WAR WITHOUT END MEANS, EVENTUALLY, THE DRAFT. PERIOD. CHEW ON THAT. AND YES, VIRGINIA, IT CAN BE DONE. JUST ADD FEAR.
THAT IS ALL.
-Citizen's Note
This Citizen's Note brought to you by the SenseChange Center for Positive Change. Thanks for reading and have a GREAT day.
Sunday, September 10, 2006
Writer UnBound: The Damoclean Sword Falls, for Good or Ill
You only realize that you’ve burst into song when OneForce nudges you in the ribs. “Do You Want to Know a Secret,” by the Beatles. A pair of rich and ancient SuitAndTie types wrinkle their newspapers and arch snow encrusted brows at you. ‘Fuck those old crocs’ you think to yourself, ‘I got a suit too.’ You see your sexy stewardess walking towards you, smiling at your weird little outburst. You keep it going. What else can you do? You don’t stop at the peak of a Beatles tune for anybody or anything, and if it that ain’t a law then it oughta be. And besides, you’re singing for her now.
I’ve known a secret for a week or two,
Nobody knows just we twoooooooo-ooooooo.
Listen, (ooo-wa-oooo)
do you want to know a secret (ooo-wa-oooo),
Do you promise not to tell, (Whoooooooooa oooooa)
Closer, (ooo-wa-oooo)
Let me whisper in your ear, (ooo-wa-oooo),
Say the words you long to hear,
I’m in love with you, (oo, oo, oo, oo),”
You’re shucking and jiving, singing loud enough that you can hear a couple of the monkeys in coach are singing along as well, hip to it. We’re all in the same movie now, including the sexy stew who’s dancing and snapping her fingers, laughing, but looking you dead in the eyes while she does. Hot damn. To the outside world she’s playing along, being a good sport, but there’s no doubt about it; you just officially registered on her “Becoming Interesting” chart. And why not? You are officially becoming interesting, are you not? You are a blogger! You write every day. You have Things To Say. You take her hand.
“Just felt like breaking into song, Sweetie. Can’t imagine why.”
She shakes her head at you, but it’s a good shake, like she can’t wait to tell her saucy little stew buddies about this guy in FirstClass. She walks off and you turn for a RearView and lord a’mercy you’re glad you did. Keats once said something to the effect of “Truth is Beauty, Beauty is Truth,” and if this is really the case -and I have no reason to believe otherwise- that was one of the most breathtakingly honest asses you’d ever seen.
“Nice recovery,” OneForce notes approvingly as you take off your headphones. He’s looking a little green right now. You’re hungover like a couple of jerks but you’re in the greatest of moods, something OneForce may never forgive you for. Your poor, hungover pal turns back to his window, moans and tries to sleep off the rest of this vicious hangover. He’s a big fucker, and travel, even in FirstClass is not ever a very comfortable thing for him. Dude fell asleep watching that Narnia shlock and by so doing, committed the Cardinal Sin of KingHell, HeavyBinge RoadTrips: never, ever stop drinking. Given half the chance -and especially on a bloody plane- a HangOver on a RoadTrip can be near fatal for RoadTrippers. Turn grown men to moaning, wretching, needy babies. I’ve seen it happen. I know better. My buddy makes it no secret that he blames me for having bought ‘that dreadful Narnia thing’, as he calls it and holds you responsible for his HangOver as well. I don’t think I have any explaining to do. I saw some fleeting images of a vast battlefield occupied by all manner of Man and Mythic Beasts so I picked the thing up. I didn’t make the bloody thing.
Nuts to him. Just to fuck with him you order a glass of red wine from your sexy stew.
You didn’t even watch ‘that dreadful Narnia thing.’ Couldn’t. Soon as you saw it was a bunch of kids and shit you ditched it, thought about WritingUp again. The Ugly Truth had been very prevalent in your mind, as of late, On the Run as you were, from the Evil NeoCon Scourge. It had to be blogged because once blogged you would be free of the Fiends once and for all. And Free of more than that, of Them.
Free of the big, aching cancery lump in your soul. Free of the FEAR. Not of them, it turns out, greater Fear of knowing the Truth but not saying it, of backing down. To Be or Not To Be, eh’ Hamlet? Eh’ Achilles? You read those dudes loud and clear, loud and fucking clear! And ‘To Be’ it is.
Free from a few other things, it turns out. Free from the Anger. At the pompous jackals in the grotesque carnival which passes for “the News” these days. Free of that silent scream in your mind every time you hear somebody yammer on about the latest and utterly meaningless ‘winner’ of the latest “RealityTelevision show.” That the Big Distraction is Total Piss and not even Remotely Interesting hurts most of all.
Free of all that. At last.
That was the state of mind. And it all just poured out of you. You could feel the lump lessening as you wrote, your soul breathing deep, greedy breaths of something better. Catharsis. The Death of one thing and the Birth of another. A Change, a real, visceral Change.
You WroteUp the bastard, drunk as a judge and the Sword of Damocles cleaveth you Free rather than in half. You pass into a deep, peaceful SleepState, your first in a loooooong time. Not from the booze, you’re confident -though you’d freely admit to drinking TruckLoads for the last few days- but from the process. This. Given birth to your burden, and now it's everybody else's.
Free of the Dirty Secret, you think to yourself, just as your latest CosmicConfluence hits you again with the subtlety of the proverbial flying mallet, again in the form of a song on your MP3 thinger. This is when you heard The Beatles with their “Do You Want to Know a Secret.” It’s fucking perfect. And in the millisecond that it takes for you to look up towards the clock on the seat in front of you, you already know what Time it’s going to read. You just know it. It’s been that type of day. Sure enough. 11:11. You’re silently blown away. Too much, you’re brain almost wants to shut down and digest this all a little slower, Be there in it instead of marveling at it.
You nudge OneForce and point at the clock. You’ve been speaking this Confluence shit at him for a while and he’s been sick of it the whole time. But this time…
“Fuck. It is a little weird, isn’t it?”
“Weird nothing,” you respond, understanding for the first time ever, “most natural thing in the whole Cosmos.” OneForce turns and appraises you for a second. Nods.
“I still think you’re a nut case. But there’s something to all that.”
“Don’t gotta tell me,” you sigh, and he doesn’t. You know. You go back to reviewing your blog and somewhere in the process you’d started singing. Which ultimately turned out not to be such a bad thing at all, you think to yourself upon reflection as your favorite sexy stew comes back with your glass of red wine and a napkin. With something written on it. You settle back into your seat and sigh contentedly. A Writer No Longer on the Run merely hours away from a brand new land and about to reaffirm your MileHigh status, and with a STEW, NO LESS! That’s the Gold Club Membership!
Damn right.
OneForce calls you a sick man when he sees the glass of red wine, but you just laugh. It’s quite the contrary. You’re convalescing.
Peace. At long last.
-iSC
RandomMP3age: “Ready To Go,” by Republica.
I’ve known a secret for a week or two,
Nobody knows just we twoooooooo-ooooooo.
Listen, (ooo-wa-oooo)
do you want to know a secret (ooo-wa-oooo),
Do you promise not to tell, (Whoooooooooa oooooa)
Closer, (ooo-wa-oooo)
Let me whisper in your ear, (ooo-wa-oooo),
Say the words you long to hear,
I’m in love with you, (oo, oo, oo, oo),”
You’re shucking and jiving, singing loud enough that you can hear a couple of the monkeys in coach are singing along as well, hip to it. We’re all in the same movie now, including the sexy stew who’s dancing and snapping her fingers, laughing, but looking you dead in the eyes while she does. Hot damn. To the outside world she’s playing along, being a good sport, but there’s no doubt about it; you just officially registered on her “Becoming Interesting” chart. And why not? You are officially becoming interesting, are you not? You are a blogger! You write every day. You have Things To Say. You take her hand.
“Just felt like breaking into song, Sweetie. Can’t imagine why.”
She shakes her head at you, but it’s a good shake, like she can’t wait to tell her saucy little stew buddies about this guy in FirstClass. She walks off and you turn for a RearView and lord a’mercy you’re glad you did. Keats once said something to the effect of “Truth is Beauty, Beauty is Truth,” and if this is really the case -and I have no reason to believe otherwise- that was one of the most breathtakingly honest asses you’d ever seen.
“Nice recovery,” OneForce notes approvingly as you take off your headphones. He’s looking a little green right now. You’re hungover like a couple of jerks but you’re in the greatest of moods, something OneForce may never forgive you for. Your poor, hungover pal turns back to his window, moans and tries to sleep off the rest of this vicious hangover. He’s a big fucker, and travel, even in FirstClass is not ever a very comfortable thing for him. Dude fell asleep watching that Narnia shlock and by so doing, committed the Cardinal Sin of KingHell, HeavyBinge RoadTrips: never, ever stop drinking. Given half the chance -and especially on a bloody plane- a HangOver on a RoadTrip can be near fatal for RoadTrippers. Turn grown men to moaning, wretching, needy babies. I’ve seen it happen. I know better. My buddy makes it no secret that he blames me for having bought ‘that dreadful Narnia thing’, as he calls it and holds you responsible for his HangOver as well. I don’t think I have any explaining to do. I saw some fleeting images of a vast battlefield occupied by all manner of Man and Mythic Beasts so I picked the thing up. I didn’t make the bloody thing.
Nuts to him. Just to fuck with him you order a glass of red wine from your sexy stew.
You didn’t even watch ‘that dreadful Narnia thing.’ Couldn’t. Soon as you saw it was a bunch of kids and shit you ditched it, thought about WritingUp again. The Ugly Truth had been very prevalent in your mind, as of late, On the Run as you were, from the Evil NeoCon Scourge. It had to be blogged because once blogged you would be free of the Fiends once and for all. And Free of more than that, of Them.
Free of the big, aching cancery lump in your soul. Free of the FEAR. Not of them, it turns out, greater Fear of knowing the Truth but not saying it, of backing down. To Be or Not To Be, eh’ Hamlet? Eh’ Achilles? You read those dudes loud and clear, loud and fucking clear! And ‘To Be’ it is.
Free from a few other things, it turns out. Free from the Anger. At the pompous jackals in the grotesque carnival which passes for “the News” these days. Free of that silent scream in your mind every time you hear somebody yammer on about the latest and utterly meaningless ‘winner’ of the latest “RealityTelevision show.” That the Big Distraction is Total Piss and not even Remotely Interesting hurts most of all.
Free of all that. At last.
That was the state of mind. And it all just poured out of you. You could feel the lump lessening as you wrote, your soul breathing deep, greedy breaths of something better. Catharsis. The Death of one thing and the Birth of another. A Change, a real, visceral Change.
You WroteUp the bastard, drunk as a judge and the Sword of Damocles cleaveth you Free rather than in half. You pass into a deep, peaceful SleepState, your first in a loooooong time. Not from the booze, you’re confident -though you’d freely admit to drinking TruckLoads for the last few days- but from the process. This. Given birth to your burden, and now it's everybody else's.
Free of the Dirty Secret, you think to yourself, just as your latest CosmicConfluence hits you again with the subtlety of the proverbial flying mallet, again in the form of a song on your MP3 thinger. This is when you heard The Beatles with their “Do You Want to Know a Secret.” It’s fucking perfect. And in the millisecond that it takes for you to look up towards the clock on the seat in front of you, you already know what Time it’s going to read. You just know it. It’s been that type of day. Sure enough. 11:11. You’re silently blown away. Too much, you’re brain almost wants to shut down and digest this all a little slower, Be there in it instead of marveling at it.
