Love that Cynthia

This kind of stuff almost writes itself. You couldn’t ask for a better entertainment subject than Cynthia Much-Ado-About-A-Hairdo McKinney. Found this little nugget on YouTube from election night. (Sorry about the Fox News, couldn’t find it anywhere else.) That would be the night of the election she lost. By the way, in case you were wondering, there wasn’t so much as a bleat of apology from her camp after this little episode. And for those not local, the New Black Panther Party is to race relations what the Salafi Jihadist movement is to tolerance.

Just to recap on Cynthia’s credentials, she’s also a signatory of the 9/11 Truth Statement. (Not going to honor those assholes with a link.) You know, these are the folks that think the Twin Towers were a controlled demolition and the Pentagon was hit by a missile. Also, according to Wikipedia she’s trying to pimp herself as the ’08 Green Party Candidate. By all means, take it on the road and inflict yourself on the rest of the country. Then she can blame all of the Jews when she loses and not just the ones in the 4^th District.

I’m thinking about posting the following personal ad:
Wanted: Representative for the 4^th Congressional District. Must be able to speak in complete sentences, have a modicum of education in public service or public administration and lack criminal record. Charisma desired but will settle for articulate and well groomed. A strong grasp of reality and facts is essential. Ideal candidate must have at least a passing respect for authority and not make District residents nauseas.

Ares

Media Whores Part I

Today I was trapped for several hours in a venue that had CNN blaring. With nothing else to view but my fellow human it was inevitable that I spend some time looking at the glazed over phosphor glow. Let me give you the highlights of what you already know so well: Iraq, Iraq, 2008 Presidential Race, What The President Did Today, it rained somewhere. Repeat ad infinitum. I know nothing more about my world than when I woke up this morning as a result of this involuntary investment. The formula for all segments was to present the most contentious angle possible. Even the weather made sure to harp about the storms that were going to wreak havoc on poor defenseless people.

There was another annoying factor aside from pandering to idiocy and fear, and that was the obsession with dead American soldiers. I've taken pains over the past few years to learn as much as I can about terrorism, guerilla warfare, and insurgency. Most of what passes for inspection of this phenomenon concerns itself with the kinetics (killing people and breaking things). If you read about the practice of Fourth Generation Warfare, and read with the leaders on the Salafi Jihadist movement write and say, you'll learn that the conflict is 80% non-kinetic. It is stage managed violence that is formulated for maximum visual impact beyond the battlefield. (Here's a little example of this type of conflict. When the PLO was engaged in the Intifada we were bombarded with imagery of Israeli military forces wreaking destruction upon the Palestinian people. Conditioned response: Those Israelis are slaughtering helpless civilians. How many video clips did you see of suicide bombers detonating themselves in Israeli restaurants and cafes? None. This is Fourth Generation Warfare at its most clinical.) There are virtually no strategic kinetic fights. What you have are a series of tactical engagements that are positioned to give a strategic appearance. This is where CNN comes in, willingly.

The endless obsessing about death serves absolutely no positive purpose. The "other side" views this as weak, overwrought wailing. The domestic consumers have images constantly piped into the visual cortex, bypassing cognition. The deep inspection of each death serves to keep viewers in the emotion and well away from logic or analysis. This is precisely the state that Fourth Generation Warfare opponents need us kept in. The broadband obsessive-compulsive stream of conflict that is being constantly mainlined into our jugular keeps us intellectually anesthetized. While immersed in emotion sound judgment is essentially impossible. Imagine, if you will, doctors that broke down uncontrollably every time a patient was diagnosed with a serious life-threatening illness. This overproduced microscope of television creates self-fulfilling prophecies. Just like your life, complete daily inspection of all aspects will rarely show marked progress. The ancient lie told since the beginning is that they are merely reporting what transpires and aren't responsible for what happens in the world. A cursory inspection of Fourth Generation Warfare reveals this to be turned on its head. The other lie passed off by big media, that they're just doing what everyone else is doing, wouldn't pass muster between a parent and child but is willingly swallowed by an entire society. Eventually, in the long term, I think this issue will sort itself out. I have yet to meet and discuss this very concept with anyone that is anything less than disgusted. When enough people vote with their eyes and feet this whore of a dinosaur we're forced to endure will wither and die.

Ares

The Future of Food

With thanks to Drew:



Watch it. This is important.

Athena

Warning

Found another little gem on the Internet: The Warning Label Generator. I’ve been having all kinds of fun with it at work. Take it for a spin.

ht: Boortz

Ares

Useless Donkeys

The new, fledgling legislature of Afghanistan almost has the hang of it. They’ve suspended a female member of parliament for some things she said. Her sin: She said a stable was more useful than congress. “A stable is better, for there you have a donkey that carries a load and a cow that provides milk”. Amen! Apparently that’s flamethrower language in Afghanistan.

This actually works on a couple of levels. First, it proves that legislatures are the same worldwide. Second, I think she actually meant “Democrats”, but inserted the more common “donkey” reference. (Just want to see if Athena’s paying attention.) Still, it’s a huge step forward that they just suspended her. Back in the day she would have been lucky to just be beaten for speaking out. During Taliban times she ran a school for girls, an offense that is still occasionally punishable by death in that part of the world. Personally, I think the men of that august body of law makers looked at themselves, then at her, and realized they weren’t measuring up in the proverbial dangling genitalia department. More than anything cowards hate people that are more than they could ever become. And that male dominated collection of inferior souls hiding behind Islam is the most stunning example of externalized cowardice ever witness by humanity.

Ares

Exposed to Art

So Mrs. Ares’ employer had their annual awards diner last night. The good news is the grub was free and there was an open bar. The bad news is that it was at the High Museum. It’s only bad because all forms of art appear to be lost on me.

After diner and the awards ceremony the museum opened for our perusal. The current centerpiece is the Louvre exhibit. Let me give you the abbreviated version: Painting, painting, rug on the wall, somebody’s dishes, and a few statues. Walking among the old stuff made me long for a single wish. I desperately want to come back 400 years in the future to see what detritus from our current landscape will pass as art. Call me a heathen, but a lot of the ‘art’ looks like stuff that was just lying around. My crowning moment of mental inferiority was looking at the miniature bronze figures from the first century A.D. About 4 inches high, my immediate thought was that they looked like the Star Wars action figures I played with as a kid. Apparently George Lucas really was on to some universal themes. My next thought, which I idiotically shared aloud with Mrs. Ares was “Look! Mercury has a little itty bitty penis!” That was one of those ‘or worse’ moments they mentioned somewhere in the wedding ceremony.

It was a nice evening. Just about perfect weather and the High is a beautiful space. A tidy little island of serenity tucked into the canyons between skyscrapers in Midtown. The only intrusion was the occasional thumping of car stereos on nearby Peachtree Street. (If there’s a place in metro Atlanta to get away from that I haven’t found it.) The High is also home to the Atlanta Symphony. A little fact I learned about Symphony attendance: You can get gourmet coffee with a shot of Amaretto and a box of Junior Mints before listening to Tchaikovsky. That might just make it go down a little easier. Maybe I’ll be better at the symphony that I was at the Louvre.

Ares

The Final Frontier

This still feels a little silly, writing the miscellaneous whatever and posting it to the great nothingness. I’m not a scholar with an intellectual bunker to defend, nor am I an ‘issue’ blogger advancing a tightly held concept. Just some guy in somewhere America, scrawling on his 15 column inches of fame. It still seems a little narcissistic, but also a little cathartic. Maybe it’s the flight from nothingness that appeals. In posting to that great formless yet all-encompassing Internet you become part of something bigger than yourself. With apologies to our father, a sort of confessional and communion with a keyboard. Makes you wonder if the Internet might someday supplant that portion of the psyche that organized religion currently occupies. I don’t think it’s too much of a stretch, given that there are 65 million MySpace registrants. The irony is too sharp to measure, millions of people spending more time alone in order to be with other people. Then again, it’s the best way to enjoy other people: Selectively filtered. This is new psychological territory, somebody’s PhD thesis waiting to happen. In the mean time, I’ll just keep pecking away.

