Archive for the 'Cineman' Category

The Melancholy Of Anatomy: Anus

Once upon a time, there on the blog of ol’ Marky Mark, there be’d a passel of fierce feisty gals, who weekly posted Diaries on Criminal Injustice.

These wimmins therein tracked the ravages of markosthe police state, as it affected citizens of these United States, particularly those citizens of people of color.

Marky Mark hisself never deigned to enter these diaries.


Not even one.

White racist trolls did, though. And every week.

To there weep and moan that mebbe black/brown/weird prisoner people should be there, in the prison, and that anyway too many of them were pretty much animals, roaming wild and way too free, with big buck knives, seeking to drag frail pale wildwood flower white women into the bushes, to there commit upon these young lovelies Unspeakable crimes.

The fierce feisty Criminal Injustice gals tried every which way but bombs to deal with these nimrods.

But, every week, still, they came.

A mammoth spirit and soul drain.

Occasionally, when one of these idjits would enter a Diary with an actual cross or swastika carved upon his or her forehead, Meteor Pokey, the some-time Indian, would at last ban the bugger.

But by that time the gals were usually so enervated that, if made of weaker stuff, like me, they would have long since been permanently hooked up to an opiate IV.

See, there was a problem with the Marky Mark blog. It was white as a Klansman’s robe. And a lot of the people on it were Klansmen. They just claimed they were “left.”

Marky Mark eventually dealt with this problem by unleashing his banned Armando (and, as always, sancho pitiful panza, faithful at Armando’s knee, the nebbishy knee-muncher Turkana), to take out his site’s black people, all 23 or 24 of them—specifically, his site’s uppity Bigger Thomas, Adept2u—and, thereby, drive into exile anybody who there gave a damn about black people . . . except Denise Oliver Velez, whom he, craftily, boosted onto the front page.

Where she has served as the target of white-hot racist white-rage, ever since.

And Marky Mark’s way of saying: see! I have on my front page a feisty Negro! Like that Indian! What’s his name? The Blades guy? Yeah. Meteor Blades! Feisty! Indian!

The women of Criminal Injustice, while not formally blackballed from the site, were nevertheless, in this Purge, made to feel very unwelcome.

And even if that had not been so, they were not going to stay there anyway. Not after the Marky Mark-through-Armando white-purification project. So they up and left. And they never have been back.

And, in the course of things, when stay-behind nebbishy white boys started creeping in on little cat feet, to try and flich the diaires the CiJ women had left behind on dKos, the fierce feisty CiJ women went in and erased those, too.

Time passes. And, in time, comes Michael Brown, and Ferguson.

Suddenly, the nation comes awake to the fact that white motherfuckers with badges and guns are just shooting down black men michael-brown-1because they can and they want to, and all the doo-dah day.

The sort of thing the CiJ women had been saying, there on the Marky Mark blog, years before. When Marky Mark couldn’t be bothered.

In the news, now, day by day, come boiling, one upon another, white-hot tales of white-ass badged and gunned motherfuckers shooting down black men, for no sane reason.

And, from the news—because the people on the Marky Mark blog are lard-ass cheetos-stained wanking basement-dwellers who do nothing on their own, but just grab from somewhere some news, and then screech about it—these stories come to dominate the pages of the Marky Mark blog.

And, lo, eventually Marky Mark gets a revelation. He will appoint to his front-page a writer who shall specialize in the very subject that the CiJ feisty females covered like a blanket, on his site, years ago, before he drove off his blog the very same sort of black people now getting shot in the street that he suddenly decided to care about.


So what does he do? Marky Mark? He soberly intones that “police-state excesses are issues that we as a community have embraced,” and then hires for the position, the position of righteous crusader against the police, and police state, “Shaun King,” a five-star five-alarm glow-in-the-dark shameless con-man who is some kind of three-fisted combo of Elmer Gantry, Huey Long, and Wile E. Coyote.

I mean, the dude steals from sick kids.

He wildly beats his meat for people to “sponsor a beautiful child in need,” but then, once you click through, you are assaulted by a demand that you vomit forth $49.99 per month to enroll in his “Full Access To Life Goals University.”

For, you see, he would “like for you to consider making me your coach and guide through life.”

Presumably, as your coach and guide, he will teach you how to raise $500,000 for Haitians devastated by an earthquake, but somehow only pass $200,000 along, shaunwhile meanwhile securing a nice fat paying job for yourself.

He might also, in this coaching and guiding, tell you how to hoover up money from people on the intertubes by telling them you’re going to write a book, and then give those people the back of your hand as they scream till their lips bleed that they want a refund, because you haven’t delivered . . . but you have meanwhile tried, repeatedly, to shuck them for even more cash.

He might also, in his coaching and guiding, shucking and jiving, teach you how to move, through the magic of the intertubes, three times in two days.

After spending just a couple hours on this person, I would not believe him if he told me the sky was blue, lest I checked it for myself. But I will note that he does say he hails from Kentucky. Which is the state of Rand Paul. Mitch McConnell. And people who violently and repeatedly fuck pigs. And then call it love.

The only question now is whether Shaun King’s inevitable king-hell mammoth bring-down probably wrist-cuffed scandal occurs while he is sucking at the teat of Marky Mark, or whether Marky will be spared, by King having, before the boom does fall, flitted elsewhere.

What we do know, for sure, is this: Marky Mark is dumb as dirt.

Sure, he sucked after King, because King the con man passes himself off as some social-media genius, and that’s where Marky Mark wants to take his empire . . . to keep it an empire.

But can the man, Marky Mark, do no vetting? Does it bother him at all that people are screaming all over the tubes that King owes them money?

Maybe not.

What do I know?

Maybe, all over the tubes, people say Marky Mark owes them money.

For I don’t know. I haven’t looked.

What I really don’t like, is, as I review the above images, before publishing: Marky Mark, Charlie Armando McCarthy, Shaun King: they all look the same.

And he who don’t look the same, is Michael Brown.


Who Knows Where The Time Goes

I have a recurring fantasy that if one were to dial the telephone number of someone in the past, one would hear again a familiar voice, and time would instantly rewind from now to then. I still have Orson Welles’ telephone number in my book (213-851-8458). Do I dare ring him and talkstill here to him back in 1982, where he is busy trying to convince Jack Nicholson to play Pellarin for two not four million dollars? Should I tell him that he’ll not get the picture made? No. That would be too harsh. I’ll pretend that I have somehow got a copy of it, and that I think it marvellous though perhaps the handkerchief was, from so prudish a master, a bit much? Even incredible.

“Incredible?” The voice booms in my ear.”How could it be incredible when I stole it from Othello? But now I have a real treat for you. Standing here is your neighbour . . . Rudy Vallee! Overcome that ‘quiet reserve of shyness.’ Sing!

From out of the past, I hear, “My time is your time,” in that reedy highly imitable voice. The after-life’s only a dial tone away. “What makes you think that this is the after-life?” Orson chuckles. “This is a recording.” Stop story here.

—Gore Vidal, “Remembering Orson Welles”

Mississippi Burping

Abraham Lincoln was a son of a bitch,
his ass ran over with a seven-year itch
his fist beat his dick like a blacksmith’s hammer
while his asshole whistled the Star-Spangled Banner

—Shelby Foote, reciting a popular Mississippi ditty

On Memorial Day 2005, George II stood atop 260,000 dead men and told us the day was sent to commemorate American lives ended in Iraq, to “honor them by completing the mission for which they gave their lives; by defeating the terrorists.”

Over on the radio, talk-show host Rick Roberts opined that Memorial Day represented the antithesis of his bete noir: immigration.

Neither man deemed it worthy to note that Memorial Day was intended to honor the dead of the Civil War. George II, in his remarks, mentioned yeehawnot once that war, though the site of his speech, Arlington National Cemetery, consists of land owned prior to the Civil War by Robert E. Lee, land that, once Lee turned traitor, was confiscated by the US government, then purposefully sown with corpses so as to render it uninhabitable by Lee or his descendants. Roberts didn’t manage to mention the Civil War, either—perhaps because more than 500,000 immigrants served in the Civil War, constituting some 25% of the Union Army.

In contrast to George II and Mr. Rick, white folk living in our southern states understand the nature and meaning of Memorial Day. Which is why they don’t much like to celebrate it.

In his distressing tome Confederates in the Attic, journalist Tony Horwitz finds himself in Vicksburg, Mississippi on a Memorial Day in the mid-1990s. In that town, Horwitz found, there were two American Legion posts: one white, one black.

The white Legionnaires refused to involve themselves in Memorial Day. “‘You do Memorial Day,'” they informed the black post, “‘and we’ll do Veteran’s Day.'” Every year the black post would invite the white Legionnaires to attend a Memorial Day wreath-laying ceremony; every year the white Legionnaires declined to attend. The black post had to pay for black marching bands to come in from out of state; there were always “reasons” why the local school band could not participate.

“They said, ‘School got out a few days ago and the uniforms have been washed and put away,'” Horwitz was told. “Well, we can wash them again. The cleaners aren’t rong negrowsleaving town. But that’s their excuse. There’s a Miss Mississippi pageant in July. I bet you the school band comes out for that.”

May 28, 1996 saw a massive community turnout in Vicksburg for the passing of the Olympics Torch on its way to the games in Atlanta. Bands from all the local schools and military installations participated. But for the Vicksburg Memorial Day ceremony two days later, these bands were unavailable. As the local Army Engineers for two years refused to fire the traditional twenty-one gun salute at the Memorial Day ceremony, claiming it could not afford the ammunition.

White folk in Vicksburg remain so wedded to the Lost Cause that many don’t even acknowledge the Fourth of July. Shelby Foote recalls that in the 1930s “there was a family from Ohio in town, God knows why, and on July Fourth they drove their car up on the levee and spread a blanket and had a picnic. They didn’t set the brakes on the car and it ran down into the Mississippi River and everyone said, ‘It served them right for celebrating the Fourth of July.'”

So renowned was Vicksburg’s resistance to celebrating July 4 that Dwight Eisenhower was dispatched to the community in 1947, charged with convincing the town’s white citizens to rejoin the Union. His visit had little effect. At the end of the 20th Century, there were still no July 4th fireworks in Vicksburg. To the white Vicksburger, July 4 remains a day of mourning: the anniversary of the 1863 day the city capitulated to the Union.

In Vicksburg, as elsewhere in the south, the preferred holiday is Confederate Memorial Day, a day in which the celebrant wallows in remembrance of the righteousness of the Cause. Reflecting the fact that it is utterly hopeless to expect in this country any sort of accurate collective memory of the true “reasons” why George II annihilated Iraq, Alabama Governor Bob Riley was in 2005 convinced by Lost Causists to excise from his annual Confederate Memorial Day proclamation a paragraph “that said slavery was a cause of the [Civil] War.”

The ongoing southernization of America further requires that rebs, though they deeply despise the day, actually be credited with the founding of Memorial Day. A tale is spun in which two Mississippi war widows decide in 1866 to place flowers upon the graves of fallen soldiers, American and secessionist alike. But the notion that this mythical act marked the flowering of Memorial Day is, in truth, a lie.

A word about Shelby Foote. Amid the fawning coverage of Foote following Ken Burns’ The Civil War, it was little noted that this southern historian admired as “a fine man” the slave trader and terrorist Nathan Bedford Forrest, described the Ku Klux Klan as “very akin” to the French Resistance, considered emancipation “a sin,” and damned modern blacks for behaving “somewhere between ape and man.”

Yeehaw. March on a road of bones. Same as it ever was.

Nose For News

All day I have been seeing these headlines about some racehorse and “nasal strips.”

Do I even want to snortknow what this is about?

No. I do not.

All I know is that yesterday I bought a pink plastic watering can in the shape of a pig; when you water, the water flows out the pig’s twin noseholes.

This, clearly, is the zenith of both the industrial age, and the information age.

As they say in scripture: “It is accomplished.”

Both ages: they are over.

Now, we can move on to something else.

As we can move on to something else from “riding” a horse in a “race.”

When you are with an animal, when an animal is with you, you are only, who you are, when it’s an island.

Just you two.

And you are an animal. All of you.

Shake The Tree

Shake The Tree

it’s your day
woman’s day

Yada Yada Yada, Blah Blah Blah

When I Worked

July 2019
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