You nudge OneForce and point at the clock. You’ve been speaking this Confluence shit at him for a while and he’s been sick of it the whole time. But this time…
“Fuck. It is a little weird, isn’t it?”
“Weird nothing,” you respond, understanding for the first time ever, “most natural thing in the whole Cosmos.” OneForce turns and appraises you for a second. Nods.
“I still think you’re a nut case. But there’s something to all that.”
“Don’t gotta tell me,” you sigh, and he doesn’t. You know. You go back to reviewing your blog and somewhere in the process you’d started singing. Which ultimately turned out not to be such a bad thing at all, you think to yourself upon reflection as your favorite sexy stew comes back with your glass of red wine and a napkin. With something written on it. You settle back into your seat and sigh contentedly. A Writer No Longer on the Run merely hours away from a brand new land and about to reaffirm your MileHigh status, and with a STEW, NO LESS! That’s the Gold Club Membership!
Damn right.
OneForce calls you a sick man when he sees the glass of red wine, but you just laugh. It’s quite the contrary. You’re convalescing.
Peace. At long last.
-iSC
RandomMP3age: “Ready To Go,” by Republica.
Chilled Scotch and a Cocktail Dress
(with all apologies to my Muse, you know who you are.)
You and I go cruising for for our sexy little servant, a servant to our every need and desire that we can boot out into the night once we’re satiated. I’m in some expensive threads, you have the kind of black little cocktail dress that always gets you noticed by both men and women. Alone we’re each something to behold. Together we are a force. People look at us like we’re something different, something more. And we are.
We have our pick of the room and we know it. I leave the choice to you. It doesn’t matter to me, what matters to me is that the chemistry is right for you. And her. And I know that your taste will please me. It always does. You do not disappoint. She joins us for a drink. We flirt. The whole room gets hotter as all three realize it’s on. The two of you are off to the ladies room, I wait, a fine scotch in my hands.
Once inside the washroom, you push her up against the stall, pull her hair at the nape of her neck, your hand between her legs. You know where to touch and how to touch her. You’re both breathing heavy. You whisper her the deal as you finger her Klit with one hand, now pulling lightly on the g-string from the back with your other: she is to be for our amusement. She is to do whatever you or I say. And when we tell her to leave she is to do so. It is agreed. She will do anything we say, wants nothing more than to please us. You could rub her off right there, give her a quick and harsh orgasm right there in the bathroom but you stop short. You tell her we must return, that I don’t like to be kept waiting. And it’s true.
You return to the table and I’m speaking with another girl that I shoo away like a fly as you approach. You sit beside me, she sits across from us. I open my mouth and you insert the finger that had recently been inside her. She knows we have discussed the whole thing before. I taste her Kunt on your finger and approve. So we go.
-iSC
The Final, Ugly Truth of the Age
America, it is official. You are Germany. It is the mid to late thirties. P.N.A.C. is the Nazi party. “Rebuilding America’s Defenses” is actually “Mein Kampf”. 911 is the burning of the Reichstag. The only difference is that Adolph Hitler was but one man. PNAC are MANY of the most powerful men on earth.
Dick Cheney was a PNAC founder and a member to this day. He is now Vice President of the World, which means PNAC is Vice President of the World. Donald Rumsfeld was a PNAC founder and remains a member to this day. He now runs the most powerful military in the world. Which means PNAC runs the most powerful military in the world. Paul Wolfowitz was also one of the architects and also remains a member to this day. He was the former assistant secretary of defense. Now he holds the keys to the World Bank. Which means PNAC has the keys to the World Bank. Dubya is not a member, per se, but Bro Jeb is! You know, the Bush comin' down the pipe at us? And if Jeb Bush finds his way into the WhiteHouse then as far as I’m concerned the Apocalypse is upon us. And don’t think for a second they couldn’t do it. People, it turns out, want to believe only easy, condensed truths and in many cases actually prefer the lies!
And these jackals are reallllllly good at what they do.
But that is not the Ugly truth to which I refer, not the Final Ugly Truth. Onwards, Sensey, to the matter at hand!
PNAC.
Still unaware of PNAC? Haven't even heard of it through your unbiased MainStreamMedia? Why not visit PNACs very own website? Look it up on Wikipedia. Or revel in blissful ignorance until the next atrocity. It's up to you, for now.
But the unmitigated balls of it! Cheney and the Gang compose a proposal for world domination in the coming century, this new, American century, and damning though it is, nobody thought to expunge it. The names are still up there, proudly! The names remain displayed on the site because they’re proud as hell of it. And they know what I know, and that is that people, it turns out, are for the most part either quite stupid, very lazy or very easily manipulated. They count on this, and why not? It’s worked swimmingly so far.
Anywho, PNAC wrote up an particularly ugly little manifesto in 2000, way before 911, Iraq Deux and even the whole 'strangest vote in American History thingee'. They called it "Rebuilding America's Defenses," a perfect precursor to the type of Orwellian lingo we get hit with in the coming years from the Bush camp because it doesn't have a thing to do with defenses. More like a supreme offense. Taking charge. Dominating. Everything.
Each of the major tenents of their manifesto has either happened or is in the process of happening, for example:
In 2000, before 911, they wrote they wanted to attack, invade and take over the nation of Iraq. Done and done. Wolfy and Rummy were gunning for it not even a full day after 911, regardless of who was responsible for the horror. Check.
In 2000, before 911, PNAC called for open warfare and wholesale regime-change in the Mid East. Done and done. Underway with Gulf Deux, the invasion of Afghanistan and the impending war against Iran. Check.
In 2000, before 911, PNAC called for the fighting of several major theater wars. Done and Ongoing. Iraq and Afghanistan are just the beginning. Iran is on deck. And some of us are intelligent enough to know it will not stop there. They've told us it will take YEARS and YEARS, this battle of theirs. Check.
In 2000, before 911, PNAC called for the creation of a permanent military presence in Iraq. Done and in progress, and probably the single biggest nameable reason why America is in Iraq RIGHT NOW. And if you don't know that yet, I'm surprised you made it this far. Check.
In 2000, before 911, PNAC called for American commitment to "constabulary duties" in strategically important places. Done and ongoing. So, we're trying to train their police, give 'em a hand, stick around. Check.
In 2000, before 911, PNAC called for 3.8 percent of gross domestic product to be transferred towards the Defense budget. Anybody see where we're at on that? How about ‘dead-on balls.’ Dubya got it for PNAC from the most pliable Congress in history. Check.
The kicker? It says that all these goals are reachable, but not without something akin to Pearl Harbor to polarize the populace. Here's a direct quote, and the smokinest gun you ever saw:
"The process of transformation, even if it brings revolutionary change, is likely to be a long one, absent some catastrophic and catalyzing event like a new Pearl Harbor."
They asked for a new Pearl Harbor and not one year later they got precisely that. That's 911 they're talking about. Hmmm. That's sooooooooooooome coincidence alright....
Check. And Mate.
You catching this, Citizen? YOU! All their wicked little dreams will have to wait unless something Awful and Terrible happens to drench the populace so deeply in fear that they'll acquiesce to just about anything. They got in charge and that's precisely what happened at precisely the time that they were able to completely capitalize on it.
If we were talking about a murder mystery instead of 911, the equivalent would be Dick bragging in a bar about all the cool stuff he could do if only his wife, Jane, were to get pushed down the stairs. The next day, turns out old Janey took a fall down a flight of stairs and Dick's off to the races. Pretty open and shut case for the investigators. Unless of course Dick's in charge of the investigation. Then what happens? Nothing. Janey fell. Or got pushed by Communists, Terrorists, Aliens or whatever the object of Mass Fear is for that particular time and culture.
I hereby openly accuse most or all of the big players in George W. Bush’s Administration of being behind the attacks on September Eleventh, 2001, to further the goals laid out in painstaking detail in "Rebuilding America's Defenses". That means Mass Murder of those you swore to protect, and High Treason of the Highest office of the land.
Research it yourself. The Pearl Harbor quote can be found on page 51 of that report. See it with your own eyes. Don't wait for the Media to do any of this for you because they NEVER EVER WILL. YOU ARE NOW THE ONLY MEDIA THAT MATTERS.
PNAC believes there is noone to police them. They believe themselves to be functionally above the law. This is not the case. There is but one group on earth with greater power than PNAC, only one group that can possibly hold these Fiends to account, make them pay for their crimes or at least answer to them. And you know who that group is, you know it. Because it's obvious. That group is the American People.
Make no mistake, Citizens. Evil exists. Its initials are PNAC, and it is these men. The proof is in the last few years on earth. And it only gets worse for as long as the Citizens allow it. For exactly that long and no longer, but that may be forever if the transition of America from birthplace of Freedom and Democracy is allowed to continue its unchecked spiral into War and Tyranny.
That's my ugly Truth. It's been boring a hole through the middle of my skull for a long time, but guess what? Turns out the Truth does set you free, folks, because I've said the worst I can say, done what I could. Greener pastures are mine. My cancer is now yours. Now you have the Truth in you. Do what you will with it.
Sense CHANGE!
Dick Cheney was a PNAC founder and a member to this day. He is now Vice President of the World, which means PNAC is Vice President of the World. Donald Rumsfeld was a PNAC founder and remains a member to this day. He now runs the most powerful military in the world. Which means PNAC runs the most powerful military in the world. Paul Wolfowitz was also one of the architects and also remains a member to this day. He was the former assistant secretary of defense. Now he holds the keys to the World Bank. Which means PNAC has the keys to the World Bank. Dubya is not a member, per se, but Bro Jeb is! You know, the Bush comin' down the pipe at us? And if Jeb Bush finds his way into the WhiteHouse then as far as I’m concerned the Apocalypse is upon us. And don’t think for a second they couldn’t do it. People, it turns out, want to believe only easy, condensed truths and in many cases actually prefer the lies!
And these jackals are reallllllly good at what they do.
But that is not the Ugly truth to which I refer, not the Final Ugly Truth. Onwards, Sensey, to the matter at hand!
PNAC.
Still unaware of PNAC? Haven't even heard of it through your unbiased MainStreamMedia? Why not visit PNACs very own website? Look it up on Wikipedia. Or revel in blissful ignorance until the next atrocity. It's up to you, for now.
But the unmitigated balls of it! Cheney and the Gang compose a proposal for world domination in the coming century, this new, American century, and damning though it is, nobody thought to expunge it. The names are still up there, proudly! The names remain displayed on the site because they’re proud as hell of it. And they know what I know, and that is that people, it turns out, are for the most part either quite stupid, very lazy or very easily manipulated. They count on this, and why not? It’s worked swimmingly so far.
Anywho, PNAC wrote up an particularly ugly little manifesto in 2000, way before 911, Iraq Deux and even the whole 'strangest vote in American History thingee'. They called it "Rebuilding America's Defenses," a perfect precursor to the type of Orwellian lingo we get hit with in the coming years from the Bush camp because it doesn't have a thing to do with defenses. More like a supreme offense. Taking charge. Dominating. Everything.
Each of the major tenents of their manifesto has either happened or is in the process of happening, for example:
In 2000, before 911, they wrote they wanted to attack, invade and take over the nation of Iraq. Done and done. Wolfy and Rummy were gunning for it not even a full day after 911, regardless of who was responsible for the horror. Check.
In 2000, before 911, PNAC called for open warfare and wholesale regime-change in the Mid East. Done and done. Underway with Gulf Deux, the invasion of Afghanistan and the impending war against Iran. Check.
