General

The 1970s and 1980s are often disparaged by commentators and historians as years of narcissistic, cocaine-fueled times of political ennui and right wing resurgence. While there is certainly an element of truth to this perception, there are certainly other perspectives that are equally valid. Unfortunately for today, these perspectives have been mostly left out of the narrative. Even in the more complete popular histories of the period, like Bruce Shulman’s The Seventies: The Great Shift in American Culture, Society and Politics, tend to accept this context.

It’s been a bit of a gap week or two, since pining in with this sort of catharsis,  but some of us schmucks have to make some really lousy money and attend to some really rotten job hunting in a time of pure delusion, all the while that white noise buzzing, the white static noise of the mush of NPR and mainstream mindlessness and the BS of labor stats and economists who deserve what the SEALs and Obama said what happened to Osama (right, US punk prez, directs US amped-up murder incorporated to shoot to kill, ask no questions later, I don’t need no stinking badge, and then burial at sea, hea

The Solution Is Not Working
Personal visit after breakfast by The Man himself.   Dr. Creed, eyebrows a-flutter, glum.
“When can I get out of here?” I asked.
“When your blood-count stabilizes, you’ll be able to go home and rest.”
“When can I lose this albatross,” I pointed to the machine, my ball-and-chain.
“Give it a couple of days.”
“You asked me about transfusions. Are you going to give me a transfusion?”
Eye brows in overdrive, he paused, sighed.
“The Solution is not working.  I’m sorry.”
“What? Then what?”

Julie Wark has written a manifesto for justice. Simply titled The Human Rights Manifesto, her book examines the UN Declaration of Human Rights and compares it to the current situation. In doing so, it is clear that we as a species have failed.

The Dissenting Judge,  frail,  old,  overwhelmed,  bored with data,  welcomed the coming of Plantman.
“You are fortunate, Plantman.  Your life is lived tending fruits of the earth.  I am beset with human cares. . . “
“You look tired,” Plantman said.

The gold peak of the hundred-and-something-floor TKI obelisk stood five phallic stories — base shaft tip. Office and living quarters of the Heir. Base node of Dynasty: TKI Technologies; TKI Systems Subsidiaries; TKI Pharmaceuticals; TKI Chemicals; TKI Dereliction Deterrent Technologies (DDT); TKI Desktop Operating Systems; TKI PYRAMID Database. Root OS of Empire. Kit ’n caboodle. TKI Tower widest tallest hive of business in The City.
Plantman was summoned to work the indoor garden.

One evening after work Plantman saw a man in a rumpled uniform of sorts bounced out of the Cave Guy bar.
The man made a vain attempt to stand, then let his body crumble to the gutter. On closer inspection, Plantman was shocked to discover that this poor drunk was none other than The Manager of The CityPlex.
His uniform was soiled and unbuttoned, his hair uncombed.  He was a mess.
“Manager, can this be you?”

It’s that Ebeneezer and Grinch time of year. Hooverville. The great American fat crocodile tear with stories of legless troops getting a bag of groceries and free big screen TV and compact car. All those bags under our collective eyes watching brute felon sports professionals (sic) run by their brutish Mafiosa coaches and owners. We are ready for that extra 15 pounds, those romps in those wonderlands of Consumopithecus Anthropocene union-busting box stores, those nanoseconds looking at the homeless, pennies for their crimes. We will feel good about Tis the Season.

but they still believe the Sun revolves around the Earth . . . and, well, that US of Amerika is the best country since, well, Eden!

“Of all our studies, history is best qualified to reward all research.”
-Malcolm X [el-Hajj Malik el-Shabazz]

“If you don’t know history, it is as if you were born yesterday.”
-Howard Zinn

Women history The City.
At the Museum of Women Plantman saw: The “Clothing Collection”: Silk and satin traces.  Centuries-old skirts and dresses; Summer frocks of decades past. Wardrobes. Fashion. Chic aged to antique.
Pinned to every skirt dress blouse a brief descriptive card: Year, value. Year, value.
Clothing once alive with women, once women-animated clothes. Once women of The City. Anticipating nights, inhaling cricket air of parks and gardens. Exhale. City engine of oblivion. Gone lithe beauties;  gone buxom matrons cherished secrets of their own.