Friday, June 25, 2010

The Fucked Human Race: BP Proves Twain (Polemic) by Alison Ross


The Fucked Human Race: BP Proves Twain
by Alison Ross

I am often accused of nurturing a crassly cynical slant, one that is myopically misanthropic. While I can certainly appreciate the impetus of this accusation - I do tend to spew ruthless rants about how dastardly human egos encroach upon everything sacred and sane, rendering most of our earthly existence inane and insane - I believe the obverse is true. A genuine misanthrope just allows her loathing for humanity to fester into nihilistic gestures, while someone who fosters compassion beneath the invective alights to positive action, such as scribbling tirades that (presumably) provoke thought, and doing volunteer work.

But anyway. It's not about me and my own admittedly titanic ego. It's about how the BP oil spill and its consequent and cruel annihilation of precious hapless sea-creatures is but an evil emblem and sinister symbol of horrific human hubris.

After all, Mark Twain was right about The Damned Human Race: Animals are above us, spiritually speaking; rapacious greed is not part of their vernacular, whereas it is very much a part of our linguistic and psychic legacy. Because of this, animals should reign supreme. That humans do is yet another tired travesty perpetuated by us in our infinitely relentless anti-wisdom.

The titillating thesis of Twain's Essay is that because we humans actually have the "rational" capacity to distinguish between good and evil, our ability to do evil is enhanced. The common perception would be that because we can differentiate between right and wrong, our capacity to do wrong would be diminished. But Twain says it is, perversely, the knowledge itself of this disparity that gives rise to wrong action. We are tempted by sin, as it were, because we are CONSCIOUS of sin.

Whether you agree with Twain is immaterial, really, because cumulative evidence evinces his theory's terrible truth. History and present-day reality are rife and riddled with examples of the Tyrannical Things Humans Do - to themselves, to each other, to animals, to mother nature. Whereas animals simply exist according to instinct, humans exist COUNTER to instinct. Humans have boundless capacity for compassion, and yet corrode that capacity in favor of fear-based action. In other words, we allow our phobias to overwhelm our good sense. You could say, then, that our phobias are the genesis of antithetical action. Whatever the cause of our wayward ways, the fact is that humans provoke more suffering on the planet than do animals. Indeed, humans provoke ALL the suffering on the planet.

The BP oil spill could have been prevented. Not just through tighter regulation regarding off-shore drilling, but through fully funding alternatives to fuel.

The fact that we have not yet established sound alternatives to fuel manifests how deeply entrenched our avaricious lust has become.

We shouldn't be drilling in the sea to begin with. What a raping of resources! And now this oozing of oil throughout our cherished oceans, choking our beloved marine mammals with toxic sludge. The oceans are ruined, sea life is ruined, people's livelihoods are ruined... how much bleaker can this get?

And yet here is the Boorish BP, spinning the fuck out of it, attempting to control media response to it, buying up Google search terms (I mean, REALLY?), burning endangered sea turtles alive, still raking in wicked profits, etc. etc. ad nauseum.

There is no barrier to BP's bravado. But then, this is par for the course for Corporate America. It's what we signed up for when we allowed the corporate juggernaut to take such hardened hold on our economic structure.

Obama's modest, tepid, almost cowering response is at least on the right track: Force the corporation to pay $20 billion in restitution. $20 is pitiful pennies, mere under-the-couch-cushions change, for corporate demon-spawn like BP, but it's SOMETHING, at least. Of course, likely the victims will not see restitution for months, but HEY, BP has shareholders to appease, so quit yer whinin', you sniveling "small people."

The best thing that can evolve from this sick scenario is some sort of epiphany on behalf of one or more BP employees. Often in instances like this, at least a few corporate fucks actually start to see through the outlandish voracity and transform themselves into the righteous compassionate people they were meant to be.

And naturally more and more people will start to arouse from their soporific stupor and realize that BP's malevolent missteps are just the tip of the iceberg, or oil rig, as it were, when it comes to the vicious violence of human hubris.

But is that enough, really? Because such episodes of evil will continue to flourish. It's only when ALL humans are excruciatingly aware of their own corrosive influence that radical metamorphosis from pervasive wrong-doing to pervasive right-doing will take place.

And that just ain't gonna happen.

Sunday, June 20, 2010

ISSUE SEVENTEEN, FIEND!


EDITOR'S SCRATCHING POST
Catatonically Speaking
The Fucked Human Race: BP Proves Twain (Editorial Polemic)

POLEMIX AND SATIRE
Toxic Tirades and Murderous Mockeries
The BP Spill as Ominous Message to the World (Polemic) by Edwin Young
BP: Beyond Pathetic (Polemic) by Giles Watson
Kathryn Wins Big, But Hollywood Still Hurts for Female Directors (Polemic) by Alison Ross
Comments to the Media on the Occasion of the Israeli Commando Raid on the Gaza-bound Turkish Humanitarian Flotilla (Polemic) by Edwin Young
A Condensed Version of the Holy Bible (Satire) by Kane X. Faucher
Keep the Change (Polemic) by Sheila Samples
The Vile Underbelly for $99.99 a month (Satire) by Wendy Parker
Your Ad for Armyoire (Satirical Art) by Jeff Crouch and Christopher Woods
The Big Easy Heads East (Satire) by Norman Ball
Mexican Migrant Workers: So-Called "Illegals" (Polemic) by Edwin Young
Wastrels (Satire) by Giles Watson
Saradipity for Prez (Satire) by James G. Piatt
Their Flag (Polemical Art) by Jeff Crouch and Christopher Woods
Notes on $50 Popcorn (Satire) by Wendy Parker
A Whim (Satire) by Edward Rodosek
Not So Fast Wall Street Spin Doctors (Polemic) by Edwin Young
The (Fashion) Empire Strikes Back (Satire) by Jon Wesick
Welcome to McToxic! Would You Like Dye With That? (Satire) by Alison Ross
An Irresistible Force with an Insane Rationale (Polemic) by Edwin Young
The Soul of Perry (Satire) by Eric Suhem
Thirty Year Pin (A NAFTA Parable) (Satire) by Norman Ball
Even One of These Little Ones (Polemic) by Sheila Samples
Answering Machine (Satire) by John Ward
State of Science Reporting (Satire) by Jon Wesick

POESIE
Three Poems by Aedan Cagney
January Was the Wound by Simon J. Charlton
Three Poems by April Michelle Bratten
Three Poems by Neil Ellman
Three Poems by Felino Soriano
That Damn Clockwise Cat by Glenn Lyvers
Two Poems by Stephanie Smith
We Are by Robert Graves
Two Prose Poems by Robert Scotellaro
Three Poems by David Mac
Entertainment Options by David S. Pointer
from the yellow park bench by R.G. Johnson
Three Poems by Connie Stadler
Three Poems by Justin Wade Thompson
Bite it Off by Paul Handley
Two Poems by Cynthia Pfieffer
Poetry by Rob Plath
Three Poems by Karissa Morton
Bedtime Routine by G.O. Clark
Syllables by Ally Malinenko
Two Poems by Sergio Ortiz
desreveR by Matthew
Two Poems by Michael Aaron Casares
Poetry by Gil Waters
Three Poems by A.J. Kaufmann
Man at the Top of the Stairs by John Grochalsk
Three Poems by Burgess Stanley Needle
Two Poems by A.A. Veitch
Three Poems by Kaz Sussman
Three Poems by Matthew Byrne
Three Poems by Michael Mc Aloran