In 2000, before 911, PNAC called for the fighting of several major theater wars. Done and Ongoing. Iraq and Afghanistan are just the beginning. Iran is on deck. And some of us are intelligent enough to know it will not stop there. They've told us it will take YEARS and YEARS, this battle of theirs. Check.
In 2000, before 911, PNAC called for the creation of a permanent military presence in Iraq. Done and in progress, and probably the single biggest nameable reason why America is in Iraq RIGHT NOW. And if you don't know that yet, I'm surprised you made it this far. Check.
In 2000, before 911, PNAC called for American commitment to "constabulary duties" in strategically important places. Done and ongoing. So, we're trying to train their police, give 'em a hand, stick around. Check.
In 2000, before 911, PNAC called for 3.8 percent of gross domestic product to be transferred towards the Defense budget. Anybody see where we're at on that? How about ‘dead-on balls.’ Dubya got it for PNAC from the most pliable Congress in history. Check.
The kicker? It says that all these goals are reachable, but not without something akin to Pearl Harbor to polarize the populace. Here's a direct quote, and the smokinest gun you ever saw:
"The process of transformation, even if it brings revolutionary change, is likely to be a long one, absent some catastrophic and catalyzing event like a new Pearl Harbor."
They asked for a new Pearl Harbor and not one year later they got precisely that. That's 911 they're talking about. Hmmm. That's sooooooooooooome coincidence alright....
Check. And Mate.
You catching this, Citizen? YOU! All their wicked little dreams will have to wait unless something Awful and Terrible happens to drench the populace so deeply in fear that they'll acquiesce to just about anything. They got in charge and that's precisely what happened at precisely the time that they were able to completely capitalize on it.
If we were talking about a murder mystery instead of 911, the equivalent would be Dick bragging in a bar about all the cool stuff he could do if only his wife, Jane, were to get pushed down the stairs. The next day, turns out old Janey took a fall down a flight of stairs and Dick's off to the races. Pretty open and shut case for the investigators. Unless of course Dick's in charge of the investigation. Then what happens? Nothing. Janey fell. Or got pushed by Communists, Terrorists, Aliens or whatever the object of Mass Fear is for that particular time and culture.
I hereby openly accuse most or all of the big players in George W. Bush’s Administration of being behind the attacks on September Eleventh, 2001, to further the goals laid out in painstaking detail in "Rebuilding America's Defenses". That means Mass Murder of those you swore to protect, and High Treason of the Highest office of the land.
Research it yourself. The Pearl Harbor quote can be found on page 51 of that report. See it with your own eyes. Don't wait for the Media to do any of this for you because they NEVER EVER WILL. YOU ARE NOW THE ONLY MEDIA THAT MATTERS.
PNAC believes there is noone to police them. They believe themselves to be functionally above the law. This is not the case. There is but one group on earth with greater power than PNAC, only one group that can possibly hold these Fiends to account, make them pay for their crimes or at least answer to them. And you know who that group is, you know it. Because it's obvious. That group is the American People.
Make no mistake, Citizens. Evil exists. Its initials are PNAC, and it is these men. The proof is in the last few years on earth. And it only gets worse for as long as the Citizens allow it. For exactly that long and no longer, but that may be forever if the transition of America from birthplace of Freedom and Democracy is allowed to continue its unchecked spiral into War and Tyranny.
That's my ugly Truth. It's been boring a hole through the middle of my skull for a long time, but guess what? Turns out the Truth does set you free, folks, because I've said the worst I can say, done what I could. Greener pastures are mine. My cancer is now yours. Now you have the Truth in you. Do what you will with it.
Sense CHANGE!
Writers On the Run: Cosmic Confluence, the High Alps and those Filthy Quakers
OneForce tells me he’s got a buddy who’s got a pad in the JungFrau mountains. That’s the destination for him, but only after a circuitous tour of Europe to the sites of the graves of many of the greatest scientific minds in history before settling into this mountain pad to write his Magnum Opus, to put, he says, “this ridiculous notion of Quantum Uncertainty and Probability to bed, once and for all.” He snorts derisively. You’re never entirely sure what he’s talking about, unless you read up on it, and he’ll only explain it to you if he’s actually talking to you, not himself. It’s a little weird, but you get used to it. Other than this scientific affliction of his, OneForce is a pretty cool customer.
He’d probably say the same thing about me and this GodAwful political addiction of mine. I keep going back to that evil PNAC riff. Turns out Cheney, Rummy, Wolfy and a whole shitload of Bush cabinet members are all members of a group whose stated, unflinching goals are the taking over of the entire planet, from land, sea, earth to space to the InterNet to everything. It’s all right there on their website. Check the names of the group and what the group seeks. The names are still up there and the website is still active. Which means they’re STILL members. Right? I mean if there’s a flaw in my logic here, by all means let me know. Something is percolating on all this, a slow-burner for now.
OneForce says this mountain pad would probably be an ideal place for me to hammer out a few more Cantos and I agree. I’ve felt another Canto coming on over the past few days. This is a good thing. But it takes Time. Time becomes an important topic in your thirties. Can you write nine hundred and eleven Cantos of political protest and general Earthian yearnings in a lifetime? The answer is probably, but only if you can stop doing all the other shit you need to do. But I’ve just bloody done the starving artist thing before and the poverty gets you bloody down, man. Nope. Screw that. It’s not so tough to get money, it just takes your Time. Find a way to get paid to play, this is Nirvana. But the odds are about a billion to one.
Time.
Steve Miller’s “Fly Like an Eagle,” comes onto your Mp3Player. Your latest cosmic confluence advises you that Time keeps on slippin’ into the future, right as you’re thinking those very words. You check the clock on the screen in front of you. Eleven after ten. A lot of elevens these days. You notice that? It keeps happening. Cosmic Confluence or hideous side effect of hammering away political rants at the miscreant JerkOffs and FuckUps that seem destined to plow the entirety of human Citizenry into the largest collective FacePlant in History? Nearly impossible to tell. Like all things, it bears further consideration. Which means fuck it, but only for now.
But, the High Alps, eh? Sounds like as good a rip as any, but only after we’ve left our mark on the Amsterdam party circuit. This is supposed to be one of the Sex capitals of the world, and other than those filthy Quaker colonies, it probably is. One thing is certain, we’re there to represent the GonzoEarthian sliver, that 2% that know precisely what’s going on Out There and have chosen to have no truck with it. You know who you are and good on you if you do. I carry your badge proudly emblazoned upon my oft-condommed pecker for the good Amsterdamians to inspect and marvel at. In sooth, it is the Gonzo way.
Epic truths can wait a little bit longer, it turns out. You’re a Writer on the Run, and what you write may not always be what you would have chosen. Too much external stimuli. If it turns out it's gonna be in the form of a Canto then so be it, but it is infinitely more difficult to say. But it’s looking that way. So what are you gonna do?
-iSenseChange
RandomMP3age: "Bring It On Home," Led Zeppelin
He’d probably say the same thing about me and this GodAwful political addiction of mine. I keep going back to that evil PNAC riff. Turns out Cheney, Rummy, Wolfy and a whole shitload of Bush cabinet members are all members of a group whose stated, unflinching goals are the taking over of the entire planet, from land, sea, earth to space to the InterNet to everything. It’s all right there on their website. Check the names of the group and what the group seeks. The names are still up there and the website is still active. Which means they’re STILL members. Right? I mean if there’s a flaw in my logic here, by all means let me know. Something is percolating on all this, a slow-burner for now.
OneForce says this mountain pad would probably be an ideal place for me to hammer out a few more Cantos and I agree. I’ve felt another Canto coming on over the past few days. This is a good thing. But it takes Time. Time becomes an important topic in your thirties. Can you write nine hundred and eleven Cantos of political protest and general Earthian yearnings in a lifetime? The answer is probably, but only if you can stop doing all the other shit you need to do. But I’ve just bloody done the starving artist thing before and the poverty gets you bloody down, man. Nope. Screw that. It’s not so tough to get money, it just takes your Time. Find a way to get paid to play, this is Nirvana. But the odds are about a billion to one.
Time.
Steve Miller’s “Fly Like an Eagle,” comes onto your Mp3Player. Your latest cosmic confluence advises you that Time keeps on slippin’ into the future, right as you’re thinking those very words. You check the clock on the screen in front of you. Eleven after ten. A lot of elevens these days. You notice that? It keeps happening. Cosmic Confluence or hideous side effect of hammering away political rants at the miscreant JerkOffs and FuckUps that seem destined to plow the entirety of human Citizenry into the largest collective FacePlant in History? Nearly impossible to tell. Like all things, it bears further consideration. Which means fuck it, but only for now.
But, the High Alps, eh? Sounds like as good a rip as any, but only after we’ve left our mark on the Amsterdam party circuit. This is supposed to be one of the Sex capitals of the world, and other than those filthy Quaker colonies, it probably is. One thing is certain, we’re there to represent the GonzoEarthian sliver, that 2% that know precisely what’s going on Out There and have chosen to have no truck with it. You know who you are and good on you if you do. I carry your badge proudly emblazoned upon my oft-condommed pecker for the good Amsterdamians to inspect and marvel at. In sooth, it is the Gonzo way.
Epic truths can wait a little bit longer, it turns out. You’re a Writer on the Run, and what you write may not always be what you would have chosen. Too much external stimuli. If it turns out it's gonna be in the form of a Canto then so be it, but it is infinitely more difficult to say. But it’s looking that way. So what are you gonna do?
-iSenseChange
RandomMP3age: "Bring It On Home," Led Zeppelin
Writers on the Run: Paranoia and the General Cheezening of All Things
The luggage security people inform you you’re allowed two packs of matches, not three. Which, of course, is not in any way comprehendable, especially if you can then buy a lighter in the DutyFree. As many as you want. The message: “We want you to think we care about Terrorism, your safety and the General Good. We don’t, however, want to impede you and your smoking habit in any way shape or form." Big Tobacco has its filthy, yellow stained hands all over this aspect of National Insecurity you can bet yer sweet bippy on that, and why not? Money is more important than Security, we all know that and have known about it for a long time.
You don’t know if you’re on any PatriotAct WatchLists. Impossible to tell. Checked with a few buds on the force. That’s the benefit of being in your early thirties: you know people from all walks of Life. Your buds have grown up to become teachers. Lawyers. And cops. All indications, they say, is that yer in the clear. As far as they know. But that doesn’t mean you’re going to get through Security at the airport. You shuffle through the line up and consider the scene, consider everything. Maybe you imagined the whole thing. Maybe the NSA isn’t really monitoring you for blogging against the NeoCons, Dubya and War. But you keep coming back to that quote from ‘Strange Days’. You remember it?
“The question is not whether you’re paranoid, but whether you’re paranoid enough.”
As apropos a statement in the PNAC America as it would have been in Communist Russia, Maoist China and Nazi Germany. Fuck it. You get popped for writing Truths then that’s the situation. Stopping, it turns out, is not an option.
You answer all the questions with Security, even your own, real name. This is the big test. If the NeoCon Nutters are out to get you, here’s where you can expect to visit your first of many darkened rooms, chock full of brutish men convinced they’re doing the work of Jesus, vicious dogs whose motivations can only be guessed at and the rank smell of your own excement. Yeesh. Ah well, he that never takes a risk shalt never taste champagne, Citizens! No balls, no blowjobs!
Besides, maybe they’re just gonna keep an eye on you.
Maybe none of this is even happening. Maybe you’ve finally flipped yer cookies, as that guy said to that chick in that movie and you’re not on anybody’s watchlist, maybe nobody cares at all. Ever think of that? Sure.
See a commercial later that day on the plane, on a television plastered into the seat in front of us. I pause to wonder what the PoorPeople are doing before getting sucked into witnessing the latest and most bizarre herald of RapMusic’s official entry into the ZeitGeist. A bunch of hipsters in funky clothes dancing around, partying, and rapping about the heartbreak of diarreah. That’s how you know you’ve really made it as an artform. When they totally shit on you. Message: “When cool people have the shits, cool people use Pepto Bismol, yo.” Part and parcel of the General Cheesing of Everything. What did you expect? RapMusic was immune?
I make the transition from beer to a nice glass of red wine. This is, after all, FirstClass. OneForce sticks to beer. Only ever drinks beer or coffee, as far as I’ve seen so far. I advise him that a man cannot live on beer alone. “But he certainly may try,” was his response and I had to admit he had a point.
-iSenseChange
You don’t know if you’re on any PatriotAct WatchLists. Impossible to tell. Checked with a few buds on the force. That’s the benefit of being in your early thirties: you know people from all walks of Life. Your buds have grown up to become teachers. Lawyers. And cops. All indications, they say, is that yer in the clear. As far as they know. But that doesn’t mean you’re going to get through Security at the airport. You shuffle through the line up and consider the scene, consider everything. Maybe you imagined the whole thing. Maybe the NSA isn’t really monitoring you for blogging against the NeoCons, Dubya and War. But you keep coming back to that quote from ‘Strange Days’. You remember it?
“The question is not whether you’re paranoid, but whether you’re paranoid enough.”
As apropos a statement in the PNAC America as it would have been in Communist Russia, Maoist China and Nazi Germany. Fuck it. You get popped for writing Truths then that’s the situation. Stopping, it turns out, is not an option.
You answer all the questions with Security, even your own, real name. This is the big test. If the NeoCon Nutters are out to get you, here’s where you can expect to visit your first of many darkened rooms, chock full of brutish men convinced they’re doing the work of Jesus, vicious dogs whose motivations can only be guessed at and the rank smell of your own excement. Yeesh. Ah well, he that never takes a risk shalt never taste champagne, Citizens! No balls, no blowjobs!
Besides, maybe they’re just gonna keep an eye on you.
Maybe none of this is even happening. Maybe you’ve finally flipped yer cookies, as that guy said to that chick in that movie and you’re not on anybody’s watchlist, maybe nobody cares at all. Ever think of that? Sure.
See a commercial later that day on the plane, on a television plastered into the seat in front of us. I pause to wonder what the PoorPeople are doing before getting sucked into witnessing the latest and most bizarre herald of RapMusic’s official entry into the ZeitGeist. A bunch of hipsters in funky clothes dancing around, partying, and rapping about the heartbreak of diarreah. That’s how you know you’ve really made it as an artform. When they totally shit on you. Message: “When cool people have the shits, cool people use Pepto Bismol, yo.” Part and parcel of the General Cheesing of Everything. What did you expect? RapMusic was immune?
I make the transition from beer to a nice glass of red wine. This is, after all, FirstClass. OneForce sticks to beer. Only ever drinks beer or coffee, as far as I’ve seen so far. I advise him that a man cannot live on beer alone. “But he certainly may try,” was his response and I had to admit he had a point.
-iSenseChange
Writers On the Run: Truth and Foulness at the Airport
Breezed through security like we owned the place, Captains of Industry, movers and shakers. The Elite. All the trappings of the Rich and Powerful, dripping with cash-and boorishness. Talking out of the sides of our mouths. The whole scene is below us. And it is.
OneForce gets us established in the proper lineup, tells me to hold the spot while he rustles us some beers and cuts an eye-watering silent fart entirely unbeknownst to me. As soon as it hits my nostrils I know precisely what he’s done to me. I look around. Only an old woman behind me and I’m blessed to be witnessing the very second OneForce’s SilentButDeadly strikes her awareness. A widening of the eyes and a shocked covering of the mouth. Everything in an ever widening circumference smells like dirty diapers and rotting vegetables. Damn you, OneForce, you’ll pay for this. You’ll rue. You shake your head disparagingly at the old maid beside you. As far as you’re concerned, she’s the offender, and the whole scene disgusts you. It’s all you can do.
You have time to ponder the final, epic Truth of your Age poised above your skull like the sword of Damocles. You’ll say the bloody thing, write it up for good or ill, and if it falls and cleaves you in two, then it is that way. It falls upon the GonzoEarthians, it turns out, to say what nobody’s saying. We’re all dancing around it because we are afraid, and why not? We all know the size, shape and power of that sword.
Fact is, Truth always wins in the End. Know why? It has Time on it’s side. You seek that which is Immortal? Then it is Truth you seek, and our quest is the same. So Truth, being Immortal, finds a way to get said, in the end. Like all things Immortal it has sway over the realm of Man, Real Power, to the point that when one encounters unspoken Truths and holds it inside long enough it grows like a cancer. Burns. You feel it sitting there, heavy and achey. And you know it can’t stay. So you speak that particular Truth and by so telling be set Free. To move on to greater things, if your lucky. But it probably more often gets your skull staved in.
HST said writing politics was better than sex, but he understood the hideously addictive and dangerous side of it as well and better than anyone and offed himself in the end. That's not your way. Gotta go cold turkey with this one. Write it up then give up politics forever. There are other, far better stories for you journalists to cover and you got yer eye on the prize: a story that doesn’t fill you with disdain and sickness for the stupidity or outright evilness of your fellow man. It’s greener pastures and the honey of an assignment you’ve always been looking for.
Right?
Right.
-iSenseChange
Random(?)Mp3age: "Fly Like an Eagle," Steve Miller Band
OneForce gets us established in the proper lineup, tells me to hold the spot while he rustles us some beers and cuts an eye-watering silent fart entirely unbeknownst to me. As soon as it hits my nostrils I know precisely what he’s done to me. I look around. Only an old woman behind me and I’m blessed to be witnessing the very second OneForce’s SilentButDeadly strikes her awareness. A widening of the eyes and a shocked covering of the mouth. Everything in an ever widening circumference smells like dirty diapers and rotting vegetables. Damn you, OneForce, you’ll pay for this. You’ll rue. You shake your head disparagingly at the old maid beside you. As far as you’re concerned, she’s the offender, and the whole scene disgusts you. It’s all you can do.
You have time to ponder the final, epic Truth of your Age poised above your skull like the sword of Damocles. You’ll say the bloody thing, write it up for good or ill, and if it falls and cleaves you in two, then it is that way. It falls upon the GonzoEarthians, it turns out, to say what nobody’s saying. We’re all dancing around it because we are afraid, and why not? We all know the size, shape and power of that sword.
Fact is, Truth always wins in the End. Know why? It has Time on it’s side. You seek that which is Immortal? Then it is Truth you seek, and our quest is the same. So Truth, being Immortal, finds a way to get said, in the end. Like all things Immortal it has sway over the realm of Man, Real Power, to the point that when one encounters unspoken Truths and holds it inside long enough it grows like a cancer. Burns. You feel it sitting there, heavy and achey. And you know it can’t stay. So you speak that particular Truth and by so telling be set Free. To move on to greater things, if your lucky. But it probably more often gets your skull staved in.
HST said writing politics was better than sex, but he understood the hideously addictive and dangerous side of it as well and better than anyone and offed himself in the end. That's not your way. Gotta go cold turkey with this one. Write it up then give up politics forever. There are other, far better stories for you journalists to cover and you got yer eye on the prize: a story that doesn’t fill you with disdain and sickness for the stupidity or outright evilness of your fellow man. It’s greener pastures and the honey of an assignment you’ve always been looking for.
Right?
Right.
-iSenseChange
Random(?)Mp3age: "Fly Like an Eagle," Steve Miller Band
Popular Mechanics, 911 and the Death of Truth in the MainStreamMedia
(This post was initially a response to a real barnburner of a blog by RadicalPatriot, asking some of the Big Questions regarding the attack at the Pentagon on 911 http://www.writingup.com/radicalpatriot/pentagons_9_11_video_airplane_becomes_a_missile Welcome, as always, to the Machine)
Of course the big refutation of all things conspiracy regarding 911 came from Popular Mechanics, that stalwart of logic and technological know-how. But this magazine is not without its own controversy, yes? Like how the article was originally written by Chertoff's cousin? Who at first claimed he didn't know if he was the cousin of the Director of HomeLand Security dingus, when somebody finally called him on it? Because that's one of the fishiest parts yet.
Let’s look at this another way: would Popular Mechanics ever publish a “911 Was a Big, Fat Lie, We Prove It Here” article? Not on yer freakin’ Life, pally. Not on yer freakin’ Life. Personally, I stopped believing a word of any of the Big Major magazines the day Time Magazine nominated the American Army as Person of the Year.
FreeRad tells me that this same magazine, Popular Mechanics published another article called "Katrina Myths Busted" that shifted all the blame from the Federal level to the Local level, entirely reflecting the Party Line. If this is the case, PM is not to be trusted.
Ask yourself this: what reward is there for a top engineer or physicist or what-have-you that wants to write what he really thinks went down that day? There’s faster ways to get discredited, branded a lunatic and possibly murdered, but I can’ t think of any right now. One thing’s for certain, good luck collecting that check from a MainStreamMedia magazine that wants an article debunking, not confirming, 911 conspiracy theories.
Ultimately, friends, we live in an age where no expert opinion can be trusted. Growing up and learning about this world we've all seen foul, craven men of bonafide Scientific credential testify that cigarettes don't cause cancer. A new generation of Citizens begin their odyssey of distrust witnessing the same type of foul, craven men testifying that there's no such thing as GlobalWarming despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary.
If Big Tobacco can afford top drawer scientists to do their talking, and Big Business can do the same, why not Big NeoCon Government? Of course they can.
The American Empire runs the biggest most powerful propaganda machine in Human History, and evidence for that is everywhere, but I’m sure I could just as easily line up shitloads of top drawer experts to tell you the exact opposite.
RadPat opened up a can of worms with the topic, the surprising thing, to me, is that most people writing think something is fishy as opposed to not. And the MainStreamMedia still refuses to touch any of it with even a Nine Hundred and Eleven foot pole. I don’t blame them. Is not Money and Safety more important than Truth?
The point I strive to make is that if you think something is fishy with the Pentagon then the whole damned thing is fishy. As hell. Which also means we have to watch our backs. They promise more attacks, no?
Eyes open, Citizens! Cameras at the READY!
-iSenseChange
p.p. I promised myself I’d be a little less controversial in this evolution of my Blogger AlterEgo. How’s it working so far?
Of course the big refutation of all things conspiracy regarding 911 came from Popular Mechanics, that stalwart of logic and technological know-how. But this magazine is not without its own controversy, yes? Like how the article was originally written by Chertoff's cousin? Who at first claimed he didn't know if he was the cousin of the Director of HomeLand Security dingus, when somebody finally called him on it? Because that's one of the fishiest parts yet.
Let’s look at this another way: would Popular Mechanics ever publish a “911 Was a Big, Fat Lie, We Prove It Here” article? Not on yer freakin’ Life, pally. Not on yer freakin’ Life. Personally, I stopped believing a word of any of the Big Major magazines the day Time Magazine nominated the American Army as Person of the Year.
