“I would a thousand times rather be the most incorrigible convict than this hireling of those who are trying to maintain law and order. Law and order! Finally, when you see it staring at you through the barrel of a rifle, you know what it means. A bas puissance, justice, histoire! If society has to be protected by these inhuman monsters then to hell with society! If at the bottom of law and order there is only a man armed to the teeth, a man without a heart, without a conscience, then law and order are meaningless.” -Henry Miller, The Soul Of Anaesthesia, The Air-Conditioned Nightmare
There you have it, dear worst-reader. Moral Self Licensing. When vocabulary finally catches up to the antics then you know all is well. Until then, there has to be an explanation for how so many can just follow the herd without any self intellectual recourse. Or is that recourse waiting in the wings to show its true face? Nomatter. And. I’m not complaining that no one “nominated” me to dump ice water on my head. I guess you have to have friends and a “network” for something like that. I wouldn’t do it anyway, though, because: 1) Charity is probably the best example of moral self licensing. 2) Giving to the needy, as they say, just feels really skewed these days while so many live only for their wants. 3) Never follow the herd. And there you have it. Rant on.
At last count I’ve been flying across the Atlantic at least once a year, mostly between FRA and the mid-Atlantic coast USA, for the better part of twenty-five years. If I worst-say that’s a quarter century, does that make it sound more significant? But these trips go even further back to when I was a kid. I remember flying on a 707. I remember “World Airways” which was not the same as Trans World Airways or TWA. I remember Eastern Airlines, Pan Am, etc. There was even one flight I took, I can’t remember the name of the airline, but it flew from IAD (Wash Dulles) to London for something like $75. This was in the early 1980s. The catch was you had to bring your own food and drink and you were limited to one piece of luggage. Obviously the airline didn’t last that long but because it was just a flight and not the whole BS of airline krapp food and airline krapp service, I liked it. So much for DIY airlines, eh. Nomatter. The recent news reports of people trying to take some control back regarding the discomfort offered them by airlines makes worst-moi cringe. As stated in the link below, there’s trouble in them-there friendly skies. The culprit? The “Knee-Defender” and really stupid travelers that think they, like so many in American’t these days, are entitled to reclining their seats to the max thereby imposing their discomfort on some one else’s comfort. Wait. Stop. Reverse that. Or maybe not. Again. Nomatter. I think it’s hi-larry-us that some airlines have made emergency landings because the sheople, the morons that have done nothing other than follow someone else in the game of musical-chairs that some also call life, and thereby cause a bit of havoc to an industry that–and be assured that this is true–has not changed since I started flying a quarter century ago. In fact, let me take that one step further. Not only has the airline industry profited tremendously from people like me and people unlike me, you know, who just want to fly somewhere, but they have also ruined the whole friggin show. The whipper-snappers that run airlines today are the best example there is of American’t business dysfunction and prove both college education and misconstrued ambition lead to absolute NOTHINGNESS. But I’m worst-rambling, eh. Let me try to simplify this worst-thought. The airline industry has not changed in the slightest in the past twenty-five years. In fact, it’s obviously gotten worse. Airlines can easily change seating configurations in order to provide a bit more leg-room for people. But they do not. They could also change seating configurations to allow people to open a thirteen inch laptop in economy class, but they do not. So when two dipshits, one having the fortitude to purchase something like a knee-defender to stop the other dipshit from crushing his knees because she thinks she is entitled to put her seat all the way back, thereby causing a serious verbal and perhaps physical altercation, and then the airline having to resort to flight marshals and emergency landings, well, ha, ha, ha! How deserving airlines are of this situation–that they have created. Because this isn’t a problem caused by ornery passengers. It is a problem airline executives have brought on themselves as they can’t over-come the greed and bad-management they embody. Of course, does anyone out there really want to look at the root of this problem? Of course not. So you might as well join worst-moi, dear worst-reader. And learn, as I have done, to deal with the abuse airlines so casually dish out to us. The musical-flying-chairs of life go on. Rant on.
Second Plane Diverts Because Of Passenger Dispute | The Guardian
Airlines Ban The Knee Defender | Huff Post
Why blogging will fail (when compared to OLD SCHOOL journalism?): the writing isn’t about the person doing the writing. Or something like that. Rant on.
“The people who must never have power are the humorless.” -Christopher Hitchens, Arguably
One of the coolest things about riding around the Green Hell aka Nürburgring is when you come across German car makers testing their newest mass, über-priced creations. Sometimes they disguise the vehicles so well you can’t tell what brand they are. I bet BMW and the lot have departments in their corporate dungeons with people hired solely to figure out how to mask all their test vehicles so they can test them on open roads. I remember riding the Green Hell years ago and seeing what would later be BMWs X4, X6 cars. At the time there was no way to tell they were from BMW or any other brand, they were so well disguised. I mean, come on, for all practical purposes, one of the reasons Germans build these cars so well is because they use the roads of über-Germania as a testing facility. You know, no speed limits and when you need to go to eleven (when you need über-more) you test at the Green Hell. Seriously, they do this krapp. In fact, part of über-more is they even use the extremes of Sweden to test their cars within the polar circle. But the über-coolness doesn’t stop there. Check out today’s worst-link, dear worst-reader. One of the bozo corporate peons testing the new M3 screwed the pooch. Enough time to get a few picks of the new side grill, spoilers, other minuscule design details–and an example of how they try to hide those details–that make many so many penis enviers and their über-love of cars quiver like little gurls in spring. Rant on.
Hiding Design Intricacies 101 | whatever Online Auto Magazine
Note: unfinished post.
You know what it’s like when you can’t find that famous quote? The quote that fits exactly what you’re trying to convey? You can’t find it because it’s been misplaced, lost, dissolved to where only its burnt shadow still exists. But you’re sure that both the quote existed and it came from somewhere or someone famous. Yeah, that’s frustrating. Oh well. I guess, like other works of art, fiction and hieroglyphics, the show must go on–whether you know the origin of the quote or not. So I’m gonna try and bring that quote anyway, dear worst-reader. I’m gonna bring it as best I can. Here it goes.
Charity is an excuse to hide the greed, malice and contempt human beings have toward one another because they can’t cope with the intricacies and complexities of life. Whether its a few bucks here or a few million there, supporting a little league baseball team or finding a cure for whatever, other than the money exchanged, nothing ever comes from charity except for a few seconds of relief .
You know the real thing about charity? Like so many other things that appeal or are popular it’s to get at the truth of what it’s all about. The music business is a great example of this. I believe, for example, that the reason The Beatles will go down in history as musical geniuses is because the band saw through their own popularism. They knew that to move beyond the girl screaming non-sense of their beginnings they had to let their creative juices flow.
Moral Licensing | Quartz
How It All Started | slate.com
“Admitting this, I nevertheless firmly believe that no world order, no world harmony, is possible until the artist assumes leadership. I mean by this that the artist in man must come to the fore, over against the patriot, the warrior, the diplomat, the fanatical idealist, the misguided revolutionary. It is not against the gods man must rebel–the gods are with him, if he but knew it!–but against his own mediocre, vulgar, blighted spirit.” -Henry Miller, When I Reach For My Revolver
Where the lost go? The road to nowhere. The small (minded) animal running in his run-wheel. And. Worst-writer is never surprised when he comes across yet another article that misses everything it should or could be about. But don’t get me wrong. I’m not an opinion killer–like I was way back when I worked for the man. Yeah. I remember it all so well. When I worked for corporation A or corporation #4. And all the morons I had to work with. Everyday was just another day of working with idiots. How I loved killing their mindless, reactionary opinions. And so. The name of the game should be changed. It should no longer be called a career but instead it should be called what it really is: Musical Chairs. Nomatter. The article below got under my skin, dear worst-reader. The only thing interesting about it and the subject of the reddening of America is that there is no mention of political ideology. That’s right. The only thing interesting about the whole post is what it doesn’t address. For. It really doesn’t matter if you are democrat or republican. Red or blue. The real problem is conservative ideology. Red or blue doesn’t signal conservative or liberal, btw. As I’ve said before–and experienced with every visit to the US in the past twenty years–Americans have been overwhelmed with politics because they can’t admit that Capitalism should be separate from politics. Capitalism is not a political system. Americans simply cannot handle politics because we have been brainwashed. This is the real magic of Reaganomics and the subsequent conservative revolution (embodied best by Newt Gingrich in the 90s). Reagan did what Nixon and other conservatives couldn’t do: mobile those, mostly from the South first, and their lust for grievance, sentiment and belonging so that they participate in the political system and by doing so act/vote against their best interests. It is truly phenomenal what conservatives have done, how they’ve made fools out of so many Americans. But hey, what can one do? I had a political conversation with a couple as recent as last week while visiting my country of birth. The man was a banker from a big city and complained about earning only 200k last year. Even though he admitted Dubya was a problem–and he even likes Obama–he still only votes republican. Well there you have it. He has been so convinced (by conservatism) that liberalism is the enemy that he can only vote one way. Wow, man. I think that is astonishing. Such a blatant display of willful self destruction and self-imposed ignorance. When I told him that America is the greatest socialist nation ever he got really confused. I added that the socialism he lives and works for just doesn’t include him–because he’s not rich enough for it–he was really confused. Then I added that the real reason the Soviets lost the Cold War was all about it not taking care of the people that worked and slaved for the ideology behind it. Yeah, a banker living large in a big city in America in 2014, earning 200k a year is the best America can offer. Which means, America is so… game over. And so. To avoid self destruction, to solve any of the problems at hand, at least two generations of Americans have to die right now. But at least I’m no opinion killer. Rant on.
50 Years Of Political Polarization, My Bunghole | zerohedge.com
Things beautiful. Like. Crabs from my beloved (and missed) Chesapeake, walking along marshlands on the eastern shore of MD, catching a sunrise as it awakes my mid-Atlantic. But there is something else beautiful. Even though I don’t really follow sports much anymore, while in the US recently and drinking my sorrows away at whatever pub here and there, I couldn’t help but watch the LLWS. It reminded me of the beauty of sports, especially when one is young and there is nothing else in the world but a ball, a team and trying to win. Oh, those days are gone. But the spirit of them remains–and at times it is worth every agonizing memory. When I focus, when the belly isn’t full of too much drink, I can still smell the fresh grass of those fields when I played for Polk High, wasting my life, indeed, but play I did. Putting all the remorse aside, there is still beauty in sports. Especially the game I never played. That’s right. I played (American) Football, Lacrosse, Tennis, I wrestled (but only briefly) and really liked basketball but couldn’t fit it in my schedule. Of all the regrets in this wasted worst-life, though, I miss not having at least try to play baseball. It is, to worst-moi, the best game there is. Full stop. I love watching it. Especially the pitcher and the batter. There is something to that relationship. And when the crack of the ball meeting the bat occurs, the fascination swells. But I’m monologuing again. What I really want to worst-write about today, dear worst-reader, is the phenomenon Mo’ne Davis. A thirteen year old girl from PA who just made the cover of Sports Illustrated and is taking the baseball loving world by storm. Also included is a link to a video. Watch how she takes out her last batter with a 3-1 count. It is astonishing! With that in mind. You go gurl! Rant on.
Mo’ne Davis Vid | Go ca. 4:50 for 3-1 strike-out | YouTube
Can’t remember the first time I heard Sean Lennon sing. It’s been a few years. Why do I want to remember? Nomatter. What I do remember is how his voice sounds so familiar. Whether I compared it to The White Album, Revolver or Abbey Road, I can’t help but hear Lennon’s father in that voice. And that’s always been a good thing. What a joy it is, too. Especially now that this new album has been in my ears for the better part of three weeks. I can’t stop listening to Midnight Sun by The GOASTT, Sean Lennon’s collaboration with Charlotte Kemp Muhl. That these young lovers have come up with something so original and yet something that reflects a past so worth not passing by–as so many other pop artists and bands do these days–is worth every minute I’m listening to it. Sure, there are a few songs I skip over but that’s only because I want to rock-out to “Too Deep” or “Devil You Know”. When I played the album for a friend she remarked that the music made her nervous. It is exactly that which probably turned me on to it. Somehow rhythm mixed with melody should activate a nerve or three. Although I won’t go into trying to categorise the music, what appeals to me most is the range the album encompasses between classic and psychedelic rock, something folksy and a twang of pop going back to when Sean’s father did the same. Whether intentional or by accident, the sound is all that really matters. The music is just a pleasure to listen to. Hats off to these two for finding the perfect grind between composition and creativity. Grand.
Do you really believe Ferguson is a problem because of militarizing the police? Although I worst-believe that military equipment should not be trickled down to the common folk of a war-mongering nation, the police have been militarized since I can remember–the only difference being their equipment changes with every war. The fact that war-mongers made money on producing too much equipment at this point is irrelevant. This is purely a racial issue. Nothing more. Indeed. It is so hard for a nation to look in the mirror, even as its law enforcement institutions murder young men in the streets. Rant on.
As American’t finds no shame in its behavior, there is only the slight hope that remorse will join the ride of history to tell this story. Ferguson is yet another example of the true face of who and what we are. Fiddle with your ideas of militarized police or dabble in explanation of government behavior. There are simply so many best ways to continue avoiding that mirror. Rant on.
Strange Fruit | Wiki.
Cornell West Nailing It | Democracy Now!