APPRAISALS
Reviews of Humanely-Raised, Cage-Free Cultural Snacks To Nourish Yer Brane
laughing at funerals or the mclean machine (Book Review) by Dom Gabrielli
Another of America's Dirty Little Secrets (Film Review) by Edwin Young
Gillian Prew's Moving on Madness (Book Review) by David McLean
Sublime Insignificant (Film Review) by Giles Watson
Being and Lightness (Book Review) by Alison Ross
A Pornographic Cure (CD Review) by Alison Ross
Mullholland Menace (Film Review) by Alison Ross
Cherry-fully Chopin (Book Review) by Alison Ross
Not Beaten and Not Defeated: Women of the Beat Generation (Book Review) by Alison Ross
No No No to Yeah Yeah Yeahs/LCD's Silvery Sound/Feeling the Heat of the Rev (CD Mini-Reviews) by Alison Ross
Vampiric Ambivalence: The Grating Dichotomy of Vampire Weekend (CD Review) by Alison Ross

Saturday, June 5, 2010

Three Poems by Michael Mc Aloran


Three poems
by Michael Mc Aloran

shredded paper-


eyelids of frost
the ribcage of the sky

the rippling shadows of death
a dense pool of
black blood

the animals cry out in
the night
severed heads a woven basket

the turning of a music box in a
silver mist
cards strewn across the naked back of
a prostitute

my laughter my laughter
strips the moonlight

I eject reeking flowers of shit
the flesh graven the fingers trace the
edge of the blade

I devour torn wings
clutch the silence born of so little

love and death like shredded paper
in the darkness

====================

The Unknown Savagery-

Closed fists shatter wired glass the blood flows
(Every birth a belonging fades away)

Eyes torn out

The expanse of night a black sheet
Drawn over a blanched corpse

The unknown savagery as the winds thicken

Closed flesh the sentient wounds every trace marks
The skull with an indelible artistry

In a vice crushing bone seething teeth of rage
burnt white
Like the reeking air

A desert expanse erased footprints the depth of
shadow

Viscid the scream
To touch the depth of the dark
Never to hold never to touch

A smear a taste a fragrance
Scattered flowers in the ashen pile

Our words our words taste the violence of our
futility
Windows bend implode in an elixirate pageantry

Vertiginous with laughter
Exhalations of opiated smoke to
Cut across the landscape

Dragging the opulence of the blood of rage a
Razor slashed violently across pale skin

The blood pulsating, reckless, unfaltering

====================

Desolate Flowers-

Desolate flowers like stricken eyes
Petals of languid blood

Shoots to sprout the shadow
At every turn
Unto the end

The night flows into me like smoke into the lungs
A viscid tide
Burnt moss
A trace of the unknown whispering

I shave away the bones almost to the bare wick
My teeth drip of silence

I spit it out
Author bio:

Michael Mc Aloran was Belfast-born, his family moved to the south of Ireland due to 'The Troubles'. He spent a brief spell studying Fine Art & Design, but left after one disillusioned year. He has travelled extensively throughout Europe, living for short spells in both Holland & Italy. He still continues to paint pretty obsessively when he can afford to. He has been writing poetry for almost a decade, but has only recently begun to submit. He has been published by 'Poetry Monthly International', (U.K), 'Counterexample Poetics', (U.S), 'Lines Written W/A Razor', (Canada), 'The Gloom Cupboard',(U.S), 'Eviscerator Heaven', (U.S), 'Writing Raw', (U.S) , 'Full Of Crow', (U.S), 'The Recusant, (Scotland); work is forthcoming at 'Clockwise Cat', (U.S), 'Deep Tissue', (U.S), 'Why Vandalism?', (U.S), BlazeVox, (Fall 2009 Edition), 'Gutter Eloquence', (U.S), and also at 'Origami Condom' (U.S). His first published book, 'In The Black Cadaver Light Light', was published 'Poetry Monthly Press', (U.K). He also likes to entertain himself with cigarettes and alcohol... Other poetic exercises can be found at Against The Dark Distance.

Friday, June 4, 2010

BP: Beyond Pathetic (Polemic) by Giles Watson



BP: Beyond Pathetic
by Giles Watson

I am sure that many readers will be offended by this photograph. I admit that it is obscene. The image has not been tampered with in any way: I have not cut and pasted pictures of motor vehicles from some other context. These people really are buying petrol from a B.P. service station in Oxfordshire, as if nothing has happened.

Meanwhile, a further 19, 000 gallons of oil will have polluted the Gulf of Mexico throughout the course of today. Presumably, the people in this photograph are not ignorant enough to be unaware of this. Perhaps they think this grotesque act of environmental terrorism is justified in the name of economics, and they really don’t mind handing over their money, as if in vindication of the deed.

No, that wasn’t hyperbole. It is terrorism: an act of violence that intimidates the whole world. B.P. knowingly and undemocratically built an oil rig in an environmentally sensitive area, holding the entire ecosystem of the Gulf of Mexico to ransom, and it did so without due consideration of how it might respond should things go wrong. When the inevitable happened (and it is inevitable that things will go wrong with oil rigs, if you have enough of them), the corporation derided the world by cynically trying to plug the leak with golf balls and bits of old tyre. Its chief spokesman admitted that the company does not have the “tools” in its bag to deal with the spill, whilst wistfully hoping that something miraculous would happen to stop it, so that he could “have his life back”. He didn’t bomb a bus, or fly an aeroplane into the World Trade Centre, because he lacks the ideological conviction of the people who do such terrible deeds. His corporation’s form of terrorism is more indiscriminate, more impersonal, and it is inspired not by conviction, but by greed.

Perhaps the people in the photograph do not think this. Perhaps they think that capitalism is always justified in the pursuit of greater and greater profits, no matter what the human and animal cost. If this is the reason they are still buying from B.P., I have no further argument with them: they are simply monsters, and I cannot expect to understand them.

More likely, I suspect, they have just not thought about it. They probably didn’t even notice the B.P. insignia as they drove in: it’s just another service station. But is it not a source of shame to them that the biggest environmental disaster in history is presided over by a company of British origin, even as they fly St. George’s cross from their wing mirrors in anticipation of the World Cup? Don’t they feel a rising bilge of horror as they hand over their cash payment for the filthy stuff they have just poured into their vehicles? Is there not even a twinge of conscience?

They might feel differently if they had ever handled an oiled seabird. I have done so, and can affirm that crude oil is the stuff of nightmares. You put on rubber gloves, and robe yourself in plastic in order to avoid being smeared with the noxious stuff yourself: it dissolves cell membranes and causes mutation and cancer. Wearing the gloves makes the bird twice as slippery in your hands as it telescopes its neck to look at you, its agonized eyes bulging from its sleekly blackened skull. The webbed feet flail madly, then weaken. The stench nauseates you. The oil clogs the bird’s nostrils, and every feather is welded to the next, plastered with black clag. The feathers must be washed and rinsed individually, and the gunk never quite disappears. After the hideous process is over, the bird’s chances of release remain minimal. In all likelihood, it has swallowed some oil, and will die, spewing the stuff from both ends. If not, it will take months for the feathers to regain their natural waterproofing – achieved when the bird preens after touching its beak to the uropygial gland at the base of its tail – and if it were left afloat on the ocean, it would simply sink and drown, or die of hypothermia. To handle one such case is heartbreaking. Imagine how many birds are affected, at 19, 000 gallons a day.

That is only the beginning. The Gulf of Mexico is home to twenty-eight species of marine mammal including the manatee, three species of dolphin and six species of endangered whale. It has five species of threatened or endangered sea turtle, innumerable species of fish including the endangered smalltooth sawfish, threatened staghorn and elkhorn corals, and myriad marine invertebrates that form the base of the food chain. At the top of this food chain, human beings are also suffering, although some (people whose livelihood lies in the Gulf itself) are more worthy of compassion than others (B.P. shareholders, for example).

