Ladies and Gentleman...Georgie W and the Supremes

7/27/2005

A co-worker the other day stuck his head over my cubicle wall and asked me a very serious question. He wanted to know how I felt about the President’s nomination for the Supreme Court.

I flatly told him "I couldn’t care less."

What?!?

That’s right. The way I look at it ANYBODY these fools in charge pick to replace the retiring Sandra Day O’Connor I will disapprove of. I am just assuming that the person who goes before congress for confirmation is diametrically opposed to my views and to freedom in general.

I wouldn’t care if they nominated Arlo Guthrie.

I derive that conclusion from the simple fact that these losers are OK with him.

So the scenario, no matter who is chosen, will be the same. A few Democrats, possibly Hillary Clinton and Ted Kennedy, will rattle their sabers, make a little noise and then the republican controlled everything will confirm him.

Well, you might be saying, isn’t that as bad as the ideologues who have turned our nation into a two-dimensional intellectual graveyard?

Maybe.

But I am reminded of an old quote from Ronald Reagan in the bad old "Evil Empire" days. I remember him saying, in one of his macho b-movie talk tough sessions,

If the Soviet Union were so "peace loving" how come their empire spans over 13 time zones?

So, shove that up your ass and pinch it.

Keeping that in mind, I ask myself, "How did the Republicans take over every branch of our government?"

Through block voting, intimidation and minimal regard for the truth, reason or what is best for us and humanity.

While sane and concerned people carefully considered all points of view trying to gather some kind of consensus that made sense, attempting to once again embrace hope, the Republican Party were cementing their rabinous hordes through fear and hate, practicing polished lines of "divide and conquer" and, most of all, pursuing policies specifically engineered to undermine tolerance.

They certainly didn’t yell "trick or treat" at us.

Nor did they use rationale or reason.

Article in the New York Post

So, evidently, this is what my co-worker was referring to. The guy Bush picked is named John Roberts (pictured left). The only thing I know about this empty suit is that he is probably one huge jerk.

But, regardless, upon looking at this brilliant piece of journalism, what caught my eye was the headlineCOURT JESTER. At first I thought it referred to the President.

I thought it would have been fitting.

I know that was his nickname before he became Governer of Texas and eventually the President of the United States. It was given to him by board members of several corporations all of which took him in as a favor to his father during the 1970s and 1980s.

I immediately thought of the Walt Whitman quotes describing Abraham Lincoln that was featured in the Ken Burn’s documentary "The Civil War,"

Our 16th President.

"I saw him walking down the street and we nodded hello. I took this opportunity to study his face. It was one of great character with deep crevices of sorrow as if the burden of the whole nation were reflected in that face. No photograph could do it justice. Perhaps one of the great portrait painters from a century or so ago would capture the depth of his features. – Walt Whitman

I started to imagine a future documentary, perhaps 100 years from now, directed by the great-great grandson of Ken Burns called "The Great American Anal Rape,"

A drunkard coke fiend.

I saw him through the 64 bodyguards that separated him from the irate American public. I took this opportunity to study his face. That dull, lifeless face, so devoid of any compassion or curiosity, so consumed with childish vindictiveness that an overall aura of confusion emanated as thick as stifling smoke from a chimney. I clutched a poetry book to remind me that life is still worth living. – Maya Angelou

But I digress.

The old expression is that, "A picture is worth a thousand words," and the New York Post article is a perfect example.

Lets forget what they are saying because, quite frankly, they are most likely lying. But look at the woman on the right. I believe she is the judge’s wife and the mother of the two children also pictured.

As you noticed, the boy in the center is dancing up a storm while the President is speaking, causing much embarrassment to his mother. Look at her face, and HIS face for that matter. The only emotion displayed is rage. No hint of a slight smile at HER child doing what children do and being real cute at it too.

How could you blame this kid? Especially if he was yours?

He is a child, who would not be in a position to "embarrass" his obviously image conscious mother if his parents didn’t drag him onstage for some bull shit photo opportunity to prove to the American people that this workaholic is really a "great family man."

My guess is right after their done pimping out their kids they drop them off with some employee so they can take off to Barbados to knock back High Balls with some real "movers and shakers."

For Christ's sake, the kid is probably only doing his "Humpty Dance" only because he is starved for any kind of attention from his own parents who find him "inconvenient."

Want more proof?

The anger is STILL palpable.

Look at the daughter in the lower right.

Oh…I’m sorry. You didn’t notice her?

That’s because she is cowering in total terror behind her mother’s leg not wanting to be any part of this ridiculous charade, just wanting to go home because she is a child.

OK. You might say that, "C'mon, this is a still photograph. I bet you could find even Ghandi looking enraged beyond all reason at some point. Most likely this picture is taken out of context because no mother could be this inhuman."

Wrong again hotshot.

Look at this image. Judging by the position of the child, he is still in the middle of his jig so, one can conclude, that these gyrations lasted a little longer than a moment.

The mother still looks like she wants to crack him across the mouth.

The daughter still looks terrified, although neither of her parents seem that concerned.

Now before all you parents with small children out there get your panties in a twist, I understand that there are probably moments where your child is doing something inappropriate that is "cute" to an outsider but is annoying to you.

That is not the problem or the point of my observation.

What I am saying is that this photograph suggests that this Roberts guy is disingenuous at best but, judging by who his patron is, he is probably a conniving creep who will say anything you want to hear until he gets his shit hooks firmly planted in your cookie jar.

Then it’s "Show Time."

Why else would a man parade his kids onstage and have the whole Washington press corps take pictures of them, showing the world what a great dad he is, when it is obvious he puts his own ambition in front of his family’s comfort and well being?

That stage had all the subtlety of a foyer in a brothel.

Yeah. but what are ya goin' do?

In a perfect world, moments after this dog and pony show, these three degenerates would be hand-cuffed face down on Pennsylvania Ave for twenty minutes while a SWAT team riffles through their luggage because their Limo driver thought they looked "suspicious."

Why not?

They look pretty damn dangerous to me.

Sixth Army

Let The Sunshine In

7/26/2005

I recently viewed Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind (2004) and I must say that I really liked it. More than liked it actually, I loved it. In fact, after watching 15 minutes of “Troy” before slipping in the DVD, I would say it has restored my faith in American cinema.

If you haven’t seen this movie yet,

DO NOT READ THIS!!!

The film will have a much greater impact if you know absolutely nothing about it. The story should unfold before your eyes without you anticipating or expecting any kind of a plot twist.

The plotline, in a nut shell is an assuming guy, Joel, one day after an argument, finds out his girlfriend, Clementine, is not only mad at him, but actