blowback

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

Thanks to the East Bay Express and editor Jay Youngdahl for supporting Dissident Voice and allowing us to re-post his piece on the Bay Area. In fact, San Francisco is Seattle is Portland is Phoenix is, well, you get the picture, no?
We had it here, at DV — “Collective Stockholm Syndrome . . . “

Oh, drats, someone in my family line, in Scotland, sent me this link as an example of, paraphrasing, great American stick-to-it gumption, superiority and bad-ass imperialism.
Quote: “No wonder the Iranians want this ship (aircraft carrier) out of the Persian Gulf. This is a great example of United States of America technology, teamwork and strength in action.  Hang on for the ride!”
Yep, this is the export of America, North America, that is — a nuclear powered, $4.5 billion dollar junk-killing-droning-child-wedding party-bombing-human death toll creator.

The press has echoed for days with admiration for Nelson Mandela and his genuinely heroic fight against the apartheid government of South Africa. There have been many recollections of the brutal quality of that government, all perhaps carrying an unstated sense of how could people live that way?

Novelty Manufacturer’s son dead in The War.
I bore condolense: a spider plant, courtesy Topiary Techniques.
The Novelty Manufacturer sold jokes, baubles, erotic novelties to The Citizens of The City.
Office receptionist in black mourning.
“The Plant guy’s here. He brought a gift,” she said to the machine.
“Plantman! Yes. Of course. Please, send him in,” voice of The Manufacturer.

The Furniture was confused.  It had done no wrong, as far as it could tell, and did not see why it should be punished.  We refer to The Furniture as a single unit, of course, for The Sofa, wisest, oldest piece in the room, naturally served as duly elected representative and spokes-piece for all The Furniture in The Parlor.
The stalwart, comfortable old Sofa had hosted human buttocks since the early nineteenth century.
“George Washington slept here,” she often boasted jokingly of the length and breadth of her immense self.

Pardoning the turkeys
This is the pathetic nature of this Bennington Ad Cut-out Obama. Truly, a defining moment here, and one there, well, compiled, yes, Obama is rotten to the core, but it’s easy to play the current events and cultural consumerism game with this poser, this little Big Man. What was it, Eisenhower – that beastly thing – pardoned how many in his tenure as CEO of Corporate Amerika? Over 1,100. How many did Ray-Gun Committee on un-American (sic) Activities Ronald pardon? Over 300? We’re talking about incarcerated humans.

Just what are we teaching young people, society at large,  in and out of school? Just what is it to be an American today, awash in consumer madness? The Last One with the Most Toys Wins bumper sticker,  or is it this little chant:  You’ll have to peel this i-thing Apple appendage from my cold dead mind, err, hand?

Americana dream a step away from flesh-candy; shocked me from sleep, naked, shivering with touch of mortal, sensitive to the slightest things: unable to bear even routine decay; no longer firm, nor young, nor fit to profit from exchange.
The bah-sheep shorn again, poor fleeced multitudes, dead weight on my conscience, their fate burdens my soul.
Heaviness of chest and gut (doom-coronary? gas-bloat?) then stabbing pain. I’m usually too numb to fear, but verily we’re facing nasty shit, horrifying scene.