Bullshit!

Art of 2009 personal faves

2010-02-26T19:41:00.003-05:00

2010-02-08T21:28:00.000-05:00

Analysis of the "Cat Question"

2009-12-15T03:09:00.014-05:00

One issue commonly debated in political milieu is the notorious "Cat Question". For those unfamiliar, this debate stems out of Ernest Hemingway's political line. This line is: "Cats are the best anarchists". This is a good line; Hemingway is indeed correct. However, if cats are the best Anarchists our findings are very interesting if we are to look at the history of all Cats and their struggles materially. This, of course, is necessary in order to determine what strategy all lesser Anarchists should aspire to. In examining the history of Cat-ional liberation struggles, we will see that all Cats so far have a 0% success rate in liberating Cats from human world hegemony. Although Cats are--according to Hemingway--the best practitioners of Anarchist thought, Cats have yet to develop a strategy which has successfully produced liberation from human oppression. While some Cats have used right-wing opportunism to escape from humans, (the class/species which claim Cats as "property" and to which the class/species group of all Cats belong) these Cats swiftly met destitution and faced even greater human oppression "on the outside". The failed practice of even the greatest among Cats does not bode well if one considers themself an "Anarchist". The failure of Anarchist (Cat) strategy is it substitutes adventurism, escapism, opportunism, and/or complacency for meaningful struggle against human world hegemony. While cats may have good intentions and good ideas, if one is to honestly look at Cats' strategy through the lens of historical-materialist science they would see Anarchism is a failed strategy.

How to make mild financial sucess through politically maginal political projects

2009-12-14T21:52:00.009-05:00

by Dr. Centeno

Hey everyone well its good to be writing for you again! The reason for my absence is I was conducting important research for you, the reader. This research has culminated in this significant report which I am now ready to release to the public. Have you ever wondered how you could achieve mild political and financial success? Have you ever dreamed of doing both of these things AT THE SAME TIME? Well, boy do I have some news for you. I'm going to talk about some folks who do this in a very average way and if they can I bet you can too unless you are a total failure or something like that. Also I am going to tell you what I notice and how I think you can do it. Yeah, that's right!! This stuff is pretty complicated so you should pay close attention.

OPTION #1
Start a Non-profit

This is a great way to make some money. You should try to have the most obvious or agreeable goal as possible because this will be commensurate with how much money you make. However, it is important that this goal is basically impossible because otherwise your organization wont last very long. At first it might seem tough to come up with a goal that meets both of these criteria so heres some examples to help you get started: save the environment, end racism, stop exploitation of the third world. These are all great goals because almost everyone agrees these things are bad and also you are definitely not going to achieve these goals.
While its important for your organization to pick a goal it is incapable of achieving it is also pretty important you make sure not to try too hard or come up with a really good plan, just to make sure.
The reason you pick a problem that is really large as well as difficult to understand or solve is that people are sympathetic when you don't solve it immediately. In fact its best if your donors would not be upset if you never solved it. If people start to get impatient, though, you can pick a lot of little easy-to-achieve goals that are kind of related to your really big one. This gives the impression of progress even if no progress exists so its a good tactic.
The other thing thats important is that people can agree with what you want to achieve. You should remember that guilt is your most powerful weapon. Use it accordingly. This goes for donors as well as staff members. If you want a smoothly functioning workplace it is of primary importance to fill it with guilty, apologetic people who have little sense of their own power.
For donors, determine your target audience and guilt them hard. You are in luck because rich people are some of the most guilty people in the world, and rightfully so. Put them over the coals. Make them feel the heat. Roast them like a pig on a stick. A pig filled with money. Try to think of them as large guilty piggy bank morsels for your delicious plunder mastication machine. Dont forget you are selling these people moral righteousness and/or vanguardist political reform.
Another strategy if you dont care about politics is you can skip the non profit thing and just go around on the train with a plastic bucket asking for donations to the Save the Children World Fund or whatever.

OPTION #2
Become the figurehead of a somewhat cultish political party and write a bunch of books about how your strategy is the best.

Okay I wont lie folks there are some people who are better than others at this and Bob Avakian is a pretty good example. People talk about this guy a lot so I figured I had to mention it. Basically what you do is create a group where you are the unimpeachable political authority and make known that anyone who disagrees with you or really in fact anyone who ISNT you has an incorrect political strategy. The money you will be making here is mostly through selling books and videos so it is important to amass an army of middle aged men for this purpose.
The difference of this strategy is that instead of guilting people to give you money you have two points of sale:
1. price of admission into the revolutionary vanguard.
2. pay this annoying guy to go away.
This is really a great strategy because the people who work for you will do it for free. The biggest thing you must pay for is the copies of a newspaper which you must instruct your army of guys to hand out to everyone they see. Why do you need a newspaper you ask? Because this is the organ of your political party! Duh. (Which organ? Probably the colon.)

Anyway I hope you all found these ideas helpful. Pretty soon with a little work I bet you can come to mild political and economic success but dont count on it. Dr centeno out.

blog poetry

2009-12-11T15:43:00.000-05:00

Worldwar3.blogspot.com
a journal of two girls hoping to help others cope with the new news!!