Perhaps people will recognise their own vehicle registration plates in this picture. Probably, they will try to justify their actions: “This could have happened to any oil company; they are all as dirty as each other, but I have to get to work.” By privatizing public transport, and allowing market forces to erode it so that services are only offered where they are profitable, our governments are partly to blame for our private oil consumption. But the fight has to start somewhere, it has to start soon, and it must start with us, not with cynical governments or avaricious corporations. A world is at stake, and arguments from economics will not even cut the scum on the surface. Let the big corporations destroy the environment completely, and there won’t be any economics at all.

There is only one morally acceptable thing for us to do: boycott B.P. until it begins to atone for its actions. And it can only do that by ceasing to operate as a profit-making company, pouring all its resources into cleaning up the Gulf of Mexico, and offering what succour it can to those creatures it has assailed. Any money that remains at the end of this process must go towards setting up fully nationalized factories devoted to building affordable cars which run on ethanol. This would create jobs, prevent wars, atone for the oil industry’s sins against the environment, and help to ensure that B.P. does not go down in history as an international pariah.

In the meantime, driver of a black VW, registration number V008 VVB, put your car into reverse, drive out onto the A420, and get your petrol from the service station just down the road. They might be just another cancerous corporation, but they are not currently fiddling with golf balls and wanting their lives back whilst the ocean fills with oil. Your protest will be miniscule and imperfect, but it has to be better than stooping this low.



Author bio:

Giles has been writing poetry and taking photographs for as long as he can remember, but more recently began painting and drawing in order to illustrate his own work. Giles also writes prose essays on natural history and mediaeval visual culture, is an avid walker and amateur naturalist, and has a keen interest in theatre. He has taught English, History, Drama, Sociology and Film. He is currently working on the libretto for a musical of his own. His photography can be viewed at his Flickr stream.

Comments to the Media on the Occasion of the Israeli Commando Raid on the Gaza-bound Turkish Humanitarian Flotilla (Polemic) by Edwin Young

The BP Spill as Ominous Message to the World (Polemic) by Edwin Young

Thursday, June 3, 2010

A Condensed Version of the Holy Bible (Satire) by Kane X. Faucher


A Condensed Version of the Holy Bible
by Kane X. Faucher

In the beginning, God was floating about in the boredom of nothingness and thought to himself, “screw this—I need some action.” By barking out a command to nothing in particular in the middle of this particular nothingness, God invented the environmentally friendly, energy saving cosmic light bulb so that he could see this nothing a bit better to avoid tripping over it when he came back home Righteously Soused. Having invented day and night, this also invented happy hour. Seeing all this nothingness for the first time, God decided it would be keen to build a big place to store junk. This he called the world. To avoid being stuck with a big pile of mud, he divided the land and sea by putting dry stuff in one pile, and wet stuff in the other. An interior decorator our divine creator was not, and Feng Shui had not yet been invented. Such a large undertaking only took the Big Man six days, and looking at the result, we discern why hastily disregarding quality control is a bad idea. God decided to create junk to put in his new wet/dry closet. He put creatures who liked being wet in the water, and creatures not so keen on getting wet on the land. Seeing that the place looked a bit barren and boring, he added some fluffy green stuff for the critters to munch on when they weren’t munching on each other.

After awhile, God got bored again. Every time he tried bossing around or terrorizing his critters, they only responded with the same barks, roars, screeches and hissing. God decided to make a little version of himself to bully. Keep in mind that God had yet to invent therapy. This doll of him had none of his powers and so was easy to domineer. He called it Adam and placed it in a special place called Eden that had the greenest fluffy stuff. Therefore God invented landlordism. Adam (the first tenant of his verdant ghetto) was made out of mud and maybe a few sticks, which perhaps speaks yet again to problems with quality control in a centrally run state economy. Feeling lazy, he told Adam to go around and name stuff. This he did, fearing lightning bolts up his ass. Adam became a bit bored after naming everything and wanted something else to do. So, God put Adam under full anaesthetic, and since perhaps God was experiencing a material resource deficit at the time, decided to make a similar-looking creature out of Adam’s rib. This new creature’s name was Eve, and was lumpier in places that Adam was not, and seemed to lack the special ability of writing her name in the snow.

Adam and Eve hit it off right away. Because Eve was made out of Adam’s rib, Eve became both the first piece of indentured property and the first being with an outstanding debt. After being told to be fruitful and multiply, Adam and Eve devised a method (ever since being a very popular one) of manufacturing more of each other without the messiness of bone extraction surgery and the tricky business of full anaesthetic.

God was running out of places to put his junk, and unwisely decided to store his Tree of Knowledge in the same lush and fecund apartment as Adam and Eve. This had the effect of telling alcoholic house sitters where the secret liquor cabinet is, and then telling them not to touch it. So, when God wasn’t looking, Eve strolled nonchalantly by the forbidden tree with its unsurprisingly forbidden fruit. Meanwhile, Satan, having been already downsized from Heaven Inc. for trying to start the universe’s first labour union, persuaded Eve of the benefits of labour laws that grant more say to all of God’s employees by means of long negotiations with management and singing-in-the-rain picketing. And, like most shop stewards, Satan was a slithery, slimy serpent. Eve saw the benefits of full dental coverage and labour representation and decided to take control of the means of production. She then lulled Adam into signing up for the union, and they both took a big bite from knowledge production as empowered and enfranchised labour union activists. This really flew in the face of God’s innate cosmic Fordism. To this day we still blame women for collectivist utopia strategies that don’t work outside misty-eyed idealist texts that unite workers so that they can all live in drab concrete apartments with secret police and no meat at the butchers. Rather than arbitrating with the union, God asserted his corporate might and scaled back Adam and Eve’s benefit packages and had them evicted without the now common 60-day obligatory notice. God withheld their stock options. Immediately, Adam and Eve felt shame in their nude idealism, and took to hiding their Marxist texts under piles of fig leaves. Although God henceforth made childbirth an excruciating affair, he was at least decent enough to retain the pleasure in their manufacture. Adam and Eve were now freelancer creations left to become entrepreneurs of the land outside Eden, which was a harsh market to crack.

There were a lot of begats.

Cain and Abel were the first instance of ideological disagreement. While Abel was a soft-hearted liberal who believed in giving up the best share of his pay to the State in the hopes that it would be a good financial steward to fund social programs only losers need, Cain was more of a libertarian conservative who seriously distrusted government’s ability to manage his hard-earned dollars. Since Cain was not a minority, giving up the best 80% of his sheep, cattle, and crop to less than 20% of the citizenry seemed to him like a suspicious tax-grab. Besides, reasoned Cain, whenever government sought to interfere with social needs, it was always a disastrous reduction of individual freedoms. To him, government was rich enough, and to engage in an unfair tax strategy would choke the free market and cause less corporate investment. God favoured Abel over Cain, so Cain hired a mud raking committee to destroy Abel in the electoral polls, effectively demolishing Abel’s political career. God punished Cain by branding him a Republican and he was forced to wander from one evangelical community to another giving public lectures to Middle America.

And so begat more begats.

Adam and Eve did well to be fruitful and multiply, eventually causing a Malthusian population crisis. Rather than to sink endless money into aid programs that never work anyway, God said, “Screw this: I’ll just commit genocide and start clean.” And, lo, the first mass pogrom was instituted. God instructed the local halfwit, Noah, to get two of everything in what was the world’s first fire sale. He also told him to set up a safe account in Switzerland to store these riches. Noah set up a tax shelter and floated upon this for 40 days and nights while God single-handedly applied his Versailles Treaty. Afterward, Noah was given highly favourable contracts in reconstruction initiatives.

