Category Archives: Zoology

The Help

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House nigga 4 lyfe

The argument that black celebrities can’t possibly have grounds to complain about being black in America—because they’re rich—is a sophomoric bit of conservative boilerplate. But then, the absurd protocol that black perspectives be treated as more valid because black experience is somehow realer than others is equally tiresome. The morning headlines all insist on some variation of “Ice Cube schooled Bill Maher about white privilege,” but I wonder (not really) if it occurs to Mr. Cube that he was giving Maher moral cover by going on Real Time and calling him out.

Of course I’m not talking about a morality that I personally concur with; taboos against words can only elicit my sympathy for the sentiment that’s being repressed (naughty, naughty). So for example, I wouldn’t get too worked up if an Ice Cube were to rap, “You can’t be the Nigga 4 Life crew/with a white Jew telling you what to do.” In fact, Ice Cube did rap these lyrics, shortly after NWA broke up.

Now, ‘Jew’ and ‘white’ are clearly meant in the pejorative there, and it wasn’t the first or last time Ice Cube rapped anti-white, anti-Jewish or anti-Asian invective—which is not only excused but lauded in the NPR article linked above. So you can recapitulate the bollocks dogma that the N-word is more hateful because the black experience in America is uniquely unfair—in a way that’s totally unfathomable to non-blacks. But who I am is presumably as important to me as Ice Cube’s identity is to him, and I would be well within the electric fence of conventional cant to take umbrage, I just wouldn’t get anywhere because black resentment is more useful and (above all) malleable to elites than the white or Korean or even the Jewish varieties. After all, if you unreflectingly give people enough power that they can obligate you to respond to little trigger phrases like a marionette, then you’re a silly cunt and a weakling. Clearly, Ice Cube—a public image gangster who’s actually a pot bellied, noodle-armed little man in his late forties who lives in a gated community—sees things differently, and that’s his business. But by calling out Maher he’s reinforcing the entertainment industry pecking order he referenced in that song we just quoted from back in the 1990s.

This is not a spurious complaint, by the way. If I wanted to go all Irv Rubin and start calling in bomb threats to Farrakhan, I’d still have to admit the (latter) man’s got a perfectly valid point about Jews in the media. The fact is, a black actor or entertainer can only ever be a commodity in Hollywood, whereas a white Jewish comedian can conceivably reach a level—like Jon Stewart, Jerry Seinfeld, or Bill Maher—where he becomes an institution, an arbiter as opposed to a mere influencer of tastes and discourse, and a near-equal to real decision makers, who’re all Jews.

So Ice Cube can stroll into Real Time studios affecting as hard an image as he wants. The more indignant the better because, again, he was being used by Maher for moral cover. Public figures as powerful as US Senators have been taken down for saying nigger; obviously Maher has powerful protection. Again, the morning headlines all say Ice Cube “schooled” him, but if it matters to Ice Cube on any level what comes out of horse’s ass Bill Maher’s mouth then he’s a silly shit. “Please Missa Jewman, please don’t be using that o-ffensive language when you be referring to us black folk. We sho’ would be grateful. Nigga 4 Life crew, ya heard!?! You just been schooled.” This is why, according to the oligarchs and their marionettes, uttering nigger is what passes for unacceptable injustice in a world of actual slavery.

To say that Ice Cube is a hypocrite for taking offense at Maher’s salty language after making a career glorifying drugs and pea-brained street violence would be another bit of sophomoric conservative boilerplate. I think it’s true, but so what? The media Jews say one thing’s more offensive than another, and who am I to argue? It’s not my country, I don’t make the rules. I just wonder, with all the bloviating we tend to hear about irrational white wariness of blackness (from all these three-named, Jew-approved horse’s ass black intellectuals: Marc Lamont Hill, Michael Eric Dyson, Ta Nehisi Coats—who can even tell the difference?) will it make black performers who bank on mean-mugging “jack-yo’-shit” yippity-yap—or their shithead street acolytes—feel any better to know there are whites who don’t take their bravado or their hurt feelings seriously? I won’t hold my breath waiting for an answer.

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Disinteresting Times

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Did somebody say download speeds of up to 35.46 gigabits per second?

Modernity is the subordination of principles to processes, and if man is subordinate to technology, this inversion would signify a negation of life by the very means once intended to serve at its disposal.

Life, however, is anxiety-inducing, and faced with it plainly we tend more and more to retreat instead into life-negating distractions, which represent more and more of the benefit we now derive from technology, and cannot be separated from whatever ideas, however lofty, that the latest hi-tech media transmit.