The Shooting Of | Wiki
Check out the second map in the article. Does this surprise anyone? I had no idear that German was spoken at all in the US. Ok. I guess it makes sense German would be spoken where there are so many militias and gun nuts. Oh well. If the language fits… Rant on.
(Note: I’ve taken the liberty of anonymizing the text a bit. Names have been changed to protect non worst-writers everywhere. That said, I’ve lost my step-father recently–and I’ll miss him.)
Dear friends, guests. We are gathered here today to pay homage to a friend, an uncle, a colleague, a neighbor, a father, a stepfather, a grandfather, a husband. Thank you all for coming.
Before I begin. I feel obliged to air something. As some of you are aware, Pop-Pop is Catholic. This is a Lutheran Church. If I’m not mistaken, according to history, there is a big difference among these two Houses of worship. Really. I had to go to Germany–the land of Luther–to figure this out. The thing is, when I was young, I only attended Pop-Pop’s church. Yet I was baptized Lutheran. Needless to say, there is confusion being reared in step-families. Nomatter. I grew up in and around Catholic worhip. And I know Pop-Pop wouldn’t mind that he’s with us here in this House today.
Due to Pop-Pop’s situation over the last few years he was unable to attend his Catholic Church down the street. My mother started bringing Pop-Pop here to this Lutheran Church, her church, after that. When I accompanied them to this House I could tell that Pop-Pop was happy to be here. On behalf of my mother, I want to thank Pastor So-N-So for looking after Pop-Pop in this time of spiritual need. But I also want to especially thank-you, Padre, for the past few weeks.
When I heard you rushed out to the hospital the other day my heart fluttered, I was joyous, I could feel the compassion four thousand miles away. I know. It’s what you do. It’s your calling. But it’s also more than that. Because I know your compassion is not only for Pop-Pop. Thank you.
Mother, Liebe Mutter, I will not be able to convey in words here today the praise that you deserve for what you have done all these years. Sister 1, Sister 2, Sister 3 and I–And I’m sure I can say this for friends here, as well–we are proud of you. You cared for Pop-Pop at home to the limits of what was possible. And after that–when you allowed others to help in his care–you cared for him more.
Pop-Pop was my stepfather. And more often than not, I had trouble with that label. To me, most of the time, he was just dad or gogo and sometimes he was didi. I spent all of my youth with him. He gave me a home when I didn’t have one. He raised me when no one else would. And allow me to say in my own defense: raising me was easy.
To me, Pop-Pop was an intimidating man. The big police-like-man. The man I would tell people was on the special security detail for Governor So-N-So of the fifty-second-state when the governor visited the District of Columbia. Pop-Pop told me once, with a smile, that Governor So-N-So wouldn’t have been assassinated if he was by his side that day. I believed him. Pop-Pop was a man-of-law thru and thru. Even years after retiring from his duty it always felt as though being a man-of-law was part of him.
I remember him watching the movie (insert favorite title here) on one of his many visits to the old country. I got the film for him on DVD because it was the only way for him to watch something in his native English. He never heard of the movie but he really enjoyed watching it because it is about what he did as a man-of-law. He was not only a crime investigator but he also policed thought crime and misdemeanor’s of the heart.
Did I mention this man was intimidating?
I know. None of you get that. Pop-Pop was a nice guy. He was a fun guy. Whether with friends and neighbors watching the Team-A play on Sunday or finding a reason to dance to Polka music after Team-B lost. He knew how to have a good time. Yet. Let me say this after spending part of my life with this man. As accustomed to it as his generation was–besides all that intimidation that I felt from him–he never once desciplined me. It took a few years for me to realize it, but there was a good reason he deligated that to someone else. Plus. I was easy to raise.
What I hope to leave you’all with today, what I hope to communicate to you, is my appreciation for Pop-Pop. I just want to say today that I appreciate Pop-Pop. But more importantly, I appreciate what he did for my mother for the past forty years.
As you may know, in his last years, Pop-Pop succumbed to a disease. Even though he suffered from a heart attack at a fairly young age–and after that going through various heart surgeries and other treatments–then there were the back injuries that also required surgery–and let’s not forget the good’ole prostate cancer. He survived them all. Pretty good job. Then comes this other thing.
It seems these days the word Dementia or Alzheimer is everywhere. Most people don’t even know there’s a difference between the two. Trying to get informed about them isn’t all that easy either. Ultimately, I reckon, it doesn’t matter if there is a difference. Because there is one very important thing that makes them somehow the same. Fixing all that other stuff, as amazing as it is, is petty in comparison. They can’t fix this because there is no operation, no drug, no treatment–to get in to the place you see every time you look into those eyes.
For years now I’ve been traversing the Atlantic to come home. It’s always time to see the folks. I used to travel once a year. That turned into two times a year. Then Three. How ’bout five times? This is my fifth time here in a year. That’s a record. But I don’t want to complain about how we are influencing US Airways’ bottom line. Or how much fun I have figuring out how to get on T-S-A agents nerves at USA-Number-One International Airport.
I mention the travel because it has given me a unique point-of-view. I witnessed Pop-Pop’s illness, sometimes intensely, but only periodically. There was progress of this ailment with every visit.
I saw him a few years back when he started to lose control of his hands. We were doing stuff around the house. You know, sea air really does a number on houses built in the raging beach seventies. Things need to be done to keep them from falling in canals. It was chore and fix-it day. But before it could get started, Pop-Pop asked for help. That was a change. His asking was different. It was the way he was asking. I mean, hand him a screw-driver here, or hand him a hammer there. Sure. Not this time. This time chore and fix-it day was different.
At first I thought a meteor might have hit the house because of the way he asked for help. But then. Suddenly. Without saying anything. I could see that he just couldn’t hold the screw-driver anymore, he couldn’t hold a hammer either. This was already long after he couldn’t raise his arms above his head to reach something. No problem, I thought. I took the screw-driver. Of course. And we fixed it together. And I didn’t mind him saying after we were done that I broke it more. I broke the meteor more.
Remembering that, I can’t help but think about him twenty-five or thirty years ago. How graciously and meticulously his hands worked month after month on his new crabbing boat. It was his fixer-upper galore. His fixer-upper ninth symphony. He bought an old but salvageable flat bottom, all-wood boat. It was gonna be the perfect solution to the old wobbly aluminum boat that would almost tip over while trot-lining for crabs. And what a boat it turned out to be. It was beautiful. And boy did it work. He was very sad when he had to sell it because he couldn’t bring it to ocean city.
Then there was the time, maybe three years ago, where I thought I should give our hunting rifles a cleaning. They hadn’t been used in years. When I was young he had instilled it in me to take good care of the weapons. It was my job. At first, when he saw me at the gun cabinet, he didn’t want me messing with his stuff. But even then if you told him something calmly, and you repeated it a few times, explained it while looking in his eyes, he understood. We’re not going shooting or hunting, I said. I just want to oil them down a bit. We don’t want them to rust. He stood there the whole time and watched me–like any man-of-law would. When I was finished I think he was pleased.
And that reminded me of the time… I almost shot him.
I think I was about 13 or 14. You know, the age of youthful wisdom and grace. We were hunting in Southern Maryland. We were out for squirrel. Our hunting strategy was to each find a spot in the woods and wait, patiently. You know, for the squirrels to come to us. When that failed, as it usually did, we walked the woods about ten yards from each other to see what we could rustle-up.
We were walking along and Pop-Pop was to my left.
My twenty-gauge discharged.
To my left.
I can still see it now. The bursting smoke. The devastating sound blast. Moist leaves filling the ignited space between us. When I came to my senses, I had dropped my weapon and looked around–where Pop-Pop was standing. He was standing right in front of where the shot landed in the ground–only a few feet away from him.
So much for youthful wisdom. And Grace.
Eventually Pop-Pop put that gun back in my hands and said. With a smile.
I was visiting in November last year. Pop-Pop was having trouble communicating. He couldn’t put his words together. I would tease him a bit here and there– when mom wasn’t listening. He would say something inaudible while watching over me trying to fix something, trying fix the deck or a rusted lounge chair. Random words would come out of him. And then there was that smile. I thought he was teasing me. I could feel that he wanted to say that I better do this or do that–or you’re breaking it more. But he was kidding. He was teasing. So I turned to him and said…
Bikini clad girls are gonna surf by in the canal in a minute. Keep a watch.
He’d stare at me. Long pause. I repeated it. On a good day he would crack a smile. Yeah, on a good day we could still tease each other.
Back then he was still mobile. He could even get up out of his chair by himself, although with more and more struggle. The same for getting in and out of a car. So when I would go to the hardware store to get supplies I took him with me.
The only other problem with this late stage of dementia is the hoarding. Is that what it’s called? He would go into the hardware store–every-time–like clock-work–and buy kitchen towels. My mom would freak out when we came home cause she already had twenty rolls of kitchen towels. But I read that if it doesn’t hurt him, let him do it. It’s good for him. And I think it was. Then I let him pay for the kitchen towels and the screws and whatever else. He’d put his wallet back in his pocket–and I’d collect the change.
