Parking this butoh doc here for you to return to at your leisure. This is the film that made me aware of butoh when I was a young teen, and it’s clear that it both meshed with and expanded my understanding and (so-far) lifelong search for expression torn between celebration of and disgust with the physical part of being human.
I should say, too, that after you view this, compare it to any video of Arab on Radar live in the 90s (like this one), and the kind of atavistic physicality is really similar, though maybe not so laden with intent. And, given my teen exposure to skronk (Big Black, Swans, etc) and butoh, AoR really fit the bill. Not to mention that after seeing them live, all rock tropes seemed as quaint as hopscotch.
Today’s entry will be light-ish, because I just can’t get the words together. I think I’m dizzy from all the head-shaking I had to do this week. Every article about Trump just made me want to scream the last line of the second-most famous speech in Glengarry Glen Ross, where Ricky Roma loses it: “You fucking child!”
That’s not a great way to get through life, so, in the spirit of the season, nice things to say about the idiot homunculus who will be leading us into the abyss:
- Anything he tweets makes even my drunkest inanities seem comparatively dignified and mature.
- Nuclear annihilation means that I get the last laugh on any scolds who more-in-sorrowed me over the consequences of my hedonism (not to mention the hours logged playing the Fallout games — turns out they did have value after all).
By the way, if you’ve ever wanted to make out with me, we should probably get together before our lips fall off in the radiation clouds.
In spite of the sporadic posting, I really do type up a lot in preparation, but usually drop it on rereading. So, to fill up some space, false starts and stalled farts:
Here’s something that I typed up last week and then abandoned after the Bushmills cleared my system. I think I was trying to talk about how the opinion excerpts from last week were not a violation of my already lax ground rules for inclusion in this Weekly Reader because they weren’t offering predictions or claiming any insight into the mind of the general electorate, but were more honestly personal and nicely written, plus how reading some folks try to make sense of it all without having a meltdown was a fine use of your time. Then a gratuitous & crass line used to wedge in an ancient Peggy Noonan quote. Anyway:
When we got cable, I was nine and we would watch MTV for hours, and I’d be mystified by the stories in the videos. I used to think that Chrissy Hynde really was a waitress rejected by the ugly boys that came into her diner. I used to think that all of the vocalists of the Human League were actually in a love triangle. I used to think that the singer from Dead Or Alive was an insatiable sex cannibal who was going to climb out of the TV and claim me as his brand new lover, until I realized he was just Jocelyn Wildenstein.
The point is, we try to make sense of what we’re given, and we’ve just been given a jigsaw puzzle box, but inside is: 200 corner pieces, the inner mechanism of a Rubiks Cube, a half-filled-out return ticket to sell Grit, and I think that’s a sock that somebody has either sneezed on or used as a cum rag (Is it irresponsible to speculate? It is irresponsible not to.).
So, I think it’s safe to ignore the cri de couers, gnashing of the teeth, the ripping and the tearing…this is what we have on our hands, folks. No help is on the way, so let’s roll up our sleeves and get to work.
Here’s something about a Fasten driver who has been in Austin via Brooklyn for four years and — after trying to sell me her reiki services — told me (me!) where to find the best Chinese and Mexican places in town, then went off on a Trump kick that really beat the band, even in these times, because she managed to throw in a reference to Three Mile Island. There was a point to including it in a post when I typed it up, but I can’t remember what it was.
I don’t know why I reveal this. It’s more than poor boundaries. Probably some instilled guilt about taking a ride when I look like I’m perfectly capable of taking the bus mixed with some fantasy that I don’t look my age. So I have to explain that I am a frail flower in the Autumn of its year,
I should know better. If you expose any weakness, someone will have a cure.
Her mother who, stricken with lung cancer, was given a prognosis of thirty days, but then went on to live six more years with – and I am not embellishing to make my point – only a touch of stroke, brain cancer, one lung removal, dementia and bone cancer. So a happy, healthy life, all thanks to energy work and as much as I appreciate that people who urge me to seek treatment outside of the (admittedly expensive) regimen that now allows me to clothe, bathe and pleasure myself are only trying to help, none of them really offer up a solution that seems to, shall we say, solve the problem.
This had no business on a blog ostensibly created specifically to point you to policy papers:
No matter how many times it happens, I don’t know that I’ll ever get used to it. It’s like a private Twilight Zone. I woke up one morning in 2006 in a strange room and a strange bed and I asked her, “Where are we?” but, as it does, the sleep subsided and I realized that I was in Pittsburgh and she was back in Providence, because I drove away from her 19 hours ago. It happens less often as the bags under my eyes gain weight: I wake up and reach out for a hand that I abandoned.
This was about false flags, and as you’ll see, really went nowhere fast. The joke of the first sentence in the third paragraph still makes me smile, though.
Indeed, as Edroso notes, the paranoiac dyslexicon has stormed into the open, “false flags” being the most salient example, and one worth unpacking as it will demonstrate the larger arguments made by the incoming administration and its partisans in miniature.
Let’s imagine a pleasant spring afternoon in Anytown, USA. Folks are done for the day, in a bar avoiding their families; Bum Fu, the lovable town tweaker, is on his usual bench arguing with an hallucination; the children are in the park teasing a retard; and kindly Old Lady Pierson in her used pet shop is closing up for the day. A man walks into the store with a basket of rabbits, apparently for trade. He asks each person inside to select a fluffy bunny from the basket, and then, at gunpoint, he demands that they rip it in two (by claw or fang) and perform to his satisfaction an act of sexual Congress. A hostage situation ensues and there are no survivors, but there is video footage, which is how we know about the necroleporadic orgy and precipitating events.
Now, you and I would be horrified and wonder who could think of such a thing. We’d wait for news reports on this person’s background, and in them try to make sense of it all. Maybe he was a disgruntled former employee, maybe a dissatisfied customer, maybe just balls-out chicken-dance cuckoo. And we will note that dude was armed. With a gun at my face, I could be convinced to do karaoke. A dude and a knife, I take my chances.
Others will blame the venue for lax security, all of the patrons for not packing a weapon, and ultimately determine that the answer is that to stop anything bad from happening, ever, we all need guns.
Still others will decide that the real problem is that the guy was a liberal who hated pet owners, because bourgeois something. Others will up the ante and say that he was an animal rights activist, who hates pet owners AND the trafficking in animals. The solution will be blog posts exposing the agenda, and more guns.
Someone will find a photo of him – or someone who looks like him and has a close skin tone – on a social media account and proclaim that he is a liberal — you know, the ones who commit atrocities — because in the photo he is on a college campus or leaning next to a black person.
Then the news will come out that he is a veteran with PTSD who has been fixated on the store, had several restraining orders against him, and owned 25 firearms. The news will call the gun an assault rifle.
Immediately the focus will be on how there is no such thing as an “assault rifle” and the gun in the video is clearly a shotgun. Lying media! Bad media!
And then we get to false flag.
Some fun(-ish and -ny) from the week:
We’ve all had that friend who was really into something — maybe punk rock, maybe Sufism, maybe Morris dancing — and then, one day, suddenly hated all those things and went the opposite way; like if they used to be into Bukowski, now they were obsessively reading Chesterton and C.S. Lewis, and had grown a shitty little beard and started smoking a Meerschaum.
Apparently, the next government of the United States is going to run for 13 weeks and then get canceled and replaced by a government involving an orphan and a tender-hearted cop. Or some crime drama about coroners.
Recall how the Republican Party responded to Barack Obama’s victory in 2008. Instead of forming a “permanent opposition” that would have corroded our democratic institutions, the GOP framed the election of the first black president as a source of pride for all Americans — and then rallied behind that president, to help the nation battle its way back from financial crisis…
Anyone who suggests otherwise is a cynical operative who thinks she can spew transparent hypocrisies because you have the political memory of a goldfish.