end of the world
(part eleven)
((the end of "the end of the world"))
(((the banger's embrace)))
"they say you can't relive the past, but as the lights went down it all came rushing back."
back in march of 2009, i picked up propagandhi's supporting caste with the expectation that it would be every bit as valuable to my music collection as their previous effort, potemkin city limits. after the first listen, i knew i was not going to be disappointed. after the second, third, fourth and fifth spins, i was certain that, based only on my own opinions and taste, caste had leaped into my own personal pantheon. the place where good albums go after they are determined (by me) to be great. in the last 12-14 months, this album, above every album in my vast and varied broken plastic case that sits on the floor of my closet, has taken its rightful place. it sits on the throne. it looks down at every other album purchased by me or for me. it sees potemkin at it's right hand. burn, piano island, burn to the left. it glances across the room and sees nevermind and dookie and one chord to another, pinkerton and chumps on parade and hello rockview and dog problems and tell all your friends and out come the wolves and dude ranch, electric boogaloo and 59 sound and when the pawn... and tens on top of tens of other albums that, over the course of the formative realization and continuing creation of one kevin michael o'kelley, have served as my personal soundtracks. caste looks over his subjects that, at some point in time, i personally allowed to define and motivate me, and caste sees that it is good.
i "luff, two f's" this album. i completely consumed it in a way that would have never happened before my blog became a four letter word. before the blog, i loved music. played it badly. appreciated and respected those much more talented than me. appreciated and respected those that ever crafted a tune that i couldn't get out of my head and made my life a better place. since the blog's inception, though, i have written about my music and the way it has moved me. for a couple years, i wrote out "best of..." columns in which not only could i identify which of my purchases provided the most healthy return on my investment, but i could process why. i am no music critic. i don't know the difference between a "good" album and a "bad" one. but i can tell you if an album is "AWESOME" and i can tell you if "it sucks". taste is relative. "your favorite band sucks", right?
as an extension of those "best of..." posts, at some point early last year i decided i would deconstruct caste in a way i had never thought of before. i would take each song, play it on a loop and see where my my mind and my fingers would take me for a little while. fucking cancer interrupted that flow last summer, but i was happy to pick it back up several months ago and today brings us to the conclusion of the "end of the world" series.
"bangers" is a song written by a fan for a fan. it details any and every long strange trip any person has ever made to pay good money to watch their favorite band play a show. we all have "that story" to tell, right? we've all packed too many people in a protege and headed east to atlanta since, with very few exceptions, only shitty bands come or ever came to birmingham in their prime. we've all packed way too many people in a protege and headed east to atlanta ready for a moment captured in two or three hours that could possibly "change our life, man". the sound hall would be small, smoky and stink like hell. the proprietors would keep letting people in the door even though you knew they reached capacity, like, 100 people ago. you stood shoulder to shoulder with bastards you've never met, but, for the next three hours, you would be their best friend and they yours. if their ass got knocked to the ground, you would pick them up and they you. you would stand, jaw agape, at being 25 feet away from this band that had wrecked your crappy-ass stereo and car speakers for months. they looked just like you. same age. same size. same shitty goatee. but there was one difference. they played your favorite songs.
you would bounce and bellow, scream and wail at the top of your lungs. force yourself a foot closer...and then a foot closer to the stage. scream in agony if you took an elbow to the face. stick your chest out and glare like a bad-ass as you delivered elbows of your own. this wasn't just a show, man. this was fucking war, albeit amidst the friendliest of fire. the opening band that you never heard of with the killer-ass name rocked you more than you anticipated. you went and bought their shirt. the headliner did what headliners do. they tore the roof off of that dilapidated auditorium, temporarily paralyzed your eardrums and sent you home completely cool that some dude behind you sprayed vomit on your back an hour ago.
the last song in this series is what music and a show is about and can be about. communal, live together or die alone experiences that you share with yourself as much as you do your buddies. it's not an original thought that there is something shreddingly primal and intensely personal about the music we love.
chances are, you probably don't worship the ground proagandhi sweat on. it's okay. it only makes you a moron. and all of my best friends are morons.
chances are, i don't like your favorite band either. it's okay. it only makes me a moron. and i've been a moron for a lot longer than you've been a moron.
sarah, let it be known that i would like "night letters" to be played at my funeral. turn it up to eleven, please. the congregation will whisper to each other that it makes perfect sense. "he's always been such a fuck-up". and i will move forward with a smile on my face to...
"...the place where all the best bands go."
Showing posts with label propagandhi. Show all posts
Showing posts with label propagandhi. Show all posts
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
the end of the world
(part ten)
((incalculable effects))
"she said she just turned six. she's got some good jokes for a kid. she's working hard to avoid a woman bleeding from her teeth...i know that sinking feeling all too fucking well. shame, frustration setting it. confusion that eats us inside out...i don't know what's wrong with me. i don't know why she can't wake up...her life goes on despite the fact her mom lies fucked up on the cement."
stephen colbert has taken some grief from people that take themselves way too seriously over the past few days since his testimony before congress on behalf of immigrant workers last friday, sept. 24th. the serious people seemed to think that the comedian coming before congress in character as the ultra-conservative champion of "truthiness" made a mockery out of the very real issue of immigrant workers' lack of rights and drew more attention to himself than those he was supposed to be lobbying on behalf of.
in some dark, dark world, in a universe removed from reality far, far away, i suppose i can see their point. what does this comedian know about immigrant workers? his entire shtick was borne out of one whole day of real labor. but in that one day lies the sad truth that politicians are not able to own. colbert's one day was one more day than the vast majority of those that are up in arms for or against more rights for immigrant workers will ever put into the "fields" of america.
count me in that vast majority. i can't tell you how much i never want to plant something that i would eventually eat. hell, i can hardly stand the thought of cooking something that someone else has harvested for me. i am the opposite of do it yourself in most instances. i take advantage of specialists, regardless of industry, found in the yellow pages any and every time i or sarah can't figure out how to stop water from dripping out of the faucet or a river running out of our air conditioning closet or how to make our grass as lovely looking as the neighbor's (a guy i have seen on his belly in his yard pulling weeds. are you kidding me? if you ever see me belly-down in my yard, i've either had a stroke or i lost a quarter down a hornets' nest and am trying to dig it out. either way, call 911). that's just me. call me spoiled. call me whatever. i am just playing with the cards that i've been dealt in the best way i know how.
same as immigrant workers. same as stephen colbert. same as the little girl in the propaghandi song that inspired these thoughts today. the little girl doesn't remind me of me. my mom has found problems as she's gotten older, but rarely did she exhibit any behavior (other than her choice in dudes) at home when i was a kid that i felt like i had to run away from. i and my brother were sheltered for a long time from the financial difficulties that come with being a single mom. we were sheltered from the early signs of the depressive state that has captured and imprisoned her for many, many years now. we were sheltered for a long time from her poor choice in dudes. she did what she could, playing with the cards she had been dealt.
not everyone in this world is as lucky as i was and am. this world is a filthy, filthy place. if we choose to see it, we can see it online and on our televisions and in our newspapers and magazines. people are mistreated. children are born into situations that will haunt and pervert every day of their life, no matter how strong they are.
and yet, we show so little patience. we don't want to see what comes next. we flip the channel. we expect things to happen as fast as we want them to. stimulate me now. satisfy me now. 30 weeks? how much longer is it going to take to make this worthwhile for me?
colbert, after hearing the last question that would be posed to him during his testimony, stepped out of his made-for-tv character and didn't quote scripture as much as he identified where he fit into the issue by citing the context of matthew 25:40, the "least of these..." passage. naturally, rather than listening to his sentiment, his detractors poked holes in his means. "he says bad words". "he isn't really a practicing catholic. how could he be? he's friends with jon stewart." "this is the best that congress can do? a comedian?"
it's this type of mentality that is destroying our human connections. rather than finding the common-ness between humans and working for the betterment of us all, we nitpick from our comfort(zone)able chairs.
raise your hand if you hate immigrant workers as people?
...
raise your hand if you think illicit drug use is a good thing?
...
raise your hand if you like the state of birmingham's city schools?
...
raise your hand if you like abandoned children?
...
raise your hand if you think you are better than any one person on the face of the planet?
...
confusing the issue(s) with the means by which the issue is raised or argued is a time-honored tradition.
doesn't make it right.
"i know that sinking feeling all too fucking well." and yet, our lives go on despite the fact, our common sense lies fucked up on the cement.
(part ten)
((incalculable effects))
"she said she just turned six. she's got some good jokes for a kid. she's working hard to avoid a woman bleeding from her teeth...i know that sinking feeling all too fucking well. shame, frustration setting it. confusion that eats us inside out...i don't know what's wrong with me. i don't know why she can't wake up...her life goes on despite the fact her mom lies fucked up on the cement."
stephen colbert has taken some grief from people that take themselves way too seriously over the past few days since his testimony before congress on behalf of immigrant workers last friday, sept. 24th. the serious people seemed to think that the comedian coming before congress in character as the ultra-conservative champion of "truthiness" made a mockery out of the very real issue of immigrant workers' lack of rights and drew more attention to himself than those he was supposed to be lobbying on behalf of.
in some dark, dark world, in a universe removed from reality far, far away, i suppose i can see their point. what does this comedian know about immigrant workers? his entire shtick was borne out of one whole day of real labor. but in that one day lies the sad truth that politicians are not able to own. colbert's one day was one more day than the vast majority of those that are up in arms for or against more rights for immigrant workers will ever put into the "fields" of america.
count me in that vast majority. i can't tell you how much i never want to plant something that i would eventually eat. hell, i can hardly stand the thought of cooking something that someone else has harvested for me. i am the opposite of do it yourself in most instances. i take advantage of specialists, regardless of industry, found in the yellow pages any and every time i or sarah can't figure out how to stop water from dripping out of the faucet or a river running out of our air conditioning closet or how to make our grass as lovely looking as the neighbor's (a guy i have seen on his belly in his yard pulling weeds. are you kidding me? if you ever see me belly-down in my yard, i've either had a stroke or i lost a quarter down a hornets' nest and am trying to dig it out. either way, call 911). that's just me. call me spoiled. call me whatever. i am just playing with the cards that i've been dealt in the best way i know how.
same as immigrant workers. same as stephen colbert. same as the little girl in the propaghandi song that inspired these thoughts today. the little girl doesn't remind me of me. my mom has found problems as she's gotten older, but rarely did she exhibit any behavior (other than her choice in dudes) at home when i was a kid that i felt like i had to run away from. i and my brother were sheltered for a long time from the financial difficulties that come with being a single mom. we were sheltered from the early signs of the depressive state that has captured and imprisoned her for many, many years now. we were sheltered for a long time from her poor choice in dudes. she did what she could, playing with the cards she had been dealt.
not everyone in this world is as lucky as i was and am. this world is a filthy, filthy place. if we choose to see it, we can see it online and on our televisions and in our newspapers and magazines. people are mistreated. children are born into situations that will haunt and pervert every day of their life, no matter how strong they are.
and yet, we show so little patience. we don't want to see what comes next. we flip the channel. we expect things to happen as fast as we want them to. stimulate me now. satisfy me now. 30 weeks? how much longer is it going to take to make this worthwhile for me?
colbert, after hearing the last question that would be posed to him during his testimony, stepped out of his made-for-tv character and didn't quote scripture as much as he identified where he fit into the issue by citing the context of matthew 25:40, the "least of these..." passage. naturally, rather than listening to his sentiment, his detractors poked holes in his means. "he says bad words". "he isn't really a practicing catholic. how could he be? he's friends with jon stewart." "this is the best that congress can do? a comedian?"
it's this type of mentality that is destroying our human connections. rather than finding the common-ness between humans and working for the betterment of us all, we nitpick from our comfort(zone)able chairs.
raise your hand if you hate immigrant workers as people?
