Well, not much of a protest in DC today. I followed the DC IMC Breaking News like a combination of a rip-and-read newswire and a soap opera where no one's getting any. Other than my bountiful garden, not too much else to report up here. No more bites in the job hunt ... though I have scheduled an appointment with a career counselor. Dealing with combinations of regret, despair, and shame while going through some painful soul digging this week. Came out better at the end with some more hope and ... well, at the very least, a better appetite. What's news with you? SET
Just working hard, and digging it, down at the upscale Chevy Chase Moto Photo Lab, and having finished up my first case as a process server, waiting with snot up my nostrils to get that first check from the District payola system for that godawful experience.
A couple hours later, he'd need to reassure himself again with another call that I was going to actually do whatever it was I'd said repeatedly that I'd do, and so forth. Needless to say, his micro-management style quickly became tedious.
I don't believe I've mentioned this latter gig to you, but I landed it by way of Len Bracken the same weekend that I was hired at the photo shop to start the first week after Labor Day. Fortunately the three subpoenas were being served to so-called co-operative witnessesan attorney, a detective, and a court clerk; and though the two of the three who weren't exactly "cooperative" each was effectively served through certain and uncertain channels, and each showed up for court. While my boss, John Moran, the investigative attorney hired by the Court, assured me that my imposing presence on the senses in the more sticky of the cases helped get across the message, I somehow feel that I did not really execute the plays as they were called, and those failed efforts didn't amount to much more than wasting gasoline, my preferred off time from the photo lab, and a snarling chunk of the taxpayers money.
The attorney who'd hired me is a somewhat likeable chap in short doses, but he also quibbled and quaffed to such a degree as to make him the worst experience in the whole affair, heavy-handed and wishy washy, always changing his rather relentless mind, requiring constant confirmation of the simplest matters. Hmm, sort of reminds me of..
We'd talk things out rather thoroughly over the phone, hang up, then five minutes later he'd call back to shift directions, or perhaps instruct me on exactly which route to drive out there to save myself aggravation, even though I had tried to convince him that I was quite handy with a map, the Internet, and was primed with a first hand knowledge of the city from my surveying years. A couple hours later, he'd need to reassure himself again with another call that I was going to actually do whatever it was I'd said repeatedly that I'd do, and so forth. Needless to say, his micro-management style quickly became tedious.
After all, I just turned 47. Feeling like 67 is a god-damned sin, a floundering fillibuster, and from where I hang my cap, absolutely no fun.
I may very well complete an online private investigation correspondence course I'm considering, just to get the groove down pat, but frankly I don't figure I'm much longer for this rather rank shark-infested pool...
The photo lab, meanwhile, according to the Maps On Us folks is 1.2 miles, or nine blocks, straight up Connecticut Avenue from my cockpit. I almost always hike the distance both ways, and since our lovely but smiting weather has only receded from the daily nineties to the daily mid-eighties, I have shed a few unworthy pounds in the process. To boot I have just joined Gold's Gym which is three blocks blind in the other direction, open from 5 AM to 11 PM on weekdays with only slightly slimmer hours on the weekend. I have yet to make my first appearance on the money so to speak, after locking in a special price of forty dollars per month for life, rather than the nearly sixty they wanted a year ago (also losing the usually hefty sign-up fee), yet I am slowly but diligently stalking the proverbial track upon which I will zestfully reorder my senses, distill a few angry molecules, and in some sort of coup de grace, hopefully rebuff the usual critics, to paraphrase an often-paraphrased young Rimbaud. After all, I just turned 47. Feeling like 67 is a god-damned sin, a floundering fillibuster, and from where I hang my cap, absolutely no fun.
Get dizzy in the dirt, though, you deserve it. Gardening was such a pleasure for me as well...
Hey Steveup for a visit? If so, do you know a route from DC to Philly which bypasses the toll road? I need a breather from this terror on TV, death in DC, and my own killer daily bread. With a nod to all those former glories we shared, I thought of you. I'll bring the recent Dylan release.
This window of opportunity will expire soon. If I don't hear from you today, for whatever reason, real or imagined, I'll count on nothing. Could this really be the end, stuck inside of DC with the Philly blues againas the four horsemen of an prima facie first blush apocalypse, the blue light special of tomorrow's plush sweaters, the four nineties of some square conspiring to compete with the circles we pick up in the streets and avenues, Steve, Len, Tim, and Gabriel pledging allegiance to the sounds of our own thumping hearts for which we cannot stand idly by...
Half deaf but playing it by ear,
P.S. By the way, Bracken sent me his "screenplay". Seems I have a single speech towards the end, which of course fits in my mouth, but still I hesitate involving myself in this project since I despise laziness, especially that which lurks in MYSELF, so why should I allow Mr. Radical to exploit me for those questionable aims of his, just for the vanity of some screen time? What do you think? Have you read it? Would you like to have my lines?
Hey great! C'mon up...Don't know any toll-less routes offhand...just know the standard 95 route...would require some blue-highway meandering...but don't let that stop you! We've got Koreans in town today, so I might not have much of a chance to get to a phone...in any event, could you remind me of your phone# (gotta catch a bus, an egg-and-cheese sandwich, and a coffee, in that order)? Mine at work is 215.790.xxxx (feel free to leave a message if I'm not in.) After work and the obligatory Korean dinner tonight, I have no plans for the weekend.
Hope Baby is feeling better. It's Leap Day, Sweetie, not the last day of winter. That threw you off the saddle, didn't it, and you stumbled out the door as a consequence. Well, here's a bunch of bodacious flowers, just to brighten your day. I'm excited about putting these next few web sites together. And there's a little something in it for everybody. I like it, yes, I like it when that happens. Hear my smile. A Cantonese roar.
I'm beginning to feel like the train engine's pulling all the wheels again in my mind. That's a great feeling. And in some small satisfying way I'm grateful that you are still agitating over the state of our lives, as you said last night to me when I asked you why couldn't you sleep, that you've agreed that now is now the time to say it, and do it.
No Len Bracken link, or anything, just a default Amazon homepage link (forcing the potential customer to hunt his book down rather than deliver straight to customer for click into cart). What a silly boy, vindictive without irony, a testament to his own swirling conscience. The best example yet of his own "morality of friendship" in action.
But the troubling thoughts are there to help toughen you up since apparently you are not already baptized in the spirit as much as you've read all the arguments, and are steady in pleading your case as it really stands, with vigor, and with grace. You'll need both if and when the barrage of leftover guilt starts hitting the fan like sloppy syrup from a horse's mouth on the one angle or the polite but still just as snarky ice blue lies marched in with their own tombstones from another angle. But it's time to justify time.
Chin up, sweet cheese. I am willing to imagine Ashantilly Maudie and Once Upon a Gilbert will thrill us with its creative spirits, and the rest of this tumbleweed racket ain't nothing but a bookkeeping phase that will take care of itself. Every chess piece in this game where one may aspire to sport a remarkably different outlook in the end, as ancient voices rollover to a halt and men in gloves strain in driving glasses to drink salt, we have no choice but to voice our goals and intuit the initiatives with splendid execution.
Yesterday I took the Bracken site down from 'XusNET. Today, his new site is working properly, and with changes. For instance, all mention of my own sites are gone. Now his books to buy link goes straight to Amazon. No Len Bracken link, or anything, just a default Amazon homepage link (forcing the potential customer to hunt his book down rather than deliver straight to customer for click into cart). What a silly boy, vindictive without irony, a testament to his own swirling conscience. The best example yet of his own "morality of friendship" in action.
Sometimes I wonder if he is even capable of understanding himself. It continues to feel good to have him out of my life.
Arthur - I have no burning desire to cull the herd of genuine interested parties, far from it, and I certainly appreciated your first response a while back, and now again, when pressed, it seems you have indeed brightened my day just in hearing from you. Smells like loneliness, doesn't it? Not really. It's just that sometimes my own sense of failure and frustration in building an active community where different voices can be counted upon to seed the common causes and indeed foster that notion of belonging to a focussed group greater than oneself, gets the best of me, and I plot yet another "situation" to stir the soup.
I mean, one does get tired of groveling for input. But I've had a rough year myself since this list was founded last November, and certainly do not crave the ax just to exercise some phony sense of authority. The peepholes you mention: Matt, Kubhlai, Michael, and Gabriel, none of us have met in the flesh. But Len Bracken, Steve Taylor, and Lynn Landry all have met me, and have each pleaded cases of personal friendship with the GT, but something is drastically lacking in these friends who hardly have a word to share with this project. Friends indeed, I say to myself. In full-bodied candor, their absence is my strongest resentment of the moment.
Rebunk down in Australia, well, I dunno where he's floated off to, and there is only one other new name (to respond to Matt's query) on the subscription list, but this person has NEVER piped in with a word, not once in the several months since signing on. This person has a UK address, but has remained mum. Again, there is no criminal breech of etiquette in this behavior, but I do interpret a slight rudeness I think for a list this small already.
To me, this present anxiety is not a matter of seeping paranoia over the content or stylings of these conversations, uh, falling into the wrong hands or some utter nonsense like that; as incendiary cant they barely make muster, but there is a pinching personal disappointment fueled by a periodic suspicion that perhaps the SWILL is indeed nothing more than a crass waste of time since there are many other lists out there which seem to attract all sorts of opinionmaking noise, of the feverish sort or the mundane, but here, uh, well you know what I mean.
And I really despise the fact that I am whingeing over this.
Well Bracken (you still wish to be known as Bracken, eh?), as I said today, I was rather touched by that flick I saw last night, WILDE, and so have been reading up on Oscar via the web. Talk about the penultimate master of negation. Every utterance is an inverted of the common, a negation of the mundane, a transcendence of the obvious.
Of course he was a bugger, and thus he shall remain, shall we say, utterly worthless to you as a commanding spirit? But I am indeed awed, particularly since I now know he was such a sad, physical giant of a man, as personified in the movie and reiterated in the additional photographs and extensive commentary I've found this evening in a welcomed break from the stress of today's 14 hour DNS outage. Toad says they hope they've fixed it as of 10:30 this evening, but are aware that their upgrade is probably still buggy, speaking of the laws of buggery.
Fascination with Oscar? What that says about me is yours to ponder, for I surely boast no pat answers and homophobia is your bag, not mine, but I do host a lingering sympathy for that gentlest of giants.
Might you have preferred Oscar the Hun? He was a master negationist, so he is of your intellectual tribe, can't you at least agree? This reminds me, I am overdue in torquing Kubhlai's remarks on sexuality.
Penned Oscar: "We can forgive a man for making a useful thing as long as he does not admire it. The only excuse for making a useless thing is that one admires it intensely. All art is quite useless...real beauty ends where an intellectual expression begins. Intellect is in itself a mode of exaggeration, and destroys the harmony of any face."
Flat out, Oscar Wilde was pure genius and the greatest of intellectual pretenders.
Len Bracken (U.S. author of Guy DebordRevolutionary, Feral House, 1997), a friendly acquaintance of mine here in Washington, DC suggested we offer my typesetting and design services to you since we had handled the original typesetting operation for his GDR title.
He said that you had two or three titles requiring immediate servicing. We are certainly prepared to discuss the possibility of handling your account. On the platform issue, we use PageMaker 6.0, Illustrator 6.0 and Photoshop 4.01 on a Macintosh 8500/120.
Although I currently live and work from my home in Washington DC, a writer and web designer, most of my family ties are to the metropolitan Atlanta area. It perplexed me when Bracken was unable to shed any light on why you had contacted him rather than seek a local typesetter, although he hinted that perhaps we might barter some sort of publishing for typesetting deal. Whatever the variables, please feel free to contact me by email. A phone number will be supplied if needed.
Gabriel Thy Creative Director, First Canary Graphic Solutions Ink Systems
Ihaven't been keeping up with these rad dudes since the list became a book selling booth and then something's screwed up to where I'm on the list twice (get everything in duplicates) but can't respond or unsubscribe because of some unexplained cosmic glitch. However, I decided to peek and see you getting mutilated by some humanoid. I can't say if I agree or disagree because I don't have the whole story but the hostility is acidic. I know, however, that you can take it and I'm sure you're just laughing on this.
Landry, I've thought about your newsgroup problem. How does this sound? Pick out what you find pertinent, disregarding the rest. Spud really doesn't monitor the newsgroup. It's automated. You signed up beaucoup months ago when you had another address. In order to UNSUBSCRIBE, you have to UNSUBSCRIBE with that same address. You get duplicates sometimes because I forward you stuff and the newsgroup forwards you the same stuff because you are still on the list. Your company E-mail server still accepts mail from your old address. Unsubscribe twice using both your current E-mail address and your former, then SUBSCRIBE afresh should you still be interested in receiving the list. Other than that I'm clueless. Yes, I am laughing, saddened by this sorry state of affairs, but laughing nevertheless. It's my only refuge.
I want to note that I believe that a lot of the people on this list are graduate students or something and are disappointed at the thin intellectual conversation spewing from their lip-fingers. How sad. I would love to get paid to spew. They don't know what they possess. Looks like academia is nothing more than a booksellers guild where they reshape sentences of sentences written about thinkers of the past. Who's doing the original thinking?
Not this crew. That is certain. I think I am wiggling towards the next wave of logic, but I can't get a word in edgewise. It's funny because I never mention g-o-d, but these people truly run for cover whenever I quote anything remotely Hebrew, even though I've tried to point out over and over again the wholesale ransacking and theft of the literature by Marx and Debord. Dead silence or the petty voice you quoted below is all these "great thinkers" can manage. Strange, I didn't receive that unsigned text. Maybe Spud has indeed axed me from the group.
Was Marx the highest point intellectual thought could attain? I keep waiting for the next thing, the next evolution on the food chain of an attempt to organize the human condition but I see only rehash rehash rehash. Art is rehashing cubism with slightly different variations. Literature is dancing around the macabre Faulkneresque trip into the dark side of family life with modern therapy heavy judgment thrown in. Music is nothing but push button computer masturbation.
They claim a desire to elevate the man without quality but when I present a self-portrait of that very man without quality they attack me with strange wordy affairs from their own contrived bible, contrary to the schematic of universal understanding, and sink into the abyss, well-deserved victims of their own lack of quality.
Well, the "next" thing was Debord. Of this I am positive. At least, the Situationists group as chaos, which is what I saw happen under the iron thumb of Debordian authoritarianism. A very good starting block for this clearinghouse of competing ideologies swarming around like angry hornets with an endless supply of stingers. However I seek not to clarify but to modify Debord, present a plan of action (or action by inaction) for which we stand. But of course these yahoos are too busy worshipping at the altar of Debord to ever "say" anything much less something of substance. It's the same numbing stagnation of thought they claim the spectacle creates and holds the world as hostage, that they practice. Duh, what a waste of fine godfodder, oops, I finally used the word.
Your text above describes what Debord was howling against. He was aware of the rehash, and wanted to "revolutionize" everyday life, but I believe he failed rather miserably*, just as Jesus** did in his own revolutionary pose (although his effects are as well-documented as this modern messiah***), but GODSPEAK on the other hand IS very much alive conducting his press upon the stage of HISTORICAL TIME, that Hegelian phrase that seems to have only one meaning for all that I can uncover: the spark that leads to the Len Bracken generation's own personal civil war. Debord was an athiest; Bracken confesses the same.
Civil war is the great god they worship. Capitalism the devil. Their own historical time, their own dirty war in the name of the zeroworker theory interlaced with an abrupt dismissal of all things proprietary, a ridiculous idea of course betrayed by their own hypocrisies. I say, like Zachariah, the great and terrible day is coming in nuclear spades but woe to those who would wish for its arrival, especially to those by whose hands it is accelerated. Of course I am dismissed as a mere fool and a preposterous godlover. It seems to me they actualize, accentuate, and love the Great and Terrible Lord of Theosplatz more than I do, but that's just my opinion, uncouth, unhip as it is. The mark of the beast. The fall of mercantilism. No copyrights. No work. Hot BOG & BOR topics****, but all these wankers can do is strut about in their task to mark me as declassé. They claim a desire to elevate the man without quality but when I present a self-portrait of that very man without quality they attack me with strange wordy affairs from their own contrived bible, contrary to the schematic of universal understanding, and sink into the abyss, well-deserved victims of their own lack of quality.
Aaah, the wonders of the intellect . . .
A few notes: * in his exclusionary practices ** in his inclusionary practices *** in this case I see Debord as Barrabas, and still no messiah on the horizon. **** BOG (Book of Genesis), BOR (Book of Revelation)
"I see pieces of men marching trying to take heaven by force . . ." -Bob Dylan
Do Curtiss Leung and Sam Hutchinson know that there are empty subpages loaded for them at your website? Are these people on someone's enemy's list? Were these people contacted and informed of these postings before they were put up? Were they informed at all? What do they think about it?
This collecting and posting of information about personae non grata (people critical of Bracken) is both a trivialization and VERY ominous. Why these people, and not others? How much information is going to be posted about these people? Hey, GT, why is there no subpage created (grave dug) for you at this site? Do you presume to be a neutral facilitator (a spectator)?
Well Spike, thanks for asking. Curtiss Leung & Sam Hutcheson are merely names without links now and will probably remain so for some time as I must move on to other sections of my site barring unforeseen disturbances you have forecast for me as a result of my efforts to build a comprehensive site from the ground up. No I didn't ask them for their approval, or disapproval, but now that you have inferred that something dubious is taking place, they certainly have the opportunity to measure in. All that is intended is to reproduce notes written directly to me or about my own writings FROM THIS GROUP in the past. Now Spud may claim ownership of these notes and the authors may do the same. Both Spud and the authors may even take refuge in current copyright laws, but hey, this is after all a post-Situationist newsgroup, which I would hope could sustain a little more howling from one of its own than say, Time magazine. My own sunshine perspective warrants that folk stand behind what they believe. If I dare wish to highlight these texts beyond the ephemeral past, whom in this group is hypocritical enough to stand up and boast claims contrary to their so-called "revolutionary" pose? I'm sure Debord might, were he alive, but . . .
WHY these two names and not others? Because THEY wrote the most provocative notes within the context of combative argumentation some time ago, albeit things have certainly quieted down over the past few months once again. And since all of the writing not signed with one of these or some other name on the Scenewash site is written by me (this is MY site, after all) I saw no reason to have a specific link with my name on it, my own facilitations (scientific neutrality is not possible) to be included under the third party sub-sections in dialog form.
This is not some conspiracy to ridicule or trivialize. Quite the contrary. The BIG picture is always more interesting than the "official" slice of propaganda certain types love to spew and hack, rally in pose and antipose which of course festers in the mind of onlookers and subverts the truth, all in the name of fame and self-promotion. If you find my own sort of reporting trivial and ominous, how do you react to the accusation Bracken levied at the Lefebrve piece you (Bill Brown?) published rather recently after I mentioned it to him? A paraphrase:
"Oh Lefebrve, bitter grapes. He found himself outside the loop. That interviewer didn't get Debord's side of the story, or even press Lefebrve, et cetera, ad nauseam..."
After all, by far the greatest irony in all in my investigation of the SI is the preposterous notion that a world governed by zeroworker councils will somehow universally toe the doctrinal line that linguistic vivisectionists like Bracken and a few other sloganeers maintain must be observed, or face vigorous accusations of being an “emotionalist” or a “dupe” or a “confusionist” or worse. Shades of Stalinism, echoes of Debord the authoritarian. Enemy to the people and all that crap.
Dirt is dirt. And we all know the flowers of truth grow and flourish in good organic dirt. While theory is fine and dandy for swashbucklers of every rank and riddle, the pertinent ironies of the EVERYDAY LIFE is what lends hypocrisy (and rightfully so, outside criticism) to other such thinkers and true believers from the most superstitious religionists to old book hardline Marxists, from cold helmet feminists to hard-boiled situationists. There have been thick reams of great theory handed down to us from the ages up to our own time, scarred by human frailty and despite its best intentionssloshes through each generation ever slowly, impetuously, muddily up the ground systems of exploratory thought and critical actionwhere we continue to crawl and rant and self-consciously maneuver through the dank inertia of our own Age ripe with ecclesiastical heroes of the past and overwrought slogans which tickle and twist and turn through our minds making us "feel" good or making us "feel" bad, always depending upon the exploitive quotient of the self as we gang up on the unnamed masses and spit vitriolic accusations at THEM, while claiming ourselves enlightened, superior to the rich, the bourgeoisie, the poor fool in the street, et cetera, ad nauseam.
To recoil upon your earlier questions, I found Sam to be a breath of fresh air in those early NOTHINGNESS postings. We found ourselves allies against the likes of buzzword Curtiss. I have nothing against Curtiss. Instead I have opted to draw him out with an inclusion on my site. What he does in the wake of this inclusion is his own call. I intend to highlight the obvious discord among those who would carry the torch and those who are simply too rich in "real" thought to be bored or aching for a point blank delivery of death and mayhem with only their own "boredom" to be paid as the admission price to the revolutionary stage. I have certainly weighed the consequences of my own "ominous" behavior. One or more of you might threaten a lawsuit as Bracken recently mouthed in response to his own detractors. Spud could kick me off the listserv. I could be attacked from every angle in whatever venue my detractors have at their own fingertips and mental disposal. Or I could be simply ignored. There is even the remote possibility some assassin might stalk me in order to silence me. Now how's that for paranoid delusional romanticism? Lastly, my own cannibalistic work could help shed some light on why I find myself in the middle of this rhetorical swamp, and that is to say what I've already said: that Debord's own dialectic work elbows both ends of the Judeo-Christian-Islamic tradition in its urge to return to the Garden of Eden, or at least the modern version of such a mythological place as well as its call to radicalize or accelerate the crashing of the oppressive and redundant financial structures of this globe as predicted in the Book of Revelation (in bold vivified language) signaling a tragic apocalypse followed by the ushering in of a brave new world. You see, I am not an enemy of the process of creating a better world. Nor am I opposed to a string of situational "in your face" tactics in order to get the attention of the parties to which I am opposing.
Maybe it is piffle, but several chapters at the beginning and several chapters at the end describe the world stage Debord and his "followers" would imagine as their role in history. It baffles me why these followers are duped into an "ignorance" of such a volume which has effected millions of people in the past and millions more today. Perhaps chafing under the catholic tradition in France, Debord and most European "thinker" movements must authoritatively slash the book while stealing from it every idea they can to repackage and sell as fresh meat. Even the idea of the spectacle is Hebrew in origin via the stipulation that man not reproduce any likeness of anything in heaven or upon the earth, strong enough of a thought to include in the BIG BAD TEN COMMANDMENTS.
I have lived the greater part of my 42 years in this fashion, believe me. My own bad reputation was earned in the trenches. I am impressed by the clarity of Debord's insight more often than not as he described the world in which he and most of us live. I do happen to disagree with many of his methods for attaining this grand scale change, and would like to move past this "true believer" approach where every nuance of every word uttered by the "master" is the only thing that matters to this cluster of would-be disciples. To energize the man in the street, obscure references and sloganistic shell games just won't get the job done. After all, by far the greatest irony in all in my investigation of the SI is the preposterous notion that a world governed by zeroworker councils will somehow universally toe the doctrinal line that linguistic vivisectionists like Bracken and a few other sloganeers maintain must be observed, or face vigorous accusations of being an "emotionalist" or a "dupe" or a "confusionist" or worse. Shades of Stalinism, echoes of Debord the authoritarian. Enemy to the people and all that crap.
Bracken has ranted in his frequent visits to my house about the stockpiles of throwaway commodities at landfills as indicative of overproduction of useless junk that people buy but soon toss away. I responded that yes, maybe so, but he would replace that stockpile of plastics and metal and paper with stockpiles of bone and flesh and blood in this fantasy revolution he would trigger if he only had the power. Was it Bracken or some other wit in the room at the time who then commented, "Yes, but at least body parts are biodegradable!"? Another persona non grata? No, a thought is a thought is a thought, wherever it floats in from. As for the aforementioned persona, Bracken actually knows these people. You may not, but does it matter? Whole scale slandering of the "duped" masses is no different than that which you accuse me. The SI dialectic is full of invective against these nameless faceless populations of which every detail, every motivation, every nuance of their lives is ransacked by this revolutionary hype. Yet, as is usually the case, here I find myself closer to the heartbeat of reality with an action I have chosen in my attempt to smoke out the truth of a rhetorical game this generation is playing with Debord, and yet stand accused of inflammatory notions. Again, I am a worker. I have worked at Bethlehem Steel in the coke ovens on Lake Michigan. I have worked as a chicken farmer fingering some 40,000 birds per season in Florida. I have made signs. And drawn maps. I have worked as a land surveyor in nine states. I have worked at a porno bookstore here in DC. I have driven a cab in Corpus Christi. Worked as a roofer in Atlanta, never been to college but sold Time-Life books for four whole shifts until I was fired after my supervisor thanked me for my candor when I combatted her notion that my phone presentation was most excellent but I was failing to come in hard with the third and fourth sell tactic, instead opting, and here was my candor, to accept what these people were rejecting as the truth, that they truly did not want to buy a set of "do-it-yourself" plumbing books. I knew I didn't want to plumb, and didn't want any books to teach me how no matter what deal Time-Life was offering. I ran down the street kicking my heels after I was canned. A truly despicable job. That was fifteen years ago. The man in the street. That's the issue here.
The approach Debord and his troop of "followers" take is counterproductive as far as I can confirm. Now the bible. That's a book people have heard of and can relate to in some sort of way, even if negatively. Yet the situationist approach is to dismiss the whole phenomenon as so much piffle, and superstitiously even refuse to discuss it except in graffiti rant. Maybe it is piffle, but several chapters at the beginning and several chapters at the end describe the world stage Debord and his "followers" would imagine as their role in history. It baffles me why these followers are duped into an "ignorance" of such a volume which has effected millions of people in the past and millions more today. Perhaps chafing under the catholic tradition in France, Debord and most European "thinker" movements must authoritatively slash the book while stealing from it every idea they can to repackage and sell as fresh meat. Even the idea of the spectacle is Hebrew in origin via the stipulation that man not reproduce any likeness of anything in heaven or upon the earth, strong enough of a thought to include in the BIG BAD TEN COMMANDMENTS.
I just think Bracken should quit shadowboxing all these phantoms of fame, and begin to live his philosophy, his revolt for himself to the best of his ability instead of coat-tailing Saint Guy in trashing every other living human being on the face of the earth he cannot control for not measuring up, but then that's the quasi-academian lion roaring within him, even as he proclaims, just as Debord did, his own anti-academic profile.
"Why not?" questioned the fifteenth century Renaissance artist cartel, and the rest is commodity-driven history. Could it be some great thinker already knew the tragic influence of this kind of image manipulation whereby people's minds and hearts would be sidetracked from the natural, the real? Bracken won't even "allow" me to discuss anything proto-biblical in his presence. A sad and sorry stance, if you want my opinion. The whole of situationist thought could use a lesson in reality. Revelations are everywhere the same. What does the last book in the bible say about the modern world of religion, politics, commerce, art, and war? Withdraw from her, withdraw from that whore of vipers and swamp gas. Withdraw! Only then is the true life available to be embraced, to be lived. This smells remarkably Debordian, shaded in terms of individual action, but then, Bracken admits that Guy Debord was often accused of being just some hackneyed boring Jesuit. Oh well, I've shot my wad for today. Obviously this was more than you bargained for when you doubted my motivations, Spike. But uh, why didn't you sign your name to your note? There's this other twit from AOL who's been harassing me of late, and I of course know him only by his screename Anarchi4Me@aol.com. More pseudo-informed Debordian game-playing no doubt on his part.
Meanwhile I hope I have clarified a few things for you. If not, well, one might presume that's par for the course. There "seems" to be little "love" lost among those wearing the situationist stripe, although I can admit with the pride of influence that so far Bracken has shown susceptibility to friendship, in my case at least, even after I have roared his face and ears red singeing his eyebrows in a gust of GT flames on several occasions after he starts trying to annex MY life and MY toil to serve HIM as I hunker down in my own house doing MY bit for the just cause. That kind of rude appropriation just "don't" wash around here, and it won't wash anywhere else. The revolution will be cancelled due to inept leadership. I just think Bracken should quit shadowboxing all these phantoms of fame, and begin to live his philosophy, his revolt for himself to the best of his ability instead of coat-tailing Saint Guy in trashing every other living human being on the face of the earth he cannot control for not measuring up, but then that's the quasi-academian lion roaring within him, even as he proclaims, just as Debord did, his own anti-academic profile. Certainly his actions are no great shakes. Sigh. Hiss. Kaboom.
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Damn. They insist you to learn to write as it's important to have opinions and state them in a style others will read, but let's not call this a "paying" gig. No, go sell a trinket or build a highway if you want to make some money. Ballplayers with the faraway stare trot out their wares in a tryout, but to their favor are contracted into the scheme from the beginning, even in the bus leagues. Writers are a strange lot, always working for free. Meanwhile plumbers, carpenters, accountants, bricklayers, cab drivers, politicians and other earnest resume-savvy cogs, oh they can make some big bucks almost anytime they want to take a job. What about designers? Systems managers? Kill the system they say. Bury design they scream. Oooooh la lamy angst is an easily bored mule...
I've never kept a job very long in my entire life, three years at one place, two at another, one apiece at two more. The remainder of my jobs lasted six months, four months, or shorter, but I was a most excellent worker wherever I was. I earned respect. Left with an air of decency, even as I might revolutionize the world I was leaving. But MY way's not for everybody. Most certainly not. We each must ponder this alone.
Bracken may be landing a job at Peter's firm as a researcher in the global securities industry. His resume will be submitted today with a wink and a nod. I'm on record as recommending he apply himself to this task over enough time to make it unmistakably worthwhile if he's hired, and there's more than a good chance he will be. Caps off to Dollhouse syzygy once again...No, NOT dynamite caps, you fool, your ball cap man, your ball cap.
I have seen the future, and it would be a fabulous affair for many if he can establish himself there, but only he can decide which of his options brings himself that ever illusive optimum pleasure schematic and then SETTLE in to work the progress line as only Len Bracken can manage it. This should be interesting to watch. I taunt him about buying a Mac and getting with the program, quit preaching from the outside, but get in and become a real player. He's still debating himself. I've never kept a job very long in my entire life, three years at one place, two at another, one apiece at two more. The remainder of my jobs lasted six months, four months, or shorter, but I was a most excellent worker wherever I was. I earned respect. Left with an air of decency, even as I might revolutionize the world I was leaving. But MY way's not for everybody. Most certainly not. We each must ponder this alone.
I found out last night that Bracken, when he called back, nailing Sue at nearly 3AM (uh, is that right?) on the phone after leaving my birthday party for home had called to inform me that he had driven past, and stopped for Reggie a few blocks away from the Dollhouse after we had given up on one of our more street savvy but friendly neighborhood thugs rolling through the DC alleys that night. Reggie had been foiled in a ten dollar weed run for the Brack & me, claiming the ten spot Sue fronted him was lifted from him at knifepoint. Then on top of that predictable swindle, he the Bracken, proceeded to tell Sue that Gabriel was a poor writer, a confusionist, and whatever else he could hurl across the plate in a few screwball pitches of counterpoint in trying to badger Betsy Sue at my expense.
The fact that writing (neither mine nor his) never once surfaced all night is what makes this whole slander so outrageous. Sue told him she didn't want to hear it, and probably wouldn't remember this call in the morning. She did remember but only revealed this part of the conversation to me last night some three plus weeks after the fact. Subversionary bastard, ain't he? As for Reggie, or Dog, as he prefers to be called on the street, what a twit. He'd pumped the well of deception earlier that night when he sat at my patio table, eating on some grilled chicken, staring me in the eye and marvelling that I'd never disrepected him, and yet, like clockwork on the petty criminal circuit he stoops to this minor theft. I haven't heard from him personally yet, and probably never will, which punches a big hole in his cover story, so I chalked it up as the bare minimum of doing business, of practicing the dark arts of survival by gullible but dangerous white folks in the mostly third generation working on welfare neighborhood, tossing Dog a ten dollar bone, no biggie on the "how much do I have to pay to keep from going through all these things twice" scale. Long in the tooth, most would agree, but I was finally waking up from the political fogs of unsustainable stained glass innocence, that deep sleep where trust was a lie, but the preferred lie of do gooders everywhere. The racial con game, the dances with Reggie grift, was as natural as the morning dew on the green, green grass of home. We'd dealt with Reggie before. This ten dollar disappearing act was nothing compared to the theft of the year before, when my Nikon disappeared from this same birthday patio, but I'll leave that tale for another page.
In real time, Sue DID mention that Len Bracken had called late that night. Hell, I was there. I overheard her responses. She just never mentioned his remarks on my writing. I think she thought she was protecting me. More likely, him. Bracken, for the record, is not a confusionist (a label he has pinned upon Greil Marcus, Stewart Home, and Gabriel Thy, so I suppose I should feel the company benefits kicking in any day now), he's merely confused.
Ring. Just got off the phone. Go figure. It was Bracken. He was with his dad he said, looking at Scenewash. Asked me if not a lot was online yet. I stated, yes, indeed that was the case. He was very specific in his questioning. I replied in same. Queer conversation. Not that there's anything wrong with that, but hounds in the hood were barking like adverbs in heat...
"Ignorance and virtue suck on the same straw. Souls grow on bones, but die beneath bankers' hours.""