Passage To India: First Night In New Home, Dreams Don't Come True, Or Did They Already?

side view reverse osmosis filter
Side view of reverse osmosis filtration system.

Spent last night alone in our new über-Flat. My better-half is in Mumbai and she stuck me with the luggage and dog to take to our new home. No hard feelings though, the dog and I survived the ordeal in the treacherous heat! Yeah, Beckett, the killer pug, the three of us, have been living out of luggage since March 1 and dealing with treacherous heat. We have also been dependent on krappy utensils, cheap cookware, hotel food and too much quick & easy cooking and, and, and. Plus, I hate eating out all the time. The problem with eating out is that two-thirds of restaurants I visit these days only prove that I’m a better cook. Seriously. You don’t reach this worst-level of life experience and waistline without knowing how to top most restaurants at their own game. As long as I have a flame, a good knife and a woman standing behind me wondering how I was able to become such a great kitchen lover-home-maker while she’s wearing beckoning skivvies… But I digress.

This pseudo bourgeois redneck has had enough of the transition from the western world to the almost western world. I’m bored of the waiting, the bureaucracy, the hint that eventually our container will arrive and all is well that will surely end well. That’s a kinda of call-out to my India audience that I’m ultimately impressed with the relative comfort and ease of moving–to your country. As far as our new über-Flat goes, though, dear India, you seriously have to get your shabby craftsmanship and cheap labour under some kind of control. And I’m not (worst) talking as a wannabe pseudo Marxist here.

We picked out a great flat. I think we’re gonna enjoy living here. Gonna dig getting lost in the place that’s for sure. I suppose 4000+ square feet will have that effect. But get this. Had a run-in with the reverse osmosis water filter that we demanded be installed by the landlord. Obviously one can’t drink or even work with tap water here. All one can do is clean with it, bathe in it and, if you’re lucky, splash it on you to cool down. I’m sure most people are aware that one can’t even wash veggies with tap water here. For that reason we demanded a reverse osmosis water filtration system. Gee, I kinda like worst-writing that.

The idea is, a reverse osmosis filtration water machine will clean the water enough so that we can work with it and not have to worry about a small wound getting infected or our cleaned veggies being tainted by pathogens. The only problem is, when I turned it on for the first time yesterday, the fucking thing exploded. Luckily what exploded was the water pressure inside the device. I called the property manager—who’s in charge of our flat—and this afternoon a technician from the manufacturer was here toot sweet. He fixed the device, I guess, and then left. That is, I let him in, I showed him where the device was hanging on the wall in the kitchen, and then I let him do his thing. And that’s all fine & good. It’s just that, after about forty-five minutes, without even saying goodbye or acknowledging that his work was done, I see him through my office window leaving the flat. Ok, I thought. To each his own. So I went into the kitchen and turned the repaired device on. It has to go through this process of filling an internal “clean” water tank. An external hose discards “raw” water to the sink. I’m thinking that later on when we start to get used to things here, I’ll collect the dirty water and use it for plants.

The machine takes about 30 minutes before you can draw clean water from it. So I returned to my office and got back to wasting time—or wishing I was writing one of my novels. After about 20-30 min I heard this strange noise from the kitchen. I go look and the fucking osmosis water filtering piece of shit has exploded again! I turn off the power switch and then unplug it. I drain some of the water out of the internal tank as that’s the culprit of most of the mess in the kitchen and then I call the property manager and within an hour the same technician returns. He starts working on the device again and I go about my business of wasting time writing shit that no one will ever read.

After about 30 min I hear this strange sound from the kitchen–again. This time the fucking fancy, brand new, reverse osmosis water filtration system has exploded all over the technician. Luckily it’s just water and not some otherworld sticky machine ejaculate. So the guy goes about repairing it and after about an hour he tests the machine. This time I’m within viewing distance because I wanna see that new fangled thing explode first hand. But I’m left disappointed. Then he tells me, just before he leaves, that I should watch out for the incoming water pressure.

“I should whaaaaa,” I ask.