...
raise your hand if you think illicit drug use is a good thing?
...
raise your hand if you like the state of birmingham's city schools?
...
raise your hand if you like abandoned children?
...
raise your hand if you think you are better than any one person on the face of the planet?
...
confusing the issue(s) with the means by which the issue is raised or argued is a time-honored tradition.
doesn't make it right.
"i know that sinking feeling all too fucking well." and yet, our lives go on despite the fact, our common sense lies fucked up on the cement.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
the end of the world
(part nine)
((without love))
(((hannah and caroline and me)))
((((part thirty-seven))))
(((((caroline turns three)))))
"is breathing just the ticking of an unwanted clock counting down the time it takes for you to comprehend the sheer magnitude of every single precious breath you've ever wasted?"
"time flies by."
or does it?
"it doesn't seem possible."
spoken by someone that lives a long way away.
"we can't believe she's so grown up either."
even her parents aren't paying attention!
i am being snarky, obviously, but this "time flies by" sentiment, well, i just don't buy into it anymore. for, right or wrong, to use a very predictable sports metaphor, everything slowed down for me last summer.
i mean, really, that's life anyway. or experience. or time served. or whatever. once you do something long enough, you get better at it unless you are intentionally sabotaging your own efforts. you see where "the blitzes" are coming from. you can "audible" around the obstacles. life, just like sports, slows down and you are better at it.
along with that, you hope to become more appreciative of it, too.
"all in nature ends in tragedy and i was the first to finally fade away from my grandfather's memory..."
these types of things happen way the fuck too often. i saw a commercial yesterday that said a woman was diagnosed with breast cancer every THREE MINUTES. is that fucking right? jesus. every three minutes, someone, some human that we share this earth with's life and their mindview is completely turned on it's head. and that's just from breast cancer. that doesn't count kidney cancer, or any other (fuck you) cancer or heart disease or stroke or alzheimer's or name that nasty/messed up anomaly that can happen to the human body. we go tripping along the light fantastic until life smashes us in the face. we are left to reimagine our foundation or hope that the one we had before the beating was strong enough to hold, strong enough to rebuild on top of. sometimes, it is. sometimes, it's not.
it took a couple years for a caroline to give a shit about who i was and deem me cool enough to share her air. thus, this birthday was pretty special for me and her. not that i went out of my way to do anything especially memorable. i didn't dress up as a clown and melt her face with fear. i didn't bring an elephant to her party. she did seem genuinely excited to share things with me, though, and that is pretty majestic.
in my eyes, caroline is a really old three year old. time hasn't flown by. it's gone by just the way it should have. slow and agonizing at times. breathy and easy at times. borderline orgasmic when she and her sister are playing with each other on the floor or laughing together or giving her parents a small window into the future and what will certainly be adventure after adventure after pregnancy (hopefully, not) and adventure.
"so much misery. so much indifference. so much suffering...this world is nothing more than what we make of it..."
you know, i don't really know shit about anything. but i would argue that life only moves too fast when we are looking backwards. in the now, a second is always a second. 60 seconds make a minute. 60 minutes make an hour. then it takes 24 damn hours to make even one day. that's a long-ass time. if you let it be that.
this world, our lives are nothing more than what we make of it. effing cheesy, really.
but true. here is to a beautiful little girl that, along with her sister and mother and my friends make my life go by just fast/slow enough.
"...too bad this child looks nothing like her daddy, ...right?"
i am so sorry. but happy birthday anyway, caroline.
(part nine)
((without love))
(((hannah and caroline and me)))
((((part thirty-seven))))
(((((caroline turns three)))))
"is breathing just the ticking of an unwanted clock counting down the time it takes for you to comprehend the sheer magnitude of every single precious breath you've ever wasted?"
"time flies by."
or does it?
"it doesn't seem possible."
spoken by someone that lives a long way away.
"we can't believe she's so grown up either."
even her parents aren't paying attention!
i am being snarky, obviously, but this "time flies by" sentiment, well, i just don't buy into it anymore. for, right or wrong, to use a very predictable sports metaphor, everything slowed down for me last summer.
i mean, really, that's life anyway. or experience. or time served. or whatever. once you do something long enough, you get better at it unless you are intentionally sabotaging your own efforts. you see where "the blitzes" are coming from. you can "audible" around the obstacles. life, just like sports, slows down and you are better at it.
along with that, you hope to become more appreciative of it, too.
"all in nature ends in tragedy and i was the first to finally fade away from my grandfather's memory..."
these types of things happen way the fuck too often. i saw a commercial yesterday that said a woman was diagnosed with breast cancer every THREE MINUTES. is that fucking right? jesus. every three minutes, someone, some human that we share this earth with's life and their mindview is completely turned on it's head. and that's just from breast cancer. that doesn't count kidney cancer, or any other (fuck you) cancer or heart disease or stroke or alzheimer's or name that nasty/messed up anomaly that can happen to the human body. we go tripping along the light fantastic until life smashes us in the face. we are left to reimagine our foundation or hope that the one we had before the beating was strong enough to hold, strong enough to rebuild on top of. sometimes, it is. sometimes, it's not.
it took a couple years for a caroline to give a shit about who i was and deem me cool enough to share her air. thus, this birthday was pretty special for me and her. not that i went out of my way to do anything especially memorable. i didn't dress up as a clown and melt her face with fear. i didn't bring an elephant to her party. she did seem genuinely excited to share things with me, though, and that is pretty majestic.
in my eyes, caroline is a really old three year old. time hasn't flown by. it's gone by just the way it should have. slow and agonizing at times. breathy and easy at times. borderline orgasmic when she and her sister are playing with each other on the floor or laughing together or giving her parents a small window into the future and what will certainly be adventure after adventure after pregnancy (hopefully, not) and adventure.