FreeRad tells me that this same magazine, Popular Mechanics published another article called "Katrina Myths Busted" that shifted all the blame from the Federal level to the Local level, entirely reflecting the Party Line. If this is the case, PM is not to be trusted.
Ask yourself this: what reward is there for a top engineer or physicist or what-have-you that wants to write what he really thinks went down that day? There’s faster ways to get discredited, branded a lunatic and possibly murdered, but I can’ t think of any right now. One thing’s for certain, good luck collecting that check from a MainStreamMedia magazine that wants an article debunking, not confirming, 911 conspiracy theories.
Ultimately, friends, we live in an age where no expert opinion can be trusted. Growing up and learning about this world we've all seen foul, craven men of bonafide Scientific credential testify that cigarettes don't cause cancer. A new generation of Citizens begin their odyssey of distrust witnessing the same type of foul, craven men testifying that there's no such thing as GlobalWarming despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary.
If Big Tobacco can afford top drawer scientists to do their talking, and Big Business can do the same, why not Big NeoCon Government? Of course they can.
The American Empire runs the biggest most powerful propaganda machine in Human History, and evidence for that is everywhere, but I’m sure I could just as easily line up shitloads of top drawer experts to tell you the exact opposite.
RadPat opened up a can of worms with the topic, the surprising thing, to me, is that most people writing think something is fishy as opposed to not. And the MainStreamMedia still refuses to touch any of it with even a Nine Hundred and Eleven foot pole. I don’t blame them. Is not Money and Safety more important than Truth?
The point I strive to make is that if you think something is fishy with the Pentagon then the whole damned thing is fishy. As hell. Which also means we have to watch our backs. They promise more attacks, no?
Eyes open, Citizens! Cameras at the READY!
-iSenseChange
p.p. I promised myself I’d be a little less controversial in this evolution of my Blogger AlterEgo. How’s it working so far?
Writers on the Run: the Road to Amsterdam
A hectic couple of weeks, let me tell you. Felt the best way to do it was in style. The thing to do was go on a big bender. And if not in Amsterdam, then where? If not now, when? If not iSenseChange then who? I stomped my cellphone into paste, left everything and did one last, savage and drunken loop of the city.
Hid out at my buds place for a few days. Cool clique of people, all of whom are trusted friends. A Dreamer Tribe, surfing on a GlobalVibe, if you can dig that kind of speak, Citizens. Took a dog for a walk. Busted out “White Rabbit” by Jefferson Airplane in honour of the Good Doctor and played a kind of menacing version of Iron Butterfly's "Ina Gadda da Vida" with a bunch of hand drummers in a DrumCircle. Discussed the next round of Evolution for man as the spiritual round, a quantum leap in Man's evolutionary progress as he learns to embrace something unseen but larger than Himself, a part of himself, even. A OneNess with the great beyond, whosoever or whatsoever such a thing is. Had a baby-oiled threesome with a couple of very lusty, bisexual women. All of which I could write volumes about. I mean, a fella could get into that kinda hiding forever, believe me, but now is not the time for hand drums, rubber sheets and baby-oil. Not now. I said Blog hard and I meant it, man, shit! I'm not just a Writer on the Run but a Dude on a Quest! For Truth! For ManKind’s next Evolutionary step, a Spiritual one involving a Sustainable Existence, Equality and the Preservation of our Planet. And I look for that Change to be shaped by us, embraced by us as a new and better thing, not thrust upon us by the ramifications of our own stupid Greed.
And Time, man, it’s the thing with us Mortals, eh? Like, we only have so much of it! So you gotta GET TO THE FUCKING POINT, MAN!!!
Right.
Besides, there is, I'm told, apparently no shortage of girls in Amsterdam. That’s what I'd heard from one of my excited chums whom just upped and joined me on the spot. We’ll call him OneForce for our purposes here, and why not? It's what he calls himself and his own personal mission. But more on that and him later. For the nonce, all you need know is that OneForce is a big, tough mushugalah, a LongHair so utterly perfect for this mission, a dude who can go toe to toe with anyone at the bar, be it drinking, fighting, fucking or philosophizing.
OneForce is also a fan of the Good Doctor and took a few pages out of his operations manual. Got a shitload of big blog contracts to write about some product or another and decided to pull a Hunter S. style savage burn on all of them; take the money and run, write about what you want to write about and let the other bastards rot. Out-Pirate the Pirates. OneForce knows that drill as well as anybody.
Yessirree, for a WingMan on a mission of this scope, they don’t come any better than OneForce, who quickly convinced a girl we'd never met to chauffeur us to the airport and a first-class flight to Amsterdam, after a mad rip around the city to pick up the essentials. Which she was happy to
.
Hit the liquor store first. Life on the run is thirsty work and requires a degree of recklessness only attainable by steady and heavy boozing. If you’re not obnoxious and gassy there’s no way you’re going to get past the those first crucial security hurdles. So you get smashed and you stay smashed until you can get settled some place safe. Pass out. Fresh towels and coffee. Wire yourself up after a good four hours rest to ask yourself the real questions in the same kind of bathroom mirror soliloquy that’s got you this far in the first place.
Because its kind of one of those To Be or Not to Be dilemmas, kind of deal old Achilles would have understood perfectly: Settle down. Stop writing Truths in times of omnipresent deception, it can only end badly. You know this. But you can also make a name for yourself. Acquire a Voice. Be. Join whatever burgeoning Earthian movement exists at this point, all the while scouting for good NukeProof bunker locations. Energy efficient, self-sustaining SmartBunkers to orgy out the impending Nuclear winter. If needs be.
Leave at least a footprint in this InterNet time capsule of ours for whatever cockroaches become the next inheritors of this hunk of rock -or collection of atoms, as OneForce'd probably tell you- that clearly states: YES, I KNOW THIS IS ALL BULLSHIT. AND I KNOW THAT WE WERE CAPABLE OF BETTER! WHAT CAN I SAY? THERE’S AN AWFUL LOT OF MORONS OUT THERE. PROBABLY THE MAJORITY. BE WARNED! TWAS GREED THAT KILLED THE BEAST. EVERYTHING ELSE WAS JUST WINDOW DRESSING. SEE HOW WELL YOU FARE. THAT IS ALL!
Truth be told, it’s more than possible that you're powerless to stop yourself anywho. Seeking and telling the Truth as you perceive it gets to be a stronger addiction than the booze, weed or loose women. WritingUp hooked me, and now I’m the worst kind of junky, waiting for my next fix. Well, the fix is in! And SenseChange is off! To Amsterdam! Haha, take that, suckers!
But liquor is the thing to kick off a good InterNational romp and its absolutely essential that your booze is AirPort and plane friendly. Right? Here’s why you want PepperMint Schnappes: your breath always smells like you just brushed your teeth. Always remember: there will be stewardesses. And you kind of owe it to yourself to constantly renew your MileHighClub Member status. Look good, smell good. Behave. Think fun rascal at this point, save the obnoxious nuisance for Security.
Turns out you’re allowed to bring plastic flasks on international flights. Provided you fly FirstClass. And you put it in your carry-on. And your flask looks like a can of shaving cream.
The Penultimate stop is into a FutureShop. Writers on the run need Tek, and nothing but a couple of King Hell Laptops would suffice. Light. Portable. Wireless. Strong. Ready. Write on the run, eh? Fuck it. Good Old NeeChee tells me that which doesn't kill only makes stronger and you know what? I believe it. I feel it in my freaking bones, dude! Faster. Sharper. Right? You sunzabitches. Go ahead and force me to evolve.
OneForce noticed the new puters have DVD players so he picked up the new King Kong flick and I grabbed that Narnia thing. Had seen folks talking about it on WritingUp, figured I might as well see what the fuss was all about. See if Jesus shows up in the end or something. Nabbed a few CellPhones as well. Pay as you go. Untraceable. We’d need to be in communication with each other, and to keep the funds rolling in.
Next stop was disguises. OneForce can look like the scariest biker you’ve ever seen in your life or the Chairman of the Board in a fortune 500 company. And he has no problem talking the talk in either scenarios. We decided to be BigBusiness tycoons. Dress like the Powerful and youll never get fucked with. Which means wed need to look the part. We blazed into a nice clothing shop, bought big, bad-ass business suits. Might as well fly in style.
I kept going back to that round table discussion I'd had with a room full of partiers, whether the next level of HumanEvolution is in the realm of the Spiritual. Tried to freak out the chick who was sell us the suits but she got right into the mix too. OneForce raises an eyebrow, looks at her and then at me. She’s totally on board, a part of the movie. Our movie is her movie. Chick gave us her email address and we had her drinking with us by the time we'd rung up the bill, an astonishing number that one: “That’ll be $1119.11.” she said, and gave me a wink and an email address, entirely unaware that I’d just registered that eleven cents as another sign of cosmic confluence. More on that later. Maybe.
She said she wanted an update in our adventures. I told her to watch for it in WritingUp. Said that a girl with her type of mind oughta give it a try. Plugged you guys cuz I like ya, and I mean that sincerely.
The last stop was at a mutual buddy’s place. Seems his girlfriend had just baked some extra special cookies, just the kind you’d want to bring along for an InterNational flight. We took a bag and were off and hotboxed my old beater quite nicely, singing “Dust in the Wind,” at the top of our lungs when our driver accidentally hit a cat on the highway at something close to seventy-five miles an hour. What an appropriate song, a song about the biggest dichotomy in existence, that of Life and Death, for us to paste some poor housepet all over the InterChange. My stomach hurt we were laughing so hard and when I finally looked up at the coffee-stained clock on the dashboard it was precisely 9:11. All of which carries a lot of significance to me. But you can do with it what you will.
We hopped out of the car and tossed the keys to the girl who’d driven us. She asked me what to do with it. OneForce told her to keep it. Or burn it! I shrugged and told her to keep it. But that I’d need it if I returned.
We breezed in with time to spare. I grabbed a seat while OneForce went out in search of a couple of brews. I took a seat and savored the day. Could feel myself cycling up to WriteUp once again. The Return of SenseChange. I know I killed the bastard but he just doesn’t want to stay dead, and now it looks like SenseChange is stronger than ever. Can the fucker even be killed? Is it, he, larger than myself? Or himself? Who knows?
And how to roll forward at this point? Can the same mad ranting coexist in both the Gonzo Warriors group and the United Earth group? Maybe the only way I can contribute to both the groups to which I belong is to fuse the subject matter. A GonzoEarthian approach. Hmmmm. I think I can stick to that. Gives me some kind of sustained topicality for a refreshing change. Yes. Absolutely. Maybe I'll make something more than $3.49 on my AdSense Account.
Righty-ho, man! These are the challenges I face as a full-on, rip snortin, TruthSeeking, Gonzo-Earthian Writer. I power down my LapTop as I see OneForce walking towards me. He’s obviously dumped out a full couple of coffees and refilled them with ice cold Heinekens. A good fella, that OneForce, I think to myself, until I notice he’s eating a cookie.
A mistake. No question. Not now. Shit. He’d just gone and changed the whole face of how we were going to get on that plane.
Ah well. All for now. Blog Hard, Citizens, and I’ll see you in Amsterdam.
-iSenseChange
RandomMp3age: “I Feel Fine” the Beatles
p.p. Missed you. Yes, you.