“That’s the problem,” he says in some strange India English tongue.

Ok, I thought. Whatever. As I type this the water filtration tank is full but I’ve turned it off—just in case!—for the night. We’ll see how things go tomorrow. Next big hurdle to cross is the cheap, careless craftsmanship that has left our fucking toilets leaking.

Lions and tigers and bears… Oh my.

Rant on.

PS You know what they say about spending first night in a new home, right? They say that what you dream will come true. I’m sure the idiot that came up with that was drunk of optimism, too.

-t

Prince v Metallica, Deposing The Middleman, Boxsets In Heaven

worst boxset

First A. This post is NSFW. First B. The window of opportunity has closed. We are screwed because moneyed interests are the new Gods of art, creativity and life. Or. I would really like to see a change in the music industrial complex now that Prince is gone.

Second. I am a child of two mothers. The first mother is the cold fucking war. And what a cold bitch she was. My second mother was the fucking music industry which, to this day, I wish I would have never suckled her teat.

Third. Not that it matters, but here are a few artists that disillusioned me in a grand way.

– Elvis (he never gave me a Cadillac and I met at least three of his illegitimate children and they were all assholes)
– Charlie Chaplin (communist bastard)
David Mamet (boy is this guy a loon in reality)
– Prince (I even refused to copy his box set–don’t see pic above)

Fourth. Not that it matters even more, here a list of artists that illusioned me.

– Elvis (because if god was a man (and she wasn’t) this is what he would sound like)
– Charlie Chaplin (you fucking communist)
– David Mamet (thank you mother may I have another)
– Prince (short guys need a break too sometimes)

Moving on.

It took a lot of years for me to be a able to afford music. Reason? Well, money, of course. I’m sure, like many others, in my youth I had to prioritise expenses. That meant that through my late teens to early adulthood the only music I ever owned was a few vinyl albums and a small collection of cassette tapes. Indeed, through this “ownership” I was able to enjoy Elvis, Kiss, Barbara Streisand, Johnny Cash, etc. The only way to listen to new music was to listen to radio or, get this, share with friends. Eventually listening to vinyl was replaced full-time by cassette tape. Reason? Friends. And. I couldn’t copy vinyl–in order to do something as simple as listen to music. And get this. I listened to cassette tapes until my late 30s–well into the 1990s. Reason? You guessed it. Money.

By the mid-80s I was living here or there and trying to go to this college or that college and all the while being influenced, whether I liked it or not, by music. Music was everywhere. Once, while enjoying an evening out with a bimbo on a cheap date at some dive-bar, I asked her: “how is it we can listen to the music in here without paying for it but if I want to listen to it at home it costs me an arm and leg?” (I know. It’s a naive question. But go with it for now.) She didn’t understand my question. At the time I was in a second year economics course where the music industry and its profits was our topic of study. She was learning the science of space engineering–or something like that–which was kinda cool since I can claim to have spent some time at a college that produced two NASA astronauts.

The reason I asked such a question about music was because, other than fucking really smart college bimbos, I liked listening to music. Yet I couldn’t understand why, if music was everywhere, it was so expensive to have with me at home? Indeed, dear worst-reader, my bitterness at not having any money to afford the simple things in life (other than really cheap dates) started early. I guess being an American I was spoiled. (No duh!) I had to put gas into my car so that I could drive to work but I when I worked I didn’t earn enough to pay rent, gas, college and have the luxury of music at home? Seriously? I never liked the idea of music being a commodity. Obviously it wasn’t food or water but it was part of life. For that reason, I hated radio because it was more a bombardment of boredom and redundancy than it was a medium of artistry fucked by commerce.

Cassette tapes at the time cost somewhere between $5-$10 but you could get them real cheap used or, better yet, pay nothing by copying them from friends. Anyone out there remember those double cassette decks? Needless to say, by the time I skipped town on the freak show–i.e. jumped the ugly blossoming #americant ship of Reaganomics–I had a nice collection of cassette tapes with music from the 60s, 70s and even the confused 80s. Cassettes, btw, are the reason I prefer albums over singles. I feel as though, from the 70s on, certain musicians cultivated the album almost as though they were writing a novel. To me, buying singles is just stupid. Fucking Buddy Holly, bless is soul, is dead, man. I want an album that tells a whole story. But I digress.