I kept the change, Mom.
But here’s the thing. The hardware store in town has cute girls working the registers. Pop-Pop smiled at them. He always liked flirting. Maybe that was the reason he forgot his change. Sometimes he’d smile at the pretty face and then turn to me and lose his smile. I guess that makes sense. But this one time he smiled at me and I could tell he wanted to say something. He couldn’t get the words out clearly but he was trying to whisper that the girl at the register was pretty. Yeah, and she was pretty the last time we were here, I’d say. The girl blushed. Then I figured out how to get him out the door. Cause I knew, as soon as we left the register and the pretty girl working there, that it was already in his head he needed kitchen towels.
But then something special happened. In the parking lot of that hardware store. He got something out. He said something. It is the last thing I want to remember him saying. And I want to close with this and leave it with you. He walked slowly across the parking lot–and before starting the struggle to get his broken body in the car–he turned to me with that smile–the smile that wasn’t the only thing he had left. He looked at me. He puckered his lips. The slight spark in his eyes brightened and he said:
I love your mother.
While reading this article I couldn’t help but think about the people who came up with publishing something like this and then I tried to worst-imagine the people who read it (excluding moi, of course). I mean, this paper is the only “national” paper in the country. It’s available at newsstands everywhere, in every hotel and probably thrown by some kid on a lot of door steps. Oh well. At least I can be reminded of the definition of disingenuous, one of them words I haven’t looked up in a long time. Rant on.
Don’t blame yourself because of the courses in college you didn’t take, the job you changed or the amount of money you don’t have. There is a social and economic problem today and you are the victim. Blaming yourself only supports the illusion that you can solve the problem. What a painful thing this is to watch because 1) individuals can cause the problem but 2) they can’t solve it. That’s why worst-writer offers you an alternative. Just be the loser you are. And. Good luck suckers. Rant on. -This post motivated and worst-paraphrased after watching Richard D. Wolff’s video-cast from 8/7/14.
Normally I praise the place I live because it is a pretty good example of a country governed by law & order. For the most part that holds true because Germans are still rather obsessed with Ordnung, although this is waning. More importantly, Germans are obsessed with maintaining the machine that provides them so much sustenance: the German nation-state-corporation machine. Unlike the UK or my grand united mistakes of American’t, places that believe more in the individual and less in the nation-state-corporation, Germany isn’t a place that squanders its justice system. At the least you don’t hear about that system much in international news. Again. That is probably due to the German mentality where, as the saying goes, there’s a policeman in every German. Enter the wonders of Bernie Ecclestone, his F1 circus and a bribery case that has made world-wide headlines recently. Luckily there are plenty of articles out there to inform one about this case and the fact that this Euro-trash slime-ball was able to subvert German justice in the only way possible: pay-off the nation-state-corporation. Which makes the whole case kind of ironic. The Germans want to prosecute Ecclestone for bribery that is connected to another German but what ends up happening is that Ecclestone bribes the Germans to let him off. But here’s the real important thing that no is talking about. The Germans should have never brought this case to court. But their hate has gotten the best of them. Ecclestone has been sticking it to the Germans with F1 rights for years. Now that hate subverts a pretty clean judicial record. The significance of this bribery case isn’t how much Ecclestone is paying into the nation-state-corporation coffers. The significance is the fact Germany is just another country that uses law & order as a designation on a balance sheet. Way to go krauts. Rant on.