"so much misery. so much indifference. so much suffering...this world is nothing more than what we make of it..."
you know, i don't really know shit about anything. but i would argue that life only moves too fast when we are looking backwards. in the now, a second is always a second. 60 seconds make a minute. 60 minutes make an hour. then it takes 24 damn hours to make even one day. that's a long-ass time. if you let it be that.
this world, our lives are nothing more than what we make of it. effing cheesy, really.
but true. here is to a beautiful little girl that, along with her sister and mother and my friends make my life go by just fast/slow enough.
"...too bad this child looks nothing like her daddy, ...right?"
i am so sorry. but happy birthday anyway, caroline.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
the end of the world
(part eight)
((the funeral procession))
"But I feel like I knew his pain...or mechanical failure while enduring the norm, some of us fracture, others simply deform and lose their elasticity never to return to the shape they were. I wonder which is worse."
whether you like it or not, propagandhi believes in the same sense of interconnectedness that any church-going, "christian" reader of this blog does. we o'kelleys probably call this sense the holy spirit.
the muslims (let's call them "the something racists") down the street from us believe in the holy spirit too, but in a different way than o'kelley christians. "the something racists" also believe that angels are lurking around, too, logging our every action, interceding on our behalf and pulling souls out of dead corpses and delivering them to the soul patrol somewhere over the rainbow. extrapolate these minor differences out and combine them with the controversy of the ground-zero mosque, and, well, we wouldn't want to have lunch with "the something racists", right? yeah, me either.
speaking of lunch, in the past fifty or so years, charlie down at the other end of the street and his hindu buddies have been talking about not eating the flesh of any other animal. well, i am pretty sure i have heard that the holy spirit loves hamburgers, so i am also pretty sure that charlie down at the other end of the street and his hindu buddies don't even believe in the holy spirit. i could be wrong, but i am probably right.
and then there's whatshisname. we call him whatshisname because that's what his mother calls him. or so he tells me that's what she calls him. whatshisname doesn't live on our street, but he's standing at the end of it at the bus stop every morning. whatshisname talks to his dog and swears that his dog told him that what we think of as the holy spirit is really just jerry garcia and the dog is sure that jerry garcia has been communicating with all of us from purgatory since that fateful august day in 1995. the o'kelleys see the jerry garcia as holy spirit argument as borderline brilliant mixed with a fairly apropos public service announcement to not take too much acid (in moderation, of course).
based solely on my experiences with propagandhi, in the o'kelley house, kicking with joe "the something racist", hanging with charlie or trying to avoid whatshisname, it seems like there are a lot of ideas out there for that weird-ass sense of interconnectedness.
obviously, if we chose to be rational about it, we could embrace our "neighbors" and love them the best way we know how.
that, of course, would be retarded.
what we'd rather do is embrace, not our "neighbors", but the crazy. embrace the crazy that is breaking up people into groups based on everything from age to color to college football favorite team to what i eat to what they drink to what music you listen to what words that are coming out of my mouth to how much money they make to how bad those homeless guys smell to if you like apricots to fucking whatever other delineating factor you and jerry garcia can come up with.
embrace that crazy and get upset at something that you can't put your finger on. you may call what you are upset at "kevin o'kelley" and his filthy mouth. but, you aren't mad at me.
you are mad at something else, but you either can't put your finger on it or you refuse to.
and here is where o'kelley "christians" are different. i'll look at the back of the box with you. i don't know what ails this world and this world's people and this world's churches, but i'll work with you to try and figure it out...together.
we are all interconnected.
"i feel like i knew his pain."
of course we do. we all feel the same pain.
celebrate the connections. or embrace the crazy.
your call.
(part eight)
((the funeral procession))
"But I feel like I knew his pain...or mechanical failure while enduring the norm, some of us fracture, others simply deform and lose their elasticity never to return to the shape they were. I wonder which is worse."
whether you like it or not, propagandhi believes in the same sense of interconnectedness that any church-going, "christian" reader of this blog does. we o'kelleys probably call this sense the holy spirit.
the muslims (let's call them "the something racists") down the street from us believe in the holy spirit too, but in a different way than o'kelley christians. "the something racists" also believe that angels are lurking around, too, logging our every action, interceding on our behalf and pulling souls out of dead corpses and delivering them to the soul patrol somewhere over the rainbow. extrapolate these minor differences out and combine them with the controversy of the ground-zero mosque, and, well, we wouldn't want to have lunch with "the something racists", right? yeah, me either.
speaking of lunch, in the past fifty or so years, charlie down at the other end of the street and his hindu buddies have been talking about not eating the flesh of any other animal. well, i am pretty sure i have heard that the holy spirit loves hamburgers, so i am also pretty sure that charlie down at the other end of the street and his hindu buddies don't even believe in the holy spirit. i could be wrong, but i am probably right.
and then there's whatshisname. we call him whatshisname because that's what his mother calls him. or so he tells me that's what she calls him. whatshisname doesn't live on our street, but he's standing at the end of it at the bus stop every morning. whatshisname talks to his dog and swears that his dog told him that what we think of as the holy spirit is really just jerry garcia and the dog is sure that jerry garcia has been communicating with all of us from purgatory since that fateful august day in 1995. the o'kelleys see the jerry garcia as holy spirit argument as borderline brilliant mixed with a fairly apropos public service announcement to not take too much acid (in moderation, of course).
based solely on my experiences with propagandhi, in the o'kelley house, kicking with joe "the something racist", hanging with charlie or trying to avoid whatshisname, it seems like there are a lot of ideas out there for that weird-ass sense of interconnectedness.
obviously, if we chose to be rational about it, we could embrace our "neighbors" and love them the best way we know how.
that, of course, would be retarded.
what we'd rather do is embrace, not our "neighbors", but the crazy. embrace the crazy that is breaking up people into groups based on everything from age to color to college football favorite team to what i eat to what they drink to what music you listen to what words that are coming out of my mouth to how much money they make to how bad those homeless guys smell to if you like apricots to fucking whatever other delineating factor you and jerry garcia can come up with.
embrace that crazy and get upset at something that you can't put your finger on. you may call what you are upset at "kevin o'kelley" and his filthy mouth. but, you aren't mad at me.
you are mad at something else, but you either can't put your finger on it or you refuse to.
and here is where o'kelley "christians" are different. i'll look at the back of the box with you. i don't know what ails this world and this world's people and this world's churches, but i'll work with you to try and figure it out...together.
we are all interconnected.