By the time I was a young adult–scavenging through this consume to survive life–I had become so disillusioned with the bullshit of the music industry that I practically gave up on it. I was satisfied with my old collection of tapes–including a few tapes by Prince. When I moved to Europe in 1989, the only stuff I took with me, other than clothes and a bunch of used paperback books, were, among others, the Batman soundtrack.

Throughout the 90s I was working and traveling in Europe. During this time I entered into what I call my dead music years. That is, I can’t remember buying one album or artist during the whole period. By the late 90s, though, there was something happening that beckoned my return to music consumption. One cool thing about working and traveling around Europe was that jazz bars were usually pretty easy to find in all major cities. I fell in love with live jazz music whether in Stockholm, Madrid or Paris. Once the traveling started to wane (by the end of the 90s), I yearned for this music evermore. Having met some audiophiles here and there, I quickly had a collection of burned CDs of jazz galore. I think I got my first CD player and stereo system in 1999. Enough about my stingy music preferences.

Like I said, when it came to buying music–actually paying for it so I could listen to it while in the bathtub or jogging or fucking some bimbo–I was skewed. I gladly paid money to hear music live but when it came to the ridiculous cost of owning it and then having the means of actually playing it through a decent sound system–fuck that! By the turn of the millennial my skepticism and cynicism for the music industry was at a pinnacle. The music business was more of a scam than ever before. I mean, come on, here’s a question for ya, dear worst-reader: how often has music been paid for twice (if not more) as people moved from analog to digital? What? Never thought about that? The music industry certainly thought about it. Ka-ching!

Cassette tape was my favourite way of listening to music for more than twenty years. All the while, it never crossed my mind that I was in anyway duping a musician when I copied a cassette–or made one of those fancy compile tapes. Did I care that ultimately music was/is a business? Fuck no. It’s just fucking music and if you don’t play it so that people can listen to it, well, go make your money elsewhere. Do I espouse an arrogant point-of-view? Damn right I do. But I assure it’s no more arrogant than those rich middlemen or lame-ass “artists” that think getting out of bed requires a price paid. My point is, damn right I’m arrogant about how the music industry has screwed us (all). But as I write this, I stand by it. And in my re-awakened anger, I’m also getting ahead of myself.

Maybe a third of my cassette tape collection up to the point of giving up analog music around 2005 was copied music. That meant that well into the era of Compact Discs, I was still listening to analog music–most of which I paid for. As far as what I didn’t pay for (directly), I no longer copied cassette to cassette but CD to cassette. The itch of digital was there; the itch of convenience, as well. In the early 2000s I think I downloaded three songs from Napster. The mp3 quality at the time sucked. Then Apple bought SoundJam which they turned into the music greed monster iTunes. When Apple declared that one song download would cost .99c, I quickly started to hate Steve Jobs for changing the music industry the wrong way. Do you know how many .99c I would have to pay to download my music collection? In fact, the whole music industry, with the help of Jobs–as far as I’m concerned–is the first human endeavour to actually immortalise what should have been a dying middle-man, top-down driven industry where the price of an album or song is the same as it ever was (if not raised) yet the costs of distribution has been moved to almost nil. Indeed. The old-economy of music won. The rest of us lost.

For most of my life I got to listen to a lot of music by ways other than compensating the middleman of comfortably contracted musicians. Does that make me a criminal? In the eyes of certain musicians, I am most definitely a criminal. In the eyes of misconstrued law making by government that is owned by moneyed interests, I am also most definitely a criminal. My response to being labelled a criminal, though, is thus: fuck you. With the recent passing of Prince, I feel compelled to say it again–but this time not out loud and not, out of respect, to him.

Allow me to interject a new fiend: Metallica.

I recall vividly Princes’ fight with the company he signed a contract with. This fight was so stupid that he even changed his name to a symbol in order to avoid that contract. Even though I was and will always be a big admirer of him and his music, he really lost me when he did this krapp. It’s not that I don’t think he deserves ownership of his music. Of course he does. But he, like so many other artists, signed it away. I suppose I could have some sympathy for him if he were an artist that came out of nothing. But his “career” started at a very young age. He was well schooled and learned in the industry by the time he signed with a record company. When that record company decided to sell boxsets of his music–because it was trying to greedily offset what it considered losses from internet downloads–he suddenly took a stand. A stand for what? As far as I’m concerned, the stand he took against his contract ruined his musical career. Or maybe he had already peaked. Whatever. He should/could have enjoyed his days but the bitterness ate him up from the inside. Or maybe not.

Of course, Prince is not alone. The other musician(s) I love to hate because of their reaction to file sharing, the Internet and modernity: Metallica. Talk about jerk-wads and greedy little cock-suckers that play their guitars and wave their long hair as though their dicks are their mouths! Since I won’t say it to Prince right now, this goes out to musicians who put their bank accounts before the ears of those who will listen. Fuck you Metallica for being the pricks you are when it comes to kids just wanting to listen to your music and don’t give a shit about what contract you signed with the devil to make you popular! Fuck you double!

One last thought. I hope Prince Roger Nelson sees the truth about the music industry and how it screwed not only him but everyone who deserves to admire his art without the coercion of greedy middlemen. And fuck Metallica thrice.

Rant on. -Tommi

Turn On, Tune In, Drop Out, Or Pass Me The Popcorn As The Sh*t Show Implodes

monopoly board

Having fun in the game of life yet? No? Gee, why not? Not enough ice-cream? Not enough cheap gas? Not enough free money in the form of credit you’ll never pay back? Not enough of someone thinking for you? Not enough of all this too much? Oh well. Moving on. Look what happened today (in the news). After reading about this one, here my first thoughts:

Yeah. Ok. I get it. I know why this is happening. I played the game once. Now everyone else plays it. I sit back and watch–like the voyeur I am. And so. I thank you dear worst-reader for playing the game so that I can watch. And laugh.

With that in mind, after reading that the mega (wannabe) monopoly corporation Intel is laying off twelve thousand employees, a cynical smile overcame me. This is where I like to reveal the inner workings of my worst-heart. What are the inner workings? Simple. Fuck all twelve thousand! May the twelve thousand rot in the cesspool of greed filth that they work for. May all their useless families and children and whatnot-dependents eat the eyeballs of the dying corporatist patriarchy that is the evil that they work/live for. For, dear worst-reader, corporations like Intel are pure evil. Twelve thousand employees are sh*t outta luck and they worked for the (THE!) computer chipmaker extraordinaire Intel–and none of them knew they worked for pure evil? Twelve thousand? I suppose, if one worst-considers the amount of employees that have been let go over the past thirty or so years in this world of fail-upwards corporatism, twelve thousand is a drop in the bucket. Yet, I love it all the same. Why? Because, well, Intel. What better example is there of the failure of society, of the failure of government, the failure of employees, of humanity. Just worst-writing the word “Intel” makes me sick to my stomach. Which means I have to get through this post toot-sweet. Seriously. And not only that. Fuck all the auto workers, the steel workers, garment workers, etc., etc. Fuck them all and… Fuck all workers and automatons and corporatists that have enabled and facilitated the times we live in. Times that history will tell equal the times of the past when slaves worked and the few & far between were the lucky ones–you know, like kings and queens and emperors and pharaohs and their jesters (which are now called employees), etc. Welcome dear twelve thousand former Intel employees, welcome to the neo-feudalism that you helped enable. Or am I over doing it? Have things improved much since, gee, I don’t know, the pharaohs? What? We got better health care now? We all got a car and an iPhone? And let’s not forget that we all get to have teeth after the age of fifteen. Or? Full stop. I am over doing it? I’m over doing for the sake of dramatic effect. Right? Am I coming across as a class fighter? Is the tendency to read and mis-read Karl Marx seeping out of the pores of my skin? Yeah, I might be over doing it. But I’m only over doing it with the cursing–and, maybe, the reference to Marx. The rest? I stand by it. Seriously. Never before has the premise behind Tim Leary’s “turn on, tune in, drop out” been more relevant than in my entire life time (born at the end 1963). Except, maybe, the entire premise of the game Monopoly–which we seem to be entangled in and YOU! don’t even know it. Even though I don’t care much for drug induced, hippy-fied political ideology–i.e. Tim Leary–I have to admit that his saying has stuck with me most of my life and whenever I hear about huge layoffs, like this one, I just snicker and laugh and think: where’s my Monopoly game? I gotta break out that board again. It’s been so long since I’ve played. And then more thoughts enter (my cortex). Wow, I think. Those dipsh*ts at Intel got laid-off and I can think of no one else more deserving. When you live your life as a blood sucker, as most corporatists do–because no one actually does any “work” anymore–instead we live life like compulsive behaviourist mosquitos–this is what you get. Twelve thousand layoffs. Greed. Fail upwards. Greed. Societal dysfunction. Greed. The Donald. Greed. #Americant Conservatism. Greed. Greed. Greed. And now that the bottom has fallen out for dipsh*ts and I’m gonna sit back and watch the clusterf*ck that is this board game that everyone (except me) doesn’t even know they’re playing. With that in mind, my worst good luck wishes go out to twelve thousand suckers.

Rant on. -Tommi

Links that motivated this post:

Yacht Fantasy, Retractable Keels And Why #Americant Is The Dream

keel forces
Source: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Segeln_Gewichtsstabilitaet.svg

Woke up hot and bothered this morn. While walking the dog a local informed me that he’s never experienced temperatures like these in Bangelore at this time of year. As I worst-write this weather.com is saying it’s ninety-nine degrees fahrenheit outside. It actually feels cooler now than a few hours ago because there was no breeze at 8:30am. Oh well. The only thing that has kept me going since arriving here and sweating my ass off most of the day is that there’s plenty of cheap, cold beer, we have three A/C units in our apartment and I know that what I’m doing is for the betterment of humankind. Well, maybe not all human kind. How so, you ask, dear worst-reader? Well, helping humankind according to Tommi goes like this. A three year well-paid stint in India might just push me over that savings figure where I can actually afford to buy the thirty to forty foot sailing yacht I’ve been dreaming about for so long. The only problem is, I want/need a boat with a retractable keel. For whatever engineering reason, retractable keels are extra expensive. Why is that? Nomatter. The dream of a Seaward Hake 32RK continues. §Enjoyed yet another wonderful commentary by Chris Hedges during my post dog walk morning read. This piece (see link below), more than any other–including a few books of his I’ve read–communicates not so much the dire situation of #americant but instead a level of hidden, subtext-like optimism from Hedges that I’m not sure I recognised before. Perhaps Plato can have that effect on someone. What Hedges fails to grasp–or is unwilling to accept–is that there is a huge majority of people who have lived long or short lives for the greed disguised as The Dream. As someone who found a way out (The Dream) perhaps I’m also not one to comment about the morons and automatons that stayed in (The Dream). What is clear to worst-moi is that it is not a matter of the system crashing due to the behaviour of the few but instead the compulsive-behaviourism that lead the majority to a system that is The Dream. How do you correct this massive orgy of error that obviously gets so many people off? By quoting Plato? By blaming the 1%? By failing to grasp the reality of globalisation? I’m not saying that Hedges doesn’t get all that. Obviously he does. I, worst-writer, don’t deserve to wipe my nose with the tissue scraps this man throws away. Yet, for the first time, I think Hedges might be leading us (believers) astray. And that’s ok. He can lead me anywhere. Such admiration though doesn’t mean that the man might get a few things wrong every once-a-once. America is fucked because Americans have fucked it. All Americans have done this. We don’t just have a system of trickle-down wealth but also a system of trickle-up stupid. In my life time, I have yet to meet a person that was able to get out of all of this stupid, i.e. The Dream. By “out” I mean really, really out. How many generations of Americans–how many Americans–whether politically right or left–have participated in this system of stupid–of The Dream–to make it become what it is today? Gazillions? Countless? Your mother? Your uncle? Your once favourite sibling? This is not just a problem with banks and politicians. Americans had a chance to do something about everything for the past fifty f’n years. But the powers-that-be seem to always come up with something to divert any real chance of change. Whether it’s supply-side economics (Reaganomics) or an economy based on real-estate speculation. Every time the cycle goes to shit Americans fall for some other form of stupid. Whoever is running this show, if you ask me, give them a fucking hand. The greatest nation in the history of humanity is nothing more than bunch of greedy dickheads who all want to be kings and queens and inheritors of golden stupid. I mean, come on. Let’s get real here. Only stupid could fall for Reaganomics, Dubya, the patriot act, banking reform, etc. Things are so bad that you can’t even see it anymore. So close your eyes. The Dream’s better that way. Why should you care about anything else? How could anyone with a conscious since the 1980s actually participate in fixing what’s so obviously broken? If you have a job/career, if you work for the government, if you have a mortgage and kids… You’re colluding. And so. There is no fixing The Dream. There is only starvation while government or policeman or credit collectors come to your abode and force you to know that you’re no different than the poor around the rest of the world. As sad as it is to consider what happened to the small towns and cities in America (see article below), it all pales to the reality of the people that shop at walmart, that watch faux newz, that voted for Dubya twice and now are confused by Trump, Cruz and Obamacare–or what war really, really is. I guess, what I’m trying to get at here is that there are forces at play in The Dream not unlike the forces that act on a sailboat under (wind) power. This is why it’s so difficult for Americans to realise what they’ve done. The system has been heeling wildly since the 1980s throwing off the willing and unwilling sailors of The Dream. But the boat still looks good. So does the blue water. Even if the boat finds some calm it eventually heels wildly to the other side. Water is pretty blue, look at those horizons and a sunset is half of Mickey Mouse! The forces that act upon a boat are the forces that should have been studied–but only I studied them–but instead you watch reality television, charge up credit cards because it’s the only way to show that you are part of The Dream, consume en masse legalised narcotics in the form of prescription drugs, etc., etc. Hedges knows all this and I’m probably nit-picking at this point–and getting to personal. So let me close with this. Hedges believes that somehow people might be able to right a wildly heeling ship–if he explains it all to them. And he may be right. But here is what he doesn’t get, what he misses. Nomatter what you do to keep the ship sailing there’s always the issue of its direction. With that in mind. Keep sailing to The Dream #americant. You’re almost there.

Rant on. -Tommi

Link that motivated this post:

Passage To India: Auto Rickshaw Trash Trucks, Wet Dust, Pigeon Soul Removed

pigeon

Walking the dog is the worst. There’s no place to walk the dog. Well, there’s no place to walk him if you want to be free from street dogs. I’m not one to fear a dog or two that I don’t know. I can read their tales, their ears, their eyes. But when suddenly out of nowhere four or five dogs appear that look like they haven’t eaten in weeks, that’s when I, Tommi, the great and comfortable professional dog sitter (pseudo master of everything that is worst in this krapp world), gets a bit afeard. Oddly (or not) some little kid did say to me, after he finished admiring Beckett, the killer pug, in the glory of his broken English, that all I needed to do to fend off the street dogs was to carry a stick around with me. Actually, I thought about carrying a torch around with me. That way I could not only fend off the dogs of Karnataka but I might even be able to fend off a zombie or three. §Speaking of the end of the fucking world. How the hell did I get here? And don’t get me wrong, dearest worst-reader, I’m not complaining about India. I like India. I like the way the people smile at me after I smile at them first. I also like the way they play street music and then beg for money and then want to put a red dot on my forehead. But that’s kinda where I draw the line. It’s not that I’m against red dots. They look good–on some women. It’s the whole religious thing that gets to me. Being a cynical anti-theist will have that effect. Or? §After seven weeks in India it finally rained. I was watching (i.e. studying the writing of) Boston Legal when I heard the drops falling on the big palm leaves outside my balcony. We’re on the fourth floor of a twenty story building. Until our new place is finished, we’re living temporarily in a furnished three bedroom apartment. Luckily it’s got A/C and a lots of ceiling fans. During the day I try to run the ceiling fans–being the energy conscious person I am. But at night we have to run the A/C. The only other problem is we can’t control the A/C fan. Nomatter. §I’ve actually spent an afternoon or three just staring at the tops of the trees that are directly in front of my balcony. How often do you get to stare at the tops of trees? Obviously they’re planted and not natural–but they fit well with the artificialness of the building. I mean. We’re pretty much–if one goes by western standards–right in the middle of a slum. Put another way: I have a treetop view from within an oasis overlooking a slum. With that mind, I appreciate more and more why Bangelore is called The Garden City. I would only append that with Garden Slum City. Also. If it wasn’t for the blazing heat of the season–which, btw, everyone here attributes to global warming–this would be a stunning slum. Wait. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not ranting on India–yet. I never expected to move here and then live in anything like The West. But I have to admit that I’m a bit taken aback by the level of depravity that is so blatant in this city. It is so damn filthy that I’m always looking out for trash trucks. I used to get a kick out of trash trucks when I was a kid. I knew them as rear loaders, side-loaders, grapple trucks. I knew the men that worked those truck (not personally, of course). I watched as neighbours would give the trash-men on a hot day a six pack of cold beer but one of the men, not the driver, refrained from drinking. They guzzled down the beer like it was water and threw the empty bottles right int the back of their truck. I thought that was so COOL. I later learned the guy that didn’t drink a beer was