A video I saw posted to LinkedIn recently featured a body language expert advising that one should never look at their smartphone while waiting for a job interview, because it induces wary, diminutive body language. Obviously, when we absorb ourselves in our smartphones, we almost invariably peer down into them. But it is possible to get an uncanny sense of how ridiculously small this frame is (in contrast with the world as we view it normally), simply by correcting our posture and holding up our arm to position the phone within the normal, eye-level field of vision.

The other day I’m out with a friend, when he tells me he needs to pay a cell phone bill, so we duck into a T-Mobile store. While he’s busy with the clerk, I stroll around the place, when it strikes me (I’m probably not the first to say so) how much these outlets are arranged like art galleries: the displays mounted mid-floor on spray-painted white particleboard pillars, or sequenced along the bleach-white walls in the foreground of splashy, backlit stock imagery. Next to each phone display is an informational placard. To get the interactive experience you need assistance from an initiate flunky with a lanyard and a thumb drive—just enough reverence to discourage overthinking is all that’s needed. Trying to contemplate in such an environment is as taxingly awkward as trying to maintain focus on a smartphone from a normal, upright position.

As we’re leaving, I remarked to my friend that, just for the hardware, the margin on a lease must be fairly wide, considering how low the resale value of a smartphone is. But my friend informs me that, to lower cost, every time you go in for an upgrade, the retailer more or less sells your old phone back to the OEM, who does a little light refurbishing and then punts these devices in bulk into a developing market—a euphemism for a country where the buildings are still tattered from the last civil war or the peasantry have all been displaced and reduced to hawkers and bricklayers, if they aren’t combing through garbage for a living.

Think about that: every impression of these industries that the public is imbued with is one of buoyancy, bedazzlement and pure intelligence. Meanwhile, these companies are balancing the books with third world fire sales.

I work in IT sales. Not anybody’s dream job, but what can you do? (Ask me about our tower desktops with Windows 7, LMFAO). Among the concepts they beat us over the head with to peddle is virtualization, you can’t sell servers anymore without VM Ware. Again, the impression they want you to convey to customers is one of buoyancy, bedazzlement and pure intelligence. But somewhere over the rainbow there’s still a fucking server bank and, eventually, the amount of energy it takes for those sleeker, more powerful machines to direct traffic is going to exceed what it takes to run all the bulkier devices they’re replacing today, because we’ve mistaken data for value at the intersection of sloth and hubris.

If man is an intrinsically technological creature, then technology is the factor that enables us to cage animals. If you’re caged, you’re an animal, and a cage is any advantage some shrewd, unscrupulous creature has—some limp-dick sneak fuck who (without money) would be eaten in open combat or humiliated in reproductive competition, and knows it. Basically: usurers, upper-management Johns and peeping Tom data miners. The cage is technology. Your data trail. The toilet paper stuck under your shoe. That’s our rulers’ source of power; Mark Zuckerberg is a virtual used toilet paper magnate. If (as they say) you were to pull the cork out of his asshole, you could bury him in a matchbox; not because he’s dishonest (though that’s also the case), but because he’s figured out the simplest way to facilitate everybody else believing our own bullshit.

And we get the micro-managers we deserve: behold the Gothic architecture of medieval Europe, and it’s hard to gainsay T.S. Eliot’s estimation of the 13th century as the apex of civilization. What are we missing about those people when we ascribe primitivity to them? Something, I assure you. When in the intervening centuries were the structures they built surpassed for exquisiteness? Hell, the largest solid, unreinforced dome on this planet is still the Pantheon of Rome, completed in 128 AD. Technologically, this edifice remains unimproved upon in 2017.

Kurzweil, Zuckerberg, Musk…. they keep telling, not asking us how we’re going to live in the future. Who’d have thought a few autists with Excel spreadsheets for brains would exceed the imaginations of Hieronymus Bosch and every dystopian fiction author, ever, while the rest of us were partying in college? RFID implants and neural lace make precogs look like deus ex machina. Symbiosis with the internet sounds about as appealing as being strapped down like the protagonist in the closing scene of A Clockwork Orange, and that’s exactly what these control freaks want, because the minute they bet money on their predictions those predictions become a motive in themselves, if they weren’t all smoke to begin with. Tech oligarchs are the ultimate totalitarians, and they’re sold to us as luminaries! In a civilization whose denizens possessed a shadow of a survival instinct they’d be fed to orcas at SeaWorld on national television.