"i feel like i knew his pain."
of course we do. we all feel the same pain.
celebrate the connections. or embrace the crazy.
your call.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
the end of the world
(intermission)
(intermission)
effective advocacy 101
everyone knows that the first rule of effective advocacy is to not insult people. this rule is especially important in terms of advocating on behalf of animals, mostly due to the fact that meat-eaters tend to cry and whine like a bunch of fuckin' shitty babies when you pull down the diapers of their revolting lifestyle. haha, just kidding. calm down babies.
no, for example though, you wouldn't want to use terms like "moronic", "self-absorbed", "chickenshit" or "disgusting slob" when describing self-professed "radicals" who insist on killing defenseless animals for food while a perfectly good supply of pimps, stockbrokers, crooked cops, politicians and habs fans (editor's note: he's canadian, therefore you can probably disregard his opinions as, well, canadian) - among other sociopathic sources of protein - range freely throughout our communities on a daily basis. no, you wouldn't want to say something like that. that would be considered 'counter-productive'.
you also wouldn't want to walk up and down the back lanes of you kentucky fried city slicing the throats of your neighbors' pets only to dismiss the community's subsequent outrage as "childish sentimentality", "infantile anthropomorphism" or "cultural imperialism". that would be considered 'anti-social'.
and you really, really, really, reeaaalllly wouldn't want to set fire to a slaughterhouse or a fur store or a whaling-vessel or an under-construction hog-barn because...well, i can't actually think of a good reason why you shouldn't do that (besides life in prison). but you get the point. it's all about effective advocacy.
so here i am! at your service! ready and willing to ensure that people who already know better aren't made to feel guilty about their stupid, selfish, unimaginably cruel choices! besides, haven't you heard? vegetarians are 'classist'. at least that's what all the white college kids are saying when they fly home for thanksgiving dinner! haha, asswipes. you'll be the first ones i eat when i finally snap. you fuckin' posers. whoops! where was i? oh yeah, effective advocacy...
but seriously folks, every social movement has its peanut gallery. in fact, i believe every serious social movement needs its peanut gallery, and when it comes to the movement against the egomaniacal cruelty humans perpetually visit upon animals, you can sign me up for season tickets and a very big fuckin' bag of the blessed arachis hypogaea (ed: peanuts) to go along with my top-hat and monocle.
and while it may be true that i take great pleasure in ridiculingmoronsrad dudes who eat animal corpses and their reproductive secretions, it's important for me to be clear that veganism isn't about purity or superiority. it's simply about extending moral consideration to other inhabitants of a complex planet in a morally-ambivalent universe where, despite the statistical improbability of it all, we earthlings (humans and non-human) appear to be the only instance of sentient life that is or ever has been.
that's some heavy shit.
and seriously, if we as a society can't even bother to treat a simple, unassuming, stunningly gentle and demonstrably sentient creature like a cow or a deer with a modicum of decency, how the fuck do we ever expect to be able to treat each other - infinitely more complex, wildly divergent and often exasperating individual human beings - with anything even remotely resembling civility? it just aint' gonna happen.
so, with that in mind, and in the spirit of the first rule of effective advocacy, i leave you with this short list of potentially transformative resources, created by better and more effective advocates for animals than myself. and see? i didn't even have to insult you to make my point after all.fuck are you ugly.
read:
making a killing: the political economy of animal rights by bob torres
dead meat by sue coe
animal liberation by peter singer
the sexual politics of meat by carol j. adams
thank you and good day.
jesus h. chris
propagandhi
Saturday, August 07, 2010
the end of the world
(part seven)
((potemkin city limits))
"francis didn't a give fuck about the rollbacks, over-production, reduced demand. never gave a much thought to disputed contracts...fourth quarter earning expectations, expedited their demise...when the screaming began, francis shut his eyes and felt the hand of the humanity brush over him..."
"Choose Life. Choose a job. Choose a career. Choose a family. Choose a fucking big television, choose washing machines, cars, compact disc players and electrical tin openers. Choose good health, low cholesterol, and dental insurance. Choose fixed interest mortgage repayments. Choose a starter home. Choose your friends. Choose leisurewear and matching luggage. Choose a three-piece suit on hire purchase in a range of fucking fabrics. Choose DIY and wondering who the fuck you are on Sunday morning. Choose sitting on that couch watching mind-numbing, spirit-crushing game shows, stuffing fucking junk food into your mouth. Choose rotting away at the end of it all, pissing your last in a miserable home, nothing more than an embarrassment to the selfish, fucked up brats you spawned to replace yourselves. Choose your future. Choose life... But why would I want to do a thing like that?" - trainspotting
it's the age old story of the modern man. get up. go to work. come home. hug the kids. kiss the wife. watch something mindless on television. lay in bed. look at the ceiling. wonder why you feel so unhappy. fall asleep watching the fan blades turn, turn, turn. wake up. it's 2 am. wonder why your neck hurts. shake your arm awake. fall asleep. alarm goes off. rinse. repeat. repeat. repeat. repeat. work for the weekend. get there. it goes too fast. your team wins. your team loses. doesn't matter. go to church. sing a song. leave wondering what "all of this" really is. it's monday again...
