Archive for July, 2011|Monthly archive page

Queer Situation

If, as in New York these days and according to the headliness, Gays and Lesbians can now marry, it would seem to me they’re not so queer afterall.

Muammar Mon Amour

France and Britain are now suggesting Khadaffi can stay if he steps down, saving them a few months of bombing him out of power.

Khadaffi has finally seen the light, knowing that 40 years of glorious past are dead. That things will never be the same again.

But he still thinks of himself as a kind father figure to Libya who not only wishes but must stay, bloodthirsty only with the enemy e.i. pretty well anyone disagreeing with him.

So now for once I agree with London, Paris and bunkered down Tripoli.

He says his people love him, so let him step down and walk free.

But force him to walk free down the street in any Libyan city, unescorted, unarmed, alone….

Call his bluff, see what happens, see if he survives his people’s warm embrace.

For more than 2 minutes…

Lynching an expression of love, it seems, in places where everything is twisted and a blatant lie.

Hugo, Baby!

Chance had it Fidel destroyed many, many more lives than he built, giving him another one each time he got mired in his own dreck.

Chance can be disgusting in this way, and last time round was no different. For chance sent Fidel Hugo Chavez and one more time all the suffering Cubans got screwed just when it looked like they were seeing light at the end of their terrible tunnel.

For Hugo bailed out Cuba just as it finally seemed to collapse under the weight of its stupid dictatorship: Hugo equally ambitious, but feeling threatened,  a populist hungry for enduring power and full of admiration of the way Fidel had stood up to the USA and its hard-nailed democracy for 50 years, be it at a price every Cuban child dearly paid for.

So irony number one: Hugo saves the life of the Castros, but the Castros can’t save Hugo. (Naturally, because they’ve never saved anyone but themselves.) It is when Hugo gets sick with bowel or prostate cancer, an enemy he hadn’t counted on, and goes for treatment to his Cuban friends who have a ‘great’ medical reputation and own thousands of doctors to keep people alive but won’t allow citizen to work on their own or conduct any sort of business as this  may be too subversive, with the exeption of pervasive prostitution of course. People consequently playing the bongos: Free medical care and free education, and playing the bongos: to some paradise and for Hugo a great formula to emanate, importing Cuban doctors to lay it on the Venezuelan people, so they won’t agitate.

But cancer treatment in Cuba has it limitations, equipment running with all the sophistication of those 1952 Chevrolets, Havana’s streets are filled with.

The logical thing would be to go where rich and powerful politicians the world over go after they get diagnosed with some terrible disease. Which is where the capitalist free medical market thrives at its most successful level: at the Sloan Kettering Cancer Institute, New York, the Mayo Clinic or what have you. That is to say in the good ole USA, but an imperialist place he can’t go to!

So irony number two: Hugo’s dying and it’s his own irrational and dishonest doctrine that’s killing him, shutting all the doors this big mouth already loudly bolted himself. And now the poor, ridiculous bastard may go to Brazil for treatment, another socialist trending paradise, be it a more realistic and even-handed one. Still it won’t save him and he knows it. After that, back to Cuba, where else, for the last blow!

The jockeying in Caracas has started. I give it two years, max.

Maybe this time Chance will give Venezuela some decent, pragmatic, enlightened leader.

Nobody caring if he’s Native Indian or Martian.

As long as he’s smart, wise, and firm but tolerant.

Bombs Over Bombay


I’ll eat my hat if it isn’t some Pakistan based group doing this today!

Called upon to distract, to lift the Military out of the hot domestic water it finds itself in, by soon having to rush to face the not surprisingly threatening Indian ‘enemy’?

Or some group purely doing on its own, but planning something on the other side of Pakistan, drawing the Military to the opposite border: same thing!?

Or one not planning anything specific but under siege, the Taliban for instance, getting attacked by the Military once more by way of intense  American pressure, and pulling the usual strategem?

Or else the homegrown Indian Mujahideen, still trained, aided and abetted by their Pakistani Muslim brothers and their favorite outsourcing source?

Or merely three out of four simultaneously, perhaps?

Either way Pakistan’s Civilian Government will apologize, its Military will deny everything, and the Secret Services rejoyce heartily, three States in one, nobody in sole control, a circular arrangement, and still better it stays this way, the balance of privilege not getting broken… until finally they start building a real, open industrial and civil society.

Sorry Bombay! Nothing personal. You’re just too gorgeous a sitting duck! Or an unwitting stool pidgeon!


I don’t know Mr Lauder, always heard the family came from Vienna. Turns out it was Budapest, but what does it matter:  all part of the old empire. And I also didn’t know Mr Lang of the Café des Artistes in New York or that it was these two men who reanimated the Gundel Café in Budapest, restoring it to its old, pre-occupations glory.

But I was there, and recall having a reasonably good time, a place near the baths where I played chess on a floating board, sitting in water up to my shoulders inside a swimming pool.

I’m not a guy for cooking, for 5 course  dinners with fine wines, and couldn’t care less about eating as an expression of refinement. None of which should be taken as deep attachment to the hamburger either. I like simple Brasserie style food, spying on the masses from a discreet terrace somewhere, The Herald Tribune or Le Point at hand, nothing more, nothing less.

It is where I read about Mr Lang this week, his passing, his fascinating life. Although I don’t get excited about his trade as such, one does have to love a man whose memoirs he called

                                   Nobody Knows The Truffles I’ve Seen!

Even Louis Armstrong and Paul Robeson would have chuckled, I’m sure.

For the Birds (III)

On November 2d 2009 I published this observation:

Confessions of a Feathered Friend

Here I am, sitting on the roof of collected notions, a construction put up over centuries by people wanting so badly to be wanted, that for lack of better, they invented someone doing just that. Then attempt making this invisible presence not only visible but permanent, by building this monstrosity, as if it changes anything. And only because sitting outside, on the grass, playing the same game, cannot be passed on, they think, although this would be so much more… genuine.

I landed on the parapet of what feels more like a gaol than a place of inspiration and joy. Built, believe it or not, to keep out many of their playmates, but at least giving me the chance to rest and reflect after one of my own flights of fancy. They call it House of God, but up here wired it electrically while below and at dark shutting doors to keep out the tired, the hungry and the sick as if these suffer by the clock. And making me wonder how they built these enormous structures with a stiff neck, always looking the other way, yet endlessly at and after themselves.

And what about the prejudice that comes with saving your hide before saving the one of others, by the creatures building these structures? Because even if they have no fur and no hair to speak of, hides they do have, and thick ones, too, though no feathers. Telling us we’re unclean, diseased and defecating all over, when they’re making a mess of things wherever they dwell. Mistrusting and killing each other when they feel like it, in the name of a slow brainwave, they call Lord.

Here, hold my horn-rimmed glasses and my cigar and my Manhattan and I’ll show you in the Wall Street Journal why we stand accused of infesting society. Though look, look at me, I didn’t hurt anyone, releasing my droppings all over the place, spreading viruses or waking up the world with loud cooing all the time. That’s them and almost a business it seems.

Truth, by definition, cannot be prejudice, they say by way of self-defence and unable to take the slightest criticism, insisting that if hundreds of thousands of a certain kind do something, they’re all guilty and subversive to boot, especially if and when not of the same prayer. But even if I’m peaceful, clean, entertaining, providing and sharing, they’ll still insist they’re right about me. And that’s when I say, as long as there’s one who’s different, one with pin-striped plumage, they should never say ‘They’re all like that!’, don‘t you agree? Afterwards hectoring it’s all in the proportions, that true, nothing is absolute except their faith, and claiming all the same to be overwhelmed by us, when actually they’re the ones doing all the overwhelming. Implying we’re the invading kind, taking over their society, and certainly, we have our own vision, at least I do and so do mine and so what? Though we must learn to keep a low profile, not flap our wings too much, because down there they’re in control, not up here, thank who or whatever for that.

No, more I look at them, less I want to be like them despite some of that fleeting success of theirs. Sure, sometimes I wished I could cross my legs and sit like them, and least when reading my newspaper, but as for the rest they’ve lost it. Like if I built myself a granite coop with smart, stained windows and a huge, bolted door, coercing dozens of mine to sit inside and sing dressed up, no longer able to hear the music produced by water and wind, by songbird brothers, and sisters, and others of course.

It’s good to be out looking in, it’s good to be up looking down, it’s good to be few and free and strong, when they’re many and weak. I know I’m sitting on their structures, but I can leave and they can’t, the price they pay for visible permanence. I can float, sail, rise, dive, crossing oceans on my own, eating, drinking, resting, feeling happy and living just as long, with those I love, flying along. And I’ve never killed or hurt anyone. So of those two worlds, which is the better one? And this Lord of theirs, does He know what company He keeps, what He has also wrought?

But now forgive me. I’m off to see an ornithologist… about that pigeon stool I use, to express myself.

For the Birds (II)

This what happens to me! A luminous idea strikes me, and people say I don’t know what I’m talking about

For The Birds (I)

So the visitor, pointing at a black bird with a yellow beak, asked the local resident ” What’s the name of that bird?”

And the answer was, “Blackbird!”

Then, pointing at another species with a large yellow crop, he asked ” What’s the name of that one?”

And the answer was, ” Yellowbird!”

Until he saw a bird with beautiful blueish feathers round the rim of its wings, and asked ” And that one?”

To which the answer not unexpectedly flowed, “Bluebird!”

And the visitor said,  ” I love learning! The more complex it gets, the more I feel enriched!”

(Real life story, won’t mention the country, in case I get shot!)


Fascism is such a romantic word. It comes from the word ‘bundle’ in Latin, fasces, in the way that wheat or straw gets bundled together while peasants sing and dance.

But it is a nasty piece of work.

It is vile chauvinism wedded to contrived mysticism including convenient slices of dated myth, generally keeping a small group of small people in possession of everything.

There is fascism based on strips of land, on ethnicity, on language, or on faith.

The type containing heavy doses of all four strains, the most worrisome.

Add to this a culture of glorified revenge and retribution and you have the making of millions of killings or deportations in the name of ‘Ours…or Else!’.

To varying degrees the Irish, Basques, Quebecois, Serbs, Austro/Prussians sporting a primitive, inbred Kaiser, followed by a crazy, XIX Century, militarist fetishist looking like a mutant Charlie Chaplin, suffered from it, dishing it out.

Or else those Baathists, Latino and African crackpots, Japanese Empire Cultists under a stupid, inbred Emperor, and yes, even again the grand irony of victims of the most dreadful of recent holocausts, pulling a sacred fast one on Palestinians, comparable to Mohawks aggressively reclaiming holy Manahatta, in New York. Of course, fascism isn’t all murder but remains profoundly exclusive and discriminatory at its core. Yes, fascism, such a lovely Italian term, even the Northern League not getting enough of owning up to it, despite the drag of Il Duce, or what it delivered to Mediterranean shores. But a word meaning insensitivity and a lack of true vision, thus emotive avarice. Or at the very least, a certain intelligence put on ice. Which hasn’t ever brought anyone anything else but misery. And one more time, is cruel and dumb!

Accommodation defunct!

Play gone dead!

How Sad!

Raw Deal

To be an atheist and somewhere along the line discovering there’s more, much more, is bloody marvellous!

To be a fervent believer and somewhere along the line discovering there’s absolutely nothing, is bloody devastating!

That’s why it’s so much better to be an atheist!

On the other hand, life going  on forever and having made it to heaven, discovering you’ve been assigned raw sewage or driving the front subway car all day up there… is no bowl of cherries either!

%d bloggers like this: