1/19/09
Israel claims that they will pull out of Gaza in time to watch Obama on TV.
Americans are joining the army because they can’t find a job. Neo-cons rejoice! “With a larger standing army, we’ll have to invade somewhere soon.”
1/27/09
It was astutely brought to my attention today, by the lovely and always pleasant Melanie Murphy, by way of a graphic novel which attempts to teach young people the US Constitution, that the United States has not officially declared war on a nation since WWII. Now this to me, is social manipulation brought on by politicians disguising their campaigns of violence as something softer than what it is: war! Armed conflicts, military operations, whatever you’d like, but what has taken place in Iraq since 2003 is as much of a war as any. Go ask the people who live there if that feels like war to them.
Yet when we do declare war, we do so against the convenient, ambiguous threat of terrorism. In the same breath, US officials list off of groups of dark-skinned radicals and leave out the same violent fanatics that are red-blooded, Caucasian Americans and live in compounds throughout this country’s wooded areas! I don’t mean to say that rural America is made of crazy militia men and women and militia babies, but that some extremists and fundamentalists are born and raised right here as white people and black people and Hispanic people and that every Muslim is not trying to kill us.
Timothy McVeigh. Ah yes, Tim McVeigh. The white American guy who blew up a federal building in Oklahoma City to retaliate against his own government for their Tyrannical rule on the federal level. A guy who grew up attending daily mass with his father in Pendleton, NY, enlisted in the Army and trained to become a Green Beret, but somehow failed the psychology test and never made it. The guy who wore White Power shirts around the Army base, and later distributed ATF hats with bullet holes in them. When the word terrorism is thrown about, the average American person doesn't immediately recall McVeigh, or The UniBomber or the numerous assassinations of public figures by the hands of white men.
Ultimately, the government has used the word terror to mask imperialist motives of establishing itself more thoroughly within the Middle East. The word has nearly become a code word to mean radical Muslim, yet terror knows no racial divide. As long as one group or individual feels oppressed by a threat it feel cannot be defeated in an all-out war, than that group or individual will strike in smaller, more precise attacks. That's what has been branded terrorism.
So to declare war on something with no tangible face provides the government an open-ended span of possibility to follow their dangerous whims whichever way they please.
Not declaring war on actual nations is a slick psychological tool of the spoken word in order for men in charge to form a villain against what they call our freedom, but is more against their imperial agenda.
Friday, January 30, 2009
1/30/09
Reason No.319 that car ownership is vastly overrated: Snow!!
I’ve watched society struggle so mightily with their automobiles in the last 72 hours that it makes me wonder why anyone would bother with four hours of shoveling or heaving and pushing or slowly wrecking into one another. One person died after being struck by a snowplow! It’s nuts. If I owned a car – stop laughing! – I’d treat snow days with the same mentality as I would if my car were in the shop; out of commission. The public transit sucks in this city and everyone knows it, no point railing on it any further at this time, but it does exist, and it can maneuver you around the city while your car pretends it’s preserving itself through an ice age. Sure you got to go work, school, daycare, whatever, but snow happens, and the bosses, teachers and other authority figures need to take it into consideration as well.
For thousands, this isn’t a possible alternative thanks to the poor infrastructure and general lack of public transit. But for those in Clifton, it seems you could survive without your car for up to even a week! – Gasp!
The cars here are barricaded by three-foot walls of ice and dirty, gray snow that the plows pushed into parked cars along the streets. Those who’ve managed to dig their way out of the parking space have returned their cars parked at jaunty angles; afraid they’ll be trapped in again.
1/29/09
My Apartment should be called Hotel Distraction. Here I am, approaching 30 and graduation from the University I knew I couldn’t avoid forever. By way of weakness, both for women and for dogs, I took on the responsibility of a puppy about ten years ago. Here he is now, in his twilight, dragging around his giant and arthritic feet, groaning every time he lies down, and still addicted to chasing the tennis ball. There will be stretches, sometimes weeks on end where neither of us own a tennis ball. But the field we visit – and have lived, and even grow up next to – somehow, provides tennis balls for our enjoyment.
Recently, I had a quiet moment at night in this field. I had both my own dog and my roommate’s dog, Lex, and they were off exploring the general parameters of the grass area. I sat down and looked over the Mill creek valley and all of the church spires and train-tracks and twinkles of street lights throughout the rolling hills of the West Side.
I listened to the hum of the traffic of I-75 and the eerie squeals from the breaks grinding against the rails, far off in the distant train-yard. This sound is wonderful at night. The notes sing out clearly and die out gradually. It’s a soft piercing that only occasionally is consciously registered, and when is, provides the listener with a sense of ethereal satisfaction. It’s the sound of a woeful, yet entirely sweet instrument. It has pain and it would like – but never insists – that you to feel it too.
That night wasn’t very cold and I felt very appreciative to be alive. I started to think that maybe time forgot to elapse a minute or two and that it was a good opportunity to thank whatever’s responsible for such a thing. But my serene meditation was broken by a bark from my dog off into the night. Mojo isn’t much of a barker; you can expect to hear one if there’s a knock at the door or if he’s convinced that a person is trying to eat his toys, but otherwise, he communicates through growls, howls, snorts and whines. He’s a helluva dog.
I wandered over to the fence where the field meets the woods and there he was digging at the soil near the fence. It was dark, but I could make out a light-colored sphere just beyond the fence. There it sat, laughing at my dog and reveled in its safety. Mojo became incensed at such a mockery and was determined to kill it slow and methodically by chasing it to death, but he needed my help to exact his revenge. It took a while for me to pull it out from under the chain-link fence, and Mojo squirmed and moaned while I tried. Once apprehended and chewed on vigorously for a minute or two, we threw it around the field for a while; Mojo can track it with his ears at night. All this time, Lex aimlessly meandered around the field, oblivious to what the two of us were doing.
Recently I read that once a tennis ball loses its bounce, a night in the oven with just the pilot on will restore it back to playing condition. I brought the ball home with us to find out.
It turns out, I should have left the ball in the oven for good. Mojo has lost his mind since that little, fuzzy green thing has entered the house. He sets it in my lap and I absent-mindedly throw it and he brings it back and sets it in my lap and I brush it off and yell at him and he sets it in my lap and I get mad and bean him in the head with it and yell at him some more and he sets it in my lap, and so on. As I write this, he gazes up at me trying on his most pathetic facial expression and when I meet his stare, he glances at the ball as to indicate what’s on his mind. I won’t indulge him with my attention but now the ball is in my lap again. Dammit.
My neighbors are far worse than my dog; I love my dog. I’m wedged between two apartments that seem like nothing more than giant speaker boxes. The one upstairs is the absolute worst. Here is a man in his thirties, who is a rave disc jockey! Rave music was made for 16-year-old girls who experimented with MDMA in 1995. It was a failed marriage of trendy music and drugs and it should have died once America decided that maybe glow-sticks and pacifiers and enormous pants were stupid after all. Yet this man above is a true veteran of the “scene” and has apparently found some meaning of his existence in the constant, nerve-racking thumps which pound through his floorboards and Dave’s ceiling. I loathe this individual for this reason alone.
The man underneath is far more reasonable in the frequency of his jam sessions. He tends to be respectful of the hour and rarely plays his music for long stretches. But the audio system he owns is one of great amplifying power, and the music played through it has shaken objects on the tables and desks of our apartments. It stirs the dogs and they look up at us with mild concern. You can feel it in your feet. It’s unsettling.
There are times when I feel that the downstairs apartment competes with the upstairs apartment, each thinking it is the middle apartment that rivals their volume.
--- B. Clifton Burke
My Apartment should be called Hotel Distraction. Here I am, approaching 30 and graduation from the University I knew I couldn’t avoid forever. By way of weakness, both for women and for dogs, I took on the responsibility of a puppy about ten years ago. Here he is now, in his twilight, dragging around his giant and arthritic feet, groaning every time he lies down, and still addicted to chasing the tennis ball. There will be stretches, sometimes weeks on end where neither of us own a tennis ball. But the field we visit – and have lived, and even grow up next to – somehow, provides tennis balls for our enjoyment.
Recently, I had a quiet moment at night in this field. I had both my own dog and my roommate’s dog, Lex, and they were off exploring the general parameters of the grass area. I sat down and looked over the Mill creek valley and all of the church spires and train-tracks and twinkles of street lights throughout the rolling hills of the West Side.
I listened to the hum of the traffic of I-75 and the eerie squeals from the breaks grinding against the rails, far off in the distant train-yard. This sound is wonderful at night. The notes sing out clearly and die out gradually. It’s a soft piercing that only occasionally is consciously registered, and when is, provides the listener with a sense of ethereal satisfaction. It’s the sound of a woeful, yet entirely sweet instrument. It has pain and it would like – but never insists – that you to feel it too.
That night wasn’t very cold and I felt very appreciative to be alive. I started to think that maybe time forgot to elapse a minute or two and that it was a good opportunity to thank whatever’s responsible for such a thing. But my serene meditation was broken by a bark from my dog off into the night. Mojo isn’t much of a barker; you can expect to hear one if there’s a knock at the door or if he’s convinced that a person is trying to eat his toys, but otherwise, he communicates through growls, howls, snorts and whines. He’s a helluva dog.
I wandered over to the fence where the field meets the woods and there he was digging at the soil near the fence. It was dark, but I could make out a light-colored sphere just beyond the fence. There it sat, laughing at my dog and reveled in its safety. Mojo became incensed at such a mockery and was determined to kill it slow and methodically by chasing it to death, but he needed my help to exact his revenge. It took a while for me to pull it out from under the chain-link fence, and Mojo squirmed and moaned while I tried. Once apprehended and chewed on vigorously for a minute or two, we threw it around the field for a while; Mojo can track it with his ears at night. All this time, Lex aimlessly meandered around the field, oblivious to what the two of us were doing.
Recently I read that once a tennis ball loses its bounce, a night in the oven with just the pilot on will restore it back to playing condition. I brought the ball home with us to find out.
It turns out, I should have left the ball in the oven for good. Mojo has lost his mind since that little, fuzzy green thing has entered the house. He sets it in my lap and I absent-mindedly throw it and he brings it back and sets it in my lap and I brush it off and yell at him and he sets it in my lap and I get mad and bean him in the head with it and yell at him some more and he sets it in my lap, and so on. As I write this, he gazes up at me trying on his most pathetic facial expression and when I meet his stare, he glances at the ball as to indicate what’s on his mind. I won’t indulge him with my attention but now the ball is in my lap again. Dammit.
My neighbors are far worse than my dog; I love my dog. I’m wedged between two apartments that seem like nothing more than giant speaker boxes. The one upstairs is the absolute worst. Here is a man in his thirties, who is a rave disc jockey! Rave music was made for 16-year-old girls who experimented with MDMA in 1995. It was a failed marriage of trendy music and drugs and it should have died once America decided that maybe glow-sticks and pacifiers and enormous pants were stupid after all. Yet this man above is a true veteran of the “scene” and has apparently found some meaning of his existence in the constant, nerve-racking thumps which pound through his floorboards and Dave’s ceiling. I loathe this individual for this reason alone.
The man underneath is far more reasonable in the frequency of his jam sessions. He tends to be respectful of the hour and rarely plays his music for long stretches. But the audio system he owns is one of great amplifying power, and the music played through it has shaken objects on the tables and desks of our apartments. It stirs the dogs and they look up at us with mild concern. You can feel it in your feet. It’s unsettling.
There are times when I feel that the downstairs apartment competes with the upstairs apartment, each thinking it is the middle apartment that rivals their volume.
--- B. Clifton Burke
Sunday, January 25, 2009
The Horror
This story is one of the scariest things I've read in a while.
To think a person could be killed for putting their daughter in a school is beyond comprehension and reason. This is monstrous behavior that cannot be tolerated under any circumstance. This kind of tyrannical rule is a dangerous ideology that is crazed and blood-thirsty. If someone doesn't intervene, many undeserving people will be intimated into a miserable existence or killed for noncompliance. This is the worst example of influence by intimidation; the murderers institute rigid rules that forbids learning or happiness. I can't stand to think of those people huddled around radios every night waiting to hear if they had violated one of the many rules that could result in a missing head. Protect human rights!!
To think a person could be killed for putting their daughter in a school is beyond comprehension and reason. This is monstrous behavior that cannot be tolerated under any circumstance. This kind of tyrannical rule is a dangerous ideology that is crazed and blood-thirsty. If someone doesn't intervene, many undeserving people will be intimated into a miserable existence or killed for noncompliance. This is the worst example of influence by intimidation; the murderers institute rigid rules that forbids learning or happiness. I can't stand to think of those people huddled around radios every night waiting to hear if they had violated one of the many rules that could result in a missing head. Protect human rights!!
Saturday, January 17, 2009
This Week in News
1/14/09
Ethiopia is experiencing a transitional government from a military to regime back to an Islamist regime. The people were reportedly pleased with this development, but infighting between moderate and extremist Muslims is expected. Look for the US to eventually become increasingly interested in this matter the more “extremist” Ethiopia’s government becomes.
1/16/09
A plane went down in the Hudson River yesterday after a flock of Canadian geese knocked the craft off course. Apparently, there’s now a plane-bird debate happening online at the New York Times. Some people are actually arguing that there are too many birds in the sky and credit a bird increase to wildlife conservation efforts. Rich airline guys want to kill birds to allow their planes to travel undeterred – what a shock.
1/17/09
Israel is beginning to posture as if it is interested in a cease-fire with Palestine, but really, they want to come out looking like the sensible one in the conflict. It’s pretty easy to start a war, pound your opposition to oblivion, and then say “what we’re doing is crazy! In a sign of good faith, we’re gonna put an end to this.” Cowards.
I know, I know. You’re thinking that I have it all wrong; that I’m siding with terrorists who refuse to reason like sensible human beings – and you may be right. But not everyone living in Gaza is a blood-thirsty maniac unwilling to listen to anyone.
Huge digression:
* In a sure-fire sign that I’m getting old, I can hardly bare any MC who raps on the mic anymore. I feel so many quality beats are wasted by demanding that they be accompanied with lyrics. Most of what these young men and women have to say is the opposite of irrelevant: it’s annoying. Every now and again, somebody will surprise me and say something clever or halfway sensible, but that happens less all the time. Some have enough intelligence, but feel the need to scream at me, and I just don’t like that. Although J-Live is an interesting new guy. Check him out.
That’s another old-person thing that has taken hold of me: I hate loud noises – of all kinds. There are some people who use noise as power – typically people with the look-at-me syndrome: teenagers, nearly attractive women, men who spend too much time with cars, etc. They’re loud to the point of distraction which makes you acknowledge their presence and award them the victory. Whether it be their obnoxious ring-tone which is played out in its entirety before answering their phone, a bolt-rattling car stereo that’s playing Miami bass music made in 1991, or the young thug who must rap aloud wherever he/she is. And by no means assume I’m speaking only of the black community when I mention these annoyances; the loud guy/girl exists in every culture, I’ll betcha.
Sorry, back to Israel:
The point is, anyone can see that when you’re up 1100 to 13, that is running up the score, not defending yourself (and for those who may consider using a death-toll for a score is both callous and monstrous: what is war if it isn’t that?).
The Palestinians are still pissed that Israel has taken the land that used to be their home; they just can’t get over it. I kind of understand, but not to such an extreme. To make matters worse – and I do mean worse – this little plot of coastline has to be the holy land for both of them. If only one side could realize that it’s only land and that on planet Earth, there’s a decent amount of it. Since each claim that they were there first – like children feuding – perhaps both parties should have to find new continents to settle. Then again, if we really did give the Jews Montana, they might start air-raiding Calgary. Also, if Israel thought Hamas was crazy, they haven’t known the likes of insane US militiamen armed to the teeth on compounds and shit. Maybe that’s not such a good idea after all.
Mojokong -- Sam Smith: Best Brewer on Earth
Ethiopia is experiencing a transitional government from a military to regime back to an Islamist regime. The people were reportedly pleased with this development, but infighting between moderate and extremist Muslims is expected. Look for the US to eventually become increasingly interested in this matter the more “extremist” Ethiopia’s government becomes.
1/16/09
A plane went down in the Hudson River yesterday after a flock of Canadian geese knocked the craft off course. Apparently, there’s now a plane-bird debate happening online at the New York Times. Some people are actually arguing that there are too many birds in the sky and credit a bird increase to wildlife conservation efforts. Rich airline guys want to kill birds to allow their planes to travel undeterred – what a shock.
1/17/09
Israel is beginning to posture as if it is interested in a cease-fire with Palestine, but really, they want to come out looking like the sensible one in the conflict. It’s pretty easy to start a war, pound your opposition to oblivion, and then say “what we’re doing is crazy! In a sign of good faith, we’re gonna put an end to this.” Cowards.
I know, I know. You’re thinking that I have it all wrong; that I’m siding with terrorists who refuse to reason like sensible human beings – and you may be right. But not everyone living in Gaza is a blood-thirsty maniac unwilling to listen to anyone.
Huge digression:
* In a sure-fire sign that I’m getting old, I can hardly bare any MC who raps on the mic anymore. I feel so many quality beats are wasted by demanding that they be accompanied with lyrics. Most of what these young men and women have to say is the opposite of irrelevant: it’s annoying. Every now and again, somebody will surprise me and say something clever or halfway sensible, but that happens less all the time. Some have enough intelligence, but feel the need to scream at me, and I just don’t like that. Although J-Live is an interesting new guy. Check him out.
That’s another old-person thing that has taken hold of me: I hate loud noises – of all kinds. There are some people who use noise as power – typically people with the look-at-me syndrome: teenagers, nearly attractive women, men who spend too much time with cars, etc. They’re loud to the point of distraction which makes you acknowledge their presence and award them the victory. Whether it be their obnoxious ring-tone which is played out in its entirety before answering their phone, a bolt-rattling car stereo that’s playing Miami bass music made in 1991, or the young thug who must rap aloud wherever he/she is. And by no means assume I’m speaking only of the black community when I mention these annoyances; the loud guy/girl exists in every culture, I’ll betcha.
Sorry, back to Israel:
The point is, anyone can see that when you’re up 1100 to 13, that is running up the score, not defending yourself (and for those who may consider using a death-toll for a score is both callous and monstrous: what is war if it isn’t that?).
The Palestinians are still pissed that Israel has taken the land that used to be their home; they just can’t get over it. I kind of understand, but not to such an extreme. To make matters worse – and I do mean worse – this little plot of coastline has to be the holy land for both of them. If only one side could realize that it’s only land and that on planet Earth, there’s a decent amount of it. Since each claim that they were there first – like children feuding – perhaps both parties should have to find new continents to settle. Then again, if we really did give the Jews Montana, they might start air-raiding Calgary. Also, if Israel thought Hamas was crazy, they haven’t known the likes of insane US militiamen armed to the teeth on compounds and shit. Maybe that’s not such a good idea after all.
Mojokong -- Sam Smith: Best Brewer on Earth
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