Pseudo Review – 1: “Democracy in Chains” – A Book To Steal The Heart Of Any Rational Useless-Eater That Figured Out How To Dropout In Style And Doesn’t Look Back With Too Much Anger

Update: Pseudo Review – 2 is here.

Afeared yet, dear worst-reader? Well, if you ain’t afeared yet, it might be time to get your bloomers in an uproar. Or is it get your bloomers in a gander? Wait. How ’bout gettin’ things up in a pickle? Nomatter. I’ve been reading the book Democracy in Chains by the historian Nancy MacLean. In fact, I’m not even done reading it while I worst-write this pseudo-review. And let me tell you, dear worst-reader, two things have gotten to me since starting this book–that I’m about half-way through so far.

The first thing, as just mentioned, is that this book once again reminds me of why people–normal people, people that aren’t born rich and of privilege, people who have earned their “keep” and/or still owe but can pay their bills–including but not limited to people that vote for #Trumpism because they are incapable of dealing with the reality they’ve ALL gotten themselves into by falling for republicanism from the past thirty (sixty?) years…. All these people should be scared (afeared) out of their fcuking bat$hit minds.

Second, and I don’t mean to be overly spiteful, presumptuous, and giggly here, but even though Nancy MacLean probably nails it in this calling-out book about the fcuked-up right-wing of my beloved & missed #Americant, I am snickering my a$$ off at the fact that I knew all of this already–just not as empirically and academically as MacLean details it in her book. Indeed. Ever since I was a young man and tried to make it among the mindless greed herders so long ago, what MacLean writes about is definitely part of my #Americant, worst-writer, failed-artist be-speckled being. With that in mind, let me put this out there:

I am a proud Unützer Esser. Come on, dear worst-reader. Give those old Germanic words a go. Unützer Esser. Unützer Esser. Unützer Esser. Unützer Esser. Say it a few more times. Enjoy the mouth watering acrobatics of the umlaut. Let the double Germanic ‘S’ role over lip and gum and provide that gracious tickle that only comes from subjective oral pleasure you conjured out of any of the many sexual conquests that made HER mouth more appealing.

But enough about worst-moi.

In translation, of course, Unützer Esser means: Useless Eater. Sound familiar to you if you’re one of the minions mentioned above who can’t see through the demise of your own making? I mean, come on. These are two easy words that are pretty easy to grasp, even in the original German. Right? You know. Call up your prejudice. Yeah. There it is. You got it. For you and the conservative-bent that has ruled your life, a Useless Eater is a burden to you because you think and believe that such a person gets by in life and you’re the one that pays for it because you have to pay things like… wait for it: income tax. Of course, does it matter that I use the original German for this term–and not the one most greed mongers, especially those from the infamous #Americant middle-class, use? You know, using the original is cool on account Germans, at a certain point in their near past–which a lot of #Americant white people are obsessed with–kinda invented it? But do you really know what a Unützer Esser is?

For the Germans, Usless Eater wasn’t a term used to describe fully functional people who made choices in life that lead to suckling on the government teat. You know, the marginalised, the drop-outs, those not quite good enough in the realm of corporate behaviourism, etc. I mean, come on. Have you worked in a cubicle lately? Oh, really. You still do? Or are you collecting rent from smart-ass real-estate investments enabled by urban gentrification and artificially low/fake interest rates? Oh wait. Or are you one of them stock-market cocksuckers that actually believes the numbers you see are real–and not fiction/fake that can only be derived from the willing and able über-gullible? If so, good for you. But before we get too off the beaten worst-path.

A Useless Eater, for the Germans, was someone that was physically incapable of being productive and therefore was a cost, a burden to… wait for it: National Socialism. It was a term used to describe the physically and mentally dysfunctional (disabled)–not people that simply didn’t agree with the bullshit of greed-mongers or the ignorant-moronic middle-classes or those who never wanted to be part of a rentier-system that mis-associates a livelihood with actual, real achievement, i.e. a meritless society. Indeed. The Nazis had a different fate for those folk. Usless Eater, for the Nazis, was a term in conjunction with the systematic use of gas chambers, concentration camps, Final Solutions, etc. And as we can see, it’s quite a versatile term, don’t you know.

So here’s a question for you: Would the Germans have eventually used the term Unützer Esser–you know, after they gassed everybody–for the mass of people that would eventually be forced into similar, costly societal dysfunction because capitalism would once again (post 1929) turn into a $hitshow of greed?

Wow. Talk about a mute question, eh!

And now for a little on this book that I’ve only read half of so far.

The thing that motivated me to read Democracy In Chains was Bill Maher’s interview with the author on last week’s show (which I listen to via audio podcast; see link below). In the interview MacLean mentioned how the current #SCOTUS pick from President Stupid was very, very dangerous. In fact, the whole #SCOTUS thing has preoccupied me since right-wingers stole Barry-O’s pick after the death of Antonin Scalia in early 2016. Keep in mind, I’m not worried about this pick because of the reasons many liberals espouse, i.e. he’s a religious $hitbag–which is bad enough. Instead, MacLean mentioned that his judicial record indicates he is a follower of an even more extreme political and economic ideology than the one that’s gotten #Americant into the mess it’s now in. MacLean mentioned in the interview that Brett Kavanaugh is a right-winger that wants to change the US Constitution so that it will better favour property and liberty–for the rich. To do that, according to MacLean, this guy wants to change the 17th Amendment back to what it was originally, i.e. state legislators pick National Senators. He also wants to change the 25th Amendment, which deals with how to get rid of a corrupt President. And now you know why President Stupid picked him. And of course, let’s not forget he will most certainly over-turn Roe v. Wade thereby resetting political and social gains of women in the past… Gee, I don’t know: hundred or so fcuking years!

Wow.

The second thing to motivate me to read this book was the mention of Charles Koch and, someone I had never heard of: James M. Buchanan. Half way through the book I can easily tell you that you should be scared out of your wits–especially if you’re one of them both-siderists that enabled President Stupid. Or you’re a libertarian that will spend your life dreaming the dream of dreams thinking you’ll be safe when it all crashes–you know, with your Ayan Rand gold collection. Or, and here’s the doozy, you should be biggly, huuuuuugely afeard if you voted for Trump and you actually work/worked for a living. Yeah. What’s going on in the halls and cess-whirl-pools of the United Mistakes of #Americant right now should make you run for the fcuking hills! But then again, don’t you’all deserve this?

Golly-gee! The dystopia-ists who chronicled all this a century ago–because they already lived through it–Orwell, Huxley, etc.–are probably laughing their a$$es off just like me right now.

“But why are you laughing, worst-writer? You’re a f’n failure through and through!”

I’m laughing because, well, it’s hi-larry-us that I jumped ship because I knew as far back as the mid to late 1980s how that ship was sinking, the train-wreck was underway, and since then, in all my travels, I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting one American that actually made it beyond being a pawn in this the grand shit$how of greed.

Anywho.

I’ll be posting a follow-up pseudo-review of this book once I finish it.

Good night and good luck, suckers.

-Rant on

Links:
– NPR review 1 – https://www.npr.org/2017/06/18/531929217/democracy-in-chains-traces-the-rise-of-american-libertarianism
– NPR review 2 – https://www.npr.org/sections/ombudsman/2017/08/14/542634650/readers-rankled-by-democracy-in-chains-review
– NYT review – https://www.nytimes.com/2017/08/15/books/review/democracy-in-chains-nancy-maclean.html
– Glossary of Nazi Germany ‘U’ – https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Glossary_of_Nazi_Germany#U
– Ep. #467: Malcolm Nance, Nancy MacLean – Released Aug 04, 2018 Bill’s guests are Malcolm Nance, Nancy MacLean, Kristen Soltis Anderson, Charles Blow, and Steve Schmidt (Originally aired 08/03/18) | This show is available as audio podcast on iTunes | https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/ep-467-malcolm-nance-nancy-maclean/id98746009?i=1000417184062&mt=2

Suburban Hell Tribe Wars Or How The Feminine Stole The Show

the mere wife

There are two things I always think about when I think about the tale of Beowulf. The first is the connection the story has to religion, specifically monotheistic religion. At the time the story was written polytheism was still relatively common in Northern Europe. Even though it is a very minor part of the original text, I believe the slight mention of Christianity is a significant one because the story stems out of a time period where northern Europeans were determining their fate and considering carefully what was going on to their geographical south. Indeed. Odin and Thor and Loki were obviously not enough as the roar of the Roman + Christian empire(s) just below them glowed large and all-powerful.

In the original Beowulf text the Christian religion is mentioned during a debate with the King of the Danes that maybe they should hire the Romans–as in the Christ believers–instead of Beowulf to help them fight Grendel. It is because of that question I’ve always believed that Grendel is not an individual but instead a group or a tribe. Btw, the same applies to Beowulf. In other words, although the story can be about an individual or a few individuals and the heroism that entails–as it’s been interpreted through out the centuries–I believe that the story is actually about tribes that were in a perpetual state of war not only about power and possessions but also beliefs, dogma and Gods. So what were they fighting over?

The second thing I think about is the role of matriarchy in society (tribes) and how rule by the feminine has pretty much been annihilated–even to this day. That is, Grendel and Grendel’s mother represented a tribe(s) where matriarchy ruled. Such rule was unacceptable to the King of the Danes and Beowulf–i.e. two macho-tribes that teamed up. Hence, the Roman Christ God, its patriarchy, its dogma, its weapons and techniques of war, was an acceptable alternative for the macho-pigs in their quest to take over (everything). At the least, this other form of religion put the women-folk in their place. Ultimately, the macho-pigs, embodied in the macho Beowulf, fulfilled this fledgling dogmatic image and, at least in the short term, saved the King of the Danes by defeating–annihilating–not only rival tribes but the rivalry of matriarchy itself. This, in-turn, was the final straw that lead to the Christianisation of Northern Europe that The Universal Church (that would eventually become The Catholic Church) up to that point had been unable to tame. So was Beowulf the north’s first sacrificed saviour? But on that note, I digress.

So much for worst-writer’s interpretation of the Poem of Everything. Instead, dear worst-reader, let’s focus on someone else’s interpretation of Beowulf. Someone who I think has nailed it. I just finished The Mere Wife by Maria Dahvana Headley. Talk about interpretation, baby! And not only can this chick fcuking write–she has created a glorious text to read–and she’s even come up with a pretty good interpretation of Beowulf. But only pretty good!

Set in the modern suburban-hell of my beloved & missed & war-torn #Americant, Headley has kinda done a reverse and inverse of Beowulf. Her interpretation is not hero centric but instead heroine centric. By turning the story inside-out and telling it through the point of view of the feminine, who must cope with the fcuked-up world created and facilitated by male driven war, if not penis-driven suburbia, she has masterfully concocted a story of the trials, pains and tribulations of a once great nation run amok–and what that’s done to the chicks. Even though I don’t actually like her feminising my favourite man-cave text–and I’m especially not sure if I would like it if I wasn’t already familiar with the original–she writes with such lyrical precision and word-beauty that I’m ready to give one of her other books a go. Yeah, baby. Queen of Kings is next?

The Mere Wife deserves every bit of praise it gets. In fact, I’m gonna have to search the #interwebnets for whether or not anyone doesn’t like what Headley has done with Beowulf. And if/when I find someone who doesn’t like it, I’m gonna hunt them down and stick a big fcuking knife in their neck and drink their blood till the roar of Beowulf booms out of me. Argh!

-Rant (and read) on.

Trying To Understand #Americant – With W.E.B. DuBois

souls of black folk.jpg

I have seen a land right merry with the sun, where children sing, and rolling hills lie like passioned women wanton with harvest. -W.E.B. DuBois

Finally got around to it, dear worst-reader. You know, that list of authors you’ve been meaning to read but somehow never get to. The thing is, if I get caught on one author that blows me a way I’m preoccupied with him (or her) for a while. And as we all know, worst-writer ain’t the fastest or the bestest reader.

The short-list of authors I’ve been waiting to get to regarding the subject of my beloved America’s downfall is Cornel West and W.E.B. DuBois. Well, last week, while searching around I came across a free version of “The Souls of Black Folk”. As soon as I finished the second page, I was hooked. Wow can this guy write! Who’d ever guess that in order for one to learn something about a part of America that is truly the most f’d up part (slavery!) some guy would come along and write about it (a hundred years go) with such beauty and elegance that sometimes you have to pinch yourself to remember you’re not reading Shakespeare.

One of the reasons I felt I should (finally) read DuBois (and Cornel West) is because I think one should try and understand the origin of his or her exploitation. I mean, when you’re practically exploited because you’re begging for it, lusting for it, needing it, shouldn’t you at least understand it? With that in mind, here’s one of the most motivating things I’ve ever heard:

“America has been niggarised since nine-eleven. When you’re niggarised you’re unsafe, unprotected, subject to random violence, hated for who you are and you become so scared that you defer to the powers that be and consent to your own domination.” -Cornel West

Now that America has lost its way and has become #Americant, is it too much to ask to be taught something about what’s going on? I mean, obviously, considering the state of THE MEDIA in a place that has chosen as a surname THE HOMELAND, where should this knowledge come from? Ok. A good start would be Nineteen Eighty-Four by George Orwell. But the problem with Orwell is that he ain’t #Americant–even though that book totally fits the bill at this point in history. Ok. How ’bout Gore Vidal? There’s also Howard Zinn if you need a quickie History-101 course. On the entertainment side, you know, to both busy and sooth the mind, give the likes of Henry Miller a read. He’ll teach you something about #Americant, for sure. Also, Miller’s smut never hurts if you need to better enter into your lover. And on that note, I digress.

“The South ought to be lead, by candid and honest criticism, to assert her better self and to do her full duty to the race she has cruelly wronged and is still wronging.” -W.E.B. DuBois

Obviously something is eerily awry in my beloved & missed United Mistakes and one book ain’t gonna explain it all to me. Then again, considering THE MEDIA, especially the likes of faux-newz and the convoluted messages from the #MeToo movement and the #BlackLivesMatter movement, where the hell is any knowledge gonna come from? Wait. Is there knowledge in hysteria?

How the fcuk do I know?

Perhaps trying to grasp the pain of others, especially a pain that runs so deep and through so many generations of African Americans, as slavery does, is worth the slight effort of reading Mr. DeBois. At the least you’re given the written word in its highest form.

-Rant on

“The Media” Or A Mirror To Hide Behind

Screen Shot 2018-07-04 at 09.29.29

Sometimes a podcast can motivate. For example. Last night while listening to the Ralph Nader Radio Hour and the show Google is God, the last few minutes contained an interview with a guy named Michael G. Merhige. He was promoting his new book: Thoughtful Pauses – A Political Philosophy. According to Nader, Merhige is a former servant of the grand $hitshow. That is, he’s a former military guy who, among many other achievements, served in Vietnam and then worked for the CIA. I’m guessing that he’s now retired and living the good life in front of his TV probably somewhere in Florida and all the while trying NOT to be crushed by a lazy-boy–that is somehow induced to flip his channels to the right and beyond.

Or maybe not.