muslim. I think was twelve at the time. Yeah, I was twelve when I learned what a Muslim was. §In Bangelore, India, I’ve only seen one trash truck–and I’m not sure calling it that is appropriate. It was/is a converted/modified auto rickshaw aka tuk-tuk vehicle. The rear cabin had been removed and the vehicle was lengthened and a small truck bed with high walls had been inserted. There were three men in the truck. There was a driver, someone sleeping on a pile of trash in the truck bed and a third man hanging on to the side who would spring from the vehicle to grab trash from the side of the road and then throw it in the back of the truck–underneath the sleeping man. Oddly (or not) most of the trash on the side of the road would not be picked up. They seemed to only take certain things from the pile. Perhaps during another moment of observation I’ll take heed to know how they sorted their catch. Till then, I’ll remain confused–as ever. The rest of the trash, though, remained and with every walk of my dog I walked by that remaining trash and thought: what a fucking slum. Which brings this post almost full circle. §The first thing I noticed after it rained Sunday night for about an hour was that the dust in the air had not washed away. Isn’t that what rain is supposed to do? Obviously a measly hours worth of rain isn’t enough to clean the city but at least it could get rid of some of the dust. The next morning, as I walked Beckett, the killer pug, I took special notice of some wet spots that hadn’t yet evaporated. I called them my spots of wet dust. §There was something else during that odd night of rain. While I watched the precipitation fall in the night, lit by random street lights and the glow of the high-rise we lived in, there was a brief flash of light in the near distance. I saw the flash from the corner of my left eye. I went to the edge of the balcony and tried to focus on the distance, waiting for the thunder to arrive. But there was no thunder. My better half didn’t see the flash and she said that it rarely thunderstorms in Bangelore. “Are you sure it was lightening,” she asked. No, I wasn’t sure. The next morning after Beckett and I returned to the gated grounds of our apartment complex, I walked around to the back of the building, behind the pool. On the ground I saw the empty cadaver of a pigeon. Both Beckett and I shared an anti-theist prayer for the poor animal that probably got caught in some electrical wires the night before as it was confused by the rain. In my life-time this was the third animal I had seen killed by electrical wires. The first was a squirrel that literally exploded as it attempted to cross a high wire electrical junction box. The second was a pheasant that thought it had gotten away from a hunter’s bad aim. As the pheasant banked right avoiding the spread of the twelve gauge, its wings clipped multiple electric wires at the edge of the field. As the animal tried to recover it got more and more tangled in the wires. Eventually the bird began to cook in the wires and I even remember seeing a drop of blood fall from its tortured mouth/beak. My eyes were so good then. I’ll never forget the hunter making remarks about the animal flying right into the wires because he was as stupid as jujubes. When I tried to get the other hunters to help me free the dead animal from the wires they all just laughed. They thought it appropriate the animal remain. I spent hours trying to get that pheasant down from the wires. I eventually succeeded. §And so are the thoughts stirred by wet dust, tuk-tuk trash trucks and dead pigeons. Thanks for your patience, dear worst-reader.
Rant on.
Tommi