Hid out at my buds place for a few days. Cool clique of people, all of whom are trusted friends. A Dreamer Tribe, surfing on a GlobalVibe, if you can dig that kind of speak, Citizens. Took a dog for a walk. Busted out “White Rabbit” by Jefferson Airplane in honour of the Good Doctor and played a kind of menacing version of Iron Butterfly's "Ina Gadda da Vida" with a bunch of hand drummers in a DrumCircle. Discussed the next round of Evolution for man as the spiritual round, a quantum leap in Man's evolutionary progress as he learns to embrace something unseen but larger than Himself, a part of himself, even. A OneNess with the great beyond, whosoever or whatsoever such a thing is. Had a baby-oiled threesome with a couple of very lusty, bisexual women. All of which I could write volumes about. I mean, a fella could get into that kinda hiding forever, believe me, but now is not the time for hand drums, rubber sheets and baby-oil. Not now. I said Blog hard and I meant it, man, shit! I'm not just a Writer on the Run but a Dude on a Quest! For Truth! For ManKind’s next Evolutionary step, a Spiritual one involving a Sustainable Existence, Equality and the Preservation of our Planet. And I look for that Change to be shaped by us, embraced by us as a new and better thing, not thrust upon us by the ramifications of our own stupid Greed.
And Time, man, it’s the thing with us Mortals, eh? Like, we only have so much of it! So you gotta GET TO THE FUCKING POINT, MAN!!!
Right.
Besides, there is, I'm told, apparently no shortage of girls in Amsterdam. That’s what I'd heard from one of my excited chums whom just upped and joined me on the spot. We’ll call him OneForce for our purposes here, and why not? It's what he calls himself and his own personal mission. But more on that and him later. For the nonce, all you need know is that OneForce is a big, tough mushugalah, a LongHair so utterly perfect for this mission, a dude who can go toe to toe with anyone at the bar, be it drinking, fighting, fucking or philosophizing.
OneForce is also a fan of the Good Doctor and took a few pages out of his operations manual. Got a shitload of big blog contracts to write about some product or another and decided to pull a Hunter S. style savage burn on all of them; take the money and run, write about what you want to write about and let the other bastards rot. Out-Pirate the Pirates. OneForce knows that drill as well as anybody.
Yessirree, for a WingMan on a mission of this scope, they don’t come any better than OneForce, who quickly convinced a girl we'd never met to chauffeur us to the airport and a first-class flight to Amsterdam, after a mad rip around the city to pick up the essentials. Which she was happy to
.
Hit the liquor store first. Life on the run is thirsty work and requires a degree of recklessness only attainable by steady and heavy boozing. If you’re not obnoxious and gassy there’s no way you’re going to get past the those first crucial security hurdles. So you get smashed and you stay smashed until you can get settled some place safe. Pass out. Fresh towels and coffee. Wire yourself up after a good four hours rest to ask yourself the real questions in the same kind of bathroom mirror soliloquy that’s got you this far in the first place.
Because its kind of one of those To Be or Not to Be dilemmas, kind of deal old Achilles would have understood perfectly: Settle down. Stop writing Truths in times of omnipresent deception, it can only end badly. You know this. But you can also make a name for yourself. Acquire a Voice. Be. Join whatever burgeoning Earthian movement exists at this point, all the while scouting for good NukeProof bunker locations. Energy efficient, self-sustaining SmartBunkers to orgy out the impending Nuclear winter. If needs be.
Leave at least a footprint in this InterNet time capsule of ours for whatever cockroaches become the next inheritors of this hunk of rock -or collection of atoms, as OneForce'd probably tell you- that clearly states: YES, I KNOW THIS IS ALL BULLSHIT. AND I KNOW THAT WE WERE CAPABLE OF BETTER! WHAT CAN I SAY? THERE’S AN AWFUL LOT OF MORONS OUT THERE. PROBABLY THE MAJORITY. BE WARNED! TWAS GREED THAT KILLED THE BEAST. EVERYTHING ELSE WAS JUST WINDOW DRESSING. SEE HOW WELL YOU FARE. THAT IS ALL!
Truth be told, it’s more than possible that you're powerless to stop yourself anywho. Seeking and telling the Truth as you perceive it gets to be a stronger addiction than the booze, weed or loose women. WritingUp hooked me, and now I’m the worst kind of junky, waiting for my next fix. Well, the fix is in! And SenseChange is off! To Amsterdam! Haha, take that, suckers!
But liquor is the thing to kick off a good InterNational romp and its absolutely essential that your booze is AirPort and plane friendly. Right? Here’s why you want PepperMint Schnappes: your breath always smells like you just brushed your teeth. Always remember: there will be stewardesses. And you kind of owe it to yourself to constantly renew your MileHighClub Member status. Look good, smell good. Behave. Think fun rascal at this point, save the obnoxious nuisance for Security.
Turns out you’re allowed to bring plastic flasks on international flights. Provided you fly FirstClass. And you put it in your carry-on. And your flask looks like a can of shaving cream.
The Penultimate stop is into a FutureShop. Writers on the run need Tek, and nothing but a couple of King Hell Laptops would suffice. Light. Portable. Wireless. Strong. Ready. Write on the run, eh? Fuck it. Good Old NeeChee tells me that which doesn't kill only makes stronger and you know what? I believe it. I feel it in my freaking bones, dude! Faster. Sharper. Right? You sunzabitches. Go ahead and force me to evolve.
OneForce noticed the new puters have DVD players so he picked up the new King Kong flick and I grabbed that Narnia thing. Had seen folks talking about it on WritingUp, figured I might as well see what the fuss was all about. See if Jesus shows up in the end or something. Nabbed a few CellPhones as well. Pay as you go. Untraceable. We’d need to be in communication with each other, and to keep the funds rolling in.
Next stop was disguises. OneForce can look like the scariest biker you’ve ever seen in your life or the Chairman of the Board in a fortune 500 company. And he has no problem talking the talk in either scenarios. We decided to be BigBusiness tycoons. Dress like the Powerful and youll never get fucked with. Which means wed need to look the part. We blazed into a nice clothing shop, bought big, bad-ass business suits. Might as well fly in style.
I kept going back to that round table discussion I'd had with a room full of partiers, whether the next level of HumanEvolution is in the realm of the Spiritual. Tried to freak out the chick who was sell us the suits but she got right into the mix too. OneForce raises an eyebrow, looks at her and then at me. She’s totally on board, a part of the movie. Our movie is her movie. Chick gave us her email address and we had her drinking with us by the time we'd rung up the bill, an astonishing number that one: “That’ll be $1119.11.” she said, and gave me a wink and an email address, entirely unaware that I’d just registered that eleven cents as another sign of cosmic confluence. More on that later. Maybe.
She said she wanted an update in our adventures. I told her to watch for it in WritingUp. Said that a girl with her type of mind oughta give it a try. Plugged you guys cuz I like ya, and I mean that sincerely.
The last stop was at a mutual buddy’s place. Seems his girlfriend had just baked some extra special cookies, just the kind you’d want to bring along for an InterNational flight. We took a bag and were off and hotboxed my old beater quite nicely, singing “Dust in the Wind,” at the top of our lungs when our driver accidentally hit a cat on the highway at something close to seventy-five miles an hour. What an appropriate song, a song about the biggest dichotomy in existence, that of Life and Death, for us to paste some poor housepet all over the InterChange. My stomach hurt we were laughing so hard and when I finally looked up at the coffee-stained clock on the dashboard it was precisely 9:11. All of which carries a lot of significance to me. But you can do with it what you will.
We hopped out of the car and tossed the keys to the girl who’d driven us. She asked me what to do with it. OneForce told her to keep it. Or burn it! I shrugged and told her to keep it. But that I’d need it if I returned.
We breezed in with time to spare. I grabbed a seat while OneForce went out in search of a couple of brews. I took a seat and savored the day. Could feel myself cycling up to WriteUp once again. The Return of SenseChange. I know I killed the bastard but he just doesn’t want to stay dead, and now it looks like SenseChange is stronger than ever. Can the fucker even be killed? Is it, he, larger than myself? Or himself? Who knows?
And how to roll forward at this point? Can the same mad ranting coexist in both the Gonzo Warriors group and the United Earth group? Maybe the only way I can contribute to both the groups to which I belong is to fuse the subject matter. A GonzoEarthian approach. Hmmmm. I think I can stick to that. Gives me some kind of sustained topicality for a refreshing change. Yes. Absolutely. Maybe I'll make something more than $3.49 on my AdSense Account.
Righty-ho, man! These are the challenges I face as a full-on, rip snortin, TruthSeeking, Gonzo-Earthian Writer. I power down my LapTop as I see OneForce walking towards me. He’s obviously dumped out a full couple of coffees and refilled them with ice cold Heinekens. A good fella, that OneForce, I think to myself, until I notice he’s eating a cookie.
A mistake. No question. Not now. Shit. He’d just gone and changed the whole face of how we were going to get on that plane.
Ah well. All for now. Blog Hard, Citizens, and I’ll see you in Amsterdam.
-iSenseChange
RandomMp3age: “I Feel Fine” the Beatles
p.p. Missed you. Yes, you.
SenseChange Must Die!!!
I don't know if it's the omnipresent clicks on my cellular phone or that white, occupied cargo van that's been parked outside my house for the better part of a week, but something tells me the jig is up. The fix is in. The cover's blown. It's time to make a run for it.
I shoulda known. Kinda did. You can't keep spouting the obvious Truths in a time of universal deception and not expect to break a few eggs, hack a few of the wrong dudes off. Fuck it. What're you gonna do? Thing is, (and WritingUp, I blame you entirely) I got addicted to it. To telling the Truth. To saying things I think are essential for the world to hear, in spite of the various and varied Fiends in Control who want nothing of the sort.
Yes, clearly they're on to me, the cowardly fucks lurking behind malevolent shades, off grey suits and badges that place them well within an unjust set of Laws. I fear no lone man in unarmed combat but the NSA is hardly that, right Citizens?
I gotta move. I have friends all over the world. Time to cash in a few favors, get out, disappear under my own terms, not their legalized "Patriot" Act disappearance complete with kangaroo secret trial and bullet-in-head included.
Screw this noise. I retire SenseChange. No. I kill him. He deserves a death.
You were me, SenseChange, my soul crying out at the injustices, the utter hypocracy and the sheer insult of it all. And you spoke far better, more eloquently and Truthfully than I ever have before. And ever again?
The good folks at the Gonzo Warriors have most of my mad political rantings. Keep 'em safe you bloody animals, hope you don't get any on you from all this. If so, hey, we'll see you in Turkey, huh? I've never been to Turkey, I hear it can be nice. When you're not being herded into a cell and having your hands pulped into goo by a rubber mallet by a person who doesn't even speak the same language as you while vicious and snarling dogs strain on their leashes for a taste of your dangling dingus, that is. I've seen the pictures. I know. But hey, free travel is free travel, right? Shit, maybe they'll only excise the rebellious portions of our brains so we can write propaganda for FoxNews! It'll be easy! Might even be good for a few laughs, who knows? And it's still writing, right?
Most of my hopes for the Future have been invested in the United Earth group, which includes all the Renaissance writings. Read 'em, get 'em into place. There's not much in the way of other options, far as I can tell. You know the riff by now:-Peace on Earth amongst all ManKind, regardless of race, color, creed or location.-Everybody can read, nobody starves and everybody votes. On lots of things.
-Renewable Energy over the Decaying Blood of Dead Dinosaurs.
-Peace and Progress over War and Apocalypse.
-NextLevel over OldWorlde.
-Transcend over End.
-Build Peace or start building nuke proof bunkers.
Common sense shit.
Anyways. It's not my concern anymore. I'm outta here. I will not go quietly. Or easily. I'm getting out. Have gotten out. Maybe. SenseChange is dead, so that others may live.
I apologize for nothing. I recant nothing. And anybody who doesn't like it can go fuck themselves with a pylon and a jar of peanut butter. And that goes straight to the top.
Keep your heads down Citizens, and as always, your pecker's (or vagingas for that matter) up!
That is all.
-iSenseChange
p.p. Peace, TruePeace, I am in your service and hereby declare thee to my last breath.
NonRandomMp3age: "Everybody Knows" by Leonard Cohen
I shoulda known. Kinda did. You can't keep spouting the obvious Truths in a time of universal deception and not expect to break a few eggs, hack a few of the wrong dudes off. Fuck it. What're you gonna do? Thing is, (and WritingUp, I blame you entirely) I got addicted to it. To telling the Truth. To saying things I think are essential for the world to hear, in spite of the various and varied Fiends in Control who want nothing of the sort.
Yes, clearly they're on to me, the cowardly fucks lurking behind malevolent shades, off grey suits and badges that place them well within an unjust set of Laws. I fear no lone man in unarmed combat but the NSA is hardly that, right Citizens?
I gotta move. I have friends all over the world. Time to cash in a few favors, get out, disappear under my own terms, not their legalized "Patriot" Act disappearance complete with kangaroo secret trial and bullet-in-head included.
Screw this noise. I retire SenseChange. No. I kill him. He deserves a death.
You were me, SenseChange, my soul crying out at the injustices, the utter hypocracy and the sheer insult of it all. And you spoke far better, more eloquently and Truthfully than I ever have before. And ever again?
The good folks at the Gonzo Warriors have most of my mad political rantings. Keep 'em safe you bloody animals, hope you don't get any on you from all this. If so, hey, we'll see you in Turkey, huh? I've never been to Turkey, I hear it can be nice. When you're not being herded into a cell and having your hands pulped into goo by a rubber mallet by a person who doesn't even speak the same language as you while vicious and snarling dogs strain on their leashes for a taste of your dangling dingus, that is. I've seen the pictures. I know. But hey, free travel is free travel, right? Shit, maybe they'll only excise the rebellious portions of our brains so we can write propaganda for FoxNews! It'll be easy! Might even be good for a few laughs, who knows? And it's still writing, right?
Most of my hopes for the Future have been invested in the United Earth group, which includes all the Renaissance writings. Read 'em, get 'em into place. There's not much in the way of other options, far as I can tell. You know the riff by now:-Peace on Earth amongst all ManKind, regardless of race, color, creed or location.-Everybody can read, nobody starves and everybody votes. On lots of things.
-Renewable Energy over the Decaying Blood of Dead Dinosaurs.
-Peace and Progress over War and Apocalypse.
-NextLevel over OldWorlde.
-Transcend over End.
-Build Peace or start building nuke proof bunkers.
Common sense shit.
Anyways. It's not my concern anymore. I'm outta here. I will not go quietly. Or easily. I'm getting out. Have gotten out. Maybe. SenseChange is dead, so that others may live.
I apologize for nothing. I recant nothing. And anybody who doesn't like it can go fuck themselves with a pylon and a jar of peanut butter. And that goes straight to the top.
Keep your heads down Citizens, and as always, your pecker's (or vagingas for that matter) up!
That is all.
-iSenseChange
p.p. Peace, TruePeace, I am in your service and hereby declare thee to my last breath.
NonRandomMp3age: "Everybody Knows" by Leonard Cohen
The Life and Death of Hunter S. Thompson
"When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro."
-Dr. Hunter S. Thompson
(this is a bit of a re-post. Welcome to the machine. Having joined the prolific 'Gonzo Warriors' I feel it necessary to bring forward my account of the Man who started it all. If you read it before, tough shit. Maybe Pastor Jr's posting psalms somewhere...)
With the death of the American Dream lay Hunter S.
I got the phonecall from an acquaintance-in-the-know who’d rather I heard it from him than on the radio or some such shit. The news? One of the few left worthy of admiration, certainly the only journalist, Hunter S Thompson, the father of ‘Gonzo Journalism’ and perhaps the last bastion of Truth in American politics offed himself over that weekend, with one of his own shotguns that he always loved so much.
Thompson on election 2004: “The question this year is not whether President Bush is acting more and more like the head of a fascist government but if the American people want it that way. That is what this election is all about. It’s down to nut-cutting time..."
Often when someone you care about dies, everybody always says something like ‘Dick left this world a better place than he found it.’ You can’t say that about Hunter, he’d be the first to tell you you’re full of shit, and believe me, you don’t want to risk a haunting from this man, fan or not. Because he didn’t leave this world a better place and he’d be the first to say it. He left it more twisted, more bizarre, more depraved, more perverted. Why? Because that was the duty he’d chosen or the duty that had chosen him; to meticulously document "the Death of the American Dream", an Odyssey he’d begun a long time ago and violently punctuated with his shocking suicide.
It was the first suicide that I didn’t see as a cowardly act. He had no interest in being a weak old man so he died as he lived, with a shocking bang that freaked the hell out of all that knew him. That’s Hunter S for you.
In its own way a strangely fitting end. Savage. Shocking. There is no doubt in my mind that Hunter knew his place in American culture and history, and as such, to those in-the-know, his suicide means something, perhaps his final angry and crazed letter, perhaps the only suitable ending for a man ever pursuing and exploring an American Dream turned to Nightmare.
His funeral was attended by his good friends, including Jack Nicholson and Johnny Depp who had played him so impeccably in “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas." His remains were blown from a cannon in the hills of Aspen, as per his request, a final bang being Hunter’s apropos goodbye.
To say I am influenced by this man’s works is an understatement. He was my hero - an angry voice howling at the insanity of it all, who would add his own particular brand of crazy and somehow through this, arrive at the heart of Truth as he perceived it to be. How much of my political writings can be chased back to my love for his books? How much of my style can be distilled down to the influence of this wooly, crazy man’s writings?
He was so out there, so crazy that he could say whatever he wanted. He was unbribeable, unrepentant, a rascal, a madman. And a champion of real justice and human rights. A proponent of freedom, real freedom.
And he saw America as it really is: a bizarre orgy balanced precariously before a fall, and most likely into tyranny. His disgust and horror at what America has become is matchless to nothing but his respect, love and honor for the basic linchpins of how things were supposed to be, which was why he was so vicious and savage in his attacks.
Hunter S on George W. Bush: “a treacherous little freak...a golem...the syphilis president...a dangerous loser..."
He carved himself a niche so entirely his own with a typewriter, a blowtorch, mescaline and attitude, a perch from which he could cover the greatest and lowest stories in American political history of the last forty years. I guess I’d thought he’d live forever. Maybe we all did.
67 and pickled in the good booze and drug all his life as he was, he remained sharp as a tack right up until he died.
Hunter S Thompson On Bush’s 2000 election result: “the most brutal seizure of power since Hitler burned the German Reichstag in 1933 and declared himself the new Boss of Germany."
The first good article on the death of HST came from Rolling Stone magazine, the publication that was home to a lot of his finest work, a publication the foundation of which he’d help to lay in the sixties. The writer of this article said that one of the last thing Hunter was working on before his death was something on 9-11, seemingly incontrovertible evidence that there were explosives placed in the building as well. Not long after, he would take his own life in a strange parallel.
The temptation here is to feel a fleeting sense of anger: you’re leaving us now?!? This is when we need you more than ever before! Then a realization dawns, he fought for a long time, for decades. That fight belongs to others now. It's my Odyssey now. And yours. So talk hard if you're talking, write hard if you're writing and blog hard if your blogging. If you were a fan of HST you can do nothing less in his honor.
To so many he was a clown, an oddity, a druggie and to be certain, he was all those things. However, if we accept what George Orwell once said, that “in times of universal deceit, telling the truth is a revolutionary act," we must also accept that Thompsen was a revolutionary.
If there is an AfterLife and a Heaven, it is Thompson's place, for he is and always has been an agent of Truth, in spite of his gonzo style. And if this Heaven exists and great writers may commune there, it will not be St. Peter who would greet Hunter S at the gates, but rather great Romantic era poet and kindred soul, Lord Byron. Byron would greet Hunter and he would say only five words: "I know, Hunter. I know." Then he'd pass him a bottle of the good stuff and Heaven would never be the same again.
Hunter could never go to Hell. The Devil would only fear him, and rightfully so. You don't want a Man of Thompson's leanings around all that fire, believe me.
He will be missed. Maybe I’ll be eulogizing him forever. Who knows? We are, after all, professionals.
-SenseChange
NonRandomMP3age: "White Rabbit," Jefferson Airplane
-Dr. Hunter S. Thompson
(this is a bit of a re-post. Welcome to the machine. Having joined the prolific 'Gonzo Warriors' I feel it necessary to bring forward my account of the Man who started it all. If you read it before, tough shit. Maybe Pastor Jr's posting psalms somewhere...)
With the death of the American Dream lay Hunter S.
I got the phonecall from an acquaintance-in-the-know who’d rather I heard it from him than on the radio or some such shit. The news? One of the few left worthy of admiration, certainly the only journalist, Hunter S Thompson, the father of ‘Gonzo Journalism’ and perhaps the last bastion of Truth in American politics offed himself over that weekend, with one of his own shotguns that he always loved so much.
Thompson on election 2004: “The question this year is not whether President Bush is acting more and more like the head of a fascist government but if the American people want it that way. That is what this election is all about. It’s down to nut-cutting time..."
Often when someone you care about dies, everybody always says something like ‘Dick left this world a better place than he found it.’ You can’t say that about Hunter, he’d be the first to tell you you’re full of shit, and believe me, you don’t want to risk a haunting from this man, fan or not. Because he didn’t leave this world a better place and he’d be the first to say it. He left it more twisted, more bizarre, more depraved, more perverted. Why? Because that was the duty he’d chosen or the duty that had chosen him; to meticulously document "the Death of the American Dream", an Odyssey he’d begun a long time ago and violently punctuated with his shocking suicide.
It was the first suicide that I didn’t see as a cowardly act. He had no interest in being a weak old man so he died as he lived, with a shocking bang that freaked the hell out of all that knew him. That’s Hunter S for you.
In its own way a strangely fitting end. Savage. Shocking. There is no doubt in my mind that Hunter knew his place in American culture and history, and as such, to those in-the-know, his suicide means something, perhaps his final angry and crazed letter, perhaps the only suitable ending for a man ever pursuing and exploring an American Dream turned to Nightmare.
His funeral was attended by his good friends, including Jack Nicholson and Johnny Depp who had played him so impeccably in “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas." His remains were blown from a cannon in the hills of Aspen, as per his request, a final bang being Hunter’s apropos goodbye.
To say I am influenced by this man’s works is an understatement. He was my hero - an angry voice howling at the insanity of it all, who would add his own particular brand of crazy and somehow through this, arrive at the heart of Truth as he perceived it to be. How much of my political writings can be chased back to my love for his books? How much of my style can be distilled down to the influence of this wooly, crazy man’s writings?
He was so out there, so crazy that he could say whatever he wanted. He was unbribeable, unrepentant, a rascal, a madman. And a champion of real justice and human rights. A proponent of freedom, real freedom.