this is probably my second favorite song on the record. it's got everything i want in a ripping punk song. breakneck pace. thoughtful message. just enough catchiness to bring me back for more over and over again.
if you've worked a day in your life and have ever felt like you have been placed or placed yourself into a structure or system you have absolutely no power to change, you can relate.
for too many of us, our legacy is written for us before we were even born. our parents have made our decisions for us. we'll go to school. we'll get a job. we'll have a family. we won't break rules. we'll live by and through someone else's moral contract. we didn't have a say. when we dare speak out against the understood order, we are pushed back into place.
keep working dammit.
stop looking around you. there is NOTHING FOR YOU TO SEE HERE.
keep having children.
you can't be friends with this person. what will people say?
don't question that person. they're 80. they are wise and must be right.
haven't you read the bible? god fucking said so, bro! you can't question the almighty. sweet jesus. what the fuck do you think "made in his image" means anyway? that you get to think for yourself??? fucking retard.
francis, in this song, is everyman. there is a point in his life where "the storylines... bridge the chasms between cognition and belief" and "for five months he ran free" and he feels "...his mother's loving eyes upon him" and "he made it farther than she did", but "a quarter mile before the city limits", "they finally captured him".
at the end of it all, atombstone statue is erected in our honor and we are laid to rest. if we are lucky, one pithy statement is etched on our statue to define our entire life's legacy for those that stumble upon us. we have served our purpose as a cog in someone else's machine.
"turn around, i'm gone."
fuck.
that.
(part seven)
((potemkin city limits))
"francis didn't a give fuck about the rollbacks, over-production, reduced demand. never gave a much thought to disputed contracts...fourth quarter earning expectations, expedited their demise...when the screaming began, francis shut his eyes and felt the hand of the humanity brush over him..."
"Choose Life. Choose a job. Choose a career. Choose a family. Choose a fucking big television, choose washing machines, cars, compact disc players and electrical tin openers. Choose good health, low cholesterol, and dental insurance. Choose fixed interest mortgage repayments. Choose a starter home. Choose your friends. Choose leisurewear and matching luggage. Choose a three-piece suit on hire purchase in a range of fucking fabrics. Choose DIY and wondering who the fuck you are on Sunday morning. Choose sitting on that couch watching mind-numbing, spirit-crushing game shows, stuffing fucking junk food into your mouth. Choose rotting away at the end of it all, pissing your last in a miserable home, nothing more than an embarrassment to the selfish, fucked up brats you spawned to replace yourselves. Choose your future. Choose life... But why would I want to do a thing like that?" - trainspotting
it's the age old story of the modern man. get up. go to work. come home. hug the kids. kiss the wife. watch something mindless on television. lay in bed. look at the ceiling. wonder why you feel so unhappy. fall asleep watching the fan blades turn, turn, turn. wake up. it's 2 am. wonder why your neck hurts. shake your arm awake. fall asleep. alarm goes off. rinse. repeat. repeat. repeat. repeat. work for the weekend. get there. it goes too fast. your team wins. your team loses. doesn't matter. go to church. sing a song. leave wondering what "all of this" really is. it's monday again...
this is probably my second favorite song on the record. it's got everything i want in a ripping punk song. breakneck pace. thoughtful message. just enough catchiness to bring me back for more over and over again.
if you've worked a day in your life and have ever felt like you have been placed or placed yourself into a structure or system you have absolutely no power to change, you can relate.
for too many of us, our legacy is written for us before we were even born. our parents have made our decisions for us. we'll go to school. we'll get a job. we'll have a family. we won't break rules. we'll live by and through someone else's moral contract. we didn't have a say. when we dare speak out against the understood order, we are pushed back into place.
keep working dammit.
stop looking around you. there is NOTHING FOR YOU TO SEE HERE.
keep having children.
you can't be friends with this person. what will people say?
don't question that person. they're 80. they are wise and must be right.
haven't you read the bible? god fucking said so, bro! you can't question the almighty. sweet jesus. what the fuck do you think "made in his image" means anyway? that you get to think for yourself??? fucking retard.
francis, in this song, is everyman. there is a point in his life where "the storylines... bridge the chasms between cognition and belief" and "for five months he ran free" and he feels "...his mother's loving eyes upon him" and "he made it farther than she did", but "a quarter mile before the city limits", "they finally captured him".
at the end of it all, a
"turn around, i'm gone."
fuck.
that.
Tuesday, August 03, 2010
the end of the world
(part six)
((human(e) meat - the flensing of sandor katz))
"'cuz i believe that one can only relate with another living creature by completely destroying it"
(the following resumes a series last seen around these parts fourteen months ago)
listening to propagandhi on the way home this afternoon reminded me that i left this little series dangling last year around the time i got my, you know, "news". seriously, fuck cancer. moving on...
if you've never heard of sandor katz, you're life is no worse off because of it. here is his wiki page. not much too it, right? the fact that he's a culinary author holds no interest to me. his only mark on my life will be that he inspired the best band in the world to write this righteous song.
while the song riffs and finds humor in the idea of "being one with the food you eat", there is also a deeper message to be found.
i am the worst at this. i'll go ahead and admit it. internally or out loud, how many of us are guilty of tearing down our neighbor to feel better about ourselves? this blog stands guilty as the vast majority of its posts are doing just that. i throw the word "hate" around like it's candy. i talk about things and people being "terrible" and "worthless" and accuse fellow humans of being bad to worse than bad people, pastors and workers. me acknowledging my guilt doesn't make we want to stop tearing others down. it just, say it with me, IS WHAT IT IS.