Eventually, Moses was born. Because of Egypt’s lack of abortion clinics or effective adoption services, Moses was entrusted to become a ward of the state. After a long series of abusive foster homes, Moses started his own special interest group by uniting all the menial wage earners to go with him to found a kibbutz outside of Egypt. The Egyptians were not pleased with this, and despite a few divinely inspired poor quarterly earning reports, a Chernobyl-like accident involving the Nile, many sons succumbing to cocaine abuse, and an outbreak of useless French ideas falling from the sky, the Egyptians pursued the AWOL employees to the Red Menace Sea. In a baffling act of derelict logic, Moses parted labour from capital, and bade his troupe of socialist yahoos across. The Egyptians were in hot pursuit, but were quickly engulfed by the non-resolvability and hopelessly circuitous logic of soft Marxist ideology.

Like most socialist and central planning programs, Moses’ Stalinist 5-year plan took so long that many of his devotees died before the Worker’s Utopia could materialize, spending a great deal of time in barren and arid arguments and go-nowhere policies. Eventually, Moses brought them to a big craggy Kremlin where he was to meet the head of the vanguard party for further doctrinal guidance. Meanwhile, around the Kremlin, Moses’ devotees were being swayed by an illegal influx of blue jeans and rock music. Moses spoke to God, and God printed out a manifesto meant to inspire communist morale. When God had his ideological change of heart remains a theological mystery, but it seems that he has had a lot of daft ideas and a quick-to-rise temper.

Moses saw that his people had been polluted by Western values and took a hissy fit, making a mess of a few pages of the new manifesto. However, half the manifesto remains, and all ten talking points can be reduced to “thou shalt have no fun,” which exactly captures the spirit of communism in any of its incarnations.



Author bio:

Kane X. Faucher is the author of several books, assistant professor at the University of Western Ontario, and recent winner of the Camera Obscura Outstanding Short Fiction Award. His most recent novel is The Vicious Circulation of Dr Catastrope. He lives in London with his wife and their three gifted cats.

Comments to the Media on the Occasion of the Israeli Commando Raid on the Gaza-bound Turkish Humanitarian Flotilla (Polemic) by Edwin L. Young, PhD


Comments to the Media on the Occasion of the Israeli Commando Raid on the Gaza-bound Turkish Humanitarian Flotilla
by Edwin L. Young, PhD

You media heads are all nothing but bagger-boys for the gloating, arrogant, opulent Israeli Epicurean Delicatessen. Insensate to the obvious, you pretend to be objective onlookers of the Palestinian plight. You are not excused from complicity just because you only give passive consent to the Israelis trampling upon their Palestinian slave laborers, imprisoned in the Gaza Internment Camps. You manufacture concurrence with Israel Goebbels’s style spin accusing its ravaged, defenseless inmates of being terrorists. You validate the Israeli’s scorning and accusing the wasted, starving women and children hovering in shadows of crumbling homes of Gaza of being covert conspirators plotting to blow up the Israeli’s citadel overpowering munitions. As with sunken bellies reminiscent of holocaust Jews in death camps, the Gazan’s were anxiously awaiting meager survival morsels to be snuck in, like thieves in the night, by a legitimate, unarmed, humanitarian Turkish flotilla, only to see it raided by Israeli style Walfen-SS Troops. In bewilderment at the US’s bootlicking response to the Israeli wholly unjustified commando raid, the Palestinians line the garbage glutted streets and, having nothing left to lose, they raise their feeble arms in fruitless protest, but to whom? Who is listening? Whom in the forked-tongue US will confess to the undistorted truth about our classified intentions and duplicitous diplomacy? Not our government! Not our goose-stepping military! Not our public who are pabulum-fed by our self-infatuated, sell-out, ratings worshiping, mainstream media! The only way those who want to know, who want to find out the un-doctored facts, to do so is to go to the courageous alternative media. Thank goodness, we still have the freedom of the internet and alternative press and radio.

Author bio:

Edwin is a 76 year old, retired, psychotherapist/institution reformer. His greatest satisfaction came from reforming many juvenile correctional institutions, a maximum security prison, a West Texas mental hospital, and the huge Job Corps in San Marcos, Texas. All in all there were thirteen institutions that he successfully reformed. In the last year of his PhD program, Edwin was one of the two PhD graduate students to be awarded the annual University Research Institute grant. His dissertation committee said his was the longest, best, and most complex in the history of the department. Since retiring, Edwin spends his time writing. His site is: The Natural Systems Institute.

Wednesday, June 2, 2010

Catatonically Speaking

Beware of this edition of Catatonically Speaking, for it is rather wayward in nature. Rather than blather on about some trite topic I have chosen instead to focus on internet imagery that inspires me. Since I spend a lot of my editing process searching for images to adorn the pieces I publish, I come across some wickedly invigorating pictures and artwork. Here, I post and comment on a few of my most recent favorites. Some are cosmically comical, others are sullenly serious, but all share one thing in common: They are imbued with an irrepressibly creative, polemical spirit.



This one is titled "Republican Penis," but I prefer the more alliterative, "Patriotic Penis." Or, hey, how about "Jingoistic Junk" - mirthfully merges high-brow with low-brow, no? (For those of you disdainfully divorced from pop/rap culture, "junk" is the oh-so-savory slang for "crotch.")

So many Americans have such a horrid hard-on for their country without even grasping why. For if they ascertained the TRUE nature of their rapaciously imperialistic government, they might actually forego such preposterous patriotizing. OR, it might strengthen their nationalistic neurosis. Either way, in my mind, patriotism is STOOPID in whatever country; ain't no nation better than any other.



I love this one because while I am apt to eschew all loathesome labels regarding my religious persona (or absence thereof), I would consider myself atheistic before anything else. Actually, if you really pushed me to contextualize my religious views, I would describe myself as "non-theistic pseudo-Buddhist." Non-theistic because the god concept is immaterial in my world, and pseudo-Buddhist because I really do admire Buddhist teachings, and yet I am not much of a practitioner. I shun the rigors of religious practice because I don't believe in it - but Buddhist teachings can be incorporated in other ways, which is the beauty of Buddhism; it's amenable to lifestyles. I feel similarly about other mystical traditions, including those tangents of the Big Bubbas (Christianity, Islam, Judaism).

Anyway, atheism is just another religion as far as I am concerned, but I'll take it over the menacing mythologies propagated by the Big Bubbas listed above.



This picture is particularly heartbreaking because of the terrible truth emanating from it. Lurid laissez-faire capitalism as practiced in western nations creates an indigestible rich-poor disparity, which can be discerned in sinister symbols like the obese child and the emaciated one. The Buddhist Middle Way becomes a more navigable path when faced with such a sickening scenario as the one above.





These two images further exacerbate my anti-capitalism ideology, even if I am starkly aware that it's really the WAY we practice capitalism that is so perilous. If we urged a more socialistic capitalism like they do in, say, Sweden, things would be less fraught. Anyway, innate to an anarchic free-market mentality like the one in place here is a fearsome ethic of force. We are narcotized by the false ideals of freedom sold to us by the liberty-pushers, but the regrettable reality is, we could not be less free in such a corporate-domineered culture. When profit is king, the king must employ violent tactics to suppress his subjects lest they interfere with the aggressively acquisitive beast.


Is there anything more that needs to be said about this bumper sticker? I think not.





These images are very timely reminders of the shameful environmental devastation wrought by the corporate juggernaut. The first image is a poetic depiction of a tyrannical mechanized monster bent on annihilating the earth, juxtaposed with a human who is pretty puny in size, signifying his helplessness next to gargantuan corporate greed. The second image, of course, is a satirical rendering of the now-notorious "green" BP logo.

In fact, be sure to read the searing screeds of Edwin Young and Giles Watson on the crass and catastrophic BP oil spill, right here in the pages of the latest Clockwise Cat.

