Thursday, October 15, 2009

"This Man Is Your Friend!"

This poster was issued by the Allies during WWII. Just a short time later the US was preparing to Nuke our freedom-loving friend. I especially like the ALL CAPS, so just in case the observer is retarded, he'll still get the equation: "Da RUSSIAN likes da FREEDOM. He is FRIEND."

Monday, May 11, 2009

Lezginka: The story of a Caucasian War Dance.

I've always had a fascination with Lezginka and spent many a thrilling hour going through all the Lezginka clips on You Tube. If you don't know, Lezginka is a Caucasian dance named after the Lezgis that is danced all over the Caucasus, by the Georgians, the Armenians, the Chechens (who aren't Turkic, in case you're wondering, and neither are the Lezgis, as 18 noun declensions will attest), and the many other cultures whose home is the Caucusus.

The curious thing about Lezginka is that there seems to be a war, fought in the comments sections, over whether it is an all male dance, or whether it is a dance that includes one or more women. Some maintain the former, some the latter, and others maintain that the Lezginka includes women, but that there is another all-male dance called the Mkhedruli ("military" in Georgian).

I think the answer is that it's all one dance that went through a historical change. It started out as an all-male war dance, like this:



Or, if you'd prefer a more real-life example, consider this clip of Chechens dancing in Moscow (Note the first dancer firing off his gun after he's done dancing):



There's no doubting that the above dances, whether you want to call them "Lezginka" or Mkhedruli, are all-male war dances. Aside from the fact that the participants are exclusively men, the male aesthetic of the dance is unmistakable. There are no curves in the Lezginka, only elbows and knees in a whirlwind of angles, balanced geometrically. The point isn't grace and fluid movements, but to combine the speed of a spinning-top with an as sudden and precise a break in motion as that of a whirling dagger nailing the apple on top of the beautiful assistant's head, so vulnerably and trustingly stand does she. It's a war dance, alright, the pure joy of complete control with a healthy dose of "hey, check ME out"-ism:



I think what happened was that, as time went on, women started jumping into the fray, or slam-pit, so to speak. I would venture to guess that this was a very, very late development because even today it is very conceivable for rivals over a woman to get into a fight if she dances with one of them and leaves the other alone. But, in any case, that the introduction of women into this dance is a new development is also evidenced by how thoroughly boring the woman's dance is compared to the man's: it is basically gliding in circles while making elegant gestures with the hands. The footwork, if any, is limited to imitation. Consider this, for example:



Here is an excellent collection of people dancing Lezginka in weddings as evidence for the above point and, of course, for sheer enjoyment:

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5

Note that the majority of dancers in these clips, and pretty much most of the clips on You Tube, are Chechens. There's no way to tell from their faces which part of the Caucusus they come from, of course, but you can tell because, erm, the titles say "Chechen." There are many Georgians there, too, but they are mostly performers putting on elaborate shows, and damn good ones, too. They really are very good Lezginka dancers:



Here is a Dagestani performance, at least according to the title. They may be Georgians, too, wearing Dagestani hats:



And that is the "evolutionary" curve that the Lezginka has gone through: it began as a war dance, women joined in, and then it became a spectacle for people to watch, vicariously enjoy, and clap for--bourgeois entertainment: the concert ends at 8 PM so you can get to work on time the next day. And that's generally the curve of culture from pre-modern to late modern. Savage and exhilarating in the beginning; beautiful-ish and civil toward the middle. Aesthetacization.

One more thing. There are lots and lots of Caucasians dancing Lezginka on You Tube, but pretty much no Armenians. There was only one clip I found with the title of Armenian Lezginka, and that was the Armenian Dance Ensemble. I'm not going to link to it because it is just so fucking horrible that its embarrassing. It's not that we don't dance Lezginka; I've seen plenty of people dancing Lezginka at weddings and dancing it very well. It's just that it is not the focus of our attention on You Tube, apparently. Most dancing that you see Armenians do on You Tube are shurjpars, with the whole clan joining in. Which means something, but that for a later time.

In any case, Armenian culture, I think, is more oriented toward music. And the aesthetacization of Lezginka is the perfect example of this. When Aram Khachaturian came along, Leziginka went high-brow. I like this version:



But what I want to leave you is the following clip. I've been trying to describe it for the last hour, but I just can't. I write paragraph after paragraph, but nothing seems to work. So I'll leave it up to you to interpret the music a short, fat guy sitting in the middle of his living room plays on his accordion wearing a wife-beater shirt. All I'll say is that he plays it in a way that brings out the hidden sadness of the song. Brilliant people always do look a little weird:

Thursday, May 7, 2009

Aesthetatize. That is what we need to do.

What I was trying to say, is that we need to aesthetatize our music. That's a spelling error, but a cultural correction. Typical of Glendale I might add.

Jewish Aryans: That's how fucked up we are.

Conflicted yet?

So I'm watching this clip on You Tube:



(After Levon's speech, it's all downhill, like big time.)

And I'm thinking, "Jesus Christ, more village music!" Enough with the village music for Christ's sake! Zurnas and dohols. What, do I wake up to my ass braying every morning? No, I wake up to the goddamn 210 freeway, and it's loud. Let me tell you something: Village rituals does not for a culture make. You understand? Dancing in a circle at a wedding doesn't mean anything. How else can I put it? You look like a fucking idiot when you swing the handkerchief at the head of the line. All of that business is gone, gone, gone. You understand?

Yeah, the duduk is beautiful, but it's too late, way too late to enjoy it. We're 22nd century Armenians. Which means that we are way to late to the table: All the people that count have eaten and gone already; all we can do is look at the left-overs and drool. And NOT eat.

That's who we are. I'm sorry, but that is who we are. You do a Google image search for "Armenian" and all you get is dead people and patriarchs. What kind of a culture is that? Getting killed is something that you are proud of? That's something to celebrate? Fuck that. Kill them back! Ten times motherfucking over!

Anyway, I'm sitting and thinking about this, and I'm thinking who are we, Armenians. And the only conclusion that I reach is that we're Jewish Aryans.

I officially invite anybody else to come up with a better explanation.

Tuesday, May 5, 2009

Which reminds me... Why don't we get the NUCLEAR BOMB?


There are Armenians all over Russia; there are Armenians all over America. Can't we find an A.Q. Khan-ian? That's all we need to do. The Azeris would shut the fuck up so fast, Ill-ham, that is to say, Swine Flu, (ill ham, get it?), would shut his trap faster than you can [edited for content].

And that is why I make this Declaration: MY FELLOW ARMENIANS: LET'S GET THE BOMB!

A.Q. all the way (why do these fuckers look so sad all the time?)

Kill them back. The Turks. (Wow. Nationalist Kool-Aid tastes Gooooood...)

And let's take our lands back. I'm so sick and tired of them, these Turks. Let's just kill them. It's easy. You just pick up a machete and you chop your neighbor's head off.

No problem: It is machete + head = dead motherfucker.

Easy.

Let's do it.

I am personally going to skull-fuck every rapist of an Armenian girl. Nobody rapes an Armenian girl and gets away with it. I am, to be candid, pretty fucking sick of hearing about it.

You see this:



That was in the 1960's.

Nice sentiment. This is now: Kill them all. They've raped our women and taken our land. Really? I'll rape you back you motherfucker! Ten years, twenty years, a hundred years after. You'll pay!

Don't UN-hate a Turk, RE-hate a Turk. And HATE them over and over and over again.

And then the MI6 and the GRU and the NSA can have a field day... And then we'll fuck them, too, those retarded intelligence agencies that can't tell the difference between a bureaucratic mistake and a typo. Or maybe that's the same thing... Maybe the CIA can tell the difference, or maybe nobody can... (dot, dot, dot)

Or maybe you can just BITE people:

Saturday, May 2, 2009

3:1 kill ratio. Why don't we just take over the whole place?

In the Azeri war, Armenians killed three Azeris for every Armenian. People dying isn't something that I enjoy, but it is the way of the world, and, since it it is, why not go bat-shit crazy with war? That's what they want, isn't it?

Why don't we go all out and take Baku? Why don't we take Tiflis? Those Georgians posture so often, it makes me want to kick their asses. I mean, really.

What are we waiting for? Our soldiers are disciplined, our war strategy matches the best chess player's strategy, and we have the will.

We've seen death and lived with death for soooooooooooooooo long. The Russians fear Chechens. We EAT Chechens. WTF? Let's go from Baku to Tiflis. Let's go WARRIOR. We have it in us. Let's take over the whole place. Let's take Tiflis, let's take Baku.

Wednesday, April 29, 2009

Philosophia H. Fucktardus: Indz inch?

Indz inch?
What do I care?

Kez inch?
What do you care?

Gna ko gortzit hetevitz.
Go after your own work.

These are the Confuse-ian maxims of the people who live in Glendale, that strain of regressed human called Homo Fucktardicus.

Life to H. Fucktardici means finding a good job, buying a house, and raising a family. OK, fine. Except, then, life becomes the slowly rotting-in-the-meaningless-repetition of the jobs that they've found, the slowly-rotting-in-the-terrifyingly-empty-wide-spaces of the McMansions that they've bought, and the progressively chronic alienation of the members of the family that they've raised, as they watch helplessly. There are people who escape this, except they are like Mad Max persevering in the desert of a post-Apocalyptic world. And that's no way to live.

We Armenians are convinced that the path to a good life is having money. Sure, money helps--alot. But there has to be something more than money, and in Glendale there isn't. Live here for a while, and I guarantee you than you will start feeling like something is missing. What is missing is the life that fanatically enforced rules of behavior necessary for efficient production kills. They turn you into a machine, and in return they give you a house--except you have to take time off spending with family and friends to mainatain that house, and you, after years of working away from them, loose touch. That's the Glendale formula: Shut up and work! Shut up and eat! Shut up and Enjoy!

It's a big problem. Really. If only H. Fucktardici would admit that there is a problem. But they don't. They don't admit it because if they did it would be too overwhelming. They've been rotting in peace for so long that to now arrest the rotting-in-peace would be too difficult a task for them. It would be akin to having to take their after-work fat asses soaking in a comfortable bath of scented warm water and emersing them in an--ice bath. Just like kicking a heroin habit. Comfort is the answer in the absence of meaning for H. Fucktardicus.

Indeed, H. Fucktardici are junkies, except in a humiliatingly paradoxical sort of way. Because what they think makes them normal, living a comfortable life in a big house with all the luxuries that they need, is exactly what makes them abnormal, people who think that the purpose of life is comfortable oblivion extended for as long as it can be extended--and that is exactly what junkies think, except junkies are more honest: they do it directly and get a far better rush.

If you ever really want to know the true meaning of indz inch, talk to a junky. I've known junkies in my life, and I can tell you that they really, really, really don't give a damn. To them, there is only one purpose in life: the comfort of heroin, the regression to the womb. Nothing else matters. They could be sitting waiting to become the next sacrifice in an Aztec ritual where they pull your intestines out of your ass, tie it to a stick, and set it on fire, and the junkies wouldn't give a damn as long as they got to stay high.

There is only one other class of human that can match the complete indifference of junkies, and that is the class of bitter old men who've suffered enough. They, too, really don't give a damn. They, too, can look at a bloody car accident and get more caught up in the carnage than the tragedy, but not much more, because not even the carnage is so interesting to them. Maybe they'd say, "Oh, that's so sad," because that is what is expected of them, but then they'll turn around and walk away, back to the bed, back to comfort. Junkies and old, old men are respectively representatives of active and the passive hedonism in that sense. The only real difference between one type of Glendale resident and another type of Glendale resident.

Because Glendale is all about hedonism, which is alright in a sense, except in Glendale, among other things, there is a weird kind of liberal-democratic hedonism, which is to say hedonism that likes to, on top of everything else, enjoy itself through a hypocritical, pseudo-moral lense, even as it chants its mantra: indz inch? If you can believe that such a thing is possible: to assert your morality, even as you say that you don't give a damn. It is an amazing feat, so let me explain.

Saying I don't give a damn while at the same time saying I care about ethics clearly puts a person in a bind. The miraculous Glendalian philosophical feat in undoing this Gordian knot that lets Glendalians conquer, erm, "Asia"-in-the-form-of-a-McMansion is to explain it this way: By taking responsibility for putting myself in a state of witless, shitless, brainless state of comfort, I spare other people from the responsibility of putting me in a state of witless, shitless, brainless state of comfort.

See how that works? See how "I don't care" in the perverted logic of Glendale becomes the pinnacle of civilization and an act of courage? It's really rather amazing.

All of which is why the drug of choice for this indz inch culture isn't heroin, but Xanax and its relatives. Heroin, after all, takes some balls to do. You can't get your Armenian doctor, brimming with understanding and sympathy that they are, to prescribe you heroin, but you can get him to prescribe you Xanax. The way it works out in this American life, taking a drug that gives you a spiritual orgasm of pleasure isn't OK, but taking a drug that severs the sinew attaching your soul to the world, making you simply indifferent--without causing pleasure--is reasonable. With the former drug you'd be tempted to sit on ass and drool, but with the latter one, Xanax, you can continue to go to work.

And that is essentially what H. Fucktardicus is: A worker and a consumer of garbage, and a rather stupid, obedient one.

Tuesday, April 28, 2009

W.H.O. Alert: H. Fucktardicus spotted in Yerevan!

Here's evidence of an Homo Fucktardicus apparently asking for the camera that just took a picture of him, but, obviously, not being very successful. Because, well, here's his picture:


Get profession you fucktard. What is this? Chauchesku? Jesus, what is it going to take for those who are professionally supposed to oppose us to get an account with Wal-Mart and have their slave-driving professionals deal with with this (our) bullshit?

I mean, seriously: when is the KGB, I mean GRU, going to sign-up with Wal-Mart?

Picture courtesy of Tzitzernak. Originally the picture is from an A1 article about hoodlums harassing Armenian Congress supporters, which I think means that the picture is really the courtesy of A1.

Tuesday, April 21, 2009

What I fear most in this life in Glendale.

Earthquakes.

I've been through a few of them. The first (terrifying) time, I was at Glendale High School, and I literally saw the Earth wave with waves that you usually see in Water. The earthquake hit, and they brought us all out to the field, the football field. And then, there was another quake. And I saw, we all saw, nature turn on "her" head and the entire field of grass--there's no name for it--wave like as if it were water. Imagine what its like when you dip your finger in a glass of water, and imagine how it would look like as if it were a field of grass. Waves flowing across a football field.

Then the next time it was at Pasadena City College. And this was the--truly--horrifying experience, because it didn't involve nature, but--people: We were in class; I was a stupid Armenian hick in philosophy class, discussing philosophical issues. I think the class was about "Ethics." Yeah, right. Laugh your ass off.

But, then, an earthquake hit. If it were a movie, it would have hit right in the middle of a discussion about Plato's justified lies. Except it wasn't, and it hit right in the middle of an idiot expressing a completely idiotic thought, which is what 99% of what the American university experience is about. In other words, there was no beauty to to it. But, whatever.

Then the ground shook. Not in the way that you would expect it, however. It shook in long, slow waves. Long and slow, like a merciful lover. We all thought that we were going to die. I remember looking at the ring hanging at the end of a string, attached to the the pull-down projection screen, waving back and forth, real slowly. Back... and forth. I remember the look of panic in the teacher's face, and I remember all of us ducking under our desks, as if the gazillion pounds of concrete that would rain down on us would be stopped by by the one-inch thick surface our desks. Ridiculous. I remember looking at my classmates with that cowardly expression of an animal about to die. There was no courage there. There was no character there. It was just middle-class people shitting their pants. That was it. It was a very clear look at who we were, and who we were was scared shitless nobodies. But that's a different story.

I remember us leaving the classroom, and "calmly" exiting the building. And that is the truly horrifying part. People "calmly" exiting the building. Because, truth be told, nobody was "calm." Everybody was terrified. You had to make a choice at that moment about whether you were a frightened animal, willing to step over other animals, or whether you were a human being, trying to be calm. That's a tough choice. I made mine, and I don't want to again.

So, what I fear most in this life in Glendale is an earthquake. Not the mafia.

The mafia, or let's call it by its real name, the akhperutiun, does things for a reason, but an earthquake happens for--no--reason, whatsoever. An "akhper" will antagonize you for a reason, but an earthquake will happen for absolutely no reason. So, in that sense, there is something WAY tougher than the mafia in Glendale: Earthquakes.

Irrational death sentences. What does the akhperutiun have to compare to that?

Monday, April 13, 2009

Homo Fucktardicus Ground Zero

Homo Fucktardicus Ground zero:


View Larger Map

Within less than a quarter of a mile there on the corner of Dryden and Pacific there must be about 5 Armenian grocery stores. One of them is connected to Armenian mafia money, I think, like King Market in Pasadena, rumored to be connected to good old depressed Serzh Sargsyan. I don't have any hard evidence for this, the former, except the fact that it is way, way too clean to be a real Glendale-based operation and the people who run the place are fat, overbearing, abusive, and totally spoiled degenerates.

For example, I was there the other day, and this fat guy (I know, I said "fat" already, but these people really are fat all around) drove up in a, surprise, surprise, Mercedes, and he started to talk to one of the girls who works there, on her break. She was sitting at a table, having a cup of coffee. She was pretty, but (/and?) she was poor, obviously, working as a cashier. She also wasn't in her twenties anymore, and the stress of being in that, erm, position, I could read from her face, mainly from her eyes.

I was parking the car right in front of the table she was sitting at (probably in violation of a Glendale city ordinance, the tables were set right in front of parking spaces, not that I care much about propriety, but, anyway), and she caught my eye, and held it, for far longer than a woman who is financially secure would. That's how I knew she was poor: she didn't like her job, she didn't like her life, and she was looking at me, a passerby, as a possible knight in shining armor. That's real life. Beyond all the happy hallucinations that television fills people's minds with, real life is sex, drugs, and poverty, meaning being somebody's bitch, and, oh, the night-time gnashing of teeth--but that's another story.

So this dick-head comes out of his Mercedes, holding his cell-phone in one hand and his car keys in the other hand, sporting a gold bracelet, jeans-with-leather shoes, designer shirt, primmed-up like a princess, and obviously an idiot, and starts talking to her. At first, the chatting seemed friendly. Like, Hi, is everything OK, is everything going well, and all that. But towards the end of the conversation the fat-ass dickhead started swinging his car keys and the woman in question started looking tense. Y'all know what I'm talking about. That's Homo Fucktardicus.

That is capitalism in action. The Russian 90's have been imported here, in Glendale, with all of the brutality that went on. If I had the courage, I would have taken the pen that I had in the glove compartment and stuck it right in the bully's eye.

Thursday, April 9, 2009

Wednesday, April 8, 2009

Why did Russians kill this man?

Russians will pay for a long time for this. They killed him:



And let me repeat this: Why did Russians kill this man, and why did people like Kocharian and Sargsyan approve?

I'm not a Monte Melkonian fan. He said many things that are lies. But you can't murder people like that. I know his brother said that everything was un-suspicious. But I think the man was murdered.

I think the Russians killed him.

OK, so sue me. Nobody this cool dies a natural death.

Friday, April 3, 2009

Meet Homo Fucktardicus.

According to wikipedia "[homo sapiens sapiens] have a highly developed brain, capable of abstract reasoning, language, introspection and problem solving." Really? Wikipedia is very generous. You've got to know that they're English socialists, especially when you consider the 2004 US presidential elections when George still-figuring-out-the-opposable-thumb-thing Bush got elected.

But, whatever. It's not like I'm bitter about the entire American population electing idiots as presidents for the last thirty years starting with Ronald fucktard Reagan while laughing at everybody who disagrees... or anything like that. No, It's actually quite entertaining to see Reagan supporters from back when I was a kid all of a sudden start talking about the importance of government regulation. It's funny. These slime-bags, and I mean SLIME-BAGS, who used to talk about people pulling themselves up by the "boot-straps" are now eeking out a living on Medi-care and Medi-Cal (California, state-sponsored health insurance) that pays all of their fucking bills while they sit on their asses and wait for the inevitable to happen. They're all socialists now. Thirty years ago they were "entrepreneurs."

It's hilarious to watch big-time investors in the stock market loose 40% of all of their investments: "Big time" in their own heads, small time in their bank accounts. Nowadays they are all saying the same fucking thing: "A little regulation is a good thing." Really? I don't think so, assholes: why don't you pull yourselves up by your bootstraps? You rugged individualists want your diapers changed now? Fuck You!

And most of the people that I know personally who used to talk like that are, yes, Armenians--Glendale Armenians. Which brings me to the creature at hand: Homo Fucktardicus.

Homo Fucktardicus is a new mutation off of the Homo sapiens sapiens branch. Homo Fucktardicus branched off around the year 1984. Ignorant, but arrogant; wealthy through borrowing hundreds of thousands of dollars and enslaving their very own kids to the responsibility of paying it back; authoritarians in the home, but really wage slaves at work--Homo Fucktardicus rules Glendale.

The Homo Fucktardicus ideology has conquered all. All over Glendale you can witness piss-ant wage slaves in their Mercedes Benzes. They're going to be paying for that car for at least the next ten years. You can see them talking on their cell-phones as if they are deciding the fate of the Asian continent, except they are telling their bosses that, yeah, they'll sacrifice a vacation day to mind the cash register at the store.

Indeed, I give you: Homo Fucktardicus. Armenian materialist idiots. People, as they say, that will crawl over their dead mother to fuck their sister.

Homo Fucktardicus: Damn you shit-heads to hell!

Monday, March 30, 2009

Sophia Loren.

EDIT. I just removed two videos that were here. One was Cracker doing "Dr. Bernice" and the other was a montage of Karen Black clips. I asked myself: Does one need a philosophically sound excuse to see Sophia Loren in a corset? Hell, no!

Sunday, March 29, 2009

Facebook Baby

Ran into this photo today that I think expresses the internet saturation that some people are starting to feel. It is by Zina Saunders, and I think the point she makes in her essay about venture capitalists trying to monetize the internet is right on, especially when you look at sites like Facebook and the arrogant, greedy shits that came up with them. Anyway, here's to avoiding the dystopic future that might be in store for all of us along with the rest of the catastrophes lined up like black crows.

Friday, March 20, 2009

1974-opulos

Here's a concert in Greece right after the fall of the Greek dictatorship, the one that got them into a war with Turkey over Cyprus.

It's 1974.

Wednesday, March 18, 2009

AIG Retention Bonuses Issue: A Smoke-Screen for the Theft of Billions.

For the last few weeks I've been watching mainstream media so-called pundits foment righteous anger over the "nerve" of AIG execs demanding, and those in charge of overseeing how taxpayer money is spent giving them, millions in retention bonuses. The experience has been quite amazing, to say the least, because the mainstream media has never, ever, in my memory been so openly hostile toward Wall Street. Usually, they act as the Wall Street Propaganda Dissemination Department. For examples, the Exile broke a story about how craven the mainstream media is toward Wall Street about a week ago, and Jon Stewart picked up on it and took it further:



So, yeah, it's strange to watch the mainstream media start trashing Wall Street all of a sudden, but now it's clear why: The manufactured outrage is a smokescreen for something much, much worse. It is a magic trick, which, like most magic tricks, works through deception: The magician distracts you with his left hand slips a card in the deck with his right--and the card you picked "magically" appears on top of the deck.

In the same way, the media is getting you to focus your attention on AIG execs receiving retention bonuses of about $200 million, while AIG is giving about $175 BILLION to banks and financial institutions that it has already given the same amount to. The institutions in question are the usual suspects: Goldman Sachs, Bank of America, Merrill Lynch, UBS, JPMorgan Chase, Morgan Stanley, Deutsche Bank, Barclays, and so on.

The source of this claim, that the bonuses are serving as a smoke-screen for something much more egregious to take place is, to the best of my knowledge, Elitot Spitzer, in his March 17, 2009, article in Slate, "The real scandal at AIG."

But this story, already a Chilean earthquake, gets even more interesting. Dare I say, Eliot Spitzer was forced to resign as Governor of New York last year because he had been trying to prosecute AIG and scam-companies like it since 2002, for exactly the kinds of crimes--crimes--that have led to this crisis. He was silenced. And the silencing was a Wall Street conspiracy.

But, to go back to the beginning, Eliot Spitzer was writing about--strike that, prosecuting--Wall Street's dangerous and highly questionable players since, not a month before, not a year before, not two years before the collapse of Wall Street in September 2008, but since way back in 2002. Then, in 2004, he accused AIG of bid-rigging. Now, I don't have the slightest clue what bid-rigging is, but the fact that AIG and another company lost $38 billion in market capitalization in response to the accusation means that he knew what he was talking about: Wall Street cretens obviously took his accusation as a credible alarm.

Then, in February 14, 2008, he wrote an article in The Washington Post making explicit just how the Bush administration had stepped in to stop states from being able to stop the predatory lending practices that have brought us to this crisis. To quote a Nation article summarizing Spitzer's accusations against thte Bush administration:

[T]he [predatory lending] situation loomed so egregious that the attorneys general of all fifty states, both Democrats and Republicans, lodged suits against the worst predatory subprime lenders [...] The response was shocking, and not nearly wellpublicized enough: the Bush administration employed a little-used 1863 law to annul all state antipredatory-lending laws and, if that wasn't enough, to block states from enforcing their own consumer protection laws in suits against national banks. Thus, when Spitzer tried to open an investigation into discriminatory mortgage lending in New York, the administration actually filed a federal lawsuit to block it. These interventions were so extreme and so unprecedented that the attorneys general and the banking superintendents of all fifty states came together to oppose the rulings unanimously. But to no avail.

Three weeks later, Spitzer was forced to resign his post as the Governor of New York because of a sex-scandal.

Coincidence? I don't think so. Here is a podcast of an interview with Spitzer done by Greg Palast, probably the only real investigative journalist left in the US aside from Seymor Hersh. Here is Palast's article about Spitzer's resignation with other audio links, and here is a Nation article about it.

So, yeah, the same guy that Wall Street successfully conspired to have resign because of his willingness to prosecute its crimes is now saying that this hullabaloo over the retention bonuses, as justified as it is, is only serving as smokescreen for a theft that is 1000% as bad.

Thursday, March 12, 2009

Thursday, February 19, 2009

The Stimulous Package: "Will it work?"

That is the question that the media has been asking over and over again for the last month. Every time I turn on the news, or what passes for news, there's some obligatorily shrill-voiced actor playing the role of an anchorperson screaming, "Obama's Stimulus Package: Will it work? When we come back, our panel of experts will try to answer that question, and later we will talk to Republican Senator Pede Erast about whether the bill isn't really all about government spending. Stay with us."

Then the commercials come on. And, Christ Almighty, if anyone is wondering whether this country is on its way into the bowels of hell with the irresistible speed of an elephant on a luge, then all he has to do is take a close look at these ridiculous commercials. Without question, the most repulsive ones are the ones that use bright, pastel-ish colors to illustrate birds, and trees, and butterflies, and children, while the zen-like soundtrack of American Beauty plays in the background, a happy, hopeful harmony of soft bings and dings. It's a sunny day, the kids are running in the field, there's a young woman in appropriate east-coast blue-blood-wanna-be GAP attire, smiling; one of the kids blows into her palm and all these pretty petals go exploding into the air; and its all just beautiful, happy, and healthy, because, as the narrator assures you--the fucking coal companies are watching out for "your" environment.

Then there are the bank and investment-firm commercials, repeatedly reminding you of how "solid" they are, as if they fully expect the viewer to be so utterly clueless as to believe them. These banks telling people that they are somehow looking out for their families are, on the contrary, far more akin to a person who's just come-to after a terrorist bombing at a cafe--dumbstruck, shell-shocked, mumbling comforting nonsense--than they are like the sober, responsible, and alert group of professionals that they pretend to be. But then, a tweaker on a week-long binge would actually be confident that people believe him when he tells them that he's a jet fighter pilot. But then, again, there are a lot of people in this country who would believe him wholeheartedly and even ask for his autograph, because it is not every day that they meet a real jet fighter pilot. And that's the whole fucking problem, as we all know.

Once the length of time that psychologists have determined a middle-aged, drugged couple sitting on their couch can endure mindless commercials (a very, very long time) is mercifully over, the real torture begins: While commercials try to convince you that this or that product is good, a relatively honest venture, news programs take mind-fucking to a whole new level and try to convince you that the entire world is a certain way. They try to convince you that there is such a thing in the world as the "axis of evil"; that John McCaine's getting captured and tortured for years, after not being able to manage bombing women and children from thousands of feet in the air, makes him singularly fit to be the President; that during times of struggle and depression, Americans "pull together" instead of stomp one another to death on Black Friday as they make a mad dash to the electronics department. You know, bullshit.

And who better to administer these memory laxatives than a charismatic figure, say, Anderson Cooper for the girls, and Campbell Brown for the boys. Anderson Cooper's head, if you think about it, is a natural anomaly, but a serendipitous one if you are a cable news producer. It combines the unthreatening, wise silver hair of a sixty year old with the glowing and hairlessly smooth skin of an adolescent, and beaming out from that perfectly manicured head are a pair of bright blue eyes, at once penetrating and innocent, trusting and trustworthy. And if that weren't enough, his Steve McQueen-lite pose that he strikes right before going to commercial is just the kind of dickless macho that makes menopausal women fall in love: They don't know if they want to fuck him first and then cuddle him, or cuddle him first, then fuck him, then cuddle him again. Anderson Cooper is the consummate menopausal toy-boy. If someone shrank him down to dildo size and mass produced him, he'd be marketable in buy-2, get-1-free packages. "I've got one 'Dandy Andy' in the dresser, one in bathroom, and one in...the car!" They'd say to one another and giggle. "Get yours! Today!"

And so, Anderson Cooper says, "The Stimulous Package: The Obama camp says that it will create jobs, cut taxes for those who need them most, and invest in the infrastructure of communities all accross America. But will it stimulate the economy? Joining me now is [some bored looking guy from a center you've never heard of]. Thank you for coming on the show, Bill. Will it work?" Bill then repeats the same ambiguous bullshit du jour, saying, in essence, that the stimulus package might work, but then it might not work; it will do all these positive things, but "I'm not sure whether it will be stimulative." Right, "stimulative." If you think that word sounds strange, even after it has gotten repeated over and over again for the last month, it is probably because you're used to hearing the far more standard adjectival form, "stimulatory." Some talking head dropped that word "stimulative" a few weeks ago, and now every commentator has to use it, and every time they do, they get this cautious, almost scared, look on their faces because it is the first time that they've used it. But they screw up their courage and go through with it because they've looked it up in the dictionary, and, indeed, it is technically correct, and it will make them sound smart. Or maybe I'm hallucinating the whole thing.

In any case, if the question is whether the stimulus package will prove stimulatory, the answer is clear: NO. But that answer is neither entertaining, nor good for ratings, let alone stimulative to the career of an anchorperson. But that is the answer: It won't work. Nothing any politician is willing to do would work.

And the answer is "no" because the markets are saturated, manufacturing and its accompanying jobs have been moved overseas, the US has shifted from a savings economy to a credit economy, government regulation of pretty much everything has been sabotaged, Wall Street owns all of the important politicians (including Obama), vital government services have been privatized, and so on and on.

There isn't going to be a real recovery, and everything is going to get much worse. And most people don't want to hear about it.

Saturday, January 31, 2009

Erdogan vs. Peres. A sea-change?

I don't know what to say about this yet, except that it seems to be indicative of big changes. One obvious preliminary observation that can be made, though, is that, here, the Turkish PM is righteously railing against, there, the immorality of Israeli killings. He's right, of course, but the irony is so thick you could only cut it with a nuclear-powered jack-hammer:



Thanks Armen and Ani for catching this quickly.

Tuesday, January 20, 2009

Rich people don't give a shit what your skin color is.

After all the pontificating today, let us, Americans all, contiuiating in the traditions of our forefathers, continuiating in the rhetoric of said, aforementioned, forefathers, let us regurgitate, erm, I mean, affirm, this fact: Rich people don't give a shit what your skin color is. RICH people don't give a SHIT what your skin color is. What they care about is whether you're rich or poor. If you're rich, it's cool; if you're poor, they will continue to FUCK you in DA ASS.

They even had a preacher say some very stirring words today. He even mentioned the "yella" people. It was ridiculous, it was a lie, it was unbelievable.

Fuck, should'a voted for Nader.

UPDATE: Fuck it all to hell. (Stupid fucking idiots going "yay" for a corporate procession. And that is what Obama's limousine cavalcade was today, a corporate procession. Locke would not condone this. Locke is the philosopher behind the American Constitution, mind you. Come to think about it, American liberal humanism is not about the exploitation of labor. And the exploitation of labor is what America has been supporting, and for a very, very long time. So, yeah--Fuck You--and George Washington is on my side.)

Monday, January 5, 2009

It's Jesus time!

Poor people: Put your ear right next to the speaker.

Rich people: Put it on Surround sound.

It's Jesus time!

Sunday, January 4, 2009

Model.

This is George Galloway skewering Norm Coleman in 2005-ish, when Coleman tried to scandalize Galloway.



Except Galloway skewered Coleman. And he wrote a book about it, too.

Mr. Galloway goes to Washington.

Now Coleman LOOSES his senator-ship. To Mr. Franken.

Bye, bye, Mr. Coleman. May you be yourself for the rest of your life.

Can't the seven talk like this?