Children are YOUR Future

In the age of JS Mill, only interest can compel the individual – in the nomenclature of business, these compulsions are called incentives, the literary vocabulary of spectral state secretaries, carrots. What then of virtue? Surely it too must be driven by ends?

In a bid to upend the liberal virtues of murder and theft, leaders in the culture war have turned to their own brand of incentive-laden morality – children. Sometimes a national duty(think pre-world war threats, now reality, of the Orient overtaking the West in numbers), other times for sources of labour, still others an act of defiance in the face of population control measures, procreation is now for the parent’s benefit.

Before taking that not yet fully-formed innocent’s life, think of the fame, popularity, and esteem you may earn. Note the emphasis on earn, because creating a do-no-wrong, Heisman Trophy-winning, messianic pillar of holistic and mesomorphic health is no easy task. Break them. Socialise them. Do whatever it takes. If you fail, you may have a fat, magic the gatherer on your hands. Or worse, they may be poor. Either case, it’s ultimately your fault.

If you can’t create the ideal, try second best, a soldier. At least then you’ll be responsible for saving lives vicariously through your offspring’s soul-taking of other far more deleterious creatures.

Ideolotik 0: How to Say Absolutely Nothing

At dinner last week amongst the cognoscenti, I witnessed the horror of democracy’s interpersonal vacuity. Awkwardly juxtaposed between specialists, experts, and academics of all stripes, I, still an amateur, found myself frozen in my inability to engage in the simple, free and open discussion. Having hid in the open behind smacking gums and other ameliorants long enough, I wished for someone - Tito, Amin, Chavez, damn near anyone - to come and clampdown on this hideous institution of free speech.

To my awe, the conversation instead continued at full bore, shifting to the dreaded democratic deficit debate. Ordinarily framed within the context of the European Parliament, democratic deficit is supposed to gauge the level of disenfranchisement amongst Europe’s variegated citizens. Pro and anti forces, Hix on one and Moravscik on the other, both believe in its general Existence,

The Arguments: a. it does exist, and it does matter; Europe needs politics –Or- b. it does exist, but it does not matter; Europe is only a supranational administrative state.

The illustrious legal colleague to my right proposed a third frame thusly: as long as there is government, there will be those who disagree with it or c. it exists, it may or may not matter, but it is a subjective fact of politics. The problem with the concept itself, he argued, is that it explains Nothing.

Upon further retrospection, I, the mirror as my witness, staged an intervention après coup. These tiny glass shards are what remain:

Indeed, the democratic deficit explains Nothing. The more words exchanged expose three theoretical lies:

One, any talk of a deficit presupposes an extant, therefore recoverable, idea.

Two, pure democracy and administration are possible.

Three, free speech can mask the abyss.

Some other impersonal examples:

1. In Dark Continent, distinguished Columbia Professor Mark Mazower(another dining partner), in alleged opposition to Eric Hobsbawm (Age of Extremes), asserts that the real struggle in 20th Century Europe was that between democracy and Fascism, before examining, in detail, the 70 year struggle between liberal democracy and communism (with a powdering of Nazism in between). In other words, as much as plebeians and elites, low and high, attempt to codify fascism (the radical right or its plus contents), as democracy’s dialectical abyss, the real Beast is the Left.

2. Since the financial crisis, in an effort to prove democracy’s existence via free speech and increased tolerance, the populist Right is given a mass media voice. The Right is naturalised as a genuine expression of frustration and anomie. Anti-immigration and anti-black presidents are rational, if abhorrent, responses. The two are reciprocal: democracy can level its violent excesses; the Right can prove democracy exists. The head of the British National Party, Nick Griffin is given a TV audience. The Tea Party movement dominates the American political scene.

3. Lee C. Bollinger publishes Uninhibited, Robust, and Wide-Open: A Free Press for a New Century.

4. Democracy continues…

April 13 2009 Baltimore Sun (Obama’s 4th Month) Unofficial Opposition

April 15 2009 Wall Street Journal Unofficial Opposition

April 15 2009 CBS News Unofficial Opposition

September 12 2009 Fox News (Obama’s 9th Month) Unofficial Opposition

December 16 2009 MSNBC News (Obama’s 12th Month) Unofficial Opposition


5. March 20 2003

Iraq’s 2nd Year (Other Countries) NY Times, Official Opposition

Iraq’s 4th Year (USA) CBS News, Official Opposition

The Heritage Card

Bobby Knight's Gary, Indiana Plessy Ferguson's defeated the Atlanta Self-Haters in dramatic fashion yesterday to secure the first ever WOBL(White's Only Basketball League) championship. Finals MVP Chris Mullin scored a game high 6 points to go along with 6 assists, 2 box outs, and 3 taken charges while hard-nosed, soft-spoken guard Bobby Hurley earned All Hustle honours for his basketball IQ and general mastery of the four corner offence.

Centre Jon Koncak had this to say: "I want to dedicate this victory to this once proud country and to the wider fallen idols of Western Civilization. The Kevin Love / Jason Williams combo is definitely a difficult ask. But in the end, I think we showed them the value of thrift, independence, and self-sufficiency. The fervent tea drinking, gun-permit holding, law-abiding crowd just goes to show that separate but equal really works."

Dreams, Finally

“Hello?” a monotone voice sputtered inquisitively through his antediluvian mainframe.

“Ciao”

“This is Gě”

“Gě?”

“It has come to our attention that you have abandoned your post.”

“Oh,” Francesco Basso replied awkwardly.

“Si, um, I, I must have drifted off.”

He had a habit of drifting. There was nothing particularly impetuous in it.

“We also see that you have been in contact with several people in your area about a putative meeting. As you know this abridges any one person’s right to online access.”

“Yes sir” he returned with all the enforced remorse of an unwitting child.

“Return to your unit. The silencer will be dispatched immediately.”

Francesco abandoned the window - today projecting a quiet city block, yesterday Victoria Falls in South africa - and returned to his unit, slipping the rusted earpiece into his better right ear. He typed to his mother about not forgetting to eat something tonight. She had grown especially fond of one of B-G-M’s new programmes and had gotten into the habit of not eating very much. He was afraid she would soon altogether forget. He shuttered at this promise. Most had already succumbed to hunger.

Italy ran through his mind. He thought about football and how he would love to see a game. He knew it was impossible though since B-G-M had banned crowds some 12 years ago. Everything had become impossible.

“If only Il Duce were here” he reminisced.

“He would never have let this happen.”

His thoughts turned to his youth and how, even though all the other boys pined for some or another neophyte sexpot, he loved the older actresses. There was something about black and white. He remembered being swept up in the furore over Mozambique - how they, after all they had suffered, rejected B-G-M’s overtures. How they tried to turn B-G-M’s words in on themselves. He remembered thinking how stupid they all were. Now he wished he was somewhere in Maputo - somewhere with the barbarians.

“Francesco” the voice, calm and comforting, called out.

“Give us your hands.”

He slipped his fingers in the awaiting holster. It closed cold and tight.

He watched as each lopped finger slipped to the floor. The blood shone brightly in the sallow room. Knowing he would never speak again, he passed out content.

War Journal Day 2922

In some ways, they’re perfect for one another. He, a scheming, skulking, obscene oaf of a man, dragging his knuckles to and from work.

Always a trail of blood. It is a wonder how he came to arrive at where he is today. That wobbly, stumpy frame hides no childhood. Some say it’s human nature. Others, capitalism. Neither quite suffice. He juts out unavoidable. At once both promontory - intractable, almost natural - and otherworldly. Nothing that sinister should be explained theoretically. Yet anyone who eats himself out of obscurity deserves pity. What other use could sediment have but to break things – backs, wills, skulls? He works in tandem with gravity. As if it needs any help.

She, a three-ringed acacia, stately and attractive from a distance, loathsome and shrill up close, withered and tender inside.

Always silence. She prefers to dominate more lithely, bloodless. More metaphysically. One feels it in the walls.

He, a rock. She, an undertow.

Neither understand the rules. One assumes that’s why they stare lustily out of the window of their smallish, Cumbrian cottage. He hates women. She has no creativity for love.

One day she’ll flagellate him to death. Then they’ll both get their way.

Cooking My Way through the Gooseberry Patch

The Gooseberry Patch. A single hectare of fertile land, bright blue skies overhead, perfectly-suited for self-reflection and honest-to-god bearing all. Its inspiration stretches in every direction, touches everything. Its very soil bears many delightful earthly treasures. Like the Mediterranean's black truffle or the Atlantic's sea scallop - tins of mushroom soup, succulent handfuls of processed beef, and flattened fingers of dried spaghetti are a plenty. Yet for all its wonders it can be a terribly lonely place. Sometimes I think of Linus' silent suffering but it only makes it more difficult to endure. What I need is community - a vast social network filled with candid and quirky souls. So with my shovel I dig up the spirit of the individual pioneers, oh pioneers, like Julie Powell. And neatly saddled I ride like Elvis on their backs to fame, fortune and notoriety.

Tonight we will dine on Country Meatloaf - a true favourite 'round these parts. Just get yourself a can of mushroom soup, a pound of ground beef, half an onion, your favourite C.S. Lewis title(I'll go with the Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe) and in forty five minutes you'll feel the touch of god's divine hand.

When we're done, Diva's Live(borrowed from my Uncle Charlie) and a tub of Ben & Jerry's. What a perfect start to the Gooseberry New Year!

War Journal Day 2915

The MET is promising us snow tonight. Here’s hoping it is more fruitful than my Christmas. An extra ejaculation at the frontier of this desolate new year. The final gracious, fleeting emulsion for our festive wounds. I will do anything for another day off school. Even speak in front of class. Something reddening. Normally I would rather die then do that. But times are drastic. I didn’t even get everything I asked for this year. All the other children have new appendages. In the year of the gadget I’m the last remaining human. An analogue vestige in the new metallurgic economy. What’s worse, my humiliation is compulsory. Tomorrow I’ll show them.

My Dental Hygenist Says...

I need to floss more.

She is pleased with her newly upgraded digital x-ray machine.

Barack Obama is now vying to become the first ever European Union President.

The Euro will overtake the British Pound, US Dollar, Chinese Yuan, Japanese Yen, and Swiss Franc as the only world currency.

In keeping with the hell-fire and brimstone thematic, according to the Book of Revelation, the Archbishop of Canterbury will depose Rahm Emmanuel and become the Antichrist's new right hand man.

The first order of business under the President's Leap Forward will be to cull the majority of the sick and elderly, thus reverting hu-man to a pre homo sapien state of savage nature.

I wonder if she really meant it when she mentioned she was sick to death of him.

I never was afraid of the dentist before.