And he saw America as it really is: a bizarre orgy balanced precariously before a fall, and most likely into tyranny. His disgust and horror at what America has become is matchless to nothing but his respect, love and honor for the basic linchpins of how things were supposed to be, which was why he was so vicious and savage in his attacks.
Hunter S on George W. Bush: “a treacherous little freak...a golem...the syphilis president...a dangerous loser..."
He carved himself a niche so entirely his own with a typewriter, a blowtorch, mescaline and attitude, a perch from which he could cover the greatest and lowest stories in American political history of the last forty years. I guess I’d thought he’d live forever. Maybe we all did.
67 and pickled in the good booze and drug all his life as he was, he remained sharp as a tack right up until he died.
Hunter S Thompson On Bush’s 2000 election result: “the most brutal seizure of power since Hitler burned the German Reichstag in 1933 and declared himself the new Boss of Germany."
The first good article on the death of HST came from Rolling Stone magazine, the publication that was home to a lot of his finest work, a publication the foundation of which he’d help to lay in the sixties. The writer of this article said that one of the last thing Hunter was working on before his death was something on 9-11, seemingly incontrovertible evidence that there were explosives placed in the building as well. Not long after, he would take his own life in a strange parallel.
The temptation here is to feel a fleeting sense of anger: you’re leaving us now?!? This is when we need you more than ever before! Then a realization dawns, he fought for a long time, for decades. That fight belongs to others now. It's my Odyssey now. And yours. So talk hard if you're talking, write hard if you're writing and blog hard if your blogging. If you were a fan of HST you can do nothing less in his honor.
To so many he was a clown, an oddity, a druggie and to be certain, he was all those things. However, if we accept what George Orwell once said, that “in times of universal deceit, telling the truth is a revolutionary act," we must also accept that Thompsen was a revolutionary.
If there is an AfterLife and a Heaven, it is Thompson's place, for he is and always has been an agent of Truth, in spite of his gonzo style. And if this Heaven exists and great writers may commune there, it will not be St. Peter who would greet Hunter S at the gates, but rather great Romantic era poet and kindred soul, Lord Byron. Byron would greet Hunter and he would say only five words: "I know, Hunter. I know." Then he'd pass him a bottle of the good stuff and Heaven would never be the same again.
Hunter could never go to Hell. The Devil would only fear him, and rightfully so. You don't want a Man of Thompson's leanings around all that fire, believe me.
He will be missed. Maybe I’ll be eulogizing him forever. Who knows? We are, after all, professionals.
-SenseChange
NonRandomMP3age: "White Rabbit," Jefferson Airplane
I Am Earthian. So Are You
I am an Earthian. So are you. Whether you dig it or not.
Imagine a MultiVerse, rife with not only Life but Intelligent Life. This is not such a difficult thing to accept, as of late, for noone familiar with the latest findings in Astronomy should doubt the existence of not only ExtraTerrestrial life but Intelligent ExtraTerrestrial life.
Note 1: Evolution - Survival of the Fittest should exist anywhere one finds Life. If you have vastly different environments, as a multitude if planets would certainly be, you would have different species evolving in different ways with intelligence being the final, most dangerous form of evolution, the defining evolutionary trait, the one that makes or breaks not only each species but even the planets on which these creatures exist.
Note 2: The existence of Intelligent ExtraTerrestrial Life can no longer be denied. It breaks down like this: we know from our investigations and research that there are billions upon billions of stars not all that different from our own star, aka the Sun. In recent findings (the last decade or two) we've started to discover planets orbiting around many of these billions and billions of stars, to the point where it is widely suspected that other star systems of stars and planets is the norm in our Universe, not the exception.
With untold, exponent numbers of stars and therefore an even greater number of orbiting planets around said stars, the chance for not only ExtraTerrestrial life but Intelligent TxtraTerrestrial Life in the Universe is far too great to be denied. It is out there. Period. Deal with it. It is that way.
Now, those creatures gifted/cursed with intelligence can go one of two ways with this adaptation. They will destroy themselves or they will rise above destruction war and inequality.
To whit, Transcend or End.
Those that have transcended are capable of moving beyond their backyard bullshit (so, Nationalism) and their petty squabbles about Why We Are Here, How It All Began and Who's Running the Show (so, Religion) and have pulled together as a coherent and cohesive tribe.
Now, suppose that once a species had evolved to Intelligence and transcended it's regular shit and got ready to enter the larger Cosmos it would of course learn of these other species that had done the same in other systems, assuming some form of communication and space travel is possible in our ever expanding Universe. And the jury's still out on that one, folks, but let's say this is the case. As we now know the easiest way of keeping track of who was who would be to name the species after the planet upon which they evolved. Muslims, Christians, Atheists, Americans, Iraqis, Humans, Mortals etc is too much to keep track of. need one name to label them all. To the rest of the MultiVerse you are an Earthian.. It's just easier that way. It's being part of a classification system.
Earthians is the term that describes the species of dominant animal that ekes out its existence on the very outermost crust of the spinning planet Earth, around a star know to them as Sol, or the Sun.
The Tribe to which both you and I belong transcends traditional Nationalist boundaries. Whether you dig it or not, whether you acknowledge it or not. The Muzzies? Earthian. The crrrrrrazy Catholics? Earthian also. Americans, Iraqis, the Soldiers, the Terrorists? Earthians one and all. No denying it. It is that way.
I am Earthian. So are you. Whether you dig it or not.
The first, all-important step towards a Renaissance is accepting this categorization, recognizing the truth of it. When we truly accept that we are all Earthian, it will be less easy for those in control to continue to manipulate the People based on their supposed differences, differences that would mean shit to Citizens of the larger MultiVerse, to which we do not belong and cannot, until we can focus our efforts in that realm rather than finding new and creative ways to war and kill one another.
It is a transcendence of the petty and meaningless differences that has kept us battling one another rather than joining, striving EverForward into something beyond ourselves, and infinitely better.
Earthians Unite, for to not is your destruction.
That is all. For now.
-SenseChange
NonRandomMP3age: "One Love," by Bob Marley, fellow Earthian if ever there was one.
Imagine a MultiVerse, rife with not only Life but Intelligent Life. This is not such a difficult thing to accept, as of late, for noone familiar with the latest findings in Astronomy should doubt the existence of not only ExtraTerrestrial life but Intelligent ExtraTerrestrial life.
Note 1: Evolution - Survival of the Fittest should exist anywhere one finds Life. If you have vastly different environments, as a multitude if planets would certainly be, you would have different species evolving in different ways with intelligence being the final, most dangerous form of evolution, the defining evolutionary trait, the one that makes or breaks not only each species but even the planets on which these creatures exist.
Note 2: The existence of Intelligent ExtraTerrestrial Life can no longer be denied. It breaks down like this: we know from our investigations and research that there are billions upon billions of stars not all that different from our own star, aka the Sun. In recent findings (the last decade or two) we've started to discover planets orbiting around many of these billions and billions of stars, to the point where it is widely suspected that other star systems of stars and planets is the norm in our Universe, not the exception.
With untold, exponent numbers of stars and therefore an even greater number of orbiting planets around said stars, the chance for not only ExtraTerrestrial life but Intelligent TxtraTerrestrial Life in the Universe is far too great to be denied. It is out there. Period. Deal with it. It is that way.
Now, those creatures gifted/cursed with intelligence can go one of two ways with this adaptation. They will destroy themselves or they will rise above destruction war and inequality.
To whit, Transcend or End.
Those that have transcended are capable of moving beyond their backyard bullshit (so, Nationalism) and their petty squabbles about Why We Are Here, How It All Began and Who's Running the Show (so, Religion) and have pulled together as a coherent and cohesive tribe.
Now, suppose that once a species had evolved to Intelligence and transcended it's regular shit and got ready to enter the larger Cosmos it would of course learn of these other species that had done the same in other systems, assuming some form of communication and space travel is possible in our ever expanding Universe. And the jury's still out on that one, folks, but let's say this is the case. As we now know the easiest way of keeping track of who was who would be to name the species after the planet upon which they evolved. Muslims, Christians, Atheists, Americans, Iraqis, Humans, Mortals etc is too much to keep track of. need one name to label them all. To the rest of the MultiVerse you are an Earthian.. It's just easier that way. It's being part of a classification system.
Earthians is the term that describes the species of dominant animal that ekes out its existence on the very outermost crust of the spinning planet Earth, around a star know to them as Sol, or the Sun.
The Tribe to which both you and I belong transcends traditional Nationalist boundaries. Whether you dig it or not, whether you acknowledge it or not. The Muzzies? Earthian. The crrrrrrazy Catholics? Earthian also. Americans, Iraqis, the Soldiers, the Terrorists? Earthians one and all. No denying it. It is that way.
I am Earthian. So are you. Whether you dig it or not.
The first, all-important step towards a Renaissance is accepting this categorization, recognizing the truth of it. When we truly accept that we are all Earthian, it will be less easy for those in control to continue to manipulate the People based on their supposed differences, differences that would mean shit to Citizens of the larger MultiVerse, to which we do not belong and cannot, until we can focus our efforts in that realm rather than finding new and creative ways to war and kill one another.
It is a transcendence of the petty and meaningless differences that has kept us battling one another rather than joining, striving EverForward into something beyond ourselves, and infinitely better.
Earthians Unite, for to not is your destruction.
That is all. For now.
-SenseChange
NonRandomMP3age: "One Love," by Bob Marley, fellow Earthian if ever there was one.
NeoCon 911
There has never been a real investigation of 911. The people who benefited the most from that day is the Bush adminstration. Tell me I'm wrong. Bush was nothing before 9-11. He was nothing. And Cheney. Cheney and Halliburton have made billions from that day and in Iraq. Cheney's taxes came out to 8.3 million last year. What did you make? Any crime occurs and you always ask who profited the most: George Bush and the NeoCon cabal. No question. From a dollars and cents perspective it cannot be denied.
No Iraq invasion without 911
No Afghanistan invasion without 911
No Iran invasion without 911
No "Patriot" Act without 911
Another 911 and you fools would make him Emperor, anointed by God, I have no doubt.
Will you get bullshitted into invading the next oil-rich country so easily? Probably! It will cost way more in human life, or American life if that is all you care of. And no matter what, you can be sure, Cheney and Halliburton will make billions from each drop of American blood in the next adventure as well, just as they did from Iraq. Or Katrina for that matter. You damned fools. Suckers, even. Except everyone else pays for your suckerishness. So WAKE THE FUCK UP!!!!
More afraid of the US government than anybody or anything else. The Apocalypse spawns from such unchecked greed. And we are all WATCHING IT HAPPEN.
Impeach him. And everyone around him. For your very souls.
-SenseChange. Please.
No Iraq invasion without 911
No Afghanistan invasion without 911
No Iran invasion without 911
No "Patriot" Act without 911
Another 911 and you fools would make him Emperor, anointed by God, I have no doubt.
Will you get bullshitted into invading the next oil-rich country so easily? Probably! It will cost way more in human life, or American life if that is all you care of. And no matter what, you can be sure, Cheney and Halliburton will make billions from each drop of American blood in the next adventure as well, just as they did from Iraq. Or Katrina for that matter. You damned fools. Suckers, even. Except everyone else pays for your suckerishness. So WAKE THE FUCK UP!!!!
More afraid of the US government than anybody or anything else. The Apocalypse spawns from such unchecked greed. And we are all WATCHING IT HAPPEN.
Impeach him. And everyone around him. For your very souls.
-SenseChange. Please.
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