removed from the comfortable walls of HACAM, though, i am usually more sensible. and patient. and kind. when someone offers a, in my opinion, terrible idea, i don't call them stupid to their face. i usually nod my head, try to process where their opinion is coming from and relate to them on some common ground. it's only several days later when i find myself in front of my computer will i completely obliterate the idea with some subtle sleight of hand via wordplay that infers one thing when it usually is poking somewhere else. even then, though, by the time those days have passed, i usually don't care about the stupid idea any more and write about the (horrible) girls or the (terrible) braves or (worthless) alabama football. most stuff thrown up against the wall that is me doesn't stick. and if it does, i'll be damned if i show you that it affected me.
our society (that term is big and vague enough, right?) rules at "relating to" other "living creatures by completely destroying" them, doesn't it?
lebron "sucks" 'cuz he didn't stay in cleveland, so we offer our loyalties to the more innocent kevin durant, who, as far as we know, hasn't spurned anybody yet.
marcel dareus is "stupid" because he couldn't resist whatever temptations were luring him to some party in miami in the offseason, leading to his hurting himself and his team while suspended indefinitely.
yunel escobar is "cocky" because his flair and his game doesn't really mesh with the redneck and white nucleus (think about it...huddy, chipper, mccann, lowe, wagner) of that braves ball team.
obama, god love him, can do no right at this point. the boondocks has done a wonderfully deft job of insightfully satirizing how the hope and change of his platform is now being held against him, his opposition casually lobbing "what have you done for me lately" grenades at him from the sidelines or rival newsdesks.
"i believe that one can only relate with another living creature by completely destroying it."
"be careful what kind of world you wish for. someday, it may come knocking on your door."
(part six)
((human(e) meat - the flensing of sandor katz))
"'cuz i believe that one can only relate with another living creature by completely destroying it"
(the following resumes a series last seen around these parts fourteen months ago)
listening to propagandhi on the way home this afternoon reminded me that i left this little series dangling last year around the time i got my, you know, "news". seriously, fuck cancer. moving on...
if you've never heard of sandor katz, you're life is no worse off because of it. here is his wiki page. not much too it, right? the fact that he's a culinary author holds no interest to me. his only mark on my life will be that he inspired the best band in the world to write this righteous song.
while the song riffs and finds humor in the idea of "being one with the food you eat", there is also a deeper message to be found.
i am the worst at this. i'll go ahead and admit it. internally or out loud, how many of us are guilty of tearing down our neighbor to feel better about ourselves? this blog stands guilty as the vast majority of its posts are doing just that. i throw the word "hate" around like it's candy. i talk about things and people being "terrible" and "worthless" and accuse fellow humans of being bad to worse than bad people, pastors and workers. me acknowledging my guilt doesn't make we want to stop tearing others down. it just, say it with me, IS WHAT IT IS.
removed from the comfortable walls of HACAM, though, i am usually more sensible. and patient. and kind. when someone offers a, in my opinion, terrible idea, i don't call them stupid to their face. i usually nod my head, try to process where their opinion is coming from and relate to them on some common ground. it's only several days later when i find myself in front of my computer will i completely obliterate the idea with some subtle sleight of hand via wordplay that infers one thing when it usually is poking somewhere else. even then, though, by the time those days have passed, i usually don't care about the stupid idea any more and write about the (horrible) girls or the (terrible) braves or (worthless) alabama football. most stuff thrown up against the wall that is me doesn't stick. and if it does, i'll be damned if i show you that it affected me.
our society (that term is big and vague enough, right?) rules at "relating to" other "living creatures by completely destroying" them, doesn't it?
lebron "sucks" 'cuz he didn't stay in cleveland, so we offer our loyalties to the more innocent kevin durant, who, as far as we know, hasn't spurned anybody yet.
marcel dareus is "stupid" because he couldn't resist whatever temptations were luring him to some party in miami in the offseason, leading to his hurting himself and his team while suspended indefinitely.
yunel escobar is "cocky" because his flair and his game doesn't really mesh with the redneck and white nucleus (think about it...huddy, chipper, mccann, lowe, wagner) of that braves ball team.
obama, god love him, can do no right at this point. the boondocks has done a wonderfully deft job of insightfully satirizing how the hope and change of his platform is now being held against him, his opposition casually lobbing "what have you done for me lately" grenades at him from the sidelines or rival newsdesks.
"i believe that one can only relate with another living creature by completely destroying it."
"be careful what kind of world you wish for. someday, it may come knocking on your door."
Sunday, September 27, 2009
all the world is a symptom
so, why has HACAM become so hit and miss again after getting back into the swing of things last month?
well, the embarrassing and easy answer is because i can't work myself up to write much these days. it's not that i don't want to. i really do. but the last few weeks have been tough, and i am mired in something that i don't know how to get out of just yet.
i want to write to "you" about my new glasses.
what is that feeling in my back?
i want to write more about football.
wait a second. i've never seen that mole before.
i want to sing the praises of the braves that have won, like, 25 games in a row since i wrote them off and still are playing relevant games during the last week of the season.
why am i dizzy?
i want to write about my girls. when's the last time i churned out a "hannah and caroline and me" post?
has that lump always been there?
i saw inglourious basterds and loved it. you wouldn't know it from visiting this site, though.
are those floaters that i am seeing?
i just bought brand new's daisy. after several listens, it's rivaling "the end of the world" for my album of the year (not so difficult this year since i've purchased less than ten records in 2009. pathetic.).
jesus christ. am i dizzy again?
fringe and the office are back. and yet, there's only a tiny part of me that gives a flip.
(types webmd.com again...clicks on "symptom checker") yep. brain tumor. that's the other shoe.
sarah asked me the other afternoon how much time during my day i wasn't thinking about the random things going on in my body. i told her less than five percent. that's probably being generous. i am constantly thinking about it. and by "constantly", i mean always. and by "always", i mean every waking second. i am not thinking about my girls. or my friends. or the halloween carnival. or playing softball. or alabama football. or the braves. or anything else. ever. because i am scared. to death. of something.
is it death? maybe. separation from my family and friends...or god? probably. something else entirely? just anxiety that's going to seem like a big joke six months or a year from now? damn...i hope so.
it is killing me right now. eating away at my soul. and i can't say it out loud. not as much as i feel it, because when people ask me (knowing what i went through during the summer) "how are you feeling?", they don't have the wont or the time to hear the real answer. that i feel like i am going crazy. that i feel like i've never felt before, and i want to get out. that if i was honest with the inquiring mind, i would probably start crying. it's not fair to those folks that have been thinking about me and praying for me. i've been a burden on them for too long already. i am thankful you don't live in the same house with me and see me during my lowest points. sarah and the girls spent the night away last night. i was a basketcase. i dozed for two hours (maybe), tops. and that was on accident. i woke up to the same sensations that i laid down with. i should be stronger than this, right?
this i know. i could go to my doctor and tell him all this (again). i could convince him to scan my head or my body and give me the visible evidence the pathology report suggested. i could make them show me they didn't "miss something" or that something hasn't been growing someplace they didn't look back in july even though the report says that what i had didn't go anywhere. i could do that. and i may, still, have to to escape having to admit myself into a psychiatric unit. but how long would that last? how long would i give that information its right credit? when would it's worth expire? a couple months? six? a year? do i really want to be "that guy" that has to pay out of pocket for co-pays and scans for the rest of his life for peace of mind, or can i just trust my doctor and those that love me and are privy to the same medical information i am and know that i should be and am ok. i want to be the latter. i do.
but i am a mess right now.
and i don't know what to do with it all.
on the surface, i look fine (other than this terrible-ass excuse for a beard). my scars have healed. i've got most of my weight back. i'm working. exercising. playing. faking a smile.
below the surface, something wicked this way will come. maybe in a few minutes at church. maybe later. but, it'll come. in the form of a dizzy feeling or tweak in my back or a sensation in my leg. and i am going to freak out about it.
i am sorry. this post is much more self-serving than most. i don't need you to feel sorry for me. i just need you to know. so, i don't have to tell you out loud and waste any more of your time.
this is homework. this is for me to read later today and tomorrow. this is me looking in the mirror and trying to move forward.
this is getting old.
so, why has HACAM become so hit and miss again after getting back into the swing of things last month?
well, the embarrassing and easy answer is because i can't work myself up to write much these days. it's not that i don't want to. i really do. but the last few weeks have been tough, and i am mired in something that i don't know how to get out of just yet.
i want to write to "you" about my new glasses.
what is that feeling in my back?
i want to write more about football.
wait a second. i've never seen that mole before.
i want to sing the praises of the braves that have won, like, 25 games in a row since i wrote them off and still are playing relevant games during the last week of the season.
why am i dizzy?
i want to write about my girls. when's the last time i churned out a "hannah and caroline and me" post?
has that lump always been there?
i saw inglourious basterds and loved it. you wouldn't know it from visiting this site, though.
are those floaters that i am seeing?
i just bought brand new's daisy. after several listens, it's rivaling "the end of the world" for my album of the year (not so difficult this year since i've purchased less than ten records in 2009. pathetic.).
jesus christ. am i dizzy again?
fringe and the office are back. and yet, there's only a tiny part of me that gives a flip.
(types webmd.com again...clicks on "symptom checker") yep. brain tumor. that's the other shoe.
sarah asked me the other afternoon how much time during my day i wasn't thinking about the random things going on in my body. i told her less than five percent. that's probably being generous. i am constantly thinking about it. and by "constantly", i mean always. and by "always", i mean every waking second. i am not thinking about my girls. or my friends. or the halloween carnival. or playing softball. or alabama football. or the braves. or anything else. ever. because i am scared. to death. of something.
is it death? maybe. separation from my family and friends...or god? probably. something else entirely? just anxiety that's going to seem like a big joke six months or a year from now? damn...i hope so.
it is killing me right now. eating away at my soul. and i can't say it out loud. not as much as i feel it, because when people ask me (knowing what i went through during the summer) "how are you feeling?", they don't have the wont or the time to hear the real answer. that i feel like i am going crazy. that i feel like i've never felt before, and i want to get out. that if i was honest with the inquiring mind, i would probably start crying. it's not fair to those folks that have been thinking about me and praying for me. i've been a burden on them for too long already. i am thankful you don't live in the same house with me and see me during my lowest points. sarah and the girls spent the night away last night. i was a basketcase. i dozed for two hours (maybe), tops. and that was on accident. i woke up to the same sensations that i laid down with. i should be stronger than this, right?
this i know. i could go to my doctor and tell him all this (again). i could convince him to scan my head or my body and give me the visible evidence the pathology report suggested. i could make them show me they didn't "miss something" or that something hasn't been growing someplace they didn't look back in july even though the report says that what i had didn't go anywhere. i could do that. and i may, still, have to to escape having to admit myself into a psychiatric unit. but how long would that last? how long would i give that information its right credit? when would it's worth expire? a couple months? six? a year? do i really want to be "that guy" that has to pay out of pocket for co-pays and scans for the rest of his life for peace of mind, or can i just trust my doctor and those that love me and are privy to the same medical information i am and know that i should be and am ok. i want to be the latter. i do.
but i am a mess right now.
and i don't know what to do with it all.
on the surface, i look fine (other than this terrible-ass excuse for a beard). my scars have healed. i've got most of my weight back. i'm working. exercising. playing. faking a smile.
below the surface, something wicked this way will come. maybe in a few minutes at church. maybe later. but, it'll come. in the form of a dizzy feeling or tweak in my back or a sensation in my leg. and i am going to freak out about it.
i am sorry. this post is much more self-serving than most. i don't need you to feel sorry for me. i just need you to know. so, i don't have to tell you out loud and waste any more of your time.
this is homework. this is for me to read later today and tomorrow. this is me looking in the mirror and trying to move forward.
this is getting old.
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