How/Why Your Vote Doesn't Matter: Money Is (Above) The Law.

stained flag

Read some legislation this morn. I guess I woke up feeling patriotic. But that soon waned. Indeed. Get a load of this krapp. A couple of Senators–you know, those guys in government that are the dirty hands and unwashed feet of the corporate and military industrial complex–have drafted yet another useless bill that is supposed to prove they are where they are because of democracy. Or is it idiocracy? Nomatter. The bill starts out with this phrase:

No person or entity is above the law.

Now, I don’t know about you, dear worst-reader, but there is something akin to an oxymoron-thing going on here–the likes of which have been seen before. This is how the puppets running the freakshow that is (the current iteration of) #americant prove everyday how incompetent and inept they really are. Gee, which begs me to ask: who votes for these people?

“No person or entity is above the law?” WTF! Above the law, like, banks are obviously above the law? Or above the law, like, how the US Treasury can be plundered for war mongering and that plunder can be shifted so that the middle class–decimating it in the mean-time–pays for the plunder? Or how ’bout above the law when it comes to dumbass religious beliefs that suddenly can be turned around using fancy text (that is above #americants third grade level reading capacity) and thereby legislate reverse discrimination laws that allow really, really stupid white people to continue their hate (in the name of the law) of people who think and act differently?

Above the law = stfu and just go buy something (and if you can’t, stfu even more). Other interests are at work in your government. Or something like that.

Anywho. Two fourth grade level senators recently put together a bill that would help government deal with the reality of digital encryption. Keep in mind there are conflicting realities here. On the one side there is the all-powerful, authoritarianism of government (over people) that lies to us when it says that law enforcement is for our own protection. On the other side there is the fact that the digital economy of the future can’t function without strong encryption. I mean, come on. Almost every time you access a website where you want to buy something or register something encryption is used. To make legislation that enables the government to be above that encryption–in the name of law enforcement–is Orwellian at best and detrimental to the future (economy) at worst. And all this (effort on the part of inept politicians) just because Apple stood up to an arm of big brother–the FBI. Wow.

And so the lie goes: there are most definitely some above the law and there always will be. Inept third grade voters elect inept fourth grade politicians. And there we have it.

Rant on. -Tommi

Links that motivated this post:

  1. For a simple clarification in all things-stupid in #americant law making | re/code
  2. Or you can read the bill yourself | draft legislation via scribe

Tommi's News Dump: How To Avoid Reality? Make It Up As You Go Along.

panama paper participant logo

Wanting to avoid the Panama Paper’s bullshit ain’t gonna be easy. So maybe I should just get it out of my system. First. Who are the players other than the mass of rich greedy people that will come to light from all this? Second. So far we’re dealing with a hacker, a lawyer/accounting company in Panama that specialises in helping clients hide money from governments and tax authorities, Germany’s largest, richest and greatest-ever bank and a measly Munich based newspaper that I wouldn’t read if you payed me to read it. Oh, and let’s not forget the fact that rich people don’t pay for any sins because, well, they’re like Gods in the eyes of those who want to be Gods (but instead have to be delusional dishwashers, ditch diggers, useless eaters and wannabes, etc.) Good luck suckers. Rant on. -Tommi

Links that motivated this post: