![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
billlatexcosby's journalLog in Create a LiveJournal Account Learn more
| You are viewing billlatexcosby's journal Log in Create a LiveJournal Account Learn more | Explore LJ: Life Entertainment Music Culture News & Politics Technology |
|
|||||||
 |
|
|
|||||
|
billlatexcosby's Journal  The new featherface bird, an araucana, is the most skittish. But wouldn't you be skittish, too, if you were what they describe as "rumpless" and laid primary color eggs that everyone gobbled up? It would be embarrassing, and she acts embarrassed. Whitebird, that's not her real name, has been with us since March, so it was up to her to show the three new birds "the ropes." A barely-converted doghouse is the new bird sleepchamber. Did you know that chickens "are equatorial birds." They just do their damnedest to find a low branch, or equivalent, on which to perch, sleep and shit. also, it's a surprise what agricultivation is like. Mostly, it's just killing. In fact, an extreme amount of killing. The growing is somewhat secondary to the killing. Most gardeners will tell you in words that there's always more killing to do than they have time for. And once they get a handle on it and think that they've killed enough, it won't be long until there's plenty more killing to do. In addition to the aggressive killing, there's a lot of passivity involved, too. The gardeners'll say they're "growing onions." No gardeners, of course, "grow" anything (especially onions), as there is no action to accompany this active verb. Gardeners cannot "grow vegetables" any more than parents can "grow children." Are we amoebas? Is this binary fission? Prove to me that you're budding. More thoughtful gardeners might use the slightly more honest construction "letting the crops grow," but even this phrase purports an authority that can't exist. Gardening is arranging favorable conditions, and doing this takes a lot of killing. Most gardeners follow an extreme two-step eugenical program: 1) kill; 2) wait. So that was a lesson from this killing season. Current music: Blood Ulmer. I've been under the illusion for much of my adult life that fellas who shave off their facial hair often try out the ole Hitler-mustache for just a few minutes. I stated this as a near-given in conversation with several beardos, and, well, come to find out that, nope, it's pretty much just me that has done that. It's a good recommendation to read this livejournal of a fella who's neck-deep in social work in Bolivia. There're illegal autonomy referenda organized by the oligarchs taking place and civil war looming. Oh, and he really digs Batman and Jesus. In order to assuage a so-called child sex abuse crisis in the Aboriginal community in the Northen Territory, the Australian government recently instituted an "intervention" in the lives of Aboriginal residents. Though opposed by the Northern Territory government, the large majority of Aboriginal communities, and governmental and non-governmental human rights organizations, the intervention has proceeded. Its actions include suspending some welfare benefits, forcibly checking the community's children for STDs, abolition of important work-training programs, and acquisition of leased Aboriginal land. All of this because of an alleged "child sex abuse crisis." The Australian government is spending almost $600 million implementing this "intervention," when it sounds more like they simply are suspending social services and grabbing land from the Natives, like they have been doing for 200 years. They have even made it illegal for Aboriginal people to buy alcohol. On our flight back from Alice Springs, the second largest city in the Northern Territory, the flight attendants kindly offer us refreshing Victoria Bitter beer. We saw these large signs that proclaim that the Aboriginal neighborhoods in front of which they are placed are to remain free of liquor and pornography. Even liberal, otherwise forward-thinking Australians cannot seem to see this government action for what it is -- an overtly racist set of policies that furthers the impoverishment and eventual demise of Native people in the Northern Territory. Several times we heard from white liberals that Aboriginal people's ability to digest alcohol is significantly lower than white people's, and, thus, their logic goes, Aboriginal people have more of a problem with alcohol. The law must protect them and their innocent children. This is the same line we all hear about Native Americans and other indigenous populations. However, this poor ability to metabolize alcohol holds true for many Asian people as well. And so that brings us to the question, why isn't Australia restricting access of alcohol to its many Asian citizens? Now it could if it wanted to. In order to enact the alcohol ban, the Australian government had to suspend its Racial Discrimination Act 1975. And that sure