Issue 17 is certain to rock your genitals straight off! You didn't need them, did you?

Your Ad for Armyoire (Satirical Art) by Jeff Crouch and Christopher Woods


Click on image to enlarge!


Author bios:

Jeff Crouch is an internet artist. Google him.

Christopher Woods lives in Houston and Chappell Hill, Texas. His online gallery is MOONBIRD HILL ARTS to be found at Moonbird Hill.

Three poems by Felino Soriano


Three poems
by Felino Soriano

Approbations 397
—after Peter Garland’s Walk in Beauty: Lightning Flash

Electronic fingers
manipulate luminosity, lend
fear to the psyche’s naĂŻve
disposition. Among
damaged positions of oaks’
aligned sans fallacy, I become
familial to the contouring shadows
holding hands with minute struggles
of beetles’ terrorizing scampers,
hustling into angles of wide open
territories.

======================

Approbations 398
—after Sonny Simmons’ A Distant Voice

Leans into analogous ears,
hid
by the finalizing darkness
bodies walk into,
dismayed. Relaying scent,
a gift of the whispering brand
of blended diversions, mirages’
hind legs rotate into directional
luxates, bridging distance and elongated
rapture, kneeling before overheard
karma of ignored salutations.

====================

Approbations 399
—after Fred Anderson’s Changes and Bodies and Tones

Say, the child
remains allusive, thus
recalls to the self of his first step,
glamorous; thus, queries
into change is the awkward fascination with
removing through moving
across life’s constant reapprovals. Too,
say, the man hires a new dispositional contract;
in his altered temperament, he
believes in the essence of I’s
virtuous titles. Child and maturated species,
become tones of physicality’s vocal delusions:

change of the body’s colorful atonement
requires philosophical direction from mischievous
relatable abstract cardinal expiation.



Author bio:

Felino A. Soriano (b. 1974), is a case manager and advocate for developmentally and physically disabled adults. He has authored 28 collections of poetry, including “Construed Implications” (erbacce-press, 2009) and “Delineated Functions of Congregated Constructs” (Calliope Nerve Media, 2010). His poems have appeared at Calliope Nerve, Unlikely 2.0, BlazeVOX, Metazen, Otoliths, and elsewhere. He edits & publishes Counterexample Poetics, an online journal of experimental artistry, and Differentia Press, dedicated to publishing e-chapbooks of experimental poetry. In 2010, he was chosen for the Gertrude Stein "rose" prize for creativity in poetry from Wilderness House Literary Review. Philosophical studies collocated with his connection to classic and avant-garde jazz explains motivation for poetic occurrences. His website explains further: Felino Soriano.

A Pornographic Cure (CD Review) by Alison Ross


A Pornographic Cure
by Alison Ross

The idea of pornography is one that is abhorrent for some, and titillating for others. Still others exhibit muddled feelings about it, grudgingly acknowledging its ability to arouse while at the same time harboring shame over the arousal.

The Cure’s Robert Smith gave the “Pornography” title to his dour 1982 masterwork in order give a recreated feeling to the notion of pornography. Typically, pornography is shocking to the senses; even those who like it are jolted from their mundane reveries into a violent, vulgar world. Of course, this is WHY they like it – it proffers a blunt antidote to bland reality. And the very properties of violence and vulgarity are also the reasons it repels others.

Smith’s conceptual experiment in “didactic diction” was a success. By taking a word laden with overtly "perverse" sexual associations and audaciously affixing it to an assemblage of tunes that, surface-wise, anyway, have very little to do with the original concept, he transformed the word’s meaning, or at least imbued it with daringly new dimensions. Whereas before the word “pornography” had a connotative atmosphere of disturbingly graphic eros, now it took on an aura of existential terror.

“Pornography” The Cure album positively drips with dreariness. And yet, it wouldn’t be fair to pigeonhole it as JUST an exercise in eerie pathos. Otherworldly, mercurially transcendent, harrowing spirituality... these words and phrases encapsulate the complex compelling nature of the album, because it is so much more than just the ponderously murky, suicide-inducing effort it's often made out to be. It clashes with nuanced contradictions... it is at once sparse and dense, clamoring and quiet. It gives rise to the paradoxical idea of poetic cacophony. Discordance never sounded so sublime.

To be sure, “Pornography” might have veered recklessly into the terrain of overwrought kitsch, like much gothic output of the 80s. But instead Robert Smith was able to reign in the histrionics and craft a remarkably mature post-punk classic. “Pornography” is frequently cited as the paradigmatic album of 80s goth, and indeed, no other album of that genre can hope to measure up to its gorgeously grandiose gloom.

The album itself is quite compact, with a total of 8 songs clocking in at around 30 minutes. Its brevity lends it its gravity. All of the songs are imperative here in order to sculpt a cohesiveness and give the album a thematic seamlessness, but for me, six are absolute stunners, while two (Short Term Effect and Cold) are merely "very good." So I will touch on those six, keeping in mind, nonetheless, the necessary nature of the others.

One Hundred Years - An opener of invigorating ferocity. Its militant fervor is matched with lyrics about the nihilistic futility of combat and of life in general. The opening line, "It doesn't matter if we all die," is jarring for its almost beatific negation of existence.

Hanging Garden – The tribal menace of this animal-themed song invokes a primitive sensibility. It was the lead single for "Pornography" and gave early Cure fans a terrorizing taste of the more belligerent side of the band, which had theretofore exuded a calm solemnity, but never such bestial brooding.

Siamese Twins – With its death-march beat, Siamese Twins lyrically mirrors this doom-infused rhythm, exploring the topic of loveless sex with a prostitute which results in a strangely zombified state. “Is it always like this?” is the depressively wailed refrain that haunts long after the song has ceased.

Figurehead - The centerpiece of “Pornography,” and the best “dark” song in The Cure’s catalogue. Figurehead is a baroquely morose opera whose startlingly surrealistic lyrics summon repressed guilt that gnaws like "spiders inside" and that creepily calls forth "the dust of a vision of hell." Figurehead sounds like it was recorded in a dungeon before time began.

Strange Day - This song is seductively mystical with its lushly dark tones and apocalyptic lyrics. Here, Smith revels in the "eye/blind" motif, seeming to suggest that slipping away into oblivion can be an almost lucidly blissful experience.

Pornography - A perfectly trippy and creepy coda. The album's architecture builds from exhilirating bellicosity (100 Years), to bleak tirades (Short Term Effect through Figurehead) to sullen metaphysics (Strange Day and Cold) to a final foray into aggressive avant garde aesthetics. The song is one part actual sonics and one part manic flurry of TV sounds... apparently a televised debate about pornography, but the voices are reversed for added freaky effect. Here, as elsewhere, deteriorating mental states is the central lyrical topic, explored through viciously bitter vocals and driven home by a horror movie synth line and insane asylum drums. The song radiates a truly terrifying vibe of psychosis, as the singer has clearly disintegrated into lunacy.

Sexual vice is what most people think of when they hear the word "pornography," but with his 1983 album, Robert Smith effectively metamorphosed the meaning of the word, digging out its nuances and steeping it in an aura of metaphysical torment. "Pornography" captures the sinister eloquence of a controversial concept and in so doing gives us some of the best and bleakest music of the 1980s.

Gillian Prew's moving on the madness (Book Review) by David McLean


Gillian Prew's moving on the madness
Reviewed by David McLean

This is the first book by Gillian Prew, and those who know her work know that this Scottish poet must be easily the best poet currently active in the UK, certainly the best female poet. She has chosen to self-publish her books since she herself can produce them as well as the companies currently available to publish poets who have not yet established household names, and this book proves her point.