Michael Merhige is–obviously–part of the generation of $hitbags that have given the world my beloved & missed #Americant. You know what I’m referring to, right dear worst-reader? He’s either of The Greatest Generation or he’s their off-spring The Boomer Generation. And what does this extreme generational servant do with his time? I’m not really sure but if I were to guess based on reading this very short book, he sits around and jots down random but driven thoughts and is then able to put them all together and get a weary publisher to publish them.

Oh, and let’s not forget he’s also able to get Ralph Nader’s attention. And before I forget, I specifically use the word driven (previous paragraph) and NOT agenda to describe what Merhige jots down because, well, it’s obvious that he too is doing his best–like so many of his generation–to not fall into the trap of being labelled. Being labelled, by-the-buy, is one of the new #Americant consume-to-survive past-times and is the only way to open any door or window of opportunity to have a living standard. At the least, for Merhige, it worked with an opportunity to get on Nader’s show and sell his book (to me).

And so.

It’s more then who you know to get ahead in life in these trying times. It’s now who you know and does who you know like/approve your label? Yeah, labels are the things two horrendous generations have given the world among so many other really, really, krappy, ugly things.

But on that note I digress.

I have been curious about the origins of my beloved & missed #American’t for some time now. I suppose that’s what motivated me while listening to Nader (naively) interview the author of this book–and then subsequently buying it in the middle of the night and finishing by 6am. My curiosity has brought about a few questions. You know, how did the show that was America turn into the $hitshow that is now #Americant? Did it happen one day or did it happen overnight? Was there one event or one person that lead to the $hitshow? Is there anyone out there even capable of grasping the $hitshow if all there is… is the $hitshow?

Unfortunately I’ve not been successful in answering most of the above questions. I am an expatriate, don’t you know. I live far far far away–from the #Homeland–and my research capability is limited. (Or is it?) And even though there is quite a bit of literature out there that deals with the nature of a superpower or even human history, there is very little out there that reveals the truth about the innards of the people that make up the $hitshow. Rest assured, dear worst-reader, Merhige doesn’t come close to revealing anything about what’s wrong back home–although you’d think based on the first few chapters of this odd and strange manifesto that he might be trying to do just that. This cute little book of sayings and one-liners in the form of a pseudo-political manifesto stuck in the drunken shadow of Thomas Paine might convince a few readers out there that Merhige has something worthwhile to say. But once I got past the first few pages, something familiar began to click in my worst-mind.

Oh my, I thought. This sounds so so so so so familiar. It’s like reading snippets of *faux newz* galore.

So here’s the trigger about Merhige and his f’n generation of $hitbags that brought us the $hitshow: While nothing original or even inventive comes out of his writing, it does become clear through his choice of words that he too is nothing more than a shill for a system that no one–AND I MEAN NO ONE!–in my bloved & missed #Americant is able to see through. At least no one that is capable of publishing a book. Except maybe Ralph Nader. With that in mind, I can forgive Ralph for this awful book recommendation. Ralph was fooled, I’m sure. But let me not get too far off subject.

What’s the first sign that can indicate you’re reading something produced by a shill? Of the highlights I made in this odd and strange book, the word that stands out the most is “media” or The Media. The tablet version of this book that I read in about two hours–on account it’s only seventy pages long–has the word media printed hundreds of times. You know, as in, blame the media. The next word(s) that is constantly and overly used is: “politically correct”. After that comes Government, The Press, TV, Entertainment, blah, blah, blah. Or should I say: blame blame blame someone or something else.

Come on. Seriously? I jumped all over this book because Ralph Nader recommended it. It even started out pretty good. I really don’t mind a well written manifesto here or there. (Big fan of Thomas Paine, btw!) But then the book simply goes on and on and on with one-liners describing what the author thinks is wrong with everything and everyone but never really addresses any truth about the actual problem–and how things got the way they are. In other words. Same old same old from complainers and whiners–i.e. two generations of greed mongers that are #Americant.

Yeah, words through me off big time in this little book. It’s as though the author has had some tube inserted into his skull and faux newz is feeding him everything to say, think, do. Of course, he might be a faux newz hater and perhaps doesn’t even watch it. But at this point in #Americant history, that doesn’t matter. Faux newz, including the grand master of bigotry Rush Limbaugh, are the manifestation of a voice that controls not only the national narrative that has been broadcast daily for the past thirty-plus years throughout #Americant but it also represents the mindset of the/a people. Particularly conservative people. And let’s face it: conservative is #Americant, #Americant is conservatism. Of course, the worst part about this voice is that it so easily transcends conservatism. In fact, in #Americant, there is no escaping it–especially considering the neo-liberal movement owned by so-called Liberals. Merhige proves with gusto, like so many #Americants on a daily basis, that his mind is trapped. He’s trying desperately to find a way to express what is wrong with everything and yet, even after writing this pamphlet-like book, he’s still probably never sat in front of a mirror and said a few of the thousands of one-liners he wrote down that ultimately just complains about everything. On the other hand, I wonder how many times in his life he actually voted for republicans because of taxes, family values, his bank account, etc., never realising how he’s been so brilliantly duped. Yeah, write a book about being duped, dude.

Suckers galore that know how to write and publish a book about how things should or could be? Indeed. Much ado about nothing, baby.

Another word Merhige misuses in his book is Truth. Using the word or writing it down or saying it isn’t as powerful as living it or being an example of it. He should come around to worst-writer-ville, don’t you know. But then again, we all have our mirrors to hide behind.

-Rant on

-T

Doing What’s Do-Able In Times Of #Trump And Too Much Freedom To Be Stupid

Believing in the power of knowledge has been a worst-mantra of mine for years. That’s probably why it’s so difficult for me to deal with the anti-intellectualism that has overcome my beloved & missed #Americant. I mean, what else could get a man like #Trump so far in this life? Or do you actually believe that intellect has something to do with all this idiocracy and reality-tv nation mis-state-hood? Wait. Did I just kill my own worst-question there? But on that note, I digress. For today’s worst-post deals with my most recent read. That’s right, dear worst-reader. I read this book last night and early this morning and enjoyed it thoroughly. Perhaps you can too–if you can still get it. (Btw, most recent search in online book store from hell shows it to be out of print but available as a used book.) Oh. And before I forget, pay special attention to the captions of two of the pics included above.

Rant on.

-T

PS And no! I’m not the one selling the book used on online books store from hell.

Julius Caesar Killed With (Bad) Ideas Not Daggers–Just Like My Beloved #Americant

ides of march and coffee

Coincidence? I finally (it’s been on my to-do list for a while) started re-reading Thornton Wilder’s Ides of March… in March? Actually I started re-reading it the last few days of March and casually finished it at the end of April. Reason? I had put it off long enough–and it was time. For I knew, dear worst-reader, after #Trump was elected there would be new & improved worst-criticisms galore–don’t you know–relating to certain aspects of human history. And so. Toilet literature moments of worst-writer have been revealed. Which means I finally got around to finishing the book by the end of April. Indeed. The little things in life that motivate, resuscitate, intrigue are worth taking with a grain of salt-sugar as life goes flush-flush, swirling, heralding down that sewer–that sewer meant for me.

The worst-thing about the Ides of March is this: I’ve always been fascinated with Julius Caesar and I’m not sure why. Same goes for Napoleon–and the reason for that is even more confusing. Even though I’m not much of a history buff–on account of the way History has been mis-taught–a few parts of it do kinda stick out (in my worst-mind) and fascinate (me). With that in mind, I could give a hoot about Julius Caesar–the man. What does interest me, though, is to read about why so much of the limited, one sided, agenda driven history we’ve been taught, so often and so easily, comes back to haunt us toot-suite (idiom error) and it all seems to coincide easily with what’s already happened.

Here’s the short answer/reason worst-writer thinks Julius Caesar is (and should be) part of the history that is happening right now. After President Stupid was elected in my beloved (and missed) #Americant in 2016, I recall reading about a New York play production of Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar. In that play Caesar was dressed up to look like–hair, suit, tie n’all–Donald Trump, aka President Stupid. (Interwebnet search: “julius caesar as donald trump” and look at the images.) Even though I consider President Stupid an abomination and deserving of the treatment he receives from Lefties and humans with half a brain, I immediately wondered why all the coverage from that particular NY play was only about the bloody death of #Trump looking like Julius Caesar. (Wait. Scratch that last statement. Reverse its ending). Don’t/can’t people understand that Julius Caesar by Shakespeare has a lot more to offer than just the bloody death of a lingering, sleeping, lazy, precursor to this/our world of tyranny? But I digress.

It’s been a while since I read the play. In fact, it’s now on my to-do re-read list–especially after trying to absorb The Ides of March which ultimately brings me back to Julius Caesar–the play. The only problem is, I might have to track down that guy from Bielefeld who I lent my only English copy of Julius Caesar. That’s right. He never returned it. Aghast! Nomatter. I still have a college anthology English literature book or two that is sure to have the play. So I’ll get to it soon enough. Also. It’s a big regret of mine that I’ve never actually seen the play on stage. Back in the day (when I was young) I had a list of Shakespeare plays to see (before the day comes that I turn into bitter worst-writer and stop going to the theatre). Yeah. Unfortunately I never saw Julius Caesar on stage. Oh well.

The one thing I recall about reading Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar that connects to Donald Trump being president of the land-of-free-to-be-stupid has nothing to do with his death. Shakespeare recreated the politics and human behaviour that not only gives us Julius Caesar but also taketh the man away. Put another way. The factions of politics, the believers of the Gods, the Senators, the wives, the wealthy, etc., etc., are a perfect depiction of human behaviour that still goes on today. Obviously Shakespeare–and, as I’ve recently learned now Thornton Wilder–saw all this vividly. I’m just wondering if Thornton Wilder saw it all through Shakespeare?

Coming back to what I worst-wrote at the beginning of this worst-post. I don’t believe History should be taught as a single curriculum. Instead, we should learn history as we learn other more important things. You know, we should learn things that help us think, help us teach ourselves to learn. You know, like reading, writing, science and, what the hell, studying the mechanics of politics. So. Is it possible that Thornton Wilder thought the same when he embarked on writing The Ides of March? I mean, for the life of me, why would anyone come up such a creative and entertaining take on the life of one of human history’s most notorious tyrants? But then again, if my question has even an ounce of validity… I’m more than tickled as every college sorority girl in spring time who can afford plans to win the lottery of fraternity brothers galore where tall, dark and handsome square jaw lines and eyebrows raised to prove the fear their mothers taught them have been right all along. It’s all about the end and never the means. Or. Put another way: In this day & age of #Trumpism and grabbing things by the pussy: you go girls! And so. The only thing missing from Wilder’s letter novel is a few more details on Cleopatra, the Rome visiting babe. But before I get too far off subject.

Yes. This worst-post is supposed to be about Thornton Wilder. But I’m not doing such a great job on that. Instead, I’m worst-wondering right now how much brilliance a man can possess to be able to turn out a historical novel like The Ides of March? This book will probably not leave my side for many years to come. It not only has few spelling errors but the whole idear of encasing such a historical event in letters written between those that made the event happen…? I know. I know. This is what an epistolary novel is supposed to be. But where the heck did Wilder get so much out of history to put this book together? From some history class? I think not!

Obviously it couldn’t have been Shakespeare alone that drove Wilder to write The Ides of March. Reason? Some of the letters of this novel come from pre WW2 western world politics. Specifically, some of the letters are supposed to come from Mussolini’s fascist playground of Rome, i.e. the Rome that is a bit closer to what we all know today (geographically). Oh yea, baby. At the least people should be required to read The Ides of March only to see how a brilliant mind can work shit out as though there’s no need for fake newz, faux newz or profit margins being evaluated before anything has ever even been done.

We’re living in times where millions upon millions of people who watch WWE also stand by the election of an abomination to the highest political office the world has ever mis-created. The Ides of March is welcome read to help one gather thoughts about a world of worst. Or maybe not.

I am somewhat taken aback at how good The Ides of March is, especially since I read it many years ago but seem to have misplaced what I read in the confines of my dark-mind. Why isn’t The Ides of March part of study in ALL school systems? I mean, it doesn’t matter if this is a pseudo-history or if Julius Caesar is only a caricature for what so many men have desired to become. What matters is the depiction of all that is wrong in human nature–which seems to be what this world is all about. It’s as though Thornton Wilder lays out for us effortlessly an easy-to-read soap-opera-like novel in the form of letters sent between neighbours of all sorts–like the ones next to you. And even though Wilder complicates things by interjecting and mixing up those letters, especially chronologically, it doesn’t matter. The feeling that you’re reading a story someone is able to piece together with a brilliant mind, with brilliant intent, is worth every moment. Human nature hasn’t changed one bit–according to Shakespeare and Thornton Wilder. And that’s the crux of what people misunderstand in these days of selfish, beguiled confusion about money, greed and pussy-grabbing galore.

Rant on.

-T

How I Subverted The Sedition Act (Of 1918) Or Re-Read Chris Hedges’ “American Fascists”

American_Fascists

Thoughts after first read of this book here.

Obviously I’ve subverted nothing. I mean, come on. How can worst-writer, leader of the uselesseater union of the world and advocate for forced early retirement (as long as the women-folk and their feminism pay for it), subvert anything? Unless, of course, subversion is defined by how one throws stale German Brötchen against an unfurnished wall in order to measure the velocity of freshness. But all über-seriousness aside.

There has been another exuberant display of bat$hittery in my beloved #Americant. The display, for whatever worst-reason, made me re-read Chris Hedges’ book. The exuberance? A nineteen year old pre-perpetual man-child, i.e. a teenager with an AR-15, is yet another example of growing up in consume-to-survive meaninglessness run amok. Never before has born-to-die been so obvious. It’s what #Americant provides. Nothing. Nothingness. Nothing else. And then death by an almost cult following of the act of killing. Considering future perspectives of so many man-children and their trigger fingers, the new measurement of achievement in their useless lives corresponds to under-achievement. Which raises this question: what’s it like to live in a cult-of-death run by Haves so spiteful towards Have-Nots? Or. Put another way. The only way a man in #americant can find meaning is if he subjects himself in a slave-like manner to the whims of both biology and greed. Biology and greed, if you don’t know, are the main ingredients of mindlessness and/or WWE-TV.

Enter Religion.

When I refer to a nineteen year old, I’m obviously referring to the latest mass shooter in my beloved #Americant. As usual, the dumbed-down voting populace of the united mistakes of #americant will be no better informed about WHY these types of killings take place so it really means little to go beyond there being a nineteen year old with a military-grade weapon who can run around like all deplorables should. I, for one, am still asking questions about what the hell happened at the last mass shooting in Las Vegas. Not many answers there. And so. We’re all deeply ill-informed about HOW-WHY these things happen. Yet we are overwhelming informed about AR-15s and the fatness of Kim Kardashian (she is so disgusting looking I’m worst-surprised I could type her name). Btw, it’s never about how one can buy an AR-15 or gluttonous ammunition or extended magazines, etc. Nea. It is about something else. Go figure. But I digress.

“The decline of America is described as the result of the decline of male prowess.” -Chris Hedges, American Fascist

I guess I decided to re-read American Fascist because, well, criticism of the political right is the only way I know how to deal with this stuff. Indeed. After every mass shooting I blame republicans because of how they’ve perverted conservatism. I mean, I hated conservatism back in the day of W. Buckley. But at least Buckley & Co. weren’t totally bat$hit. Of course, without Buckley & Co. there wouldn’t have been Dubya & Co. and now President Stupid Comb-Over. Also. I don’t blame republicans because they’re the easiest to blame–especially when it comes to the free-for-all of mass shootings. I blame then because they are sore winners of the worst type. And when I say “winner” I mean winning in the race to the bottom. Congratulations, suckers.

Religion loves all.

For those stuck in the world of #americant bothsiderism, i.e. blaming both the Democrats and Republicans as equals for #americant’s ills, there is no rational discourse. These are the people who would like to be republican but are unable at a minimal level to see through all the craze. I suppose bothersiderists have speck of rational thought left–I’ll give them that. Yet, when I question bothsiderists I’m invariably faced with the issue of religion. Specifically the perversion of religion–which is best exemplified in my beloved (and missed) #americant through eyes of utter terror and fear and an ice-cream cone filled with pistachio banana chocolate and briefly named Daisy by the child carrying it. With that in mind, three things seem to intertwine in my worst-writer brain when I search for the blame.

Money
Power
Religion

Pretty simple list, eh? Keep in mind that the above list is not in any particular order. Also, obviously, the other side of the political spectrum lusts after the elements in the list, too. The difference, though, is that in my lifetime taking each one to new, higher levels via über-greed is the result of so much complacency or, as I like to put it: consume-to-survive. Of course, in the context of this post, the only item from the list that is truly relevant, and that which drove me to re-read this book, is religion. Not unlike the radicalised issue of abortion (or forcing women to be subjects of wannabe men-Gods), these people are not different than a mob with torches trying to hunt down a monster they don’t understand and will kill everything to get to it.

And so.

The man-boy that shot-up the school, killing seventeen of his peers, obviously wasn’t near money or power. But he was very and most certainly near religion. Now, I’m not saying that he was religious. I have no clue if he was or not. It’s just that when you don’t have money or power (or even if you do) then all that’s left for you is belief, faith, blind-will. To me, these mass shootings are all intertwined with the three elements listed above as utilised by men-boys who govern. When considering all the hate I feel for right wing politics, religion is the one that gets under my gander the most and it should not be given a free-pass just because someone saw a painting of a bloodied Jesus standing with a slit-throat lamb.

“Fundamentalism is the religion of those at once seduced and betrayed by the promise that we human beings can comprehend and control our world. Bitterly disappointed by the politics of rationalised bureaucracies, the limitations of science, and the perversions of industrialisation, fundamentalists seek to reject the modern world, while nevertheless holding onto these habits of mind: clarity, certitude, and control” -Karen McCarthy (as quoted in American Fascist by Chris Hedges.)

I’m betting that the WHY of these shootings is being systematically suppressed because the powers-that-be know full well that if words gets out about the true state of affairs of a once great nation that has so many mass shootings there will be mayhem of an apocalyptic scale never seen before–but wished for by religious $hitbags. Just read the last chapter of the New Testament. The difference to Biblical apocalypse, though, will be that the rich will finally have to pay. That is, Money and Power are tolerating Religion right now because the latter provides a brilliant filter, screen, airport security check–for the masses of Deplorables #Americant has become. For you see, dear worst-reader, by controlling the story, the narrative of a world where EVERYTHINGISWRONG, you control the meek, i.e. Deplorables.

“Since life has a way of not respecting these artificial lines, since ambiguity, inconsistency and irrationality are part of human existence, the only way believers can push forward is to pretend that these troubling aspects of our internal and external reality do not exist. They create a parallel reality, one that allows them to escape from reality-based world into world of their own creation.” -Chris Hedges, American Fascist

When you live a life of EVERYTHINGISWRONG where do you turn when the guns start slinging? Money. Power. Religion. You pay your money. You subject yourself to power. You fall for the Deity standing above you with his shinny halo and birch leather seat and a cock the size of your best mind. He tells you to contribute to his church and you do so. You reach in your wallet, digging into the forest within and you find a small toy out of your childhood that reminded of how things once were. How simple they were. Of a time when ice-cream didn’t feel so bad after it was consumed and excreted. The world you’ve created in your hiding place isn’t enough so you go deeper. Your wallet is big enough, it is empty enough. The green forest now brown within is a lost place and when you go to the next window to ask for direction you meet another salesman who tells you your credit cards aren’t full yet. So you switch from your wallet to your credit card. The forest within isn’t as greedy but it is as blinding. And the next methamphetamines fix is good.

“The hierarchy fears romantic love. Love, especially eroticism, in its most passionate, romantic form, threatens the iron control of the church leader. In Freudian terms, romantic love allows the id or the “it,” to be unleashed in a drive to satisfy uncontrollable passions. Restrain and self-control over these desires and passions are disarmed by romantic love.”. -Chris Hedges

I know it make no sense to go in this direction, but one thing that really struck me from my first reading of this book was Chris Hedges POV of love. Through out the book he refers to the act of love as an extension of God but also of people. He writes about how his father was accepting of gays and how homosexuality is not something to fear. I got the feeling that true love is embedded in Hedges’ religion as means of acceptance and tolerance. What a nice thing, eh! Indeed. Love. The way it should be treated/used/accepted. Of course, if one spent any time at all with deplorables, one also knows the vehemence against gays or even a wrong look at one’s wife. The insecurity of sexuality is rampant among conservatives. It’s as though Biblical fig leaves have become brain cells. And so. Perhaps there is a fourth element, sexual repression, that should join Money, Power, Religion. But for now I’ll leave it out.

Rant on.

-T

Links:
– https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sedition_Act_of_1918

What Happens When You Cross Dorian Gray With The Devil Wears Prada? Worst-Writer’s Thoughts On Emma Tennant’s Faustine.

The only problem worst-writer has with this wonderfully imaginative novel about The Feminine is how, if it were a quilt, it would be sewn together with a single thread. That thread, unfortunately, is the opposite of The Feminine. I suppose, if pushed to answer what that opposite (thread) is, I’d have to say this book is not exactly about women. Ironically–or not, very few men play a role in this book, except, of course, the antagonist–who only appears at the very end. In other words, this might just be a book about questioning womanhood post ca. the 1950s. But don’t quote me on that. Wait. Hold a sec.

Women and The Feminine are two different things. Right?

According to her Wiki post, Emma Tennant uses magic and mystery in her work. I was disappointed how neither really played a roll in this book. Even though Tennant brilliantly integrates the Faustian bargain into the story, instead it is really written with a quilt in mind. And that is rather confusing to me. Feminising Faust just doesn’t seem like a worthwhile endeavour–even though Tennant writes with excellent craftsmanship. I’m saddened to say that this story tries to deliver something but in the end all there is–is all that’s ever been: predestined, self-perpetuating social norms and gender roles that so many have embraced since Biblical apples galore. Nor is this book very entertaining. And that’s why I love it and plan to hold it dear for the foreseeable future.

Indeed. The feminisation of Faust. Is that enough for a book of this sort? A chick selling her soul to the devil, in and of itself, could be a huge mystery–or even a great piece of magic. Yet there is only reference to a beauty farm that manages to change a grandmother into a rival for her daughter’s lover. Then there’s a TV repair shop with back room. Like so many other places where women choose to go in their world of wanton patriarchy, we get nothing from Tennant about it–or darkened backrooms. It is here that the author tears clear from magic and mystery and instead goes off on a soap-opera-like tangent–which is probably best palatable to the author’s taste. But then again, if asked whether or not she’s a feminist, this book would make me answer: she is not.

On the other hand, if, like me, you’re the least bit curious what goes on in the mind of a woman (and you’re a man) that has nothing to do with the act of procreation or porn-like good-fucking, this book might be for you. Also. I can’t help but feel that faith (or is it destiny) had this book waiting for me at exactly this moment in (my) life. The reason for that has something to do with the #MeToo movement, Harvey W., and desexualising everything to the point of it being so uninteresting that it’s interesting (again). But I digress.

The writing in this book is brilliant. That can’t be said enough. It is truly a work of art chiseled out of a raw piece of… dare I say… feminine granite. It also reminds me of a combination of Oscar Wild’s Dorian Gray and the film The Devil Wears Prada (or M. Streep in that movie). Even though it takes Tennant almost two-thirds of the book to get to the point she’s trying to make (about feminism), the thing that kept me reading it wasn’t what she was writing about but how she writes it. There is much to learn from Emma Tennant.

Rant (and read) on.

-T

Pseudo Book Review Of “Fire And Fury” Or If Only There Was More Space Between The Lines

scary author pic — Are you serious with this pic on the back of your book, Mr. Wolff? (Taken with iPhone6s directly off back cover.)

Books with scary pictures of authors on inner or back covers should be avoided at all costs. I suppose that goes for worst-writers, too. At least that’s what I used to tell myself–about real writers that actually get paid to write stuff. With that in mind, hats off to you Mr. Wolff. Which brings me to this worst-question: did Michael Wolff pick the pic (above) for the back cover or did some corpo automaton pick it for him? Answer: Nomatter.

Just don’t let you kids near this guy–or President Stupid.

And by-the-buy, I didn’t buy this book. Never in my wildest thoughts did I ever seriously consider even going near this book. What can one read about President Stupid that one hasn’t already had stuffed down his/her throat with gulps of desperation? Either that or one can just watch some moronic TV, preferably WWE or reality-tv, and one can be just as informed. And that’s not all. One can also watch redneck, white trash #americant. Indeed. Watch it or read it. For between the lines of this book might just be a chronicle of the end of the beginning… Or is it the beginning of the end? Nomatter. At the least Wolff is a damn good writer.

I mean, he can spell and he knows how to use some big words. Or maybe not.

Kudos to my son for gifting me this book for my birthday. It’s his thing, don’t you know. I mean, gifting books during gifting season. As best as I can tell he’s mostly only gifted me, his stepmom and his mother, books. Wait. He gifted some bath oil to my better-half recently. So I could be wrong. Jeez. He’s twenty now. I don’t really know what he’s up to anymore anyway, what his motivations are, youthful prodigy confusion, etc. Yet he gave me a book that he should be reading. Yes. This book is for the youth of tomorrow. For those who would see how things shouldn’t be. Oh my. Confusion. Ditto. Confusion.

Let me begin this pseudo-review with some outtakes.

Chapter 20 (about The Mooch): “He had paid as much as half a million dollars to have his firm’s logo appear in the movie Wall Street 2 and to buy himself a cameo part in the film.”
Chapter 19(a): “Donald Trump’s sons existed in an enforced infantile relationship to their father, a role that embarrassed them, but one that they also professionally embraced. The role was to be Trump’s heirs and attendees. Their father took some regular pleasure in pointing out that they were in the back of the room when God handed out brains. Their sister Invanka, certainly no native genius, was the designated family smart person, her husband Jared the family’s smooth operator.”
Chapter 19(b): “The real swamp is the swamp of insular, inbred, incestuous interests (of Washington DC).”
Chapter 16: “In presidential annals, the firing of FBI director James Comey may be the most consequential move ever made by a modern president acting entirely on his own.”
Chapter 13: “The world of the rich is, in its fashion, self regulating. Social climbing has rules.”
Chapter 8: “It became almost immediately clear that the common purpose of the campaign and the urgency of the transition were lost as soon as the Trump team stepped into the White House. They had gone from managing Trump to the expectation of being managed by him–or at least through him and almost solely for his purposes. Yet the president, while proposing the most radical departure from governing and policy norms in several generations, had few specific ideas about how to turn his themes and vitriol into policy, nor a team that could reasonably unite behind him.”
Chapter 7 (on how money laundering works): “One way the process can work is, roughly speaking, as follows: an oligarch makes an investment in a more or less legitimate third-party investment fund, which, quid pro quo, makes an investment in Trump.”

Chapter 7 is a particularly interesting chapter. It contains five theories on Trump’s Russia collusion which is, probably, the most significant aspect of Trump–other than his regime increasing the US debt to new highs. Of course, dear worst-reader, I read the book in February 2018. The book doesn’t really contain anything new as its content pretty-much ends around the fall of 2017. With that in mind, it does feel like the book is the script from which all news is being reported now. Yet some of it kept me almost enthralled.

This book is, at best, a well chronicled history of the first six months to a year of President Stupid and more importantly President Stupid’s… Trump-ism. If you are anti-Trump then you can easily stomach this book. If you’re pro-Trump this book doesn’t matter because, well, like Trump, you probably don’t read anyway. Also, Wolff does a good job of hiding his biases in this book. Yet when one watches him try to sell it on tv or when he appears on the Interwebnets, it might not be so obvious if he is anti-Trump. Oh how the appearance of being objective might help sales. Except, of course, for the child molesting pic he put on the back cover of this book.

Anywho.

Even though I did find myself struggling through chapters here and there, skipping huge parts of Wolff’s attempt at making something interesting that obviously isn’t, I’d recommend this book. Reason? Trump is literally a projection of not just a weak, spoiled mind, but also of an America that is just as rotten. I mean, come on. How else could such a person get elected? And I’m not sure that was Wolff’s intention. This is certainly no prize-redeeming piece of work. Indeed. Wolff has done nothing more than chronicle a huge $hitshow. And he’s done it fairly well.

Good luck suckers.

Rant on.

-T

Hey Comrade! My School Of Greed Is Gonna Kick Your School Of Greed’s A$$

capitalism crisis deepens richard wolff

In order to cope with the two Ms (monotony & mendacity) of growing up in Suburban Hell of my beloved #Americant, I participated–at the duress of my broken family–in two organised sport activities. One of those activities was tennis. And, if I recall correctly, I was actually ranked within the top-100 players of my state during the tennis season of which I participated. Of course, let it be known, I couldn’t serve worth a hoot. Yet I was “ranked”. Yea, that says a lot about organised sports back then–long before the inheriting, under-achieving classes came to be what they’ve become and thereby given us #Trump. But I digress.

The second sport I participated in was Football. And I don’t mean football of the round ball kind. I played American football–where the ball is the proper shape. The reason for the shape? When that ball flies through the air it is either a bullet or a duck–and you better know what you’re doing when it comes your way. And so… There is clarity in (some) sports, dear worst-reader. That clarity is in how a ball can fly like a bullet through the sky.

Although I did participate in a few other sports here and there, e.g., lacrosse, baseball, wrestling, fencing and girls, football is the one that stands out the most in my worst-memory. Ask me if I regret wasting my time on it, I do. Then again, the sport did teach me a bit about participating with others in a so-called “team”. It really is a shame how my beloved #Americant (sport) and her cult of the entrepreneur (the team) have warped the idear of the game in recent years. “Team” for me had a different meaning once. That was the only thing worthwhile about playing football. No a total waste, that is.

Now get this: I learned a few other things while playing American football. For example, my coach used to tell us when we were doing the cardio portion of our daily practice–and we watched those soccer guys in the field next to us run like gazelles all day–that soccer is a game for communists. Can you believe that, dear worst-reader? Here’s how you teach youngsters–back in the day:

Whaaaa’ da heel kaind ah spo’art is it anywho if’n you caint use yer damn hands? It’s a communist spo’art, I tail yee. Dats zackly wha’ it eezz. Damn darn communists! -My Coach

My coach added something about balls shouldn’t be perfectly round anyway. “Nothing is perfect. Check your own,” he said. Of course, being the prepubescent worst-writer I was, during the last two years of wasting mind and body playing football, I actually believed that soccer players were communists. Heck, when I approached some of the guys on the soccer team, I would even ask them:

Say, Comrade, hoist any sickle and spades lately?

But. Again. I digress.

All this worst-talk about communists brings me to my latest read. It is a book by Comrade Richard Wolff. Comrade Wolff is a “professor of economics”. Comrade Wolff has a somewhat interesting presence on the Interwebnets, too. Much of his work can be found at http://www.democracyatwork.info and he even has a monthly podcast called Economics Update where he talks about all things-worst (man to occupy my heart) in this world of capitalism run amok.

At first I didn’t think much about reading this book. There was/is enough of/from Comrade Wolff online already. But then something he said itched me. That itch was Wolff’s academic POV of all-things economic. Better put, he writes and talks a lot about economics as though… Now hold a sec. Get ready for it. Sit down if you got a weak ticker.

Comrade Wolff talks about economics as if it is science.

Now. Did you get that? Let me repeat it just in case, dear worst-reader. According to worst-writer, economics ain’t no science. Instead it is (should be) an academic field within The Arts. But let’s not get too far off the issue of what itches me.

There is one topic that Comrade Wolff keeps comping back to over and over: He is obsessed with the pseudo economic science of Greece and Germania. That’s the real reason I broke down and bought this book. It’s also the reason I read it over a two month period. It’s not that it is hard to read. It is. It’s just that it is boring, too. Boring as boring can be. Boring as wrongly placed academia can be. But then again, so too are all things that try to be scientific that should instead be artsy. And guess what happened after I finally finished the book? Comrade Wolff’s obsession with Greece and Germania is still a mystery to me. Gosh darn it! I hate it when I pick the wrong friggin book!

Allow me to summarise my issue (itch) with Comrade Wolff’s obsession. Comrade Wolff says that Germania is a locomotive. He also says that Greece is a caboose. In case you’re unaware, the caboose is at the back of a choo-choo-train. A caboose is a special, single car that in olden times served as a kind of housing facility for those who worked on the train as it crossed landscapes. And so… Germania is the front of the train and Greece… Well, ok, you get the metaphor.

Btw, if you were to ask me why I expatriated to the EU my third¹ most important reason for doing so would be because of the fascination of witnessing the catastrophe that is an effort to unite something that should never be united as though it were a train crossing some heartily confused landscape. Either that or I am a freak for Schadenfreude?

In #Eurowasteland where the choo-choo-train metaphor can only go so far, that which determines everything… Is the fcuking caboose. -worst-moi after living in this Euro shithole for the last 25 yrs.

Now wait a sec. Comrade Wolff says it another way. Here, try this (pseudo-paraphrase):

The #Eurowasteland caboose is literally a fcuk machine that rides the train. The train is made up of voyeur, perverted nation-states that like gawking at the fcuk-car from the back. And who’s the biggest voyeur of them all? That’s right…

Fcuking Germans!

In his podcast Economic Update I’ve listened to Comrade Wolff lambast the Germans because Greece is an economic disaster. That is, Greece is a disaster, according to Wolff, because of the Germans. IMHO, Comrade Wolff is wrong. Greece’s problems have nothing to do with Germans. Greece has problems because of Greeks. Comrade Wolff likes to focus on banks and bankers and how they take advantage of European pions–all of which is lead by dastardly Germans.

Whaaaaaa?

Worst-writer’s explanation of the Greece problem is much simpler–and much clearer. To paraphrase the great oral tradition now being propagated by #Americants in the form of #Trump: Europe is a shithole and it’s full of shiteaters.

That’s Greece’s problem.

In order to understand Greece and thereby the entirety of #Eurowasteland, aka, Greedland, all one has to do is look at what Europe has given the world. From the Bronze Age to the Renaissance and beyond, we can all thank Europe for mass, systematic, unadulterated greed. Luckily, in recent times, there has been something done to try and mitigate this great gift.

Since WW2 (or maybe it was WW1–who the fcuk is counting?) Europe’s gift to the world has been split into two schools of thought. There is the Anglo-American school (of greed) and there is the Germanic school (of greed). If one looks at the social and political structures of the various confused nations that make up Greedland–from locomotives to the cabooses–it’s easy differentiating between these two schools of greed. It’s also easy to figure out who’s the bigger or biggest Schadenfreud-ist.

Let’s summarise, shall we?

Greece is, out of choice, part of the Anglo-American school (of greed). It is failing miserably as a nation-state because of this choices. Therefore it doesn’t matter if Greece were in the EU, off the coast of the UK or stuck somewhere between Alabama and Montana. Because of its choices, Greece is where it is today. More importantly it doesn’t matter who or what state bank leant money to whom. Greece would be where it is no matter where it was at the end of any train–considering how it has traversed the landscape. Btw, most of southern Europe is failing in the same way as Greece. Those countries too have chosen the Anglo-American greed $hitshow. Which begs the question: Is there enough space at the end of the shit-train for all these fcuking cabooses?

And now for the other school of greed.

Pause. Oh God. Brace Yourself. Here it comes.

Those fcuking Krauts.

The Germania school of greed is not about Germans of old. Can you imagine how things would be if they still wore those stupid, pointy helmets and everybody was named Gunter Leckmichamarsch? No. We’re dealing with new Germans here. And these new Germans got a few things up their slimy sleeves, don’t you know. That’s right. The slime is the one thing that was never defeated in any of those dumba$$ wars, don’t you know. In fact, most of northern Europe likes the slime that is in the German sleeve. Hence northern stoic Europe, compared to the lazy south, is doing just fine. With that in mind, what’s your favourite school of greed?

One shouldn’t look at the caboose to see how the $hitshow train is running. Also, Greece is too minuscule to use as an example of the failures of capitalism. The fact that old Greeks have hoarded everything and thereby practically choked the country to death doesn’t make it an example of what or what not to do. It might just be better (easier) to focus more on human nature–which transcends all of the above–even Comrade Wolff. Again: economics is not science.

Then again, Greece is a good example for something else. Capitalism is nature’s best system for dealing with greed. For Comrade Wolff and so many others like him, everything is easier to decipher when lumped together and thrown into one basket. I guess that’s why I prefer artsy over science (science being the basket). Even though I can sympathise with some of Comrade Wolff’s ranting and raving against capitalism–for I’ve given Marx’s Das Capital a glance or three–he doesn’t really offer any viable alternative other than what all others offer: scapegoating.

Anywho. As usual, I’m off subject. This was supposed to be a quick worst-post about Comrade Wolff’s book:

Capitalism’s Crisis Deepens: Essays on the Global Economic Meltdown.

Wanting to understand Comrade Wolff’s POV regarding Greece was the reason I decided to give this book a read. (Un)fortunately this book only substantiates my belief that economics is a pseudo-science.

And so…

Is there an alternatives to the greed $hitshow (capitalism) we’re all living in today? If so, it’s not in this collection of essays. And. NO! Coops and workers taking over the system isn’t an alternative–which is mostly what Comrade Wolff proposes. If, on the other hand, you’re still kind of suffering from the duck-and-cover trauma of the 60s and 70s and hard-up on avoiding all things communist, then you don’t need to read this book. With that in mind, I’m gonna continue checking the Interwebnets for whatever Comrade Wolff has to offer. Who knows. If he keeps at it, he might figure out an alternative someday.

Good luck with that, Comrades.

Rant on.

-T

I’m sure the first and second can be found somewhere at worstwriter.com ↩︎

Summary Of What Is Wrong With (Your) Everything. Hint: #ConsumeToSurvive

summary of what is wrong with everything

From a book I’ll be pseudo-reviewing soon enough. And too think I’m actually a capitalist… Well, maybe not. No. Wait. I am.

Rant on.

-T

The Not-So-Great Re-Read Of Someone’s History Re-Told Or How Greed Has Made Your $hitshow

a peoples history - howard zinn

A pseudo-review of this book is here. I recently felt compelled to re-read it. Reason? Something has stuck in my head for the last few years based on something I read about this book a few years back. I can’t remember who wrote it–or maybe it was something I even heard someone say–but it went something like this: A People’s History of the United States by Howard Zinn is a book of propaganda.

Whaaaaa? Propaganda?–I thought and thought and thought.

How can such a book be propaganda? All this book does is tell a certain side of a story in a certain way–regarding the history of the United States. It is a point-of-view of the history of the United States. Or? After re-reading it recently, though, especially in the aftermath of the #Trump election that is an abomination, and what’s going on in Charlottesville, VA, I finally realised what someone could mean when making the claim that Zinn’s book is propaganda. And in that vein, allow me to worst-elaborate as only worst-writer can.

My favourite parts of this book are the chapters that cover the history of the US from the Civil War to the end of WW2. I’ve always thought that this time period has determined what #americant is today. In essence, between 1865 to 1945 the United States finally cut the umbilical cord to Europe and set out on its own–as a small rodent prodigy. Luckily, that rodent prodigy, via the genetic and historical proximity of its birth, was endowed with two things that would determine THE future of the western world.

It was born with a really big cock and
It was born with a really little brain.

Coincidentally, such a combination, in order to grow, needed two more things.

Lots of fcuking (see/hear “American Woman” by Lenny Kravitz!) and
something to busy its little mind.

I know. I know, dear worst-reader. Fcuking and thinking haven’t proven to be a good combination–considering the human condition. Which also means, according to worst-writer, my beloved #americant achieved its greatness within a grand divide–a juicy oyster-like crevice, if you will–that is between two human acts that are mutually exclusive, especially when compared to other species on this earth.

Big dicks and little brains. Let the magic begin, eh ladies!

The other grand thing that happened between 1865 and 1945–according to what I got out of Howard Zinn’s book–was that the little brain of America was being programmed to think in one very particular small-brain way–which may or may not coincide with the size of genitalia. The ideology of GREED was being permanently embedded in the American psyche after the Civil War. And not just embedded. It was made part of the whole–the whole idear of America–which, IMHO, was/is the only way to get around avoiding facing the reality that is our original sin (slavery). Howard Zinn doesn’t go anywhere near the reality of GREED in his historical re-counting. He simply narrates a somewhat left of centre point-of-view regarding racism, capitalism and a love for all-things greed. And that’s where the crux of Zinn’s book runs awry. Or. Put another way. I’ve finally figure how some people can consider Howard Zinn a propagandist.

One of the motivating factors for writing this post is wanting to expand one of my recent tweets. This tweet was motivated after reading about what’s been going on in Charlottesville, VA. A place I know well, btw. In fact, I lived in various parts of VA in my youth. It is a place I was glad to leave. It is a place I never care to return to. But enough about worst-moi. Below is the tweet I wish to worst-expand on:

https://twitter.com/worstwriter/status/896416691802050560

Allow me the following question: what does the racism and stupidity of white supremacists in Charlottesville, VA, have to do with Howard Zinn being a propagandist? The answer, I fear, is easy. It’s all just a matter of perspective, of point-of-view, of racists being tired of being discriminated against. I mean, shouldn’t everyone have their say? Shouldn’t even stupid white people and their stupid politics and their well-earned poverty (yes, they’ve earned their poverty!) have a say? That about sums up how #americant can get to where it’s at… after the fcuking Civil War. Whose turn is it to have their say? For right wingers, Howard Zinn had his say (in his book). Since he had his say, others, not unlike the white supremacists of Charlottesville, VA, deserve to have their say, too. Ain’t that how it works, dear worst-reader? One side of the political spectrum wins. Then the other side wins. In-between there is faux newz, Rush Limbaugh, David Duke. Indeed. Really, really stupid white people start gathering after having spent most of their lives living in the wake of their fail-upward belief in a system that has ultimately duped them to the hilt of both mind and cock. This is all way better than openly avoiding (our) original sin.

Greed + small brains = …

It’s all a matter of perspective.

If one reads through some of the book reviews that are quoted on the Wiki page about Zinn’s book, there is one common theme that runs through all of them. Those who praise Zinn are from the left. Those who do not praise him are NOT from the left. For those who think that the political left and right are two threads that may or may not run through what people say about Zinn, I reckon I can’t argue with you on that. That’s because I see the left and right as one these days. Especially considering where my beloved #americant is in its current political iteration. With that in mind, #Trump didn’t win the election. The other politician, the one who would have obviously been better, simply threw the whole thing to the $hitshow. But don’t misunderstand me here, dear worst-reader. I’m not making false equivalencies either. But. But. But. If you want there to be two parties battling over what you want to believe in, that’s your problem. Seriously. It is your problem.

We are dealing with Everything and the All of #americant, dear worst-reader. Whether it’s love, family, community, church, government, etc., etc., greed is what makes the whole $hitshow function. Greed is what makes people stupid enough to allow white supremacists, in fcuking 2017, to protest their right to take their country back–and, of course, make it great again! Up till the end of the 20th century, America did a pretty good job of managing all this greed. I mean, there was enough (greed) to go around. When, for whatever reason the barrel of greed that is #americant ran out, like our original sin, just avoid it–no matter what the means as long as all that’s left are big dicks and little brains.

If Howard Zinn is a propagandist, I’m good with that. Reason? I’d rather read his version of history than that which is being written now by those with LITTLE dicks and little brains. Re-reading this book can never be the wrong thing to do.

Rant onwards, suckers.

-T

Welcome To The Pseudo Science Of Your World, Your Pocket Book, Your Mind

j is for junk economics cover.jpg

Freedom? Ok. Let’s define it. (Long pause. Think. Continue pause.)

Money?

Travel?

Beauty & Fashion (as per Melania Trump’s RNC speech)?

In my quest to misunderstand this worst-world we must all live in, I periodically read a book or three about economics. Most of these books usually carry a bit of narration with them and leave out all the academic bullshit. That’s the only way I can get through them. This newest endeavour, though, is a bit different. For one, it doesn’t have much narration in it. It’s also a bit overly academic. I mean, it has X-Y charts and graphs that depict whatever it is the author tried to say using words–which, I guess, makes the imagery redundant. Or? Nomatter. There is something in this book that has saved it from ending up stuffed in the back of one of my bookshelves with a sad-face post-it note on its cover. Two-thirds of this book is a dictionary. And a pretty interesting dictionary at that. The rest of it is made up of various articles and essays by the author–most of which lost me because they were, well, too academic.

So me let me try that again. What the hell is freedom?

Answer: I have no fucking clue what freedom is.

From the day I was born to this very moment, other than spitting on a street and telling a teacher once how stupid s/he was, I have no idear what freedom is. And keep in mind, I was born and raised in #americant–you know, that city-on-hill where dreams come true and liberty reigns for all–i.e. as long as you have the money to pay for it. By the time I got to “F” in this pseudo-dictionary-book about the debacle that is today’s Economics, I was hoping that the author would define the word freedom for me. But he didn’t. Instead, Michael Hudson defines “free trade”, “free market” and “free lunch”. He also defines things like earned and unearned income. Then there’s his definition of productive vs. unproductive labor. Etc, etc. Of course he also defines Junk Economics, hence the title.

Michael Hudson goes through the whole economic alphabet and defines lots of other words by telling you what you think they mean–because of how you’ve heard or read about them, on, say, faux news or CNN or whatever it is you use to get informed about how fucked up the world is. And then he tells you what these words actually mean. In other words, according to what I got out of this book, Economics, per the author, is a pseudo-science. Ka-ching, baby!

Which brings me to my own little conclusion after reading this book:

Astrology ——-> Astronomy
Alchemy ———> Chemistry
Economics ——-> ????

The subtitle of this book is “A Guide to Reality in an Age of Deception”. Now, dear worst-reader, what could an #americant economics professor mean by that subtitle? Indeed. The thread that permeates this entire book is the simple fact that Americans are being fed pseudo-science when it comes to economics, just like mankind was fed Astrology as it tried to figure out why certain heads go bald, rain didn’t fall when it should or how come I work and don’t get nothing for it? I suppose some would call the words we hear about economics today Orwellian, which Hudson refers to at times. But others, present worst-writing company included, would call it: land of the free to be stupid. So I guess that’s what freedom means. Or?

One of the roots of all the problems of the world today is none other than the misuse of words. Hence, newspeak, doublespeak, Orwell, etc., should be at the top of anyone’s mind when s/he thinks finding answers is out there. Either that or it’s time to move on. Which brings me to one final question. As noted above, if the pseudo-science of Astrology lead to the science of Astronomy, where will/can the pseudo-science of Economics lead?

But I digress.

Rant on.

-T

Becoming What We Defeat

days of destruction days of revolt cover.jpg

The chapters of this book are titled Days Of…

Theft
Siege
Devastation
Slavery
Revolt

Each chapter of this book takes place in a particular city or town of my beloved #americant. Each chapter goes deeper than the previous into the negative of what makes a once great country no longer great again. And each chapter features characters that were interviewed by Chris Hedges. But before I get into the good, first this. The only problem I have with this book is 1) other than the chapter Days of Revolt, it doesn’t really inform (me) about what is going on back home that I didn’t already know and 2) the comics–or as others might put–the graphic novel sections of this book–felt to me to be more in the way than on the way. I guess I’m not a fan of comics–sorry, graphic novels. But I am interested in reading and/or owning the graphic novel Watchmen–and I already own Maus. But I digress.

I read Hedge’s American Fascist and Empire of Illusion a few years ago. Since then I’ve been reading his articles on truthdig.com. Unfortunately, not much from his books have stuck with me. That’s not because of Hedges, though. In fact, I’m a big fan of his speeches that are numerous on youtube. It’s just that, well, I guess I’ve started to lose my intellect. Either that or I just don’t give a sh*t anymore (about certain things). I suppose, in a way, I can easily blame such a loss on the frequency that I visit my beloved #americant or the amount of stuff I read about it (her)–which has been quite a bit since my step-father past and my mother isn’t getting any younger and #eurowasteland politics bores the krapp out of me. Indeed. Each visit to my beloved homeland has been scarier and scarier and scarier. My most recent visit, just last month, set new heights regarding what can come of a nation suffering from something that is no less than pathological. America really is starting to look and feel like a land of zombies. In fact, I bought Days of Destruction, Days of Revolt to accompany the trip.

I managed to read two-thirds of the book on the flight to PHL and within the first few days of my arrival. Then I got sick as a dog as the weather in Maryland was worse than in Germany. I mean, I froze my butt off the first few days I was there. And it’s not that I’m not used to cold weather. I guess I’m not used to going from far north Germania, where it was warm, to somewhat southerly Atlantic coast Maryland and freezing my a$$ off. So. Yeah. I got sick. And then I got caught up in the all work I’m supposed to do when visiting my mom. It’s just that my sickness didn’t want to go away. Of my two week visit, I was out of it for almost ten days with the worst head-cold and flu that I’ve had in years. I ended up finishing this book when I got back to Germany. But, again, I digress.

By-the-bye, I got lost in Camden, NJ, once, which is featured in one of the chapters of this book, after I switched my Atlantic flight destination from Dulles Airport to PHL (from Frankfurt). Back then there was no GPS to guide me and I made a few wrong turns leaving PHL and the next thing I know I’m in NJ. Aghast! Other than the panic that ensued being a caucasian driving a rental car through Camden, I remember vividly the landscape of #americant that was nothing new to me. It was just another broken place. In fact, a city like Camden looked as familiar as the small coal mining town my step-father grew up in that has been decimated like any other with mine and plant closings galore. To me, these places are all part of Reganomics and neoliberal greed politics that #americants have been voting for–a world that I was able to get out of so many years ago. As I follow all the goings-on back home, it’s sometimes hard to have mercy on those who are obviously too stupid to see what they are doing to themselves. I guess, in a way, I saw it all coming–first hand! Camden, NJ, is everywhere in the US. It’s everywhere there’s an abandoned strip mall, more potholes than asphalt on highways, it’s in every dive-bar where jaundice drunks occupy the rundown churches as much as the rundown Walmarts and every–EVERYONE!–is screaming about making something great again. Yes. Everywhere.

With that in mind, this book didn’t do much for me on the learning front. Except for the last chapter. Indeed. The last chapter, Days of Revolt, saved this book because I haven’t read enough about the Occupy Movement that, to me, seemed to come and go as fast as a rational thought on #americant cable TV news. On top of that, Hedges manages to make a connection that has been lingering in the back of my mind for years. When people ask me “why Germany” I usually just tell them it’s because of the girls and the beer. But sometimes I’ll break down and give them the real reason. It was the fall of the Berlin Wall in 1989 that brought me to my expatriation–because I was right in the middle of it. And it was not just the joy of living in the end of the Cold War. It was the fact that the idear of authoritarian rule was finally gonna end. In those days I never thought in terms of America being the centre of the universe–whether it’s great or great-again. To me, the idear of how the people in Eastern Europe were able to discard the authority of The Soviets without violence was beyond mesmerising. Never in my wildest childhood Cold War dreams did I think it could happen. And even though the whole movement didn’t start in East Germany, the fall of that Wall will forever be my beacon. And then there’s the connection I started to make–not unlike Hedges makes in the final chapter of this book.

A quarter century has passed since the fall of the Berlin Wall. Neoliberalism is rampant and unabated in the western world not unlike an opposite ideology was rampant in Eastern Europe thirty years ago. The result of having gotten rid of the authoritarian rule of Eastern Europe and the Soviet Union hasn’t quite turned out to be what it should be. Or? In my worst-opinion, the west has become the thing we defeated. Hedges manages to see this in the last chapter of this book. And so. I’ve always wondered where are the revolutionists that would call out the West for what it has become. Is that revolutionist Chris Hedges? It might just be. Or was it the movement that came and went with the Wall Street Occupiers in Liberty Square, NY, in 2011? I don’t know. What I do know, though, is that there is a heavy irony when considering what #americant has done to itself and subsequently the world since the fall of the Soviet Union. Just look deeply at our response to September 11, 2001, including the subsequent largest government expansion since… And check out those bank bailouts and the amount of consumer credit run amok. And then there’s the recent election that has given the world Trump & awe….

Why has no one been able to see the connection to a not-so-distant past with all that has happened in this still somewhat young new century? Ok. At least Chris Hedges has seen it. I think I have too. So. What the heck. Let history repeat itself.

Good luck suckers.

Rant on.

-t

Who Eats Who And What Is On Third

the devils chessboard cover.png

“We Kennedys eat Rockefellers for breakfast.”

Imagine Robert Kennedy saying that. Imagine the vehemence that could fill the air once those words were published. Imagine the Kennedy and Rockefeller families with a slight twist: they are the Hatfields and the McCoys. Or just just forget all that and go back to third grade (or maybe fifth or sixth or seventh–or, at the least, never graduate above the sophomoric). In a system that has thrived on greed and allure–both being the catalyst for the economics of trickle down–it’s a wonder that more #americants haven’t slaughtered themselves as trickle down withers to zero. But then again, with what’s going on in Oregon these days, maybe there is something out there that might cause a mass wake up. Most certainly the death (slaughter) of the Kennedy family woke no one up. Yet, worst-writer can’t help but question where all this nonsense comes from. Nonsense being best defined through the behaviour of people, the behaviour of a nation. It is said that a persons true character comes through in a time of crisis. Does the same apply to a nation? But I digress. §I came across the book The Devil’s Chessboard through an interview I watched with the author here back in October. Recent travel meant I had to fill my Kindle and this book made the list. Of course, I was skeptical about buying it but something did stand out based on the above referenced interview. The interview did give off a hint of conspiracy-theory but David Talbot was able to convince me that this piece of work had something more to it. In my quest to maintain as rational a mind as possible, it’s hard at times to sift through the nonsense that is #americant without falling prey to conspiracy theory. The advent of faux newz on the one hand and the long standing mindlessness of conspiracy-theory on the other, it’s a wonder that the country hasn’t fallen prey to some blonde blue-eyed dictator. Or has it? I, for one, never thought much about the conspiracy to kill JFK but the Warren Report didn’t make much of an impression either. Yet the movie by Oliver Stone changed all that. Now don’t get me wrong. The JFK assassination isn’t the same conspiracy-theory as the moon landing. The Zapruder film saw to that. But there is something about all the unanswered questions regarding JFK that the government covered up. I mean, “cover-up” is really the only thing we know that happened. Or? Nomatter. §David Talbot does something different. He’s actually explaining a mindset in this book. He takes a new angle on trying to explain a mindset, a rationale, of how certain people within the upper echelons of government and (big) business actually think. That such a way of thinking could lead to the assassination of Kennedy is a bit far-fetched–and Talbot doesn’t make that direct link. But what he does make clear is that JFK did represent a new way of thinking in America. And that way of thinking was counter to how a few other people thought. Is that then the reason he was killed? What exactly was JFK’s way of thinking? §Enter Allen Dulles, the CIA and a bunch of old, conniving white men who are stuck in the mind of a ten year old that has Howitzers sticking out of every orifice. What to do with those Howitzers, eh? I guess–so goes their rationale–one has to put them to some kind of use otherwise they’d just be a waste. And so. The mindset of adult-children with cannons sticking out of their arses has taken over a once great nation-state. Which means all we can say now is: it was fun while it lasted. Or? Indeed. The Devil’s Chessboard is a bit of a bore to read–if you know anything about American history and American foreign policy. Yet I stayed in the book because of how the author was able to weave a single thread through it from beginning to end. That thread is the idea that a certain way of thinking is what rules the show. It’s not so much about politics, parties or individuals running things. America is run by a way of thinking. And not only is there one way of thinking but a different way of thinking will not be tolerated. This is how the system conspires, how it perpetuates. And since most Americans have fallen for the lie of trickle-down no other way of thinking can prevail. Which brings me to #americant. If anything is true/real about David Talbot’s book, it’s the fact that America still has a chance. It has a chance to break free from the singularity that rules it today. And even though Talbot doesn’t go anywhere near trying to explain that, he does masterfully explain the mindset of one of the rulers, one of the powers-that-be, a man who’s way of thinking is the reason there is so much demagoguery, right-wing batshit, faux newz, and/or militiamen fighting for “rights” they never had in the first place. Or maybe not. Rant on. -Tommi

Science Fiction Saves The Middle East

Der Heimatlose: Heimatlosigkeit is das schöne Gefühl, in der Welt zu Hause zu sein.

The Displaced: being displaced is the comforting feeling of being at home with the world.

First. Dear worst-reader, I’m no book critic–even though I probably should be. I mean. I’ve read a thing or three about writers who never made it but ended up being book critics. Or do they end up being journalists, bloggers, drunks? Nomatter. I finally got around to reading my friend’s new novel The Golan Marathon. I’ve obviously got a few things to say about it and as a pseudo writer who might end up with a swollen liver, that may or may not be a good thing. Btw, I read Yassin’s first novel, which I blogged about here. Before I get to this new book, I have to worst-write a bit about what’s been going on for the past few months where I’ve barely blogged and even found myself brain dead in the realm of micro-blogging, aka twitter–which I usually don’t put much effort into anyway (as any tweeter can tell). And so. For those interested in The Golan Marathon, scroll down. For those who wish to waddle through more worst-writing… Good luck.

Second. I’ve been traveling. Actually, let me put that another way. My better half has been traveling–and I’ve been allowed to travel with her. Which means, other than being a failed writer–or is it a wannabe writer?–I usually join my better half for travel because she needs me to carry her luggage. Which is ok. Husband luggage carrier is also a career. Or? And. Free flights to Asia and Africa ain’t such a bad perk either. Nor do I mind sitting in economy while she enjoys the view from business class. The other good thing is, traveling ain’t such a hindrance to my work on account

I’ve got an ageing but fully functional laptop plus an ageing and poorly functional iPad4 (which Apple is making obsolete because of its stupid iOS updates) and
I actually like typing on airplanes–even virtual typing on airplanes with an iPad.

Btw, my better-half’s luggage has a nickname. I call it the weight of kill-man-jar-oh.

(Short pause. Breath.)

Third. I had a ghostwriting deadline for mid November. I suppose it doesn’t matter that I got the assignment way back in July. Although I thought I could manage the travel and the work since then, the thing I can’t manage is the procrastination. This caused me to go into panic mode by the end of October when we started travelling. The only thing to do at that point is shut down all extra curricular activity. In other words, shut down anything requiring brain work that doesn’t charge per page. Of course, the most significant thing I had to shutdown was reading. For you see, when I read I really, really read. Sometimes it fully occupies me–even more so than the occupation of following each letter with my forefinger and moving my lips in sync with the words on the page. And if you think that’s bad, get a load of me when I’m reading German. I’m a royal mess when I read German. After all these years I still find it tortuous. And so. It breaks my heart when I have to put down a book on account I have to make a living. It’s like leaving a movie right in the middle. But so is life, eh dear worst-reader! With that in mind, I had to stop reading The Golan Marathon when I was about half way through it. Damn! I had to put it down for almost three weeks. Luckily I got back to it. Yeah, I got back to it.

Thoughts on The Golan Marathon by Yassin Nasri.

Heimatlose is German for displaced person. I had to look that up at leo.org. In a different context the word Heimatlos (without the ‘e’) means homeless-person. Confused yet? Don’t worry. It doesn’t get any worse. Unless, of course, the author decides to use words like Schwer–another confusing German word that I post about here. But that’s enough about how difficult German can be.

The year is 2033. The Syrian conflict is over. The pointy-eared, weasel-eyed dictator Assad is long gone. What is left is for Andy to find some roots. So he travels from Germany, where he was raised, to Syria, where his family is from. What Andy finds, though, is not what he expected. He not only gets caught up in the past of his family but he also realises that there is an alternative world out there. An alternative world that is ultimately an idea–and I will assume that it is a grand idea directly from the soul of the author. Luckily the idea is simple. It goes something like this. There is a unified, peaceful middle east by the year 2033. In this world there are guys and dolls who hang out, are cool and they all use futuristic gadgets like Google Glass and Apple’s Siri. Heck, there are even electric cars that rival Tesla. Yes, Yassin has created a world. And not just any world. A world of ideas.

At other times while I was reading this book I kept getting confused. And not just confused because I was reading it in German. I was getting confused about where this story takes place: Syria and the middle east. A place where, these days, there aren’t very many ideas. Is it possible that the middle east can someday find peace and harmony where young people from Israel and Syria can hang out at cafés and wear t-shirts with political statements? Really? Andy, Yassin Nasri’s alter-ego, makes the impossible possible. Andy dallies through Syria as though he’s sitting on a flying carpet and the world is his sweet date. In fact, I’m so convinced of the impossible after reading this book, that I can’t wait to go to Aleppo or Damascus… and just hang out. If all goes well, I might even still be alive in 2033 to do just that. I mean. Come on, dear worst-reader. A story has been written that perfectly describes peace and harmony in a place that reality dictates must be war-torn and kaputt? Yeah. Is this book a first of its kind? For me, at least, I think it is.

Once again my hat is off to Yassin. This book is a wondrous achievement in the genre of science fiction, the middle east and optimism. What a combination.

Rant on.

-Tommi

Notes From Underhuman

Thoughts this morn about Dostoyevsky’s Notes From Underground. I’ve been enjoying the taste, feel and smell of this 1972 paperback for the past few weeks. I think I acquired it while visiting London in 1995. Obviously it’s not dealing with age and dryness but neither am I. Funny thing is, I’ve already gone through three or four rubber-bands to keep it together. Looks like I won’t be reading The Double anytime soon. Oh well.

To begin, here’s the intro from the author where he, for whatever (literary) reason, feels the need to qualify his work.

“The author of these Notes, and the Notes themselves, are both, of course, imaginary. All the same, if we take into consideration the conditions that have shaped our society, people like the writer not only may, but must, exist in that society. I have tried to present to the public in a more striking from than is usual a character belonging to the very recent past, a representative figure from a generation still surviving. In the chapter entitled ‘The Underground’ this personage introduces himself and his outlook on life, and tries, as it were, to elucidate the causes that brought about, inevitably brought about, his appearance in our midst. In the second section we follow this personage’s memoirs of some of the happenings in his life.” -Fyodor Dostoyevsky

What’s the saying about Russian novels? If you’re happy–don’t read one. As far as this worst-reader goes, since happiness is over-rated, you’d think the likes of Dostoyevsky would be for me. But the truth is, after reading The Idiot so many years ago, I’ve spent more time staring at my old copy of The Brothers Karamazov than reading it. (Ok. I’ve read parts of it and plan on reading it whole. Someday. Maybe.) Like most of Dostoyevsky’s work, the biggest hurdle is not his subject matter or its depth but instead the winded, drivelling, unending sentences, not excluding multiple page single paragraphs. I mean, come on, you gotta be smart to read this guy–or?

When I can get through the sentences, two things happen (in my worst-mind) while doing so. First. If aliens ever come down to visit and they want to know what it is to be human, they should read Dostoyevsky (or Gogol). Second. After Dostoyevsky, and living in #eurowasteland for so long, I’ve concluded that no one knows The European better than the big D. Yeah, baby. That’s right. The only way to understand The European is to read depressing Russian novels of yesteryore. And what is The European, you ask. How ’bout this. Bureaucracy. Greed. War. Clans. Fascism. Authoritarianism. Genocide. Etc., etc. All the industry, farmers, cheese, booze, classical music, cars, art and architecture, theatre, etc., etc., pale in comparison to the death, destruction and human waste The European has given humanity. Seriously. All of the world’s problems stem out of the inhumane death and greed culture that is The European. And before you attack me regarding America–heed this. America is not just bluejeans and Hollywood, war and money, different kinds of cheese, art and fascism, and let’s not forget, the new world and the land of the free (to be stupid). That’s just a front, a story, a narrative. America is The European thru and thru. In fact, it is The European version 2.0. Did I mention how we all need to be so thankful to The European for imperialism?

It was/is The European mindset that slaughtered the Indians of North America. It was that mindset that fought the silly clan war known as the American Civil War, igniting it all because The European needed slaves to build its new world. It was that mindset that perverted capitalism and turned the northern hemisphere into a cult of self perpetuating greed and death. Indeed, dear worst-reader. When I read Dostoyevsky that’s what I get out of his writing. And it feels kinda good to read it these days, as though something inside me is vindicated, as though, after all these years in Europe, among these The Europeans, I can finally read him. Yeah. Maybe it is time to get on with Karamazov. Or maybe not.

Notes From the Underground is short novel about the narrator who can’t control his anger and frustration while trying to exist in the blossoming automaton world of late 19th century (far eastern) Europe. I’ve read on the Interwebnets that some think this work is the beginning of existentialism–but I have no idear what that is supposed to mean. All I know is, if you could bring the narrator of this story to life, you could put him right in the middle of the corporate world; he’d fit perfectly. Even though there is a huge amount of anger and confusion rolled up inside him, he is docile and weak on the outside; he seems to stand for nothing except musings about Russian soil. His ego is so overblown that when he argues with comrades and ends up challenging one to a duel, no one even shows up for it. Instead they all go about their meaningless, automaton lives in the(ir) bureaucracies, the(ir) cafés, the(ir) dinning halls of sloth and gluttony. And just like the automatons in the corporate world, the narrator himself is fluff and meaninglessness–all on the verge of sissy tears–just like all those soccer “men” who fall down on the field like gurly-girls in order to find an advantage. Yet, does the narrator find meaning in his search? The question hasn’t changed since the late 19th century. The automatons find meaning in what ever they deem fit. They find it in their arrogance. They find it in that other great European pastime that is the opposite of humility–misbegotten pride. They find it in their nationalism, tribalism, clans.

The earth knows no noses higher than those noses in Europe. (-tommi)

This is a quaint story to read. I rather enjoyed it–long sentences or not. I felt a kinship with the narrator–or was it empathy? Nomatter. The important thing to keep in mind about it is that there is contempt between “the author of these notes” and “the notes themselves” (see quote at beginning of post). Dostoyevsky is obviously extremely judgemental of his surroundings yet he never quite reveals why. There is something naive about how he writes this. Or maybe it’s carelessness. I don’t mean his prose, though. His ability to transcribe the mind’s eye is flawless. It’s just the subject matter he’s addressing that gets me. It’s as though he created the narrater in order to just mock everything about the world he’s forced to live in–The European world. Either way he is judging society by portraying its components and how they interact in the most banal of all settings.

“We Russians, generally speaking, have never been stupid transcendental romantics of the German, or especially the French, kind, who are not affected by anything; the earth may crack under their feet, all France may perish on the barricades, but they remain the same, they won’t make the slightest change even for the sake of decency, but still go on singing their transcendental hymns right up, one might say, to the grave, because they are fools. But here, on Russian soil, there are not fools, as everybody knows: that is what distinguishes us from all the other, Germanic, countries.” -Notes From Underground, FD

There is something eerily profound about what Dostoyevsky is getting at in this short novel–that I may be confusing with my own worst-prejudices. And. As usual. I’m not sure I understand any of anything I read. But he makes me think of the wave of revolution that preoccupied Europe before and after Dostoyevsky. Before Dostoyevsky I’m referring, of course, to the French Revolution. In its essence wasn’t the French Revolution not just an attempt break the chains of feudalism and monarchy, but also an attempt to subvert The European? In a lesser attempt, the Russian revolution–which emulated the French–tried to do the same thing. Is there no irony in the fact that both those revolutions lost and who was the winner? In Russia, The European turned to authoritarian communism embodied by Stalin and the Soviets. In western Europe, The European turned to predatory capitalism disguised in the bullshit called socialism. I couldn’t help but feel that Dostoyevsky was alluding to this level of human failure that could only come from the mindset that is The European. The people he argued with, the female he so clumsily fell in love with, the servant he couldn’t stand up to, etc. They all represent The European. And like all Europeans, the story just reaches the last page. Or something like that.

Rant on. -Tommi

As I Die Laying

It takes two people to make you, and one people to die. That’s how the world is going to end. -Darl

Took me a while. Can’t remember exactly when I bought the book. But I do remember buying it in Frankfurt off the Leipziger Strasse near the university. I also remember reading Faulkner in College so many years ago. Can’t say the memories are fond, though. I think we read some of his short stories. Nomatter. As far as reading him goes, Faulkner is not unlike Hemingway (to me) even though the two are über different writers (personalities?) When I was younger I just couldn’t get through either one. The pages confused me. The writing cadence (is there such a thing?) through me off. Hemingway had a way of just boring me with his endless narrations of things seen (or not). Faulkner’s writing style threw me off, too. Something about stream of consciousness, perhaps. Or it had something to do with school, the pressures of grades, judgement, $hitbag professor so-n-so. Reading Faulkner in order to write a paper for a professor never did me any good, that’s for sure. Not that I’m cutting on professors or schools. (Or am I?) But I have often thought about whether or not writers realise what is done with their work at university level. Ruin comes to my worst-mind, don’t you know.

A few weeks back I decided to give my library a thorough one-over, including dusting. In doing so I also created a nice little database of my books. Been wanting to do that for years. Luckily technology has caught up to my wants. Found an app for my iPad that scans a books bar-codes. Works like a charm, too. If there are no bar-codes, as is the case with this old paperback, then all I have to do is input the ISBN number and the app locates that. But I’m off subject.

ripped page — Copy not in the best shape. Missed a page.

I picked up this old paperback with the idear it was time to try again. (Btw, I’ll be trying the same with Hemingway soon.) And although it was slow reading, it seems I’ve finally found a way in–to Mr. Faulkner. Maybe. Here’s my first impression.

Faulkner writes As I Lay Dying with a vengeance. Even though I was only able to get through one or two chapters with every sitting, I looked forward to the next time I opened the book. The breaks in-between allowed me (my mind) to breath from the Anstrengung. Yet Faulkner has a style, a cadence, if you will, that is tumultuous. I don’t know if its because of his ability to write as his characters actually speak or if its getting my mind to play along with the accents of the southern characters he’s portraying–accents that I know so well. In fact, I found it sometimes easier to read the text out-loud. My better half would often tell me to stop moving my lips while reading. “It means you’re stupid,” she’d say. Reading this book out-loud stopped my mind from having to think about each word written, how they were placed, what chisel he used, etc. Having grown up around rednecks and Das Volk that aren’t the brightest stars in the heavens, the sound of Faulkner’s words were easier to speak than to read. Wait. The probably doesn’t make much sense.

Not only have I read what is probably one of the greatest books ever written but I feel as though it speaks to me, as is the case with a few other books/writers. Umberto Echo is one. The Master And Margarita is another (a book I must re-read, btw). Not sure when I’ll get to it but Faulkner’s The Sound And The Fury is on my list now. That said, this book, as difficult as it is, is a joy. Supposedly written in a matter of weeks while Faulkner was working at a power plant, it was also submitted “as is” for publication. Italics are used in the text which I can only assume indicate some form of correction, collation, etc., and was set by the publisher. Other parts of the text have obvious grammar issues but I suppose that has to do with Faulkner re-creating the jargon of his characters. Although there is much said about this book, I’m wondering if all the sayers missed something. Or maybe I haven’t read enough about it. Nomatter.

For example. There is one thread that binds As I Lay Dying together. Although many consider it a brilliant portrayal of a downtrodden American family coping as best it can with circumstance, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of cynicism on the part of the author regarding that family. But is Faulkner also a cynic regarding the American ideal? What is portrayed in this book is not just a clumsy group of half-wits facing uncertainty. Faulkner is sharing a point of view regarding how Americans cope with that same, ever existing, uncertainty.

The death of the matriarch requires that the family trek her un-embalmed corpse for nine summer days so she can be buried in her hometown. The way Faulkner describes how they build her coffin, the text even includes a small drawing, is brilliant. But because the mother wanted to be buried in her wedding dress, they think they have to lay her up-side-down so that the dress won’t be crushed by the shape of the coffin. Imagine a bumbling group of half-wits trying to figure that out! Because of wild weather and a flooded river the family not only shows its lack of cognitive ability but also its self-destructive nature. Crossing the river causes great loss plus a broken leg for one of the sons. The fact that the father eventually pours concrete on the broken leg to try and stabilise it, well, that also says a great deal about intelligence.

Let’s see. What happens next? Oh yeah. The daughter is sexually abused by a family acquaintance on the trip and her prescribed naiveté plus ten dollars isn’t enough to get her an abortion. And here’s the real kicker. Although they make it to the mother’s wished final resting place, there is very little written about the funeral. Instead the father 1) meets a new wife and 2) with the ten dollars his daughter was given for her abortion, of which her naiveté won’t allow her to speak about it, the father takes the ten dollars to get new teeth. Indeed. That’s kinda hi-larry-us. Obviously. The best of the American family isn’t quite best enough, eh, dear worst-reader.

It seems to worst-moi that there are three ways to portray the American “family”. There’s the funny way, there’s the sad way and then there’s the violent way. Funny and violent seem to mix well. The Sopranos comes to mind. Portraying the American family sad is a bit more difficult to do. I mean, who wants to watch reality? But I’m sure there are examples out there. To categorise the Bundren family this way might be a bit belittling. And that’s ok. The text, the challenging way it is written, makes up for it all. Or?

But my mother is a fish. -Vardaman

Once again, probably for lack of proper (academic) training, and as much as I enjoyed reading this book, I can’t help but consider it a criticism of America and the ideals that permeate the American mindset. Portraying the family as a unit that must depend on its ability to rationalise any situation can only mean that it is as strong as its weakest link–I mean it’s as strong as its weakest thinker. Or maybe not. I don’t know what to say about this book and I’ve already said too much. But that’s what I do.

Rant on. -t

Deep In Me

Deep: Freediving, Renegade Science And What The Ocean Tells Us About Ourselves, by James Nestor

At first it was difficult for me to share the astonishment and shock James Nestor expresses upon his initialisation to the world of freediving. I’ve been a fan and admirer of it for years. Ever since I was a kid I dreamed of swimming deeper and further, the ocean being the ultimate gateway. When there was no ocean around pools, lakes and rivers served me just fine. Up until a a few years ago I could hold my breath easily for more than two minutes. I used to go to the bottom of five meter pools and just lay there until I was forced to go back up and suck on that ugly teat of life. But up I went because I new that all I had to do was take a deeper breath and I could go back down to my tranquility. Of course, the deepest part of pools was usually under some diving board area. Before I could get enough tranquility someone would always come over to me and ask that I stop what I was doing because I was in the way of those wanting to use the diving board. Safety, rules, regulations come first, eh? I would nod to the local-yocal policing-person–you know the type: the person in a public place that can’t mind her/his own bidness. In the back of my mind I would tell that person to fuck-off, hoping, wishing, that fireworks would burn out of his ass. Then, for shits & giggles–and for my exit from tranquility–I’d take a deep breath, find my way to the bottom of the pool, close my eyes and slowly crawl along the edge, away from the diving board area, up the slope to the one meter swimming area, the whole time following the ocean that is the lie of my mind.

When I was a kid we used to camp along the Indian River Inlet in Rehoboth, DE. The inlet was a great place for fishing because of how it was artificially maintained. Huge boulders and rocks lined the inlet making it both a home and a hunting ground–besides providing access to the ocean. The constant turbulence of seawater being exchanged from the Atlantic and the brackish water from the Indian River Bay made it a lazy fisherman’s dream. There were times you could cast a line with a worm rig and within minutes you’d be reeling in Tautog or Black Drum. But there was a catch to fishing there. Those fancy lures and hooks would get caught on the rocks of the inlet. You were guaranteed to lose rigs. You could hear the fisherman at times cursing the rocks. Which brings me to my first scuba experience.

My stepfather started scuba in the mid to early sixties. He owned all his own gear, including regulator and tank–stuff that looked like it was right out of an early Bond movie. I’d strap on that tank, throw the mouth piece of the two stage regulator hose over my head and started sucking. “Breath normal,” he’d say. “And don’t leave the rocks.” I filled my mask with spit, wipe the glass, and then covered my face. I wore thick plastic gloves so that the hooks wouldn’t pierce my skin and strap-on sandals to protect my feet. Other than that I wore a bathing suit. I would submerge myself without fins–because I wasn’t supposed to swim anywhere, just pull and/or walk along the boulders a few feet under the surface. I’d go under and in a few minutes return with a handful of perfectly useable and sellable fishing rigs. I paid for a lot of rides and cotton candy at Ocean City, MD, boardwalk that summer by selling those rigs. Cool.

It took twenty-five years before I would strap on scuba gear again. My better-half, who was already a master diver when I met her, was skeptical (as all Germans are) when I told her that I would gladly get certified to go diving with her. Part of her skepticism was that it took her, even after getting certified, about fifty dives before she felt comfortable at depth. Within a few days, in the middle of late winter in Germany, I got my scuba certification–diving in a lake in Hessen that was almost frozen. Needless to say, I quickly proved my diving worthiness. It’s like riding a bike, I said. But there’s one problem. Now with more than a hundred dives behind me, having experienced places like The Red Sea, Bali, Thailand, etc., I have to admit that something is missing. Every time I get in the water with that tank strapped to me I know that there is something else out there. Something more. Something more tranquil.

The thing is, when I dream about diving–and I dream about it all the time–I never dream that I’m wearing an aqualung. I dream of freediving. Heck, even when I walk our dog I hold my breath for as long as I can–thinking about how soft ocean water feels on my skin. When I walk through forests I don’t see trees and leaves and green. I see an ocean vastness where I’m condemned (for all my crimes) to walk on its floor with my feet. So I shut my eyes and start mis-echolocating and bumping into trees. Indeed. Bumping into trees while dreaming about oceans. It’s my dog’s laughter that makes me open my eyes again.

James Nestor has written a stunning, beautiful book that I didn’t know I was lusting to read for a long, long time. When I read about Natalia Molchanova dying recently during a practice freedive I became a bit obsessed with trying to understand not only the mechanics of freediving but the emotional attachment that so many have to it. Even though I’m only a muggle (scuba diver) and not a magician (freediver) I think I can understand what these people feel–not only at depth but the longing to be in the salty-sweet bosom of The Big Her. Mr. Nestor answered most of the questions I had regarding this sport. Also, Nestor, without condemning the sport, makes it quite clear why freediving as competition is probably not worth the danger. In recent years there have been too many deaths. Yet something drives people to compete and dive further, deeper, deeper. I get that.

Nestor saves the day, though. The way he articulates the beauty of freediving, the importance of the ocean on this (our) blue planet or some of the science behind how sperm whales communicate, is worth every word. This is one of those books that I got through in a matter of hours and the whole time regretting that the reading would eventually come to an end.

Rant on. -Tommi (a freediving dreamer)

The Farnsworth Dictation

Been too long, dear worst-reader. When was the last time I read a play? Back in the day, I used to read plays as fast as I could afford to get my hands on them. I love(d) reading plays. In fact, I preferred reading them to putting all that effort into watching them. But watch them I did as well. Yeah. Back in the day. Now that life has taken that turn (where so many lives are taken) and self-medicating and avoidance is a substitute for reading, it was gonna take a bit more than curiosity to get me back in the saddle. Which brings me to a different form of self-medication. Btw. Self medication is more than the use of caffeine, alcohol, recreational narcotics, sex as sport. Yeah. Self medication is also anything and everything that takes the mind away, where avoidance (of everything) is the norm. You can see it everyday. The automatons walking the sidewalks with their heads bent over and their eyes glued to those mini touch screens. Or the compulsive behaviourists, aka careerists and corporatists, who spend their bored lives binge watching Mad Men, Sopranos, House of Cards (US), etc. And we see it in the rest of society that hasn’t made it, the Have-nots, who don’t know any better than to compete with the Haves so that they too can enter the realm of glorious avoidance and self medication. Yes. It would take more than just hearing about a new play and saying: yeah, maybe I’ll get to that one when I wake up (someday). Enter Podcasting.

Worst-writer prefers beer and podcasting when it comes to avoidance and self-medication. I prefer north German Pilsner to any other sort of beer. Goodness knows I hate all this “micro-brewed” krapp that’s popping up everywhere. The bitter and pure the beer the better. In summer, I like beer cold. In winter, I like my beer cool at best and sometimes will drink it at room temperature. And that’s all fine and good. Which brings me to another form of avoidance that has nothing to do with chemicals and misbegotten biology. Podcasting. I listen to at least one if not two podcasts everyday. Seriously. And I’m not even ashamed to admit it. In fact, I’m proud of it. Proud because I haven’t watched so-called “TV” in about five years. I know what you’re say dear worst-reader. You’re saying, “Well, Tommi, you asshole, you got off the norm only to replace it with the same difference.” And that may be true. Still. The point isn’t so much about competing–as a Have-not with the Haves–but instead being able to say I’m not a fucking lemming or an automaton and my life is bad-ass digitised to the hilt. Yeah, baby!

So I’m listening to a tech news podcast the other day before the daily beer drinking alarm goes off and the subject of who invented the television comes up. The moderator was shocked to hear that his audience didn’t know who invented the TV. At that moment I figured that the moderator was gonna proudly teach his audience something by saying the name Philo Farnsworth. But he didn’t say it. Instead he told his audience to go see a play called The Farnsworth Invention. And that’s when bells & whistles went off in my head. Talk about motivation. I had no idear that someone had written a play about Philo Farnsworth. What an interesting story that would make, I thought. In fact, I thought once or thrice about writing a play about something similar. Of course I never got around to it (because avoidance and self-medicating took over). But that’s all neither here nor there.

The Farnsworth Invention, a play by Aaron Sorkin, is a great read. And before I continue: WARNING! Spoiler alert.

I finished it the other night and although my usual think-about-it period after reading produces some interesting thoughts–in order to blog about it–not this time. Since I’m well aware of the drama of who invented television–as I’ve put some effort (even while self-medicated) into knowing #americant dysfunctional history–especially the parts of our blossoming as an industrial power–it would take a bit more than a dictation of events on a subject to make it worth my while. There really isn’t a lot to ponder about this piece of dramatic literature, except for the moments where Sorkin takes the author’s liberty. For example. Although it’s quite witty and I’m sure it will give rise to a few giggles in the audience, I really don’t see the necessity of having Philo mistake Douglas Fairbanks for Charlie Chaplin during a situation that never actually occurred–even though its occurrence is implied in this reenactment. Also. Sorkin basically leaves the door open in his story about who snitched on Philo to David Sarnoff so that RCA could utilise it’s legal rights because of an invalid patent. It’s just not necessary to throw in sex-crazed secretaries has potential snitches. The problem is, Sorkin chose a story that is basically a narration by one of the characters who, conveniently, breaks the fourth wall. I suppose it would work if the rest of the story didn’t fail at dramatising something that was ultimately evil–which is ultimately nothing more than yet another example of the true nature of the American Way: greed, coercion, manipulation, authoritarianism, predatory capitalism, etc. Still. The story, as Sorkin has framed it, works well. It’ll entertain a few (an audience). An artist can ask for nothing more. That said. This play, as much as I like it (because I must), just didn’t teach me anything I didn’t already know and on top of that it basically does nothing more than avoids reality. With that in mind. The play kinda reminds me of something Eugene O’Neill might write if he were on ecstasy or meth or both. But then again O’Neill didn’t have the writing staff Sorkin has. Ok. Maybe the drug reference and O’Neill is a stretch. But I’m gonna stick with it only because I could have written Philo’s story better. That’s right. My story would be better because I would get much deeper into the American Way of things–as opposed to buttering it all up. Still. This play is a great read. I liked it. It’s sufficient. Well done Mr. Sorkin. And thank you–and all those like you–for allowing us Have-nots to live in your world.

Rant on.

-Tommi

Capitalism vs Politics

Warning: this post is kinda NSFW on account I lose my shit at the end. Or maybe not. Oh well. ¶One of the things I tried to say in my play The Good Criminal is that business ain’t as evil as it obviously appears to be. That was back in 2001 and while producing that play I was also in the process of early-retiring from working-for-the-man (and not because I was having any success as a playwright). That is. I was on the verge of entering the drop-out and tune-in portion of (my) life and thereby planning my entrance to the sunny realm of perpetual exit-ship. Now that I’ve just entered my fifties I can look back (and forward) and say that it has all worked out pretty good so far–these precarious choices I’ve made. Yet. One thing has always lingered with me for the past two decades. First. I don’t care about the fact I made no money. Second. There is great satisfaction in having succeeded in a/my quest for (true and real) independence from monetary coercion. But the most important thing that has lingered with me all these years is the simple fact… I was right. That is. Not only did I make the right choices in life but the idears and thoughts behind those choices were right, too. I had spent the majority of my adult working life doing what society dictated and at the same time couldn’t help but think it was all for naught. Seriously. Every-time I stepped into an office building, slept in a hotel or travelled to some Euro-city, I knew that it was all a joke that was being played on me. By the time I reached my late thirties and had entered into what could have been a long (boring) career in corporate servitude a little but sharp voice spoke to me and said: self, you’d better get out of this krapp before it’s too late because no matter what you do you will never be able to catch up to the expectations of the system. And so. With the turn of the millennium I bagged it all (before it was too late). Hats off to me. ¶Here’s a question for you, dear worst-reader: What do you think, should I feel bad for all those who were unable to see the light like me? Should I feel bad for the conformists out there and the misery they now live in? Imagine this: Practically every person born in the western world after 1960 and driven by the expectations given us by dumbfounded and bumbling moronic parents (baby boomers) have lived their lives for naught. You will never have as much as your parents–even though you believed you would. You will have worked your life to an unknown-retirement–and yet your parents got their known-retirement. You have pushed pencils here, drawers there, tools this way, service that way–and it all has resulted into nothing more than a large glob of protoplasm subsumed by compulsive behaviourism and, perhaps, a smile of shiny teeth. You have achieved absolutely so much of nothing–except for popping out more ignorant babies so you can do to them what your parents did to you. And so. Full stop? Continue? Pause. ¶Obviously non-conformist thinking and drop-out self preservation is rare these days. But at least someone is here to cultivate such misnomer. And now that we are all forced to live in the awakening of the 2008 great recession which has standardised fail-upward-ness, what’s next? For some the answer to all ills lies in the analysis of said conformity. To others there’s the rowing they’ve been doing up-river all along. And then there’s the idear that people should start (at least) trying to think for themselves. Or? Hence conservative realism and/or the reality of the west’s elites and their ability to manipulate the farce of democracy and having convinced so many that they ever had a chance (to make it in life). As usual. Here we have the single greatest problem that will never be over-come in the quest to avoid the misery of this consume-to-survive non-sense we love by choice. Yes. Indeed. ¶This misery is a misery of choice. Conformists love this shit. Everyone has picked it–obviously because the alternative has been so brilliantly–via propaganda that makes Joseph Goebbels roll around happily in his grave–demonised. Yeah, baby. That’s the real ticket. Conformity mixed with the right flux of propaganda. And out of the mix we get neo-conservative, neo-liberal #americant where, imagine, a horde of humans all on the same mental plane act and conform to what is obviously against their best interests. With such a realisation the pied-piper enters the fray and he yells like the town-fool he is: up and be merry you ignorant fools for if all else fails have no fear for the white devils will provide you with credit, credit beyond belief, and then you can buy buy buy as the little birdie sings and when someone asks don’t worry for there is no need for you to think for your self; we have taken care of everything for you. ¶Yes. Indeed. Move on conformists. Allow the propaganda to work (so well). For it would be a sight to see if you decide to start thinking for yourself. It would make good reality-TV, too. But since it ain’t that way and never will be that way (i.e. thinking for yourself), where should all the worst-readers turn to fight off the(ir) conformity? Well. If you’ve come here for answers then all I can say toot-suite is: go fuck yourself. It’s your boat, cruise in it. It’s your bed, sleep in it. It’s your hair colour, die in it. I could give a rat’s ass for all the conformists schmucks out there that are part of this perpetuating fail-upwards system. For it’s not an issue of if this system works or if another system works better. What’s been going on goes on because no one has the balls to do otherwise. Except for Volk like Moi. You know, the Volk that saw this coming years and years ago and then took action. Which not only makes me better but above the whole shebang. That said, I’m not a sadist. If I had to give any advice it would be this: lower your expectations and then try to find a way out of the lines you have been compelled to wait in. (Because the waiting is over–just like the game.) Or. You can take my worst-word for it and read the book this post was supposed to be about. But be warned. This book might make you think enough to actually get off your ass and do something… about all the nothingness you have lived for so far. Or maybe not. Oh. And I suppose I should say a thing or three about the book. Ok. Don’t mind if I do. ¶Capitalist Realism reads like a rushed group of essays a professor of Marxist-Economics had to put together when he realised he was going to miss a deadline for his second PhD submittal. It is full of nuggets and tidbits–and some bad editing–regarding the imminent demise of the world as we know it. But it also cuts a new asshole in the body of capitalism which, these days, seems to be a sport for aspiring intellectuals (yours truly excluded, of course.) No. Seriously. It really does cut capitalism a new asshole. Full stop. Pause. ¶After the premier of my play The Good Criminal I was interviewed by a local newspaper reporter. My play was an attempt to portray the ills of capitalism in the context of the Dotcom Boom at the end of 2000. One of the things I told the reporter was that the reason I wrote the play was to try and understand why most Europeans, especially Germans, are clueless to the fact that capitalism doesn’t really exist. For one, the Dotcom boom was solely an American phenomenon drive
n by innovation and what looked like at the time a free-market. The problem in Europe is that it uses capitalism as part of a greater political scheme that ultimately shields the system from innovation and, of course, a free-market. That is, Europe believes that capitalism is sustenance for socialism. In that context how could any European understand the Boom? In the US, on the other hand, capitalism serves something other than the banality of politics. And so. IMHO and to come back to my play and how it relates (or not) to this book, America enabled the Dotcom Boom but then killed it off because it saw the danger/threat (to elite power) that a free-market could wield. It was the first time in my life that capitalism showed how it could actually be useful and, dare I say, serve a higher, more humane purpose–as opposed to how capitalism is actually controlled in order to serve the interests of the few. Ironically the killing off of the free-market that was the Dotcom Boom took until 2008 to show it’s true face. But I digress. ¶Let me close with this: To worst-writer capitalism is about economics and not politics. Mark Fisher’s Capitalist Realism addresses the ills of capitalism in the context of political and social failure. His ideas of how capitalism negatively effects society, although probably very true, is irrelevant because there is supposed to be a different and completely independent system of governance and law that takes care of things. To say the least, I felt and still feel vindicated for my efforts in The Good Criminal, especially in the aftermath of the crash of 2008 which should be proof enough that capitalism doesn’t really exist–which also means that I don’t dig all this demonising of capitalism. But, again, I digress. Rant on. -Tommi

Mutant Heroin

happy mutant baby pills cover Today something new, dear worst-reader. I started this book about two weeks ago. I managed to read the first fifty pages, which, according to the Kindle.app on my iPad, is 20% of the book. I know. That’s not much. Which also means I shouldn’t write anything about this book. But. Again. This is why having a blog no one reads is a privilege in itself–and worst-writing practice like no other. And so. I stopped reading Happy Mutant Baby Pills for one reason and one reason only. On about page forty-six I said to myself,

Self, If I read the word heroin one more time…

And I read it about twenty more times until page fifty. That was last Sunday. Haven’t opened the book since. Even though I’ve heard this and that about it, read a few reviews about it, and finally broke down to put it on my reading list after hearing a tech blog mention it (twit.tv), I decided last Sunday to give it up. Of course, it’ll remain in my Kindle library and maybe someday, when I feel like reading something from someone that obviously has no idear what he/she’s writing about (heroin) I’ll give it another go. Till then, gee, Jerry Stahl read Burroughs and from that he figured out what drugs are about and also how to integrate that “knowledge” in a book. I guess. And to think I, worst-writer, figured out long ago that even Burroughs was bullshitting about drugs. And so. My silly attempt at worst-writing something Burroughs-see, where a character playing cupid with his girlfriend got mixed-up and instead played William Tell, thereby shooting her in the face with a modified .32 caliber Luger when he was aiming for an apple on her head, well, this is that and that is this. I will hand it to Jerry Stahl about one thing. The man can write. This is obviously some serious writing. Writing for an audience that hasn’t already read Burroughs foray into glorifying heroin. I guess. Whatever.

Rant on. -t

Learn How Not Write

What be a secret if it cannot be revealed? -Steve Berry, The King’s Deception

The reading list is long, dear worst-reader. So long, in fact, that I’l probably never get through all the books listed on it. I found myself recently trying to weasel out of some reads because I’m either no longer interested in the subject matter or I’m lazying-out in my old age. I also noticed last fall after reviewing the list that there were more non-fiction books than fiction. Or is it the other-way ’round? I’m (obviously) confused. Nomatter. I’ve been reading too many historical novels lately. Or maybe not.

Finished The King’s Deception last night. Luckily it took me only few days to get through it. Other than the sometimes silly attempt at following a formula and/or fulfilling a genre’s requirements, this was a pretty slick read. On the other hand, unbeknownst to moi, it is the perfect read for showing worst-writer how NOT to write. And NOT writing (finishing) novels is my speciality. Not that I could write like this anyway. It’s just that, whether at the beginning, middle or end, there was never a moment in the book where I didn’t feel as though one could superimpose the pages of a John Grisham or (Aghast!) Dan Brown on top of it and the reader would never know the difference. Hence, pop-lit, eh worst-reader? And that’s saying a lot since I try to steer away from this kinda krapp.

“But Tommi, aka worst-writer, if you don’t like this type of novel why you read it?”

Good question grasshopper. The answer to that is simple. I read it because I heard somewhere that Steve Berry was very good at history-telling and story-telling. Indeed. Mr. Berry is obviously very good–and he can spell, too. As far as the thriller part of the novel goes, well–to be honest–I skimmed through most of that. What really stands out in this book is the history-telling. In fact, the history telling is the real thrill. And since I now know how to read Berry’s Cotton Malone books, I might even considering skimming through another one or two. Or maybe not.

Warning: spoiler alert! Double warning: time to get real!

The story evolves around a conspiracy-theory regarding Queen Elizabeth I. It goes something like this: she was a man. Ok. That’s all fine and good. But this conspiracy is revealed fairly early in the book. That’s when I realised there’s something more to Berry than meats his ka-ching pages. Indeed. Something really neat-o-torpedo happens in this piece of genre krapp. Berry, while fiddling around with British history, finds a way to provide the reader–that’s interested–in one of the best and concise narrations I’ve ever read that explains the origin of the conflict in Northern Ireland. And Berry does that while shooting up, blowing up and trying to tell a soap-opera-like family values story. Seriously. There are nuggets of historical information trapped inside this banal thriller that really threw me for a loop. You know what else threw me for a loop, dear worst-reader? There wasn’t one sex scene in the whole book. If anyone were ever to ask me to explain why Northern Ireland is so screwed up, I could do it in a few sentences thanks to Steve Berry. And if anyone were ever to ask me how someone can write a novel, you know a piece of writing that tries to develop human characters in the readers mind, and thereby not having an iota of sex in it… Jezz. What’s the point?

But I digress.

I know what you’re saying, dear worst-reader. But it’s not true. I do not dislike this book. Ok. I do dislike this book. Just like I dislike the mindless krapp written by other genre, write a book to make money selling pages, publisher-books. But hey: ka-ching, right? I mean, if I actually sat down and tried to write something like this I would throw up before getting to the second page. In every word written in this book there is nothingness. Yet it is a book–like so many before it. The only thing that makes the the book worthwhile is that it probably helps readers get through a vacation or full-fills a compulsion to read one’s self to sleep. And I’m not criticising that. If this is what readers want, so be it. (Oh no–I’m finally the failed writer critic that I never wanted to be.) Heck, even I got through it–and read most of it during the day. And I’m better-off having done it. Seriously. I like learning stuff–even if it hurts in the process. Yeah, baby. As of last night I read another publisher’s book. I read a book that fits perfectly into an industry. A piece of work that has absolutely zero literary value–but at least help me NOT have to read through lots of books on history. So I guess that makes me a reader-gangsta, eh. Yeah. It’s good to fail like I do and be reminded by the likes of Steve Berry what the publishing world is really about. But then again, if only I could…

tom dick harry saw a blue sky above and then came sally with her big tits

May failed worst-writer’s everywhere get some Ka-ching someday. Or maybe not (in this life).

Rant on. -Tommi

Hollywood vs Wash DC

Hollywood, a novel by Gore Vidal.

Did it take me too long to get through this, dear worst-reader? Maybe it didn’t take long enough. Or, perhaps, is this piece of work enough to make me stop in my quest to read (all of) Vidal’s “Narratives of Empire”? Indeed. Four of the seven books are left. And I was bored more than not with this one. But I fought through it–because I felt compelled to do so. I wondered at times if Vidal was just as bored writing it. Nah. A man who can pull this off cannot be bored with what he does. Or? Vidal knows for whom and for what he wrote Narratives. That in and of itself is reason to complete the series. Or maybe not.

This is my third novel from Gore Vidal’s seven book series. What is becoming clear to me is that there is a sincerity, an earnestness to these books. They are more than just fictional histories of #americant through the eyes of someone who knows politics probably better than most. It’s almost as though Vidal is trying to tell Americans something not just about history but also about who and what we are and the world we have to live in. The quest to chronicle a lands history in a concise enough form so that posterity won’t forget it–or, at best–its people won’t leave it behind, is a task to be wondered. Or? Thus far I’ve read Lincoln, Burr, Creation and now Hollywood. Wait. I know. Creation isn’t really part of the Narrative series but somehow, after reading it, I can’t help but think that Vidal wants it to be because, simply, it is a great explanation of the history of humanity pre and post religious nutbaggery, i.e. #americant in the 20th century. But that’s neither here nor there. The real question we are facing, dear worst-reader, is what’s next on the Narrative reading list? Empire, 1876, Washington DC or the Golden Age? Indeed. I’m torn. Oh well.

The one thing that saved (reading) this book for me was an ever growing interest in Vidal’s choice of characters from which to tell this story. Ironically, or maybe not, the best character of the novel isn’t even a real historical figure. For whatever reason Vidal had to make up a few characters. Enter Caroline Sanford. She is both an actress and a newspaper mogul. She is the embodiment of Vidal’s vision linking two geographic points of a fledgling nation. She reminded me somewhat of Dagny of Atlas Shrugged–but only in my imaginative effort to give her a physical presence. As far as the other characters go, it’s easy to look up the presidents, the government officials, the barons and the goons Vidal chronicles. They are all only a wiki-link away. But Caroline? Where did Vidal get this chick? I’ll be wasting hours googling to find out why Vidal created her. But more importantly, she’ll be the reason I probably read “Empire” next as she is featured in that novel, as well. I’m a Caroline Sanford fan.

The historical characters covered in the book, especially the presidents Woodrow Wilson and Warren G. Harding, are only interesting because of how Vidal presents them in the context of (their) political buffoonery. Although I did learn a few things about Wilson, like his stedfast belief in the failed League of Nations, I kept getting the feeling that these figures of #americant history are nothing more than a side-show. The things said, done and committed by the novel’s figures is nothing compared to the intrigue Vidal miraculously achieves by the juxtaposition of Washington DC vs Hollywood. Vidal literally codifies the how and why of entertainment vs politics, all of which has been willfully and consciously merged right underneath the eyes of a puritanical nation of nitwits. This aspect of the story is the unexpected grand achievement of the book. How many people conclude that the connection between these two opposing coastlines would set the stage of #americant for an entire century? Even though it takes Vidal a while to get to Hollywood from the beginning of the book, once there I was hooked. Every time he returned to the east coast, though, I found a way to put the book down–and sometimes I even rushed through the text. California here I come!

All in all, this was a tough read. I really had to battle some of the huge winded chapters and as previously stated, even rush through them and I do not feel as though I missed anything by doing so. I only hope that this was the most winded book of the series. Two other non-Vidal books are in front of Empire so maybe that will give me achance to recupearate form this one. Or maybe I won’t be able to wait that long before getting back to Ms. Sanford.

Some quotes from the novel “Hollywood” by Gore Vidal:

“Almost everyone nowadays had two lives, his own and his life at the movies.”

“The had used the movies successfully to demonize national enemies. Now why not use them to alter the viewer’s perception of himself and the world.”

“Show things the way they are but carefully angled, the way the camera is, to make the audience see what you want them to see.”

Rant on. -Tommi

The Masters of the Switches

Why is it, dear worst-reader, that the older I get the easier it is to distract me? I mean, it happens all the time. When I’m walking Beckett, the killer pug, I lose focus of the little guy whenever any female passes by in a pair of jeans. When I’m putting up a Xmas tree, hanging those obnoxious bells and whistles, I think more about the Mustang I’ll never afford myself. And then there are the moments, while reading what should be a great book, that has been on my reading list for a long time, I’m taken away from it because the author references an old movie that I swear I saw once but according to the distracting research I do regarding that movie, I suddenly can’t remember if I actually did see it. This was so distracting in fact, that I took a break from the book and found the movie on iTunes to watch (again). And while watching this three hour piece of movie making magic I was totally distracted by the thought that, even though, according to Wiki and various other sources, which all claim that the movie was only recently made available to the public on DVD, I thought: but I saw this movie way back in the mid 80s. Didn’t I?

Distraction.

The movie is called Heaven’s Gate. According to Tim Wu, the author of the book The Master Switch, which, after numerous interruptions and distractions I just finished, the movie is the reason for one of Hollywood’s greatest film studio failures. But that’s neither here nor there. I’m just perturbed by the fact that I can’t remember with enough exactitude where and when I saw this movie. For after (re)watching it the other night I’m sure more than ever I saw it before. And allow me to say this distracting thing about that movie: this second viewing left me more in awe than the first. But when did I first see it? Come on. Come on. Think! It was either a screening at my University cinema in 1985 or on VHS in the early nineties while researching a subject for a play that I would never write. So I broke away from the book that couldn’t keep my attention anyway and very much enjoyed watching a movie that everyone should see. A few more worst-thoughts on Heaven’s Gate here.

Back to the book.

Tim Wu uses the United Artist debacle of the 80s as an example of how and why vertically integrated industries fail. And I take issue with that. United Artist didn’t fail because of vertical integration. It failed because #americant hadn’t yet established the standard of credit/debt as the sole means of consuming to survive. Obviously that’s a bold statement and I’m too lazy to provide enough ammunition in this worst-post to battle Mr. Wu on the subject–because I actually do want to say a nice thing or three about his book. But allow me this: There is one very important thing that Wu misses while explaining how some companies die and/or fade away because of whatever strategies they employ to earn more money than god. If United Artist had access to credit in the 80s like film studios do today then the measly sum spent on Heaven’s Gate would have been a drop in the bucket. In other words, at the time the collusion of government and, let’s say the Federal Reserve and Wall Street banking, hadn’t yet been established. It took till the end of the nineties to get to that point–I suppose.

There’s actually a whole Wiki page on the issue of Film Finance. And keep in mind, the word “finance” today is synonymous with debt. Go figure.

But I’m off subject. Again. Distracted. And so. Let’s worst-write further on Mr. Wu’s idear of Net Neutrality and the less coined Separation Principle, two nuggets that Wu does a great job addressing but I think fails to ram home. First. Let me say this about Net Neutrality: Bullshit. That’s what Net Neutrality has become in the short time since its coinage. And I’m really sorry for that.That there is a debate regarding how information flows through the Interwebnets is both disgusting and astonishing. I remember vividly the monopolistic abuse of AT&T in the 70s and 80s. I don’t know what I would have done in college without my MCI card that allowed me to use practically any phone anywhere at rates I could afford–all on lines provided by the previous evil Bell monopoly. That #americant allowed a company like MCI to be gobbled up by the very system that it broke up is, well… #AMERICANT. On top of that, it feels like, because of the complexity of technology, politicians and dysfunctional corporates elites have easily confused the debate by turning Net Neutrality into a stump when it could be a majestic tree. Not only that, #americant has murdered people because of the underlying truth that is Net Neutrality as a whole. One only has to look at what happened to Aaron Schwartz. As far as the Separation Principle goes, well, again, sounds great, makes sense, but how do you get stuff like this across to a public that uses the Interwebnets like it used to use girly magazines in teen-age tree houses?

With that bit of worst-non-sense, I digress. The Master Switch is a great read even though I was often taken aback with the amount of text Wu wastes on certain topics. That is not a criticism of his writing, though. He really does a great job of holding together what is essentially a huge and disparate amount of information. I say disparate because I do not believe that the telephone industry in anyway has anything to do with the advent of what the Interwebnets has become (is becoming). The technology behind this stuff is irrelevant because worst-writer believes that content will always be at least one step ahead of context. Put another worst-way, a sculpture or painter already knows her/his great work of art is in that block of rock or bare canvas. And so. I could have done without Wu’s narrative of #americant early 20th century monopolies–although the bit about how Hollywood was founded is a nugget I’ll keep with me forever. That said, I guess I wish Wu would have spent more time ramming more stuff down the throats of the powers-that-be who are re-monopolising everything and who are also currently lavishing in their ability to ruin life for the rest of us in the name of greed-limiting access to what should be free: information.

Rant on.

-Tommi