Ares

Middle East Rochambeax

So Hamas kills Fatah, which begats Fatah to kill Hamas, which begats everyone to kill Israel. This is a new twist that no one didn’t see coming. Seems the Palestinians skipped that pesky rule set thing that goes along with self-rule and went straight to the civil war. I don’t think its considered racist anymore to observe that Palestinians have a propensity for self-destruction. But in truth this is more about the retention of power by a select few and fighting over the checkbook than anything the Israelis ever did. It’s just that it gets a little wearisome watching generation after generation self-immolate.

I’m only half-kidding when I offer the following suggestion. Why don’t the Palestinians clean up some of that rubble, make a trip to Home Depot, and build themselves a world class casino or two. Take a page from the Native/Original/Indigenous Americans. Do themselves a Dubai, if you will. If they can talk themselves around the Koran’s prohibitions against slaughtering innocents surely they can step around the gambling verses. Everybody sneers until the money starts rolling in. Besides, wouldn’t it be better for the Palestinian ego to have Israelis serving them drinks and cleaning their toilets, just like whitey does in Tunica and Cherokee? Because if they don’t get some sort of plan, some alternate trajectory, I’ve got two words that perfectly describe their evolution: Easter Island.

Ares

Open Up and Say Stupid

Today’s edition of the WTF Files comes to you from Lawrenceville, Georgia. An enterprising fellow decided to open his own dental practice….in his apartment. (No citation available, the Atlanta Urinal-Constipation puts their stuff behind a firewall. Deep thinkers, all of them.) Who needs certification when you’ve got desire in your heart? This story bothers me on two levels. First, who has a burning desire to stick their hands in other people’s mouths? That career pushing a broom just wasn’t enough, so he thought he’d really level up and pretend to be a dentist? But weirdness knows no bounds, so it’s not too difficult to believe.

The really, really disturbing part is how many people fell for the good ‘doctor’. I’m not sure how many there were, but one is too many. Let me walk you through the mental gymnastics that were required by the participants.

‘Doctor’: Welcome to my office.

‘Patient’: Isn’t this your apartment?

‘Doctor’: I’m just working out of here until my office is ready.

‘Patient’: Okay. Where is your office staff?

‘Doctor’: Uh…they’re at lunch. Have a seat in the chair.

‘Patient’: It’s 9:30 in the morning. Isn’t that a Lazy Boy?

‘Doctor’: I’m waiting on new furniture. Let's have a look in there.

‘Patient’: What’s that in your hand? Is that a screwdriver? Why do all of your dental tools say Craftsman on them?

‘Doctor’: Uh…Craftsman has a new line of dental tools.

‘Patient’: Don’t I get any anesthesia?

‘Doctor’: Sure. Take this.

‘Patient’: This is an aspirin.

‘Doctor’: Uh…yea. It also helps if you happen to have a heart attack.

And so on. Whoever this ‘doctor’ is I think he’s got a bright future in sales. Then again, DeKalb County will be looking for a new CEO next year. Gig probably pays better than being a fake dentist. Job comes with its own armored SUV and a phalanx of body guards. That should help when those pesky regulators start asking questions. And he couldn’t possibly be any worse than Vernon “We-Gotta-Darken-This-Place-Up” Jones.

Ares

Tinky Winky Says Hi

Welcome to the sad club there Athena. We’re gonna get jackets made. Wasn’t it Drew Carey that said “There’s a club for that. It’s called everyone, and it meets at the bar.”?

And now for something completely different, I have a grassroots campaign I’d like to start. I want people to start leaving Tinky Winky dolls on Jerry Falwell’s grave, once he gets there. Jerry reminds me that the old saying “He fought for his people” is usually the first half of a complete sentence. The second half is “and crapped on a lot of others in the process”. World probably would have been a better place if he’d just learned to MYOFB, as we say on the Internet.

Ares

Love in the Modern Age

I’m trying to remember what it was like before the Internet. How the first cut was generally made. But now, in the age of eHarmony and match.com, the cut comes differently.

A friend recently told me the story of talking to her not-so-ex-boyfriend (seems strange, in itself, to call him “boyfriend” since he is in his late 50s and she is 60, but there it is). He spoke of his current paramour—my friend is most insistent that all other connections be disclosed—and how she differed from my friend. My friend, knowing they met online, made note of details, and very shortly found the new paramour’s profile. She discussed this with her ex; and he agreed with her when she listed the ways in which the new woman fell short. This is all just a bit too open for me, but its not my life, so I merely listened, in awe of their ability to discuss all.

So then we come to me and my tiny little life. I decide, genius that I am, to check out a certain online dating service. I have tried many methods over the years: personal ads, online dating, telling ALL my friends that they should introduce me to their single male friends. And I’m still single. Never married. At least I can say I never paid a divorce lawyer. But I digress. I go to this unnamed online dating service, and within 60 seconds, I see the profile of my most recent ex-boyfriend. The person I thought was my soul mate. The man I intended to take for better or for worse. And he’s out there lookin’ for love.

At first I was stunned. Then angry. Now, I truly wish him well. Because, if I say I loved him (and I do) then I have to want him to find happiness somewhere, somehow. And I am no saint, but I do not subscribe to the scorched earth theory of love.

However, I do know this in a way I apparently didn't know before: its over.

Athena

Gilbert's Got Back

Just a little bit of silliness, courtesy of an old friend. I think you have to be uniquely damaged to get this one. If they gave Oscars for creative wastes of time these guys would be winners.

Ares

she's alive

Yes, I’m alive. No, I haven’t been hiding in a cave. However, if my work life continues as it has been, I intend to look for a nice, quiet cave. Just in case anyone out there wondered, accreditation is not for me. Never has been, never will be. Not long ago, a trusted colleague told me that it is in my “skill set.” I thought (but did not say) “yes, and so is tearing out and eating my own toenails, but you won’t catch me doing it.” This too shall pass. Meanwhile, I will try to do better about checking in. Ares isn’t a blog-hog; he’s just the only one that’s been dutiful about posting.

Later, dudes.

Athena

Getting Old

I discovered one of those tiny truths in life this morning. As I rolled out of bed the first thing I registered was soreness from doing more than I should have yesterday. Going through the machinations of getting ready for the day I continued to catalogue the various aches and whatnot. Today’s issues were less about overuse and more a small reckoning with years of mild abuse. The little truth was this: Getting older means it gets tougher to lie to yourself. Not as small a thing as it may seem. There are little bouts of delusion that aren’t necessarily evil, just a little mental cover. But at some point you come face to face with it and make a decision. I think fully accepting it is almost a form of sobriety: You acknowledge there is a thing you are powerless over. And much like sobriety you always have to work at it. You can’t just waive at the idea and move on. It’s going to keep challenging you.

Because if you don’t do this properly you end up like my boss, a guy in middle age that is engaged in a constant campaign of euphoric recall while hurtling towards his demise. The longer it goes on the more elaborate the mental dance becomes, and the final reckoning is probably going to splatter you on some mental pavement somewhere. My point isn’t to dropkick my boss but to thank him in a backhanded way. Even the ass***** in your life have something to offer. Usually they’re a human sign that says “Don’t go there!”

Ares

Another Digression

Just a short little aside, which is all this blog really amounts to anyway. Found a link on the ever cool Common Sense Technology. Seems somebody had the brains to ask a simple question about temperature collection methods used to support the global warming idea. Short version: They changed the type of paint used to cover the boxes at National Weather Service data collection points. The new paint doesn’t reflect as much infrared radiation, thereby making the boxes hotter. Also, they are some collection points directly adjacent to concrete and asphalt expanses. Don’t take my word for it, read the article. He doesn’t say everybody’s full of poop, just says we might want to reconsider some of the data.

Ares

Papa Hemingway.....Still Dead

Today’s little dose of foreshadowing irony comes from Ernest “Ate-a-gun-in-61” Hemingway.

“Some made the long drop from the apartment or the office window; some took it quietly in two-car garages with the motor running; some used the native tradition of the Colt or Smith and Wesson; those well constructed implements that end insomnia, terminate remorse, cure cancer, avoid bankruptcy, and blast an exit from intolerable positions by the pressure of a finger; those admirable American instruments so easily carried, so sure of effect, so well designed to end the American dream when it becomes a nightmare, their only drawback the mess they leave for relatives to clean up.”

I just finished To Have and Have Not. They must have been hard up for good material in the 30’s because that book is largely a piece of crap. Hem pulls it out a bit in the final 20 pages, but meanders and drifts for the bulk of the work. I get the themes about class struggle and man verses man and whatnot, but what does that have to with three chapters of sitting in a bar getting obliterated? We won’t even talk about his love of the n-word, which is absent in the other things I’ve read by him. And just a little side note, I think I’ve got an idea why he took the cosmic hit on the 12 gauge bong. These are just a few of the medical conditions he suffered from at one point or another: Anthrax, a cut eyeball, a torn groin muscle, Spanish Flu, shell fragments, machine gun fire, concussions, loss of vision in his left eye, loss of hearing, crushed vertebra, ruptured spleen, kidneys, and liver, paralysis of the sphincter (WTF!), first and second degree burns, and, of course, depression. Can’t say I blame him for hitting the bottle.

Ares

Those That Do

Been gone a while. That wages for work concept intruded once again into my life. Another four day entertainment extravaganza. (Just an aside thought: Doesn’t it feel like decades of marketing and advertising has cheapened words like extravaganza and spectacular into uselessness?) Came home at the end of it a choking, human-sized bile duct. Mind you, it was nothing I actually had to do or see at work that left me that way. It was the management of my own organization that left me spelunking the depths of human incompetence while sitting on my couch at 7:30 this morning.

I feel very old when I resort to analogies like this, but I’ve come to believe there are two types of worker in this world. The first are those that do for a living: Driving a truck, mowing lawns, moving furniture, answering phones. At the end of the day they have a work product of some variety that justifies their fiduciary existence within an organization.

The second are those that administer for a living. Not having a product they can articulate using nouns, they merely tend to a given process. More often than not this process is the movement, deployment, and juxapositioning of those that do in this world. Because they lack the metrics to measure worth there is a default to belief that process is reason for existence. Inordinate amounts of time are expended calculating the angles, obliques, and intercepts of the human trajectories within their power. The interpersonal aikido serves two purposes: It gives a masturbatory feeling of power when the process is exercised and it redirects the questioning energies back onto those that do. Worth and competence are benchmarked against how the organization’s human dynamics can be bent and negated within desired parameters.

In my organization these are cowardly, chicken-hearted boys posturing to be like men. We suffer under an astounding weight of management and an appalling vacuum of leadership. In lieu of leadership we endure infantile temper tantrums about our lack of faith to the process. A process that is so empty without flesh-and-blood inspiration that merely being on the clock empties your soul. A form of mental radiation, it lays latent but silently takes away invisible chunks of those in its orbit. The justifications are a one act human puppet show that consists of the refrain “Because I said so” followed by a gesture towards a title. The work product machinations of those that do are a sanctuary from those that administer. This sanctuary, one of the few places on earth where respect can only be purchased from other participants through competence, enrages and mystifies administrators with its lack of manipulatable human levers. Having existed on credit for so long they cannot grasp the mechanics of hard currencies.

Hemingway once wrote “All I’ve got is my cojones to peddle.” Nothing could be more truthful of the doers in my organization. They offer their very existence by showing up. In this shadow stand the administrators, inspecting the stark difference and attempting to bluff what they cannot purchase. Alas, I am not member of their collective. I didn’t participate in The Great Raid of File Cabinet 3 or The Battle of Tuesday Staff Meeting. In lieu of concrete peril they fester over parliamentary procedure. A common, self-justifying mantra of denial heard from on high is some form of “if people don’t like it why are they still here?”, as though you can measure success by the lack of corpses. The absence of flight from those that administer is not a reflection of their competence; it is a testament to people that believe what we do is a powerful benefit to our fellow man. But there is a limit to what men will endure and tolerate.

Ares