makes the rest of the discriminatory policies of the intervention a little more legal. What is a government's, or an Empire's, or a Church's, or a mob's best ammunition against undesirables? Call them filthy, sexually perverted, violent, diseased and contagious, alcoholic, obsessive, primitive, animalistic, defenseless, and/or unprofitable and then, when public opinion is compelled to be concerned about the children, simply employ whatever measures that are sufficient to do away with said undesirables. These measures may include, but are not limited to, land-grabbing, kidnapping, torture, military action, forced sterilization, evangelization, forced settlement, lynching, or what have you. It is important to note that these measures hardly have to have anything to do with the stated crisis. Though possibly nervous about the pitch at which the government (or whatever other authority) implements these measures, the voting public will stand by and let it happen -- for the greater good, of course -- perhaps with a sober tear if they're particularly liberal. A generation or two later, though, they might feel bad about it and apologize for the lamentable "mistakes" made while in the pursuit of higher goals. Current music: constant bee buzz in ear. Breakfast is the most amazing meal of every day. It is the original meal from which all the other meals come from. All kinds of stuff happens at breakfastime. At breakfastime people do an assortment of things. Sometimes some people read the newspaper and find out about recent accidents and violent crimes. Sometimes some people watch the television and find out about recent accidents, violent crimes, and celebrity diets. But let's say you listen to the radio, probably National Public Radio. Oftentimes at breakfastime you'll mishear something one of the radio people says and you think to yourself or say out loud, What does THAT mean? It is really important to know that if you ever attempt breakfast by yourself or with others, it is best to pay attention. Like for example if you make toast and sometimes your toaster burns toast, it is best to get to the toast in time so it doesn't a) blacken the toast making it inedible or very bad taste b) smell up your living quarters c) make you late. Sometimes some people ask each other about the weather during breakfastime. Someone might say, Is it as cold as it was yesterday? to which someone might respond, I went out on the deck for a second and it was pretty chilly. At which point the other person could turn toward the window and say, It looks sunnier than yesterday. Then maybe the second person flips over the newspaper and says, It says here that the high is only going to be 28. The first person might respond to that by saying something else. Anyway, it could on and on like this. Sometimes someone loses an important item during breakfastime like a keys or a piece of mail or a scrap of paper with a phone number on it. Frankly, it can be a chore for other people just to listen to this person looking for this lost thing, so sometimes the other people just leave the area or maybe help search for the missing thing. When people help another person look for something that isn't easily identifiable, you often hear people say things like, Is this it? or, Is it on the table by the front door? or, Where were you when you had it last? Here are some other things that happen during breakfastime: phone rings, chair feet rub against floor, drapes opened, eyes blink and crust removed, radio or television. During the very best breakfastimes, people talk with each other in detail about the dreams they had the night before. In those breakfastimes, people often say things like, It was SO weird, or, That is SO strange, or, What a WEIRD coincidence! Oh, sorry, I almost forgot to mention the food. Here is a list of food and food-like industrial substances that people put inside of themselves during breakfastime: carrot, gravy, piece of toast with something smeared and/or melted on it, egg, doughnut, briefcase, sausage, leftover dinner like maybe it was pizza or tacos so you can reheat what was leftover, cold plain lunchmeat directly from the package, fig, teff, baked tuna, baleen from whales, peanut butter but forgetting to put the lid back on, Hot Pocket, plant stems. In conclusion, if you try a breakfastime yourself you have to pay attention, be careful and talk with a clear, calm voice. After all, it might be YOU in the frying pan the next morning. a diablo turned up in the trash over towards Lakeview. in there also was a good deal of chocolate powder (for making hot chocolate), semi-sweet chocolate chips and even a small block of fancy bakers chocolate. do you think that the former proprietor of these items would spin the diablo and then deftly sprinkle chocolate powder on it. that would fill the air with chocolate powder, you know. some people smell that on their ways to and from work in Chicago.  
Current mood: larceny. Current music: Fathoms and Fathoms. He's the real thing. He sang at children, howling "It's All Right to Cry" until everyone did, and played professional football.  In Ismailiya, Egypt we rented bicycles for what was unfortunately a big nickel after an exhausting search. They required a monstrous deposit for what were play-doh built Chinese bikes. During our afternoon, evening, morning and then afternoon again riding adventuring, these vehicles crumbled beneath us several times. But every time this occurred a kindly onlooker quickly retrieved tools (from down the street, from trunk of car) and helped us jimmy the fool thing back into mediocre operating condition. Don't you read what I'm writing and think I've issued a complaint about how things work or don't: this was fun. We skimmed down the wide highway and over a bridge over a canal of the Suez Canal, through a village replete with happy chasing children, to the shore of some backwater piece of the Canal. (Or was it another canal of the Canal?) Untold suffering has taken place at the site of the Suez. Herodotus was told that 120,000 workers perished in construction and repair of the canal back in 600 BC. Six hundred BC! In the 19th Century, the re-repair of it employed the use of tens of thousands of slaves. Of course it was the European colonial powers who financed the construction. Sure, it appears to be a worm-shaped length of water with lots of impressive boats in it and a pleasant vista, but it's really a blood-soaked monument built to the ruling classes of Europe and their clients in Asia. We went to the beach. Trash strewn, warm still water, and friendly families. In Egypt (and throughout the Muslim world) the ladies swim fully clothed. Their robes and veil create a cloud of clothes around them in the water, so that they appear as a softly flowing Rorschach test. Even an Egyptian man will typically swim in garb no less substantial than an a-shirt. We were a surprise for the other beachgoers. L was frittered away by the younger women for mutual broken English and Arabic lessons. I only recall counting with children, explaining in broad strokes the relationship between L and I to their grandparents, and barking like a dog to be funny. We make it back to our criminally pink and filthy hotel room after dark and gaze at the poster on the wall that shows white children frolicking in the grass. 
has it that these brilliant videos were made by a Finn. Is there anything they can't do? Do you all know all about the S 1959 bill in the Senate? Theys want to create a commission whose job it is to investigate the roots causes of homegrown terrorism, extremism, and radicalization. Their words, not mine. Go ahead and conflate freethinking political views with explosions that explode a whole bunch of people. Go ahead and conflate away, dumb commission. Don't academics already study this stuff and already come back with the answer: pissed people! And what about this term 'terrorism' anyway? The US State Dept report ties Venezuela with terrorism on account of its government being "unhelpful" in "the diplomatic arena." Last time I checked, though, the US has the market near-cornered on making huge explosions that kill people all the time. Ever know about the Normans? These two Norman are interesting cases: Norman Morrison set himself afire in front of the Pentagon in 1965. Norman Mayer threatened to blow up the Washington Monument in 1982. The US Park Police shot him dead. It was a hoax, though, for he was simply trying to get people to think more about nuclear weapons proliferation. That's just how Normans are. Some have longish noses, some probably walk speedily and unsexily. One way to curry flavors is by way of the delivery of the humble onion. One reason to curry favor is thumb-like scallions, grown and tumbled with care into the back of a friend's pack. They're there for comfort, like when the topical oatmeal doesn't bestill knee aches. It's true: the hippopotamous is nothing but a big, soggy pig. Hippos are just soggier that pigs. All beasts can be put on a list, from most soggy to least soggy. Taxomony is simply a question of ordering sogginess. Is the earthworm more soggy or less soggy than the box turtle? Ok, the earthworm is soggier. Now, is the pelican more soggy or less soggy than the box turtle? The pelican is soggier also. And so, we ask, is the pelcian more soggy or less soggy than the earthworm? Less soggy. Therefore, from most soggy to least soggy we have: earthworm, pelican, box turtle. Thusly, we can order all creatures and come to a better understanding of the forces of nature. Friends, it's time that we get to work and to play on understanding the vital essences that shape our universe, and the universes of those who live on the other side of the world. On the other sides of the world, children with scabs do the work on which our Valentine's Day traditions depend. Don't pretend, friend, that you're not a farmer yourself, a farmer of misery, when you patronize the prime merchants of chocolate, diamonds and cut flowers. (Before farming, there was no constipation.) There're also very small things and very plastic things, trivial whatnots that wiggle in cereal boxes, that oodles of local economies depend on. But the whatnots are discarded after a child's stomp, a stomp that reverberates back to the children with scabs and demands a replacement whatnot. It's production-disposal that'll tsunami us before long, a History made linear, narratable and terminable by the Global Constipated System. Soon the snake will finish eating its own tail, eat up its torso and have nothing left to eat, shit, eat with or shit out of. That's the End of Constipation, but not before the expanding large intestine of suffering bursts. Realize, too, that one enthusiastic foot solider in the Pro-Constipation Brigade is modern networked computing. Communication channels blink and toot, offer lifetimes of diversions and promises of convenience and intercourse. But the Final Internet Testimony is a litany of abuses against human happiness: sexual impotence (all genders), shifty eyeballs, curtailed oratory, thumbwear, dessication (reduction of our natural sogginess), rotting onion, "my" "space", numbhead, fiction of "the Self", infinite data regression, impersonal global commerce, etc., not to mention constipation. We live where Time, Temperature and Metabolism integrate with, and fracture with, any system. Keep in mind that computers cook you, like in a broiler, so you dry out and become less soggy. Current mood: harris by norton. Current music: kerflarfle. Is there a correlation between bedwetting and reading science fiction? If there is, what lurking variable explains both of these phenomena? How many female bedwetters do you know? I would say 30,000, more or less. I miss Gretchen and Andy. Why did they leave without saying goodbye? I think that they may have moved to Amsterdam. Others think that they broke up and went their separate ways. I don't even know if they finished their degrees before they left. They've left behind a pile of evidence to be forensicked, a douche-bag, and 30,000, more or less, corollary mysteries. Any visitors to the new yellowhaus across the street from the swimming pool just blocks away from that restaurant run by Sri Chinmoy followers will have a chance to try their hand at cracking the Gretchen and Andy code. Do! Unbroken coils of pumpkin rope. We're living in neighborhoods controlled by green string. Wake up to the truth! Walk up to the trash!  I have NEVER heard a sneeze like that before. It sets all within earshot into panic mode. The first time I heard it, I thought my co-worker had been attacked or had combusted, and I could feel my adrenaline surge. This is a habitual sneeze. She can't mitigate its awesome, unpredictable power. Upon hearing the sneeze, three visitors whirled around, scared and concerned. One man clearly displayed his ready-for-danger face. All she can do is apologize, and she does so with some dignity. And the acoustics . . . I found a copy of this movie  in my neighbor's trash. I saw that movie when I was still a pretty much youngster. Some weeks earlier, further down the street I happened upon a copy of Synchronicity by Carl Jung, a book which I had thought about a lot recently. A couple days after my bike was stolen I happened upon a sturdy one in the trash. The day after I cut the shit out of my hand I found a helpful first aid kit. You can draw your own conclusions. And by "conclusions" we mean "corn collisions". This region of this era will be known as the Time of the Corn Syrup. Tim runs things down here, the fundraisers, the biochips for dogs, the pillbox schedule. And still he has time to draw pictures of rodents with human genitalia. Not the anthropomorphized sci-fi kind either. More like Watership down with penises. They live in the corn, Tim's rodentia, and they eat corn with their penises. On Thanksgiving their urethras expand so much that it makes them drowsy and incontinent. You see, the collisions we're talking about are not just between corn. And that was how the turtle got its shell. Light a candle for frogs, turtles, and steelworkers. Current mood: piltdowny. Current music: enscarpment. |
|||||||
|
|
|
|||||