"I am flogging fluorescent pens on
ebay
to poets
with a sphincter-eye-view of the world
because
it’s so dark
up their own ass
they can’t see what they’re writing"

as she puts it. This book is unlike her current production in that it is rawer, still articulate and theoretically sophisticated, but full of allusions to stiff cocks and vast cunts -

"I dance like a widow drunk
on the spunk of her dead husband. I fuck the hoover and get off
on top of the spin cycle...."

It drives home its point with power and impressive skill, angry pyrotechnics like

"art

it’s a fuckedup factory
and the bosses are on holiday

it’s every man, woman, poet, painter, writer, musician,
fuckedupfucker
for themselves"

Obviously the book progresses and the conclusion brings back a more familiar Prew. But her point here is that nowadays we need the writer to

"Give me

sexy, shattering, desperate,
blind, bloody, raw,
soothing, tender, joyous, mad,
sad, yearning, violent,
breathtaking, heartbreaking,
exquisitely painful,
painfully exquisite,
burning,
aching,
ecstatic,

poetry

but fuck love
poetry."

And at the end, after the orgasmic write, melancholia reigns again

"this is me this
gnawing sorrow
hunched under hair
loosely bound in skin
splitting from the moans
of sighing bones osteoporosing
faintly but with dignity"

Buy this 74 page book on paper after downloading it - it's amazingly well done and shows another side of the UK's uncrowned queen of words.

Buy the book at: Lulu.com.

Author bio:

David McLean is Welsh but has lived in Sweden since 1987. He lives there on an island in a large lake called Mälaren, very near to Stockholm, with cats, kittens, and a couple of dogs. Up to date details of many zine publications and several available books and chapbooks, including three print full lengths, a few print chapbooks, and a free electronic chapbook, are at his blog at Mourning Abortion. The latest full length laughing at funerals is available via Small Press Distribution: SPD.

Tuesday, June 1, 2010

Saradipity for Prez: A Lyrical Political Spoof (Satire) by James G. Piatt


Saradipity for Prez: A Lyrical Political Spoof
by James G. Piatt

“The country is now in a great big fog, we can’t sit around watching it going to the dog,” Georgie stated all agog.

“The Demodogs won’t listen to sense and we can’t get em to cross the durn fence. We need fewer taxes on the rich to pull them from the golden ditch, and less regulations to help the elitist congregations. More drilling for oil to make the environmentalists boil. And, overturning Wade vs. Roe, so the country will grow.” Saradipity stated with a flare as she preened her long hair, and crossed her legs to get a stare.

“That’s Row Saradipity, not roe,” Stated Newty shaking his body from head to toe!

“Why, it has to do with eggs!” She replied again crossing her shapely legs.

Newty stated; “its time we get back to doing what we did back when. Like partisan stances without any chances, boondoggling the community with no chance for unity. Then spinning the truth like Rove in his booth and stretching lies about the Demodog guys.

“Well Newty I agree we can’t allow them to make a liberal plea, we need to get back to business as usual and make the truth appear so very unusual. Secrecy is holy like tasty ravioli. We’ll twist the truth, and spin bogus reports to the media sorts. Our citizens deserve to be fooled and inconspicuously ruled.” Dickey stated with his signature sneer like he still had a political career.”

“Well Dickey, let’s do a better job than before, your WMD ploy blew up in a roar.”

“That wasn’t my fault they sent a team of Demogog men over to look into our Rovie’s big spin, it was all going just fine until then.”

“Well, I think we ought to bomb em to death, don’t even let em get their breath!” Rushie yelled in heat, his big fat head red as a beet.”

“I agree with my radio idol, even though some have said he’s quiet suicidal.” Monicadipity said in a twirl pulling her skirt up like a naughty schoolgirl, and showing her well-formed thighs to the thrill of the guys.

“I can get my husband and his group of secessionist men to take that job on at the drop of a ten,” stated Saradipity pulling her skirt up high to match Monicadipity’s ample thigh. “But since I can see Russia so near maybe I can drop a tiny hint in their ear.”

Georgie rubbed his eye at the sight of the thighs then said to the female guys; “pull down those skirts right now you’ll get all the guys in a fit of mad cow. You don’t want to get old Rushie and Newty excited they’ll get all confused and then get ignited.“ However, fellows I have a new plan that will excite the clan.”

Dickey shook his head and looked at the ceiling as he rubbed his head with a nauseous feeling. “Now Georgie, let’s not get all carried away and say something you can’t convey. You’re a neat guy but you cannot deny that in the brain department you are a bit shy.”

Georgie put on a petulant frown. “Gee Dickey, you never let me have any renown.”

“Don’t get down in the dumps Georgie my fan, we will let you make a speech about our plan.”

“Newty looked at Rovie and said; “just as long as he follows what we write, I guess that would help belie my fright.”

“Saradipity how are things going in the cold state?” Rushie grinned not at all that straight since he had taken too much of his prescription plate.

“Well, I am sending my daughter's ex fiancĂ© to Siberia on a fact finding tour of their cafeteria. I am still trying to drill, drill, drill, but it is no thrill with Obama and his ban on drilling my land.”

Rushie sighed ogling her shape and almost fell over his tape. “We are on the brink and we are going to sink if we don’t get in sync!”

“Well Rushie, that’s a bit of reply, for a guy who has lust in his eye! Our goals have gone astray to our utter dismay and our base with superior grace are demanding Demodog blood and a lot more mud.”

Georgie shook his head and said:

“But Newty, won’t the Demodogs say that we are in the way every day we never play?"

Monicadpity hearing the word play, did a ballet, showing the fellas her sway as her skirt twirled and her panties unfurled. She then looked demure as she pulled in her lure, which was no cure for the allure. She then smiled and said, “fellas you go ahead, I going to bed. My body is worn and my hearts all forlorn so you do the plan and I’ll be your fan as part of the clan.”

The oglers all stared and started to plot how they could sneak off without being caught.

Saradipity frowned watching her go with the fella’s goggling eyes in tow. She got up real quick with a clickety click did a little twirl and spun her skirt showing she was all girl.

“Er guys its not late and our plan can’t wait,” Newty managed to say, as he watched Saradipity’s body spin and sway.

“You betcha boys we will all get together and go hell bent for leather. We have all the answers to the nations woes, just make sure you stay on your toes. If we all do our bit, we will win each mind and if not we will just bide our time. We’ll push the Demodogs to fail at whatever they sail and sabotage every plan they hail. Then we will yell to the skies that they won’t work with us good guys.”

“Saradipity for Prez,” they all said, fantasizing the great things ahead. She grinned, preened her hair, and dreamed of being a celebrity deb.

The End (Let's hope)

Author bio:

James earned his BS and MA from California State Polytechnic University. He earned his doctorate from BYU. He is retired now, and spends his summers along the river, reading, writing, and penning poetry. Caper Journal, Word Catalyst Magazine, Everyday Weirdness Magazine, and the Cynic Magazine have published his short stories. He has had eight non-fiction essays published.

Being and Lightness (Book Review) by Alison Ross


Being and Lightness
by Alison Ross

Several months after finishing it, I am still not sure what to think about Milan Kundera’s “The Unbearable Lightness of Being.” It has garnered so many critical and popular accolades over the years, for its frank portrayal of a philandering husband and its ethereally poetic style, and yet I am left feeling bemused by its message, if any, and also its seemingly wayward structure. I am pretty sure I am missing something with this supposed modern classic. Either that or the book really is disjointed at times and conveys a sinister sexist "moral."

The novel is predicated on the tumultuous love relationship between a Czech couple, Tomas and Tereza, during the Russian invasion of Czechoslovakia. Tomas loves Tereza deeply, but he cannot seem to refrain from "straying" on a routine basis. He is a consummate womanizer.