Rich Euro-Trash Calls Himself Idiot | The Guardian
Summary of Bribery Case | Wiki
Even In Germany, Now, Pay To Avoid Justice | Sueddeutsche Zeitung (German)
“Is it actually true that Christopher Columbus gave false information to his sailors regarding the position of his ship so they couldn’t find their way back, in the event of a mutiny?” -Sam Shepard, Day Out Of Days
Oh, dear worst-reader, we are living in scavenger times. These are times where all that is left are scraps. You know, the scraps left over by the other half. You know, the haves and the have-mores. Oh, how they laugh and giggle as we jostle around, tinker to nowhere, continue on our beloved pathway of apathy, disdain, sweetened hatred. It is, dear worst-reader, the year AD twenty-fourteen and I’m no longer shocked that the other week my credit card was cancelled. When I asked the haves and the have-mores (the bank) why they cancelled my card, they said it was because there was a suspicious transaction on it from Canada and they were trying to protect me. Well thank you very much, powers-that-be. Except I was no where near Canada at the time and they knew that. And I have since cleared up the whole ordeal–except the embarrassing moment when that clerk yelled through the store that my card was cancelled. But I digress. In the meantime, I continue to try and understand credit card fraud–which has brought me to a few other conclusions–all of which I won’t bore you with here. Or maybe I will. From what I’ve read so far, see links below, the credit card industry isn’t the only one dealing in scavenger economics. But there is something that I’m NOT reading about in all this. Did you know, dear worst-reader, that most of the news serves only to produce fear which in turn is supposed to make certain people react to that fear? Fear drives the world’s economy now. Indeed. Spreading fear is really the only driver of “markets” in scavenger economics. Have I said that enough? Then there’s the idear that banks (the haves and the have-mores) know precisely how credit cards are used by their customers. They have a plethora of mine-able customer data that The Googles–and even the NSA–can only dream about. Stealing a credit card number, name and expiration date is one thing but claiming that there can be rampant fraud on that card because someone copied that data from a network is something else. Banks don’t have this under control by now? Which means that credit card fraud is really exactly that. The fraud is being perpetrated by the banks to protect what’s left of scavenger profits. I mean, come on. The way people are handed credit cards–like sweets to a baby–if that doesn’t have scavenger all over it I don’t know what does. With that in mind, here’s the thing that the “market” doesn’t want to discuss but is happy if you are afeared. In a scavenger economy, where money can’t flow anymore, corporations either protect their profits–because those profits are widely accepted as an entitlement–or they must find new profits. Which brings me to the scavenger tech world. Just have a look at what’s going on with USB, the Universal Serial Bus standard that has long since worn out its welcome where all hardware makers can question the entitlement of licensing fees. It’s been recently discovered that USB devices have all been built with programmable ROMS. Really? What a curious and most certainly convenient discovery. Convenient because it’s a way/excuse for hardware makers to make something obsolete and thereby introduce something new that will cost us all more money. And so. The part to make you afeared is simple. The firmware that drives USB devices and enables them to interact with PCs can be changed/modified. The tech world is scrambling right now over this. If it’s true you can literally steal a USB keyboard from a bank, modify the ROM of the keyboard’s USB connection, get it back into the bank where it’s hooked up to the banks computer and then rob the place. Are you afraid yet and willing to pay more for the next SAFE technology? But I say, just like credit card fraud, this is all Bullshit. Bullshit. Bullshit. These industries are suffering under the scourge of our scavenger economy. What corporations consider entitlements are being threatened. USB is dying. Banks don’t want profits infringed upon by having to pay more for secure cards. What to do, what to do? I know what I’m gonna do. It’s time for a cold one. And. Rant on.
The article that spreads fear | MarketWatch
Credit Card Act 2009 | Wiki
Credit Card Fraud | Wiki
Chip based cards already available | Arstechnica
Oh no! Hackers Can Exploit USB Devices | Deutsche Welle
Evil USB, We’re Gonna Miss You | Arstechnica
Under The Skin, by Michel Faber
Warning: spoiler alert.
Oh, dear worst-reader, I can’t imagine what it’s like to be a (real) writer, write a book, and then have that book turned into a movie. What a show that must be. What a thrill. What an oasis of the mind. And. Yet. For those few writers where it does happen, well, how does it actually happen? Or. Could it happen something like this:
Movie Producer: Hello Mr. Faber. May we make your book into a movie?
Michel Faber: Ok.
Movie Producer: Thank you, that’s very nice of you.
Michel Faber: Sure.
Movie Producer: We really like your book but the movie will be slightly different than what you wrote. Are you good with that?
Michel Faber: Uh-huh.
Movie Producer: Because the only thing we’re gonna use from your book in the movie is the title.
Finished Under The Skin, the book, last night. I saw the movie a few days before. It’s rare that a movie motivates moi to read the book it’s based on but it does happen, like it did here. The motivating factor to read the book were the lights the movie turned on in my head. Lights of curiosity. But here’s the really, really strange thing about reading the book directly after watching the movie. The book has absolutely nothing to do with the movie. That is, the really neat-o-torpedo movie, Under The Skin, starring a hot little hollywood starlet named Scarlett, blew my mind. What a story! It was a story that seemed to have no beginning or end–yet there was a bunch inbetween. As it starts, I couldn’t help but think of the beginning of 2001 Space Odyssey. Hence, some consider it science fiction. When it ended I thought: ok, you can start the film now. Of course, now that I’ve read the book, I am vey clear on the fact that Michel Faber did not write this story as science fiction. It is instead a dystopian novel with hints of biblical Armageddon and misconstrued feminism run amok… Or maybe not.
In the movie an alien uses the skin of a human female to disguise herself and thereby hunt the Scottish roadways to abduct male hitchhikers. In the book the alien doesn’t use human skin as a disguise. Instead, the alien is transformed through surgery from a canine-like being to something closely human, specifically female. In the movie, even though you don’t really know what she does with her prey, it doesn’t matter. The movie seems to be only about how she hunts. In the book you are treated to a gruesome display of what humanity is capable of doing in the name of 1) subjugation, 2) servitude and 3) abusing nature, specifically, in this case, abusing animals for the sake of food. Indeed, dear worst-reader. That’s the image I got out of Faber’s portrayal of what is done with the male hitchhikers picked up by an alien. They are captured for their skin in the movie (I guess but that’s not real clear) and in the book they are captured to get under your skin!
Oh! And don’t forget. A mega hollywood starlet shows lots of frontal nudity in the movie–I guess because she’s got great skin. I guess that’s all part of her ability to catch these men. Her true self would be unappealing. And while she lures men to their demise you see their frontal nudity as well. Equal time to equal sexes, eh. And it doesn’t stop there. The men who so easily follow Scarlett Johansson do so fully erect. Now there ya go! That’s it, I thought. I have to read the book to see where this director got the creative sparky to show men’s pee-pees all engorged and bothered. Yeah, baby. Alien Scarlett Johansson’s skin lures boner men to their demise the same way it sells movie tickets. Yeah, baby.
Ok. Nomatter. The movie is really, really cool and the book is even cooler. The only problem worst-writer has is that I need to know how the director/producers of the movie were able to get away with making a film based solely on the title of a book. It’s the only thing they have in common. And get this. In the book there is no reference–at all!–to skin being used to disguise aliens. In fact, when I finished the book, I wondered if the guy who made the movie thought he was making a prequel or a sequel first. And then, while continue to think, the gibberish begins. The gibberish in my mind. And it is gibberish because the movie maker really screwed the pooch here. For the life of me I can’t imagine someone gutting my work like this director gutted Faber’s. But maybe Faber doesn’t see it that way. And. I’m not saying it’s bad, it’s just… I don’t know what it is. I’m confused. These are two completely different things and I guess in a way I’m frustrated because one got me to buy the other. And somehow someone is a liar in that constellation. And that I don’t appreciate.
Still. Glad to have read the book. Highly recommended. And if you need to know what the book is. Well. It’s a metaphor used by the author to portray the ills of life in the western world and how we are all, somehow, right now, nothing more than puppets for a higher power, a corporate power, and there are only one or two of us still capable of seeing the beauty of this planet. Or something like that.
Why is it worst-writer loves reading about demise? Being worst doesn’t necessarily mean I’m one of them negative types. Or does it have anything to do with the fact that I was an Aussteiger* before it was fashionable? Now that I see all this demise taking place in real-time, I get a kind of a overtly tickling feeling of Schadenfreude that makes me snicker and coagulate. I mean, things are so bad in The West right now that most folk surely can’t sense it. Ok. Granted. Most automatons know that things are bad on account of their wallets. But again. I just laugh at them. For sure, it doesn’t have to be so, that I’m the only one to have seen all this demise coming almost twenty years ago. I even sensed the rise of all the new buzzwords like under-employment, negative income, SUV choke syndrome. Then there was the time I failed at selling a reality TV show called: This Is What Happens When The Greatest Nation-State Resorts To Real Estate Speculation To Support Itself. And then there’s my latest TV show sell which too will fail because it is even more real: Reality Now: The Carnage Of Consuming To Survive: An American Happy Story. But I digress. And. The article linked below is pretty good at summarizing all that can go wrong when a country allows itself to be Enron-ized. Good luck, suckers. Rant on. *Someone who drops-out of the work-force to pursue other things like being human and not acquiescing to the vulgarities of animalistic human nature. Or something like that.
How is humanity controlled? Three things need to be done to establish complete control. In this post we will cover the first. So. First, you must do two things at once and you must do them at the same time. You must castrate and cut out the tongue. That way all future conflicts of interest are immediately severed. I realize the price for the equipment to achieve this is expensive but it is worth it in the end. This will break the spirit of the human for the spirit cannot exist with those two things removed. (Step two covers the mind; step three the bowels. That’s all there is to it.) Rant on. P.S. This post motivated while reading Under The Skin by Michel Faber. More on the book here.