Hia!!
This is Singergirl24
and Sugargirl34 on the web telling you,.
STAY STRONG!!
We will keep you updated with all news!!
Including bad or good,
you may be stressed!! But it's a war and everyone feels sad
and unsafe at times.
We want to help with the war!!
Please stay on the site and check fo updates!!
Stay Beatiful!! (joke)
Hope and pray for our training soldiers!!!

http://inarut.blogspot.com/
GodZone

Granny Smith in Godzone
My own blog

Well, who would have thought it would be so hard
to choose an address for this page.
Everything was taken (except this name)
and I chose hundreds, well dozens, well maybe ten or so
and everything was gone (except this one)
and it's not even a great address ... I mean, you'll never find it ...
inarut ... how stupid, in a rut,
but that's what I am, I guess.
My little mind was in a rut when it came to choosing a name,
and a name is with you forever. You get stuck with it.

When your parents give you a name
you have no choice. But even
when you have a choose a name for yourself,
it's not easy, especially when there are unseen rules out there
that govern what you can call yourself. Billions of people in the world
and you cannot choose a name someone else has. Kind of limiting, isn't it.

Some poor babies get stuck with cruel names.
Take Rowland Rowlands.
What were his parents thinking of?
No wonder he chose to be known a Tiny.
Well, this has all been too hard for me. It's time
for my afternoon nap.

Cats Cats Cats
Catscatscats.blogspot.com

Catsaresexy

yeah so what its called catsaresexy so what want to fight about it

because you know

my cat is sexy

Chilanga

2009-12-08T04:40:00.023-05:00

I saw you standing there in the
Jamaica Plain food mart

you put
three red
carboard boxes
of spanish sodium rice
into your shopping cart

I watched you read
the nutrition facts

you sent off your
white college roommate as though she were
an ivory puck
sailing across a shuffle board
towards the Hi-Lo produce isle
to appropriate some celery

she felt so--
--cultured.
as she moved across the
linoleum floor

all of it
all of it she did for her
own,
genuine
--her prized
real-life chilanga

in this moment
you looked at me, we
locked eyes
you with your mexico '68 dress on
me with my
righteous guilt

I was considering how
all sex under capitalism
is inseparable from coercion
as I thought about
how your butt
looks cute in the dress

the chess men cookies behind you
wondered if anything
would ever
be any different

by then you were
one eighth towards the
meat section
and
in one glance
you had known me
even before
I had shown you
my sharpened teeth
with a smile

New Art

2009-11-21T20:58:00.003-05:00

More rap vids: Tiny Child Edition

2009-11-21T16:43:00.002-05:00

2009-11-01T12:53:00.000-05:00

Hip Hop is Dead

2009-10-20T18:33:00.003-04:00

I might just only post these from now on

2009-09-24T18:06:00.001-04:00

more odds and ends

2009-09-16T23:25:00.007-04:00

2009-09-16T23:18:00.000-04:00

2009-09-15T16:07:00.000-04:00

Bromance by Mark Tully (www.Bromance.blogspot.com)

so theres this side project
that youve heard of but not really. its called bromance
and you dont get it cause youre not in it.
if you wanna kinda sorta get it but not really then come to a show tommorow
thats in a place that you wanna know and i wanna tell you
but not really. so if you wanna come you know what my phone number is
and if you dont then you can ask i think.
bromance is really awesome and youd rather be dead
than not listen to it. trust me.
im trustworthy.

The Mizeducation of April Hurley by April Hurley (www.zonedout.blogspot.com)

Yea today was aiight.
I went out to eat with Janet, her lil sister Natty and Colleen. The place we went to eat at
was straight.
the food was pretty damn good actually.
After that Colleen went t Ft. Myers w/ Issac and Janet and I chilled. We rented
some more movies n Janet went to wash her car. As we pulled up to dry it off
some busted ass niggah came up to me
asking me for my number
and then for some money for the bus. Made me sick to my stomach .
I told him I had a boyfriend.
God
guys like that make me
so fucking sick.
N e way, it was straigth chillen w/ Janet. Since Colleen has a man n Janet n I r free.
We r chillen a lot now. but I have no hope. I'm ugly
and I'm looking for "the one" so yea expect me to go to prom stag...
I'm a Jr. by the way..
Damn it why does life have to be so fucking hard.
I'm fustrated.... so fuckinf fustrated. Maybe I'm not playing the game right...
who knows......
Not much to say. I'm kinda upset about dating.
God I mean I swore I would never ever make myself inferior
to the true person I am inside. But a it seems..
I'm gunna have to...
.. .I guess.
DAMN IT

I Wet the Bed by sonny (www.withered.blogspot.com)
If your the type of person
that opens a can of soda drinks half then leaves it...
i hate you.
These type of people are the scum of the earth
and do this act habitually and
it is disturbing.
If these types of people are to purchase their own can of soda surely
they will drink the whole thing.
These people attack at parties and work functions
or at work on a normal day -- you know who you are and i dislike you
and want to shove the half can of soda beer whatever
into your ear hole until soda drips down your neck from it
and you get all sticky
and you realize that the stickiness on your neck and how it bothers/irritates you
is how i feel about you
when i find a half empty can of beverage

2009-09-05T18:23:00.000-04:00

Ok, so Bullshit is/are kind of dead, but not really.

2009-09-05T18:15:00.004-04:00

Who knows. The last issue never really worked out. parts here:

Embrace the Barthag! How to:
Become a Fucking Hippy

Boy do I hate hippies. Always being annoying, talking about saving the earth and fighting the system and other bullshit. You guys think you know, but you don't. I know what makes you tick...

Of course, hippies Loooove world music, you fucking crunchy pseudo-revolutionary piece of shit. Os Mutantes were/are are a psychedelic 60’s pop band from Brazil, kind of a Latin Mothers of Invention, with more coordinated vocals. They are a band that excite and impress other dirty shit-eating hippies like you, great for any large gathering, and you can talk about the Tropicalia movement or rice cakes or something. Brushes, bongos, rhythm sticks, oos and aahs, organ, fuzz, brushes on toms, guitar solos, tape manipulation. Karma surfboard tango funk teen bop.

Tyrannosaurus Rex, A.K.A. Devendra Banhart version 1, quavers like a crane-throated Brahmin on a silken cloud, on ACID or some shit, you despicable mob of drug swallowing, organic worshipping out-of-work farm hands. Mark Bolan (who wrote about 40 songs about cars but never got a license or drove a car because he was afraid a car would kill him, and who died when his girlfriend drove him into a tree) basically made up a sound and spit 4 albums the way you or I would say, cook bacon (does that bother you, you stinky vegan basement troglodyte?). Later, dude changed the band to T.Rex and wrote ’Get It On (Bang a Gong)’, but that’s the electric glam stuff. I’m talking about the raga-bongo simmering string journey faerie legend stuff.

And no salamander road-crossing assistance gathering or maypole dancing is complete without the Incredible String Band. Scottish ne’er do wells who combined their folk with a bunch of stringed instruments from Morroco, no exponential folk group can safely list their influences in a Spin interview without name dropping these thrumming, mystic longhairs. Lyrically, ISB fares better than Tyrannosaurus Rex (and probably Os Mutantes because you don’t even speak Spanish), in that while there are lots of talking animals and water running over stones, they wrote some very effective folk songs with more of a personal and conversational angle.

2009-09-05T18:10:00.002-04:00

Kestrel friend,
Wicker-wired pebble caster
Pattering across the billowing wastes
Leather flap encumbered and jangling
Of your master’s key.

Spread your puffy willow throat
And cry the way I told you,
The way the skyburst oysters do
In my father’s country.

The winds smell of persimmon and ivory,
Swaying the rough-shinned date palms
Whispering outside our door
Like anxious matrons.

Eyemilieyes Eyestevez

2009-06-20T21:33:00.002-04:00

Art by Ian and Ryan

2009-06-12T15:11:00.001-04:00

2009-06-12T15:07:00.001-04:00

2009-05-25T01:47:00.000-04:00

A Poem I Wrote

2009-05-16T14:03:00.002-04:00

Tattoos at Work

Colin keeps
a three stringed electric bass guitar by his dresser, so
he wants to get a bass clef on his back,
like a big dead eel.
I have a peach-sized
Skunk Ape face on my shoulder
that Colin think looks like Meatwad
from Aqua Teen Hunger Force. Jocelyn has 3 peeling stars
The color of toddler band-aids on her foot and her name on
the middle of her upper back with a pair of cherries
that she originally wanted to get done in black,
but was persuaded otherwise.
Sarah has cookie-cutter stars on her elbows and kidneys, and
“Mommy’s Little Monster” webbed across the back of her neck
in long, incensed strands of black.
Pete has both family trees (banded and flowered,
looking fresh from the internet), one on each
shoulder blade,and his brother’s lifespan
under glowing, disembodied praying hands
hovering dangerously close
to the tramp stamp zone.
Ron J has his initials on one arm,
and on the other,
“R.I.P. Booga”

MANTICORE

2009-04-28T19:12:00.000-04:00

you are always
flailing
flailing about
with your terrible
claws

your venom
is nasty
and nobody even
likes you
but manticores
like it better that way

RADIANT MAN

in the Huffin House bathroom
you are glowing every
hour of the night

you watch over me
when I am peeing
always with your
sad & honest eyes
eyes incapable of judgement
eyes just like
your still beating heart

Radiant Man
you are the patron saint
of urine
and we leave our human hairs
in the drain of the shower
as offerings
to your quiet splendor

I know you wish the world
were not this way
but I am glad you will still
accept me as I am
if not always
then for at least as long
as we leave you plugged in

SORCEROR

you are the root
of all my misery

always
watching with your
furrowed brow

your powers
are long and white
like the hairs
on your mage head

that is because
your hair
is where you keep your powers

people say
my poems are
formulaic

but nobody says that
about your magic spells
and when you think about it
those two are not so different

I know you see
a twisted future
when you look through
your demon oculus

the oculus
which you had enchanted
last week

I only wish I could know
your true intention

maybe then
my visions of you
would not haunt me quite so bad

often, I feel
we are nothing but chumps
in your metaphysical game of craps

every time we roll the dice
we roll two
thousand serpent eye balls
but somehow we just cannot
keep from playing

you watch me in your
obsidian orb
as I get home and
sit down at the typewriter:

"SORCEROR

you are the root
of all my misery,"

I write

X

Thirteen

2009-04-16T18:31:00.000-04:00

by William Orr

When I was thirteen Lily had a painting over the fireplace inside her parent's huge victorian house. The picture was a woman with a locket around her neck. She told me a story about the woman--an ancestor of hers. Lily said the woman was just sitting around in the parlor minding her own buisiness when all of a sudden a bolt of lightning came down through the chimney and struck her right in her locket. Right here, out of this very fireplace under that painting of a lady it came. After that the woman could not take off the locket ever because it was melded to her flesh for the rest of her life.

Before Lily met me she would masturbate with an electric toothbrush. She had moved on, though. At this time she did it by grinding her crotch into one corner of her matress. She still kept the toothbrush under her pillow as a keepsake. I tried once my luck with her and the toothbrush, but I was thirteen and could not understand such things--things like clitorises--so I was never any good at it. I just could not seem to get it in just the right spot.

I remember Lily telling me the morning after she made a black metal white boy masturbate in her attic. She made him eat his come and watched as he sucked it down, all before Lily was even sixteen years old. When she told me she had done it I was jealous because I knew in that moment she had known what love is.

2009-03-22T18:24:00.001-04:00

Shannon May centrefold

2009-02-24T23:24:00.001-05:00

I was going to wait, but this was just too cool not to share with you folks:

Big Dick Fan Fic #1

2009-02-18T23:55:00.000-05:00

By Janet Whitesides

It was 5:00 PM, and John Darnielle was writing in his diary. The afternoon sun was shining orange and yellow through the boughs of the old oak tree outside. John spaced out for a moment, admired the tree sunset beauty as he thought of titles for his new album.
"Maybe I will call it 'Dark Bird Brain'," he thought to himself. "Or, maybe 'Tiny Tinsel Toy'. Or, maybe I will name it after a South-African country." He had just thought of a really good one when his wife, Lalitree Darnielle, burst open the door to his study.

"Again you left the FUCKING top off the mayonnaise, John," she said. "Just what the hell is wrong with you?"
"Geez, Lalitree. I was going to put it away. I just needed a moment to think in my study, and then I was going to put the mayonnaise jar away."
"You have been in your study for three fucking hours, John."
"Well, anyway I just needed some time to think, Lalitree."
"'Needed some time to think,' John?"
"Maybe I would not need to spend so much time in my study if you were not nagging me all the time, Lalitree."
"Maybe I wouldn't need to nag you all the time if you could put the FUCKING cap back on the mayonnaise, JOHN!"
"Maybe I would do it if you just gave me the chance, LALITREE!"
"AARAKYRAAARD!" said Lalitree. In a fit of rage she threw the mayonnaise lid at John. It sailed in a curved hook like a flying saucer doing a barrel roll. It hit directly in the center of John Darnielle's forehead. John fell backwards off his chair, not as much from the force of the impact as from the surprise at being hit in the exact middle of the forehead with the flying lid of a mayonnaise jar.
"I HOPE YOU DIE!" said John as Lalitree began to storm out of the house.
"I HOPE WE BOTH DIE!" she said as she slammed shut the front door of their south-western ranch style house. The sound it made when she slammed the door was a sound like a nail being hammered into a coffin.

"Wow, that's a really good line," John thought to himself. He wrote it down in his diary. He waited a moment until he heard Lalitree peel away on her yellow and black Kawasaki and was sure she was gone for at least a while. "Now," thought John, "it is time to return to the closet where I hastily hide my little toys when Lalitree comes home too soon." As he approached the closet he could hear "Ghost...I know you live within me" wafting down the hall. John snuck up to the closet as silent as a cat. "Feel as you fly..." came from inside. John waited outside until "IN THUNDER... CLOUDS... ACROSS... THE CITY... HOW!... WE!... TORE!!!" Just then, John burst the door open. Inside, John Vanderslice sat up so quickly, his mouth made a distinct popping noise when it came up off Jeff Mangum's erect, throbbing member. J.D. knew Jeff was on the brink of climax. Jeff would always scream in a bleating warble just before releasing his warm boy juices all over his supple stomach.

"You little whore!" J.D. said, slapping Jeff across the face. Jeff turned his head and tried to cover up the red, throbbing outline on his face perfectly with his own hand. He touched it right where he felt the pain. The pain felt good. "You really thought you could get away with sneaking behind my back like that, Jeff? You worthless, tiny slut!"
"I'm sorry John. I have been a bad boy," bleated Jeff. "I have been an exceptionally bad boy."
"Well, Mr. Vanderslice. You know what we do with bad boys," said J.D..
"We punish them, Mr. Darnielle," said J.V.. J.V. beat Jeff about the buttocks as Jeff ran his boyish tongue up and down J.D.'s egarly waiting empty flesh tube, the tip easing its way in and out of Jeff's parted lips.
"I have loved you ever since you did that cover of my song where you couldn't really remember the lyrics," said Jeff.

Eventually they arranged themselves in a sort of vertical triangle up and over a sofa footrest, each boy eating another boy's butt. They sang "Two Headed Boy Pt. 1" Into each other's butts as they ate the butts. At "I AM LISTENING TO HEAR WHERE YOU ARE" J.D. and Jeff came simultaneously in what were the most beautiful and powerful orgasms of their adult lives. John thought he was going to shoot a couple vertebrae out of his dick. By this time the sun had long set behind the tree outside.

Blog Poetry

2009-02-15T21:47:00.001-05:00

I can't stop! it's too easy! Make poetry with only 'delete' and 'enter' keys!

BALL LIGHTNING by Danae123 (www.ballllightning.blogspot.com)

I HAVE SEEN BALL LIGHTNING.
MY MOTHER WAS ON
THE PHONE AND THERE WAS A BIG BANG
(THERE WAS A SMALL STORM AT THE TIME).
THERE WAS A LOUD HISS
ON THE PHONE AND MY MOTHER YELPED AND PULLED IT AWAY
REAL FAST.
IT APPEARED TO EMERGE FROM THE SPEAKER END
AS A FUZZY ORANGE THING
I LIKEN TO A SPARKLER,
KIND OF BALL SHAPED THAT ROLLED AND BOUNCED TO THE WALL AND LEFT A SCORCH MARK THAT
WAS SMALL. MY MOTHER'S EAR WAS SLIGHTLY BURNED
ON THE TOP AND THE SKIN SLOUGHED OFF.
I REMEMBER SHE WAS ILL A BIT AFTER,
NOT TOO SERIOUS,
BUT I THINK SHE VOMITED.
IT WAS VERY QUICK, A FEW SECONDS OR SO
AND IT WAS GONE.

Word of Truth Summer Camp by Bobby Ramsey (www.summercamp.blogspot.com)

Organist and Columbus native Steve McDaniels
sets the mood in the sanctuary
with a freeform musical performance that mixes reggae with traditional spirituals.
Proud parents file into the sanctuary, and director Joann Hassell opens the evening
with prayer.
So begins the graduation ceremony of Word of Truth summer camp on 13th Ave. in Columbus. After opening remarks, the audience is hushed
as 5-year-old Renaldo steps up to the microphone, gets a prompt from his teacher Ms. Hassell. He looks around for a moment and then shouts with a lisp,
“Genesis! Exodus! Leviticus! Numbers! Deuteronomy! Joshua! Judges! Ruth! First and Second Samuel!”
And so Renaldo finishes off a long list of Bible books,
all to the beat of the music. In their turn,
every one of Renaldo’s classmates takes the microphone and displays his or her knowledge
of the books of the Old Testament. That’s right, this is a pre-K class,
and some of them have memorized books all the way up to Esther and Ezra. Next
Mrs. Cantrell’s 1st to 3rd graders stand up
and take the stage. They get in a marching formation in front of 9-year-old Samuel,
their drill sergeant. He sings the cadence,
“We are the books of the Bible… We are the four gospels…”
Then his classmates sound off in turn, “Matthew! Mark! Luke! And John!”
1st graders Victoria and Jazmin stand near each other and exchange glances
and giggles during the song, having become best friends during camp.
3rd grader Anias sits down and rests from his earlier solo musical performance. These
are just a few highlights
from the Word of Truth camp graduation,
which took place last week.

Dust Off… by Stedelijk
(www.dustoff.blogspot.com)
time to dig the dirt
and listen to the winds

Reasons Unbeknownst by Anonymous Person in San Diego (crackhouse.blogspot.com)

Anderson - LongtailSavagely truncated
Tyranny of Choice - Due
to lack of information. Maybe that's what
google answers are looking to address.
411 specialists, turnaroud. Same with google advertizing.Custom Streams, not mass markets.Filters to get the crap out of the tail.-Six research projects - how does the tail affect the head?Inverse, time is the distribution
bottleneck.-Fractals??!!Minitails, hit amplification, the tail is made up of
mini-tails. Contradiction? -Price elasticity - Botique products cost more.
Fixed cost.-Difference between comodification, pyramid and the
long tail-Secondary markets - Used goods, Gray Goods, Overstock Goods-Watching Lessig watch Anderson, I wonder if this is the first time he's heard about this.-Waste transistors
then, waste storage,
bandwidth now. Excite former exec, Jotspot -
this is a good idea, software longtail. Excel for example. VC's are "freaked out"
about it. Leverage existing longtail
infrastructure!

1st Bullshit

2009-02-15T21:43:00.000-05:00

This was the 1st Bullshit, which completes the list, except for the new one for February

Past Bullshit Covers

2009-02-13T00:33:00.001-05:00

Friday January 30th, Downtown Oakland

2009-02-08T19:59:00.000-05:00

The shittiest part about biking across downtown Oakland is there are about one million red lights that are never in sync with one another. Right now I am following a huge tank-like black police vehicle across city streets as fast as I can. Four helicopters hover overhead like a dark cloud in the distance brings a storm. It seems like throngs of angry people are as natural and unrelenting piece of this Oakland urban ecosystem as the sky and the rain. I crawl through an artery of pulsating cars and watch as the tank arrives at its destination. Riot cops fan out and draw a line down the street between me and a group of maybe two hundred people. These people are pissed.
Police quickly block off the intersection, forming a diagonal line across 14th and Harrison streets. The throng starts to gather on the other side of the line. Some middle school girls are asking police “hey, why cant I go over there? I want to go over to the other side of you. Why can’t I cross the line? I would really like to cross the police line.”
It has been announced just one hour ago in a hearing that Johannes Mehserle may be released from prison if he pays ten percent of a three million dollars bail. In case you have been living under a rock in some Alemeda cul-de-sac, Mehserle is the BART cop who publicaly shot Oscar Grant in a subway station this new year’s day. Needless to say, people are not happy with the Judge's decision. Three million dollars is a very steep bail--Mehserle is considered a flight risk. However, for many people, the fact bail is even an option for Mehserle is a disturbing foreshadowing of how the judge will handle this case. A point that has been consistently brought up during all mass-gatherings concerning the murder of Oscar Grant is those assembled believe not only one police officer is at fault, but also a larger system of economic and racial opression.
I watch as a young black dude tries to break out of the crowd and through the police line.
“OK; arrest that guy” one of the cops say. About 6 people jump on him.
“What is your name?” a girl is shouting at the kid.
For his age, it really is impressive six cops are having trouble putting him in handcuffs.
“Don’t resist them, man. Be calm. Do not resist.” says an onlooker.
“What is your name?”
“Get off his fucking neck. Get off his fucking neck you dirty pig piece of shit cop. Get off his neck you worthless fucking shit bag,” someone else is screaming. The kid continues to struggle. Finally, they get the handcuffs on.
“What is your name?” says the girl again. The kid on the ground tells her, defeated. They put the kid in the paddy wagon.
“Man, I have never seen anything like this before. It is pretty clear in this situation the police are not on our side.” an impeccably dressed black man from Texas is telling me. “I wonder, though. If not us, who’s side are they on?”
A guy drives up into the middle of the fray in a black SUV. He opens the door and starts telling everyone to get out of the street or they will be arrested. Judging by his dress, he must be some sort of important guy. Maybe even the chief. However, everyone around is trying to stifle laughter because, really, the guy sounds pretty silly. If I had to describe it, I would describe it as if Pee Wee Herman, instead of starting a kids’ show, fell into an evil oozing vat of sludge that makes you embark on an endless self-loathing masculine power quest video game. “arrest that one.” he says, extending phalanges at some kid. “the one with the white T-shirt.” Tons of cops jump on him. Another black kid. “get that one with the backpack, over there. Arrest him.” The same. He gets one other, a white guy this time, I guess for good measure. By this point it is four PM and there is a ratio of about one police to one person, including onlookers on the other side of the line. It would be difficult to take this SUV man seriously were he not able to arrest anybody here pretty much at his will. The scary thing is he can.
All in all, at least four people are arrested before protesters disperse. On the part of protesters, there is no violence or breaking of shit. I look over to see a white guy putting plywood over the humongous windows of his downtown business. When I go over to talk to him he says he pretty much started boarding it up as soon as he heard the news about Mehserle. Next door to his business, a white woman in a black suit is frantically wheat pasting colorful pictures of Martin Luther King and Barack Obama onto her own plywood storefront, just beside her huge custom graffiti portrait of Grant. Most businesses on this street have at least pasted xeroexed pictures of Grant’s face on each window of their storefront. “I guess it is better than a security system,” a passer-by observes. Soon the clouds of reporters, protesters, and police subside. People go home and some racist white people descend upon internet news post comment pages like vultures, writing some irrelevant shit about how young black folks are thugs.
When the shit hits the fan some of us have the option to get out of the way. It is important to recognize that option is a luxury.

Update: Johannes Mehserle was released 3:45 PM Friday, February 6 after making $30,000 -- 10% of his three million bail.

Girls Like This:

2009-01-30T12:32:00.000-05:00

by Dr. Centeno

(to respond to this piece see the first post on this blog)

Sometimes known as “emo” girls or the more vague, congenial “indie” girls, this girl is usually the front woman of her own singer-songwriter project and closes her eyes when she sings, though sometimes she just plays bass in her friend’s punk band. Girls like this enjoy wearing more winter clothing than is necessary, particularly big hoods and scarves. They also tend to have strange fascinations with olden-times periods. Dress up is an important idea for these girls, because even though they know they are pretty, they try to hide it, at least for photos on the internet (they usually try to look pretty for Polaroids). Often they try to “hide” their beauty like this:

or like this:

But it doesn't ever work.

Girls like this have several types of friends: they must have another attractive friend who looks like them:

This is the person they talk in a baby voice to (and fight with) the most often.

Finally, they have a boyfriend.

This guy is a huge cock. He is a egotistical, apathetic, abusive, alcoholic, waste of space. He probably is, technically, in a band, or is a writer or artist of some type. Whatever he’s into, it is something that only works when he does it on the fly, desperate for attention, and requires nothing but a supernatural grace and charisma for 10-55 minutes. It is usually great, and brings him fame and fortune wherever he goes.

Don’t be confused!
There are several other types of girls who are mistaken for this type of girl:
Like this girl.

This girl is fun, and just as complicated as the girl we discussed before, BUT SHE IS NOT THE SAME GIRL.
The only creative output this girl is capable of is giving you head in a public alley despite her double-vision, explanations to her parents why she needs more money, and the Courtney Love-esque misspellings in her suicide letter.

Or this girl:

This girl will tear your fucking throat out with her fucking teeth. Stay away. It’s not because she’s Asian, it’s not because she’s pretty. You know why.

Here, let’s get that inverted.
See?

No way with this one either:

That’s Jeaneanne Garafolo. Snowball‘s chance in Hell.

Bits and Pieces

2009-01-21T21:11:00.000-05:00

Two poems I wrote a few weeks ago in an indo haze:

Warbling putty-fat Britsh comedian’s belly, bristling on stage with spiteful candor,
Like a basketball dribbled sarcastically. One-man game.
boo boo boo it says. boo boo boo.
His beard nuzzle strokes it like a hairy tongue.

Cold stoned (HAVE to remember to buy that roll of sheeting!)
Winter moves like frosty wet weed
Glistening slow hand downy snow seed
Squirrel flickers. Chickadees scatter like firecrackers.
Wh-
What?

Special Report from Oakland, California

2009-01-20T15:49:00.000-05:00

By William Orr

“I can’t wait to leave this fucking place,” reported Desiree Rousseau last Wednesday from her bedroom of the Apgar street punk house. “Everywhere you go, everything is ugly. There is no beauty in this place. There is only death.” The bedroom was decorated with a canopy of dry leaves, and a nineteenth century photograph of a woman bleeding from the eyeballs. Oakland is a strange place, indeed. Maybe Desiree is right about the whole death thing, but if that’s the case I must think death & decay are more beautiful than she does. Allow me to continue you on a tour through this gorgeous city in this weird & wonderful way I am being introduced to it.
First off, a great place to go is the landfill. This is the crop of land just behind a failing horse racing track where people build wonderful things for public use, like a hot tub and a skate park. Then, somebody comes along and totally trashes it beyond repair. Bummer. Sometimes, I am told, the City is this certain “somebody”. Latest (still functional!) projects include a wonderful treehouse, and a free library that doubles as a dwelling for the friendly homebum who runs it. You would think the guy would get kicked out, but you would be wrong because that dude has ex-Up Against the Wall Motherfucker Anarchist-street-gang-member-turned-lawyer backing. Pow!

The next place I was taken was a never-ending stream of houses where people occasionally host parties. You might not believe it, but one of these houses was (allegedly!) Hell itself. I’d never been, but it turns out Hell is one tiny cramped bedroom filled with strangers, lit only with one blacklite, and the radiator turned as high as it can possibly go. Also you cant leave because you just moved here and you don’t know where the fuck you are and the people that brought you feel like staying. Welcome to Hell.

To explain to all you Boston area residents out there, Oakland is actually a lot like San Francisco’s Somerville except, unlike Somerville, Oakland has enough self respect to tell you it isn’t fucking part of San Francisco! Also unlike Somerville, people actually want to live here.

If you MUST go across the river, however, it turns out downtown hotel lobbies are great public drinking spots. Once you have enough guts you can head over to one of the nudie booths in the (worker owned!) Lusty Lady. If you’re not too shy, they let you bring friends into the booth which is a great way to save money. In the small ones you can cram three people in there, and in the bigger booth at the end you can fit five. If that’s not your thing, some place there is a great burger place with a name I forgot. I also forgot where it is. Maybe there are some other stuff you should check out, but I wouldn’t know because these three things have really been what San Francisco is good for so far.

People do seem to have some strange habits around here. This new year BART cops (Bay Area subway police) celebrated by detaining and executing a guy, Oscar Grant, while he lay prone on a subway platform. This WOULD have ensued an ordinary, police brutality cover-up & routine pardon of the killer cop. Cops immediately began to confiscate all cameras and cell phones in the area as evidence, but not before the subway driver closed their doors and pulled away with multiple angle cell phone footage of the execution, footage which was subsequently totally fucking Youtubed.
Oops.
What’s more, on the same day of Oscar Grant’s burial the cop in question (who at this point was being kept anonymous) resigned, which basically abstained him of any responsibility for the murder. Needless to say people flipped their shit, or, as some Californians might say, “Many a mellow was harshed“. Windows were smashed, dumpsters lit on fire, and some folks ALMOST flipped over a police car, but not before being relentlessly tear gassed to the great disappointment of police antagonists worldwide. At this point in my report I MIGHT have mentioned what many of you have already guessed, that Oscar Grant was a black man and the cop was a white dude, and I WOULD touch upon Oakland’s history of racially motivated police brutality, but I am told by the time this rag comes out we will live in something called a “post-racial” America. From what I can understand this means stuff like race doesn’t really matter anymore because we will have a BLACK president sworn into office. So I won’t bother.
13 days and many a pissed off person later, the DA finally got around to arresting former officer Johannes Mehserle on warrant for murder. By then, the guy had moved to Nevada.

Other spots you can go are the gallery openings every month on Telegraph street. On rare occasions this is where you can spot three guys lighting American flags on fire and shouting obnoxiously. “They do this every month,” alleged an annoyed cigarette smoker on the scene. Actually, maybe it’s not so rare to see them. “Okay! Sure!” shouted a well-dressed man, reaching for a burning flag as all three men began to boo him. “I’m George fucking Bush! I’m pulling down your stupid flag.” Presumably, he worked for the gallery it was hanging upon. The whole event was a great opportunity to light your cigarette if you forgot matches at home, but art aficionados were left wanting more from the performance. “That really is a bit passé, with a complete lack of understanding of the fundamentals of performance art. This happening lacks spontaneity or originality, which are the very elements that make a happening a happening. The viewer does not feel affected by this whatsoever. I mean, come on,” said an unidentified well-educated man who’s sharp criticism and artistic vocabulary make him a highly respected art appreciator.

The art in the openings are always pretty good, and there is a great fry shack just across the street from the gross punk house where the exclusively-male inhabitants are wondering why no chicks want to move in. An ongoing investigation has, at time of press, yielded no concrete answers.

The final place was first described as a “fucking hellhole” by my wonderful tour guide at the moment, a punk named Dirt. “We are going to go to a rave at this fucking hellhole called the ‘flower shop’” she says. As we drive up and over the bay bridge we listen to a tape of Dirt’s goth radio show. Inside the truck are myself, Dirt, a quiet boy with chops who drives named Wacker, and Tank Girl, someone who’s body exists on this physical plane, but who’s actual essence exists as a pioneer into the fray of some other, yet to be explored, metaphysical space.

“I hope you are ready because this place is the deepest fucking hole in the Bay Area and we are going to go right into it,” explains Dirt. The goth radio show tape has bled in some sort of a way that you listen to not one, but both sides at once. “Are you ready for this place that, for the last ten years, has been the kingdom of Raver Shit Trash?” Joy Division comes out of the right speaker of the truck, backwards. “I’m ready for it,” I say. When we roll up to the warehouse Dirt pisses in between two cars. “Hey, if you guys want to give me a dollar or two this shit is a benefit for a program for kids in the neighborhood who don’t have anything to do,” says Dirt, buttoning her pants.

Dirt leads us through the back gate and across a path of pallets flanked on each side by airstreams and other semi-permanent housing. Inside there is a tunnel leading between two rooms, each presided over by a DJ. In the larger room there is a tent pitched on the ground, and another on the ceiling. The DJ in this room lords subtly from the mouth of a computer part & monitor filled room straight out of some anime where a 15 year old computer genius is in the process of actually turning himself into a robot. Above him an endless video is projected that is the stream of consciousness from a Windows 95 computer just seconds before its death. Some people here are dancing in a way that suggests they might be a cyborg. “This is really more of a psychological hellhole,” says Wacker. “What do you think?” Dirt says to me. “I think we should fucking dance,” I say.

Soon a troupe of women dressed in blue and black and holding bicycle wheel parasols assaults the dance floor and performs a choreographed sexy dance about bikes. A woman accuses the DJ that techno music is “totally played out.” For a moment he argues he has a “new” kind of techno, with beats that are “dark and heavy“. He argues this as his three extremely long dreadlocks flap around behind his right ear. She is unconvinced.

A girl offers me some drugs from her purse but I politely decline so I can start this very report, live on the fucking scene! You might think its impossible for a paper publication to say its reporting “live”, but I say it because I’m pretty sure this stuff is going on every hour of every day, so it does not even matter what time you read this article. Even when a guy in a Russian hat and a tooth missing starts poking me about “HEY YOU THERE! Guy in the corner. We’re all like fucking equal man or what ever. It doesn't even matter man, because we’re like all black or white...” I am reporting live on the scene for you, the reader. Even when a cute girl named Krista wearing a beret and black parachute pants comes over and tries to start conversation I pay no attention. I do it all for you. If you asked me about Oakland: “You mean they shred like THAT?” I would tell you:
“Yeah, they shred like that.”

2009-01-04T16:23:00.000-05:00

Fox girl
Fox girl
Poison your dagger
Poison your dagger for
His cheating
Heart. Poison your dagger
For the
Soft
Underbelly.

Bullshit! on the net

2008-12-18T19:32:00.000-05:00

Bullshit! is now available on the internet! not with the exact same stuff as the paper version, but hey, fuck you.

anywho, I was thinking about putting this piece where Dr.Centeno describes a certain type of brown haired "indie" girl (maybe glasses) in the February Bullshit!, but it's too long and offensive in the wrong way. What I'd like would be for a girl, preferably one who looks like the ones described below, to do a piece making fun of "indie" boys or "punk" boys or "hippie" boys, but preferably on boys who look like me. See how this works? anyway, please don't be offended, it's all in good fun, and if you're really offended, do the response piece I just said I wanted to get me back. If one of the pictures I used below is yours and you're angry, just tell me and I'll remove it.

Good? Good.

Blog Poetry:

Ralph Kylloe, the Ralph Archives
www.ralphkylloe.com/GreetingsArchive.html

I was fully aware that I was now in potentially serious trouble.
"I really hate people like you", came from the lips of the biker on my left.
Several people were now watching
wondering if I was about to have the brains
beaten out of my head. I have to admit that I was scared. And I felt my voice tremble
as I said "I'm just trying to find some humor somewhere."
It was a feeble, stupid response but I will admit that I was painfully intimidated.A few seconds later both of the bikers broke
into giggles and then laughter. I thought for a moment they
were going both go into cardiac arrest they were laughing so hard.
"We got you man" they said. "We really got you!"
They were pointing their huge
fingers at me. Both continued their gut-splitting outburst. "Hey man, we love
doing this to people", the big guy said.
"We scare ‘em to death and love doing it. You should have seen the look on your face.
You were great man. Don't pay any attention to us, Man, we're just
having some fun with you." Moments later
they picked up their lattes with extra vanilla and walked off to relax in a booth.
I could still hear their laughter as I walked out the doors
without my large, black coffee. I have to admit
that the two bikers with all their tattoos, chewing tobacco and leathers were quite
convincing.
When I finally got home I took a triple dose of my blood pressure medicine.