their solutions would be better in the context of the war on terror. Smug, don't they know killing one only makes more terrorists, we are the ones who talk, etc.
We lost because we bought into their toxic bullshit about America being totally perfect and only able to feel external harms placed upon her by our dark skinned adversaries.
Culture and history are things dissected ten years after the fact by B-list celebrities and their punchlines on VH1...
Not to be made, certainly not a conduit for social justice and progress, culture and history are passively observed on the TV.
The disengaged, those whose escalating opportunisms have left us here, all personally blameless. But collectively we are not worth the biological mass we have been given. At least the nazis ended with fourteen year olds fighting the red army with rifles in the destroyed capitol. In our opium dens of electronics and diminished imagination, we laugh at the concept of prisoner rape like we're in any way detached from responsibility. We're the fucking champs.
I believe you, Mr Obama. I believe you will do everything a President can do to activate a culture of civic engagement and responsibility. I just don't know that even the highest office in this country has the power or authority to undue the toxicity of our arrogant laziness.
I believe also that you will get the shit thrown your way, that the Barnum and Bailey economy is pulling one last elaborate deception to keep this zombie nominally alive until Bush leaves, but at that point the men in the ties will flip the switch, and they will say Carter. The reporting of the constant death in Iraq will once again take precedent over entertainment news and your policies will be blamed. Forty years of regress since 1968 have left us here, but 9 out of ten still think history only makes things better.
Even the presence of saints isn't enough to avert a Dark Age. The language of integration and progress and hope is the new Latin, and the monks are retreating into the monasteries.
But it's not a country for people like me. I'm glad I'm not a Kennedy.
Not important.
They say that a recession is either on it's way, or that we're already in one. A recession is defined as the process by which a market adjusts itself to take into account the fact that much of what was reported as earnings doesn't actually exist.
It's not that we're making less than we were before the recession, it's not that less work is being done, it's that the rest of the world no longer believes the values we assign to ourselves on paper, or to our paper.
it's dangerous to not tie the worth of your currency to anything real, to give most of it away for cheap plastics and a war or two. The privatization of all aspects of American life are beginning to mean what privatization traditionally means in the third world, foreign ownership of national infrastructure and shrinking access to society for the lower classes.
The Chinese and the Arabs aren't even interested in profitability at this point. Owning America is just a burden assigned to them by virtue of all of the increasingly useless dollars we've stuffed them with for the past thirty years. They inherited a country without a functioning infrastructure or clear role to play in the world economy, now that simply being consumer #1 is no longer a viable economic model. The previous owners were more than happy to give it to them, convinced as they were that nothing good could ever come of the place anyway.
Imperialism required a historical narrative in which this country had achieved perfection, and was therefore left with nothing to do but spread said perfection like a cool margarine all over the globe. That historical narrative rings true to many a fucker, and it's for that reason the language of black dissent as expressed by Jeremiah Wright might seem threatening or hostile. It is a narrative that we must do everything in our power to destroy as it is the main obstacle to progress.
It allows the status quo to paint reformers as trying to subvert something worth saving and emulating. The expression of grievances and the articulation of wrongs is the first step in their correction. It should not require overcoming personal pride, getting people to express disappointment in America as it exists vs America as they understand it to promise.
2001, 2002, 2003, 2004. Liberals, democrats, were right about things because their solutions would be better in the context of the war on terror. Smug, don't they know killing one only makes more terrorists, we are the ones who talk, etc.
We lost because we bought into their toxic bullshit about America being totally perfect and only able to feel external harms placed upon her by our dark skinned adversaries.
Culture and history are things dissected ten years after the fact by B-list celebrities and their punchlines on VH1...
Not to be made, certainly not a conduit for social justice and progress, culture and history are passively observed on the TV.
The disengaged, those whose escalating opportunisms have left us here, all personally blameless. But collectively we are not worth the biological mass we have been given. At least the nazis ended with fourteen year olds fighting the red army with rifles in the destroyed capitol. In our opium dens of electronics and diminished imagination, we laugh at the concept of prisoner rape like we're in any way detached from responsibility. We're the fucking champs.
I believe you, Mr Obama. I believe you will do everything a President can do to activate a culture of civic engagement and responsibility. I just don't know that even the highest office in this country has the power or authority to undue the toxicity of our arrogant laziness.
I believe also that you will get the shit thrown your way, that the Barnum and Bailey economy is pulling one last elaborate deception to keep this zombie nominally alive until Bush leaves, but at that point the men in the ties will flip the switch, and they will say Carter. The reporting of the constant death in Iraq will once again take precedent over entertainment news and your policies will be blamed. Forty years of regress since 1968 have left us here, but 9 out of ten still think history only makes things better.
Even the presence of saints isn't enough to avert a Dark Age. The language of integration and progress and hope is the new Latin, and the monks are retreating into the monasteries.
But it's not a country for people like me. I'm glad I'm not a Kennedy.
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