Tereza eventually learns of his incessant infidelities, and attempts to leave him, but he follows her. She finally resigns herself to her "fate" of loving a philanderer, while Tomas continues to adulterize in vicious fashion.

Despite their amorous affections, Tereza and Tomas are divided by divergent philosophies about love and sex. For Tomas, sex can be dissociated from love, but for Tereza, the two notions are inexorably intertwined. Because she is so mystified by Tomas' lackadaisical approach toward sex, Tereza explores the domain of casual adultery herself. The aftermath leaves her feeling frigid and none the wiser.

Tereza attempts to "justify" her situation by branding herself as "weak" and characterizing Tomas as "strong." Kundera wraps these notions in the elegantly existential notions of "the unbearable heaviness of being" (Tereza experiencing the weight of life through affixing significance to it) and the "unbearable lightness of being" (Tomas gliding through life without any cumbersome psychological consequences).

As a result of her travails, Tereza has a series of bad dreams that do plague Tomas as well, signaling to him the egregious injustice of his actions. He never really evinces guilt otherwise, but when Tereza narrates her nightmares to him, it sears his conscience.

The problem I have with the novel is that I am never certain what Kundera is trying to “say.” Is he biased toward Tomas’s cavalier, even callous, ethos, does he sympathize with the severe suffering of Tereza, or is his attitude one of equinanimous neutrality? It’s very difficult to discern. Is he simply trying to present these polarized philosophies in order to mine their respective merits and misfortunes? Is his purpose merely to stoically elucidate the convoluted ethical dimensions of carnal relationships, or does he have a more vested interest in such a topic?

One never really knows – or at least I don’t.

The fact is, of course, that adultery is never ethical, because it encompasses a brash breach of the monogamous pledge. Open relationships are the only way in which polygamous pursuits can be considered ethically “sane.”

Naturally one can still manage the mindset that love and sex exist in mutual exclusion, and there might be an argument to be made for that. But when one practices that philosophy within a conventional context, it violates ethical properties because it constitutes a betrayal, and betrayals are not innately defendable.

So again, I remain suspicious of Kundera’s intentions, as some of the novel reeks to me of malevolent misogyny.

It’s not to say that women do not commit adultery, because of course they do. But in his book, Kundera tackles the more traditional male betrayal scenario. Furthermore, despite his feelings of guilt, Tom continues to cheat. One could argue that Tereza allows it by staying with him or not delivering an ultimatum, but she is also a victim of her time, hence more “trapped” (even though she is independently employed, women were even more conditioned than today to tolerate spousal transgressions because they were societally subjugated to men.)

A compelling topic that evolves from the novel, of course, is what drives an adulterous addiction like Tomas’. His philosophy that disentangles love from sex is only partial explanation. If Tomas truly loves his wife, logically speaking he should be able to restrain himself. The fact that he cannot shows that he is succumbing to an unfathomable psychological fragility.

The character of Sabina provides somewhat of a buffer against any accusations of sexism because she symbolizes the female incarnation of the casual sex ethos. Most people associate men with being the most passionate proponents of promiscuity, but a fair amount of women are attracted to that mode of living as well.

Sabina sleeps with Tomas on numerous occasions, even after his marriage to Tereza. She enjoys the leisurely lifestyle of sex sans commitment, and in her world this often involves married men. Indeed, when one of her paramours leaves his wife to be with Sabina full-time, she dumps him; Sabina suffocates within such a scenario, with its sentimental suggestions of dependence and fidelity. Sabina prizes her autocratic autonomy; she is meant to represent the fully freed female.

This is not to say that sleeping with married men is any more ethical than philandering, as clearly that too is injurious anomalous behavior.

Whatever the novel’s ethical ambiguities (and perhaps I’m just too cerebrally juvenile to ascertain the “truths” therein), the fact is that it has some gorgeously written passages. And it's passages such as the one below that practically redeem all other perceived problems because they truly induce metaphysical musing:

"The heaviest of burdens crushes us, we sink beneath it, it pins us to the ground. But in love poetry of every age, the woman longs to be weighed down by the man's body.The heaviest of burdens is therefore simultaneously an image of life's most intense fulfillment. The heavier the burden, the closer our lives come to the earth, the more real and truthful they become. Conversely, the absolute absence of burden causes man to be lighter than air, to soar into heights, take leave of the earth and his earthly being, and become only half real, his movements as free as they are insignificant. What then shall we choose? Weight or lightness?"

Vampiric Ambivalence: The Grating Dichotomy of Vampire Weekend (CD Review) by Alison Ross




Vampiric Ambivalence: The Grating Dichotomy of Vampire Weekend
by Alison Ross

I hate myself for liking Vampire Weekend. I don't think I have ever been so madeningly ambivalent about a band.

I have avoided them for years. They did not seem like my cup of tea. And I'm still not sure they are. Nonetheless, recently I have found myself falling in love with a few of their songs. I finally conceded to giving their two albums a whirl, because as ever, I am voracious consumer of music, and my tastes run wildly ecclectic. I do not shun music based on genre or image; I like most categories, although of course I gravitate toward the "indie" genre, whatever that means. Instead, I shun music based on quality. If the songs sucks, I shun it. Pretty simple.

I am clearly not alone in my nagging suspicions about VW. They are, according to some sources, one of the more polarizing bands on the indie scene today.

So yeah. Vampire Weekend has cultivated this Ivy League collegiate image that is thoroughly off-putting to people like myself with a decidedly bohemian bias. And yet, VW are also exactly as their image suggests: affluent trust-fund babies who attended an elitist university (Columbia in NYC) and who are now capitalizing on their privilege.

And this in itself would not be so bad if their lyrics didn't also extol this privileged existence. VW sing about bedding rich girls who tote Louis Vitton bags and shop at Benneton. And other nauseating topics germane to the Ivy League "ethos."

Other bands may have come from similar circumstances, but you don't hear them singing about it.

Of course, at the other end of the spectrum, gangsta rapper 50 Cent capitalizes on his ghetto image. All bands to some degree, even my beloved Cure, capitalize on an image, a brand. It's how music is marketed, for better or worse.

But the 50 Cent/Vampire Weekend analogy is especially pertinent because 50 Cent comes from poverty (allegedly - has this ever been proved or disproved?) and VW comes from wealth, and yet both are manipulating the image-machine to their shameless advantage. And actually, there may be more honesty in the VW image than in 50 Cent's IF it is indeed true that 50 Cent might not really come from the rough-and-tumble circumstances he claims to.

And anyway, 50 Cent's music does nothing to promote a counter-reality but instead engenders more problems within the lower-income community. He does not politicize poverty issues in an effort to eradicate them, but rather glorifies the gangsta life which has its basis in poverty, and this only further entrenches the problem.

Vampire Weekend, conversely - as well as similary - celebrates privilege in their lyrics, doing nothing to combat the sinister rich-poor disparity so wickedly rampant in our culture.

Even worse, VW plagiarizes African rhythms, without paying homage to the originators of these sounds. At least Peter Gabriel co-opted such rhythms by employing actual African musicians AND through lyrically honoring those who gave birth to such music.

VW does not seem concerened about the fact that the music they are imitating and integrating into their sonic palette actually has its genesis in deep poverty among those inhabiting the African continent.

Now, just to play devil's advocate against myself for a minute: So what if they don't seem concerned about it? Isn't ALL music a pastiche of sounds from different cultures and classes? Should it really matter if a rich band's music consciously apes sounds from poorer musicians without not acknowledging this fact?

To answer my own question: yes, and no.

You see, there's that annoying ambivalence again.

It matters because if music is to be a globally shared experience, then to borrow sounds from another culture without in some way attributing the music to that culture is finally just tantamount to stealing.

On the other hand, it doesn't matter because it happens all the time in music, implicity, anyway.

It just that this time it actually stands out; it's egregiously explicit. VW vaunts the white man's privilege using the vehicle of a poor black person's music. The original music has its roots in impoverished suffering. The co-opted music has its roots in affluent complacency.

Of course, one could argue that African music has also borrowed from other cultures' music, and doesn't necessarily attribute their sources.

In the end, of course, what matters is whether the music is in some way affecting. And, stunningly, VW weekend has some very affecting tunes. Indeed, many of their songs are irritatingly infectious. And they aren't infectious in that confectionary way, either - their tunes have actual depth and dynamic. They have a shimmering vibrancy even as their inane (if intellectually realized) lyrics threaten to obfuscate that music at times. But the songs can stand solidly on their own, as well.

And, to be perfectly fair, the songs do more than just "plagiarize African rhythms," as I so pendantically insist. The songs actually weave in sounds from all over the global and musical map. Huge hints of ska, calypso, mariachi, punk, post-punk, classic rock and even classical music permeate both Contra, their sophomore release, and their debut eponymous effort.

The best songs for me are the ones where post-punk and classic rock are most prevalent. I really like "Cousins," on Contra, which incorporates trippy indie-fied Van Halen guitars, and A-punk on the first album, which screams post-punk and even features dollops of hardcore.

But I do also enjoy the tunes that are more innately "world music," for lack of a better description. And that would describe the bulk of both album's songs.

I am more drawn to VW's first album, however; there is something a bit more organic and "honest" about it, and it features a crafty cohesiveness that seems to be lacking on Contra. The first album embodies a refreshingly naive straightforwardness, and a giddily eclectic offering of styles. And "M79" exemplifies the most invigorating ideal of rock/classical fusion.

Of course, just to flip back to my vampiric aversion for a moment, there is nothing particularly edgy in the sonics of VW. Like their lyrics, which are mostly breezy paens to privilege, the music is straightforward and sanitized. It does not induce the jerky kinesthetics in its listeners like, say, the sonics of post-punk progenitors Joy Division or the early spiky tunes of The Cure (refer to Killing an Arab). VW's songs inspire dancing motions, to be sure, but not the types of agitated movements associated with many modern indie and 80s post-punk bands.

I mean, wasn't the original purpose of rock music to promote physical and mental rebellion? Not to smugly revel in the riches, per se, but to aggressively antagonize against the stuffy establishment?

And, too, there is the issue of Ezra Koenig's voice. It's a prepubescent warble that can be grating at times.

But he has a range that when employed, redeems his faux falsetto.

And I guess It's this that disconcerts me so much. I wish I could just dismiss VW based on their preppy appearance, icky Ivy League lyrics, brazen borrowing of a poorer person's rhythms, and slick sonics.

But I can't. I'm too eagerly open-minded about music to just cavalierly toss aside good songs.

Someone save me from myself, please.

Another of America’s Dirty Little Corporate Secrets (Film Review) by Edwin Young


Another of America’s Dirty Little Corporate Secrets
by Edwin Young

I watched a movie the other night called “Conspiracy” (2008 staring Val Kilmer). It had received somewhat poor reviews. This was justified for a professional movie critic who bases their critique on traditional, Hollywood, Oscar-like standards. However, I saw it as a great ‘message movie’. I knew a little about the controversy over Mexican immigrant legislation, a little about the Maquiladoras, as well as a little about the worldwide exploitation of underdeveloped countries by US corporations, so I immediately became engrossed in the movie.

This movie is a valid dramatization of what American corporations have been doing for many decades now. In the movie, Halliburton and Brown and Root and other such companies are all accurately portrayed by their compression into the movie’s one ‘fictitious’ corporation, Halicorp. The movie also accurately represents the true situation with respect to Mexican ‘illegals’. Americans have been employing them to do our dirty, hard work while keeping the death scythe of deportation or arrest over their heads to keep them working for slave wages, which they need to save their families in Mexico from starvation.

A conveniently opportunistic system has been devised whereby US corporations undermine Mexican corporations and make it impossible for Mexicans to earn a living in Mexico. Consequently, Mexican laborers have to flee to the US and take below subsistence wages. The only other alternative for them has been the Maquiladoras.

In the beginning, the Maquiladoras were supposed to help the Mexican cities along the border economically but this turned into a nightmare as the US corporations exploited, virtually raped, the cities and their people who had come in the millions to live along the US-Mexican border and make a decent living. Eventually, these corporations moved on to cheaper slave labor in underdeveloped countries that were even worse off. Those border towns turned into impoverished garbage heaps. Those Mexican workers, therefore, had no choice but to swim across the border river or the climb border fences to find slave-wage work in the US.

Those who take the time to inquire and those with eyes and ears to see and to hear with their hearts know, understand, and grieve for these Mexican Maquiladoras workers, Mexican immigrant workers, and their families who are caught in the tragic trap laid for them by the US corporations. There are those who know much of this and are happy to benefit from such dastardly exploitation. Yet, there are some caring few who create sanctuary churches and cities to care for desperate ‘illegals’ and their shattered families and often even sequester them from local ‘de jure’ police who are really serving as ‘de facto’ henchmen, a kind of recrudescent form of the KKK, for local businesses.

On the other hand, there are these unconscionably insensitive, narcissistic, obsessively acquisitive employers who find all sorts of convenient ways to rationalize and blithely transform the plight of their Mexican illegal slave workers so as to make it seem like they are actually providing them with a great blessing, in fact, saving them. The white, well-to-do, ordinary American employers also rationalize this villainous behavior by seeing themselves as superior, a kind of unofficial master race, and their non-white slave workers as somewhat like mongrel dogs that must be kept from citizenship in order to prevent a pollution of our pure genes and true American heritage.

The movie drives home a final thrust by revealing the xenophobic bigotry of the Halicorp types like Rhodes, the local head of Halicorp, when Rhodes, attacks and demeans retired Special Ops Marine William, whom he thinks he has beaten, for being half American Indian and half Anglo American. War-hero McPherson is the stranger-newly-come-to-town who successfully defends the town, New Lago, and its ‘illegal alien’ workers against Rhodes and his puppet Sheriff, deputies, and other complicit locals who were acting as Rhodes’ thugs out of fear for their lives,. In the end, the people of New Lago, ‘emblematic of the vast majority of ordinary people’, finally rise up and turn against Rhodes, “emblematic of corporate American CEOs”, demonstrating that, after all is said and done, America is a land of non-xenophobic, non-bigoted, non-exclusionist, multi-colored, multi-racial immigrants.

On the other hand, however, in America, we know there are a great many Americans who simply choose to look the other way and let this corrupt and calamitous situation with our decent immigrant workers putrefy. Many are aware that this same type of exploitation by American Corporations is taking place in underdeveloped countries all over the globe and do nothing. Finally, there are the perpetrators who are running these US-legitimized criminal operations and hosts of rightwing political and media lackeys who are aligned with them.

For these criminal corporations, Halicorp is the perfect, ‘grotesques’ symbol!

Author bio:

Edwin is a 76 year old, retired, psychotherapist/institution reformer. His greatest satisfaction came from reforming many juvenile correctional institutions, a maximum security prison, a West Texas mental hospital, and the huge Job Corps in San Marcos, Texas. All in all there were thirteen institutions that he successfully reformed. In the last year of his PhD program, Edwin was one of the two PhD graduate students to be awarded the annual University Research Institute grant. His dissertation committee said his was the longest, best, and most complex in the history of the department. Since retiring, Edwin spends his time writing. His site is: The Natural Systems Institute.