Yet—again—the technologies they mean to imprison us with are so…. crude. Internet traffic runs through transoceanic cables the way the telegraph did at the close of the horse and buggy era. When 5G comes online it will require a massive new infrastructure that can be traced, ultimately, to a surge protector in a wall outlet. And when these batty, syphilitic billionaires and virginal, glorified sysadmins tell us about the singularity, they’re talking about an autonomic simulacrum of the übermensch, what VR masturbation is to hot, sticky sex. We’re moving backwards, not forwards. Wireless signaling, photography, the combustion engine, conventional aircraft, even rocketry—none of these is fundamentally different today than they were at their inception, they’re just spiffier. Granted, there are still theoretical game changers: anti-gravity, fusion, quantum, nanotech, AI, genetic engineering. But do any of these developments portend spiritual or intellectual advancement? Of course not—on the contrary. Mankind is the only known species capable of true (i.e., premeditated) cruelty, and we can’t even eradicate the mosquito without taking ourselves out with it. Measured in terms of the ratio of arithmetical figuring to grandiosity of outcome, the capacity to immolate half the solar system remains our greatest technological achievement—our greatest achievement, period, if the technological inclination is our foremost distinction as creatures.

Maybe it isn’t, though. Maybe premeditation and inspiration are two different things. The Elon Musks of the world keep assuring us technologies x, y and z are inevitable and we may as well make the best of it. Sounds kind of rapey, doesn’t it? Either way, craftmanship isn’t what it used to be—at least Patrick Bateman used his hands.

an embarrassment of kitsches

Your rags betray your vanity

Your rags betray your vanity

‘Multiculturalism’ suits them to perfection, conjuring up the agreeable image of a global bazaar in which exotic customs can be savored indiscriminately with no commitments required.                         —Christopher Lasch, Revolt of the Elites (1995)

The battle’s din subsides; CNN’s swarthy erstwhile good guys have all gone home to beat their wives. Skulking asthmatically through the suk between protection racket badlands a gangly, mysterious stranger with the untrimmed, languid mug of a bus bench masturbator declares the blast radius liberated as he assesses the remaining impediments to liquidation, consolidation and free love.

They should’ve given him the Qaddafi treatment.

The consummate, bloviating hail-fellow hipster who’ll pretend to know about anything and gives a shit about nothing, in each country he visits it’s the same schtick: fatuously lament the local misfortune between mouthfuls accompanied by disconcertingly age-incongruous pornographic moaning, lob an “and how does that make you feel?” or two with the narcoleptic gaze of a burnt-out psychoanalyst, then inquire primly about the timetable for Americanization. Nary a child-like denizen of these backwaters slated for development realizes they’ve lain their Sunday best before a predator, and when they slaughter their enemies with US ordnance he shudders as though Mr. Whiskers just dragged in a decapitated rodent. For chrissake, people—have a little class, will ya? I’m tryin’ ta eat over here.

Ours is an age propitious for the lily narrator who’s seen everything and experienced nothing, but once had a drink with someone who did. Let him assure you no good can come of principles, if your aim is to keep in victuals.

Regime mouthpiece Anthony Bourdain is Karl Marx’s last laugh, a typical effete and soon-to-be incontinent (but still partying) leftover of a once puerile, now senile revolution that refuses to clear the stage and—herpes notwithstanding—always has a happy ending, and endless rationalizations for prudence. Galavanting, dainty-sampling, conflating impudence with pluck under that jaunty canopy of special providence for drunkards, fools and the United States of America—where enjoyment of the finer things vindicates imperial prerogatives and televangelical lucre as surely as going slumming sends shivers down the asscrack—he never seems to tire of recounting how very much yonder humble folk meant to him. A missionary of mass-market libertinism in humanitarian guise, he combines the scolding and verbally chastened impulses of progressivism with insatiable lust for colonial spoils. A hippy-dippy paver of paradise, ever on the lookout for unsullied authenticity to add to his collection of taxidermied heads, he’s a blue-state Paula Deen with as much regard (and as much use) for the niggers as a payday lender. And he looks like a big gay squirrel.

No fewer Indians dead for today’s cowboys being bi-curious, Bourdain’s interview questions of local denizens are always lower-div clichés, three steps short of poignance and five steps beyond real engagement. In the end, I didn’t know what to do about all the poverty I saw, but I sure ate good while I felt bad about it. He’ll use your history as a prompt for glib establishment tautologies, your city as a backdrop for a trustfund odyssey journal entry, the most hackneyed stereotypes about your culture and a dozen words of your language for a thin veneer of erudition between fits of sleep apnea brought on by the dreadful exertion of deciphering your pitifully accented ESL. The jingling in his pocket plays to local mercenaries, airtime whores and the shucking bourgeois sleeper cells that furnish him obsequious Squantos and Queequegs for guides, but never to the salt of the earth, whose testimonies he’s happy to peddle wistfully through an interpreter, but who lack the truly ground-down sense of thrift and proportion his handlers have in mind for them.

One can well suppose how this sausage gets packaged—A: Hey Pepe, who’s the gringo? B: Pipe the fuck down and put on a shit eating grin, will ya? Can’t you see he’s being followed by cameras? Which are as good as apostles, or Angles of the Lord; on whose shoulders they alight separates hip from square, living from dead, but they can only lead you if you want to be led. This week, we’re here with the guy who’s been doing the thing that speaks so poignantly to the universal Us and where We’re all going…. Well why in the hell didn’t they put him on TV years before? And isn’t that universal We just the old, royal one? This isn’t a two-way street, after all. You’re telling us what to care about.

When Nir Rosen mocked Lara Logan’s rape in Cairo, it was despicable because he and she are playing the same game, only she has to play it with a twat between her legs, while he gets to take his own assignments (“Imperialism,” he told the Senate). Same isn’t true of Anderson Cooper.

In the words of another plagiarist luminary artificially accorded relevance beyond any reasonable expiration date, The times, they are a changin’: of her travels, Rebecca West gave us a thousand-odd pages devoted with desperate passion to a single area of the planet. Kerouac regurgitated his faggy soul in its tipsy entirety, little though anybody wanted it. Orwell took up arms with his hosts. Jon Stewart may’ve been a sycophant who played an iconoclast on TV, but he did it four nights a week, and even Brian Williams deserves credit for admitting he’s a phony. But Bourdain is a new low, a middlebrow parakeet, a geopolitical ambulance chaser whose every insight turns out to be precisely CNN’s vapid conventional ordure, served up in affected tones suggestive of some scintillating intellectual morsel. The world according to Anthony Bourdain is an abortion, a tree falling in the woods—an undifferentiated clump of cells that only the trend-setter, the marketing hack and the affluent solipsist’s ADHD nanosecond of consideration renders extant. And as this gas bag orbits his handlers’ parcels, he regurgitates his inch-deep cognitive intake in blithe, self-important banalities as homogenous as his digestive output.

By itself this carnivorously pontifical agenda-setting is quite unremarkable; what makes Bourdain’s every blasé pledge-drive du jour so egregious is the feigned humanity, withdrawn in the space of an Instagram share once he’s on to the next paternalistic holiday in the sun.

He checks in with the Congo to report whether anything’s changed since Conrad, and concludes that it hasn’t. Nope, still, uh… dark. Blame King Leopold, that’ll keep the heat off our sponsors! His Morocco is nothing but the footsteps of Burroughs and sundry lesser man-boy love pioneers, to whose mughrebi meanderings he devotes the entire episode. He presents the haunted ruins of Leptis Magna as a veritable oasis of civilization in the Libyan dregs; his only complaint is that the cocks have all been chiseled off the facades by Mohammedan prudes. He gives Iran the predictable recalcitrant-child treatment: thankfully, there are a handful of brave ESL speakers holding out there, dreaming of TJ Maxx and the caramel macchiato. His Lebanon is a blur of caricatures, titillating nightlife mashups juxtaposed with exotic houses of worship and gratuitous stock footage of multi-confessional war dead. The feminism of Beirut literata Joumana Haddad in Parts Unknown is reduced to little more than…. parts unknown, the unemployed forbidden fruit of some deposed oriental despot’s harem, all lipstick and leggings and horridly uncouth death threats from jealous cleric cousins lurking somewhere off-camera. When he temerously characterizes the country’s deadly fissures as hip vibrance, she asks whether his lurid enthrallment has anything to do with the fact he’s just visiting, and the piece of shit deflects by asking “Am I not supposed to love this place?” Well you’d better ask it first, Tony. This isn’t the gay princess cruise you take it for. Where Flaubert got off light with syphilis, today they might pull your fucking fingernails out with a pair of pliers. (Now that I’d tune in for!)

Apparently monolingual (his copy-hacks don’t seem to realize raconteur is French for blowhard, anyway), Bourdain’s every encounter is a one-way street. Each new attempt to relate to those foreign “friends” he so self-servingly calls upon is terribly awkward to behold, even when he’s visiting English-speaking realms. But friends these guilelessly hospitable or attention-whoring dupes undoubtedly are, in the same sense that vile showbiz backstabbers are so adept at namedropping and mutual exploitation. His every word and gesture is smoke. Anthony Bourdain has Muslim friends the way Donald Trump does. He’s got as much chance of breaking bread with the locals unaided by fixers and coming away in one piece as the camel has with a needle’s eye. Underneath the mealy ideals is a sugar daddy impresario indulging crimson fetishes on the cheap as he moralizes behind hired protection. And did I mention he looks like a big gay squirrel?

Sundays at the Zoo

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Got my beverage past the turnstile equals white privilege

Just smile

Don’t maintain eye contact

Don’t say gesundheit

Mankind are pederasts, malingerers, rats on an ash heap communicating diseases

Horrible, ambling, eczemic, eggplant-shaped creatures

They suffer waking sleep apnea and never wonder how the meat gets to the plate

Should some grave misfortune befall them they must be maintained alive

Freedom isn’t free, they want a raincheck, they want a discount

They want to see caged animals

and teach the blind how to covet

Shame was the last vestige of propriety

In the distance I saw a crucifix

It was the logo on a ballcap, of a hotel casino

Cattle Prod

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It gets better

Although making an example of someone is the most primitive, totem-and-taboo method of maintaining order, it is a cudgel uniquely suited to democracy. In America, the buck simply must stop somewhere, for where human beings are reduced, scurrilous and simpering, to their uttermost state of servility, it becomes inconceivable to them that misfortune results from their own inadequacies, or—put differently—that our inadequacies result from nature.

So if this had happened to a white boy in a majority black school district, you can be sure it wouldn’t make the Washington Post:

A ham-faced Missouri teenager puts a squirrel-peeler to his humpty dumpty and squeezes…. Come to find out he was being bullied sadistically from just about sun-up, by dozens of classmates and by his supervisor at the local Dairy Queen, who is being charged with second-degree involuntary manslaughter, and is a woman. (Inadequacy: the apple doesn’t fall far from the woe-is-me, but do you think they’ll charge the parents who went on helplessly eating Dairy Queen while all this was taking place?) One look at him choking back tears in his school portrait and you can’t not pity the boy, so anyone remotely acquainted with him in person had to’ve known what was going on, if they wanted to. Either (a) the whole town is complicit in this young man’s Missouri, or (b) no one is. But local media and opinion say it’s both.

For example, the schools superintendent asserts that the bullying in his district isn’t that bad. How many people like him are superintending schools in this country? Rudolph Höss had a personal touch by comparison. State’s prosecutress April Wilson had this to say about her colleague in public, er… “service”:

We wanted to be very cautious and responsible. Both sides of the issue are extremely important. A young man is dead. But we also want to acknowledge that it’s not easy being in public education.

For the kid or the adults?

And is it easier to manage a Dairy Queen?

In other words, as long as we’re assigning blame arbitrarily….

Is this a justice that would satisfy the deceased Kenneth Suttner? From the looks of the victim and the fact he apparently never fought back, the kid probably didn’t have a vindictive bone in his body. At least, not yet. But on the part of others this utter lack of will is why no one intervened to help him. Nature culls herds of all species, but this is the behavior of prey.

A whole town. An entire race.

Don’t defame me, bro

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Above: third world political moderates requesting admission to the sanctum of western-style democracy

What to make of recent remarks by the sitting Israeli ambassador to the United States, Ron Dermer, condemning the Southern Poverty Law Center?

We must reject the shameful efforts of some to prevent any serious discussion about the nature of the enemy we face. I realized the full extent of those efforts only after a controversy erupted over my being here tonight. The day you announced that I was being given this award, the spokesman at my Embassy received an email from the Southern Poverty Law Center asking me why I was accepting an award from what they called an anti-Muslim hate group….

The SPLC and others who asked me not to come here tonight claim to support free and open debate. But in reality, they seem to want to stifle debate. They…have amended that famous Voltairian dictum to be ‘I hate what you say and I will never defend your right to say it.’ I will defame you as an extremist. I will label you a racist and a bigot….

We must not let the defamers and blacklisters succeed. We must not let them turn into pariahs those erudite scholars and courageous reformers who are trying to enlighten us about ideologies that threaten our way of life.

The famous Voltairian dictum, amended! If militant Islam didn’t exist, Israel would have to invent it, but upon Europeans it is being foisted in bald-faced contravention of any antecedent concept of decency. Will they ever manage to shop their way back to freedom?

Neocons like Dermer conflate a first-world living standard with (capital double-u) Western civilization, and proclaim the principle menace to this meager construct to be not carrying capacity or antibiotic-resistant microbes but militant Islam—which is itself a construct, since the real distinction to be drawn among Muslims is between genteel and brute. After all, rape’s not “resistance.” Swarming and groping women on a subway platform is not radicalization. Neither is the relentless beating of your lily children in school a political-religious act, nor trafficking drugs, transmitting disease, hogging social services and conducting turf wars around public housing. Come to think of it, the real distinction to be drawn between Muslims overall is “here” versus “there.” So vetting these hordes politically, or placating or re-educating them is rightly an afterthought to all but the professions that stand to gain power in the process: yellow media, PC social workers, HR department bias-minders and intel-spook middle management.

Continuing this theme, against that one-in-a-hundred thousand radicalized, RPG-toting pajama-men they like to conjure out of central casting, certain Israelis stand ready with predictably self-serving solutions, namely their own political and financial collusion in inexorable foreign and domestic police action on the part of Europe and the US, and ankle-grabbing white ingratiation to millions of criminal, third world vermin being helped along in their plundering with shockingly cynical Israeli connivance.

So there are those who will inevitably view intra-Jewish spats like this recent one as a shopworn Yid swindle—after all, it’s the defamers and the blacklisters who have a direct line to the Israeli embassy, not the Ancient Order of Hibernians. There are those, like myself, who are hoping this daylight newly-emerged from between the cheek of the “love wins” Jewish commissars and the jowl of their levantine militarist cousins precipitates an eventual parting of ways. But above all, this spat is symptomatic of the interim of paradigm shift in the year of Trump, the fog of a relied-upon consensus passing into obsolescence.

Indeed, as if emerging, dust-caked, ears ringing from a blast radius, consensus acolytes are ambling about in a daze, muttering their catechisms and copybook headings:

David Friedman, Donald Trump’s close confidante and ambassador-designate to Israel, is not a right-winger. To be on the right wing implies that one is on a continuum from liberal to conservative. But Friedman – together with around 15% of the Israeli Jewish population – inhabits a different world entirely. His appointment would represent a total realignment of American policy in the Middle East, with the biggest winner being (surprise) Vladimir Putin. 

The normal continuum runs as follows. The consensus of the international community, the Israeli government, and every American government for a generation is that that there must be a state of Palestine alongside the state of Israel. Of course, within that consensus, there are hawks and doves, right-wingers and left. Some are willing to take more risks for peace, some are more mistrustful of the people they call “the Arabs” and want any peace process to be slow and gradual. But all agree that it’s not feasible to create an apartheid regime in which 7 million Jews rule over 10 million non-Jews.

There you have one Jay Michaelson, writing in the Daily Beast. What need he has of a name in spite of his lacking a soul, we’ll never know, but for the moment never mind his snide self-assurance, he got it ninth-hand anyway. Conformist hacks like these should be facing a firing squad, yet in spite of his befuddlement this Michaelson is slouching towards Bethlehem with the rest of us.

So too Ambassador Dermer, a Kantian character, a baby-boomer from Miami Beach whose commitment to Zionism entailed renouncing his American citizenship. He has been called a traitor for this, but it actually makes him the exact opposite. Whatever his boss’s long-game may be, he and the rest of the coterie of ex-yankee Jewboys surrounding Benjamin Netanyahu are products of a peculiar timeframe, and will persist in applying its outmoded lexicon (circa 2001-06) to subsequent events, no matter how unprecedented.

Thus, Dermer’s “ideologies that threaten our way of life” refers to Muslims who take their Islam literally and seriously enough to fight (in principal, if not ultimately, against Israel) rather than hawking stolen goods and catcalling on street corners in Charleroi and Rotterdam—behavior which is instead dubbed a by-product of diversity and all such “Western values” that “we” are “defending.” In the same vein, “rooting out militancy” means oblique facilitation by the social services of that steady supply of swivel-eyed, subliterate aspiring rappers we see pouring into the emmiserated, supranational Hobbesian diversity-state. For the democratic formulary requires the white man’s burden not slacken until it lies heaped upon a corpse, that he redouble his charitable efforts whenever and wherever pea-brained, recalcitrant melanotics are failing to curb their innate criminality.

Defenseless under the night/Our world in stupor lies, when we conflate Diaghilev’s Eros with an affirming flame.

Jacob’s Plateau

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Oh, alright…..

The onset of a darkening time

Of shadows as forms

Of eyes that guard no souls

Of the recession of green meadows into the bulldozer’s maw

Of menacing clouds amassed before the precincts of eternity

to download and be uploaded, or whatever

The metastasis of sickening flesh

Of bloodless jowls sagging beneath little green visors

Of numbers who aspire to be ants

Of the licensure of volition

Of callow dogs as commanders

who’ve refined to eyeless guile the art of getting what to eat and never stopping once they’re sated

Because there’s only so much to go around

Sizzler

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I am their father

How to get the DNA out of this algorithm?

A cubicle for Montezuma’s ransom

Your lucky rabbit’s foot is a handler’s gland

and second prize is a set of steak knives

What do you feel like eating?

You’ve got a family don’t you?

Because I’ve got this insatiable taste for flesh

You know, character is the barcode of transmutability

and you set the ceiling

I may not’ve determined the number of inches from fly to forehead

but I can decide how vicious I jizz tendons and marrow and keep you in suspense

Whobody? Anybody

Are you what it takes?

Tzel-mahvet

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This might burn a bit

When a stranger’s blithe gesture outweighs your plodding devotion

and you’re granted the serenity to accept the things you cannot change

When you carry around in you a shattered Jerusalem

and find yourself a stranger, but people aren’t strange

The millstone, the cross, the imperative to forgive

the impulse to murder, the necessity to live

the dread that stalks awake-nights, the antiseptic light

dementia and goosebumps and envy and blight

When lies gain the weight of stentorian tomes

and vigor and vim, and known unknown knowns

Then we ordinary folk can cross bridges in space

secure, validated with spit in our face

and decide when to chase and to now flee our tails

and determine the contours of our own comfy jails

When Might may lie down with the left and right hands

and erode all embankments and count up the sands

Then old Lot and his daughters can go fuck themselves

and grannies and housepets and Santa Claus’ elves

and beat the meatcleavers to swordshares and plows

and secure our slick winnings with purrs and meows

and confide our blanch longings despite no true friends

and incline our ears, trifling, to the way the world ends

A Time to Cast Away Stones

colin-kaepernick-time-cover

“Run nigga! George Washington!”

We’re told that a national debate about race relations is underway. We’re told this because no one has been asked.

The BLM narrative is essentially that white people harbor biases they aren’t even aware of, that (among other things) this effects police decision-making under life or death circumstances (should’ve dropped the TV), and that these subconscious prejudices are confirmed by scientific studies conducted in the nation’s leading universities.

But if whites aren’t aware of their feelings, it’s because they’ve been told not to be.

For example, an article in the WaPo on Harvard’s study of the subject insists that

It is very important to note that implicit racial bias is not the same thing as conscious racism. People who harbor implicit biases may not think of themselves as prejudiced, and in fact, might consider prejudice to be abhorrent. They also may not know they even have these biases.

In other words, though in practical effect it is harmful to harbor racist thoughts (this is unfalsifiable, but alright….), there’s no moral culpability unless you’re honest about it. Or unless we redefine culpability, over and over, expecting the same result each time. So although left-liberal self-flagellation treats the symptom (guilt), the underlying malady (racism) can never be pursued to the end of the worm hole, and the floggings will continue until morale improves.

The conservative counter-narrative is that this is all contrived, that black Americans, who are merely being judged by the content of their character, have been co-opted to a politicized grievance racket inflated with exquisite nonsense like Harvard studies and selective news coverage of officer-involved fatalities. Though this analysis writes the entire black experience off peremptorily, it’s obvious that a certain investment is indeed being made in black American opinion: if you think the media is concentrated in too few hands, you might be interested to know who funds the NGOs. The sly suggestion that whiteness is privileged on its face is not just an affront but an obstruction to any unflinching, street-level analysis of the unparalleled depravity and callousness being unleashed by the most epic upward transfer of resources in human history.

So if you venture far enough outside the mainstream, you’ll find a darker counter-narrative that goes more like: by every measurable parameter blacks are predisposed to crimes of violence and refuse to be held accountable. Of course, holding someone accountable for behavior they’re predisposed to is a thorny proposition (they’re working on that at Harvard), but ironically, this analysis tends to agree with the speaking fee hustla-balla theorists of black grievance, with the critical distinction that the latter blame whitey for the predisposition. Thus, and in conclusion, no one in America is willing to be held accountable for anything.

Well, that’s fair enough, so long as you aren’t trying to dictate how others ought to feel, e.g., that blacks should stop perceiving whites as persecutors or that whites should cease their wariness of blacks. But there can be no Americanism or Americanness as we know it without this MSM race relations dialectic, according to which the souls of black folk depend entirely on white attention to prevent them from vanishing. The consolidation of a more perfect union just refines this cognitive domestication of blacks, and we go from the 1968 Olympics to #OscarsSoWhite. This inseparability of enfranchisement from infantilization is so terrifyingly awkward (click the link, you’re gonna love it; it’s not a parody, either) that we prefer Harvard studies arraign every man, woman and child in this country on charges of subconscious malice. I mean, the SCLC was demanding in 1956 that white people cease mistreating blacks. BLM is demanding in 2016 that white people commence some scarcely-specified work of absolution (of a half-dozen platform planks on their website, the only one that’s coherent is the demand for money) on behalf of black people, otherwise, “No perfect union for you!” This is the precipice of post-Americanism, not because blacks will check out of a system that neglects them (clearly they don’t have that option today, though they did in 1968), but because whites will check out of a system that fawns over non-whites (and poofters) for lack of any more compelling claim to moral authority.

But there’s a remedy for that: as the white patrolman says, when you can’t get respect, you settle for fear (“community relations”). So what is really being implied by implicit bias theory is that (a) what goes on inside my caucasoid noggin is a matter of national import, that (b) by the mere fact of my existence, I am contributing to grievous injuries (microinjuries?) inflicted on untold innocent blacks, and (c) that all this is grounds for intervention (reeducation, in particular) with me as one of its objects. It’s enough to make a whiteboy start taking a knee for the anthem. They couldn’t have just let the Panthers have East Oakland? At least those guys weren’t demanding to come to dinner.

The whole gag’s ridiculously Kafkaesque, Orwellian, yet the provincial rube in this country takes the bait every time. Love it or leave it? Tell it to Fred Hampton. You can check in, but you can never leave. Why is a professional football player obliged to respect national symbols? Is he a fucking four-star general?

The fact is, blacks are perfectly right to understand themselves as the Other in American civilization, in so many social settings not individuals but mere objects of pity, fear, virtue signaling and begrudging inclusion; that they are compelled on a regular basis to account for themselves as representatives of the group and repositories of outside preconceptions, and that in essence this state of affairs has persisted unchanged since emancipation.

That being acknowledged, does it really suffice to explain the gamut of racial disparity? Employment rates, test scores, credit ratings, dick size, incarceration ratios? Be honest. Will public discourse outside The Laura Ingram Show ever again entertain the suggestion of black culpability, in any way and to any extent? Of course not. So the Implicit Association Test wasn’t conceived in a vacuum. It’s impetus is a set of untested assumptions (and this is supposed to be science) about who are inequality’s culprits—a mix up, at fucking Harvard, of necessary and sufficient conditions. It can’t show causation because it doesn’t need to, its designers already think they know. God knows alternate hypotheses purporting to explain racial disparity exist, they’re just disconcertingly uncompassionate, and cannot be broached at Harvard.

Tim Wise—the Dr. Phil of anti-racism—put it this way in his latest status update:

American history is basically this:

White people, getting it mostly wrong, for 240 years…and counting.

Do better. Be better. Achieve the country you claim to love, rather than loving the country you don’t even understand…

Sorry, pal—collective guilt’s a two-way street. But if that’s your game then I, for one, am a fair measure younger than 240 years, and I don’t claim to love the country because I do not love it. I don’t hate it, either, I have no feelings for it one way or another. Why would I? I have a family. I have a dog I care about more than the abstraction called the United States of America with all its whites, blacks and in betweens who’d resent stepping over me if I lay gasping in front of them on the sidewalk. As a cultural designation? Fine. But as an object of allegiance or a franchise I’m invested in voluntarily? The only people who stand to gain from raising that hackneyed specter are grifters: “Do better, be better,” let’s you and him fight. Sorry brothaman, I ain’t got time and I ain’t got bus fare.

So aside from certain differences of interpretation, I don’t deny the basic substance of the BLM point of view. Who am I to tell others what they see and experience? What I’m saying instead is that I don’t care. That your feelings mean shit to me and if you think I’m a party to them you’re literally hallucinating. That having spent twenty-eight of my thirty-two born years in America, well over 50% of my experience with American blacks is of unreflective entitlement and indiscriminate hostility. That it doesn’t matter why, because it’s not my problem and, if I can help it, it never will be. That before a pack of animals can drag me out of my car, they’re gonna be grease in my windshield wipers. And that if you think you see me in the crosshairs of your next jacking or curb stomping, I can guarantee you’ve just seen as sure a sign as ever you may that you’re about to meet your maker.

But good luck being heard. You’ve certainly got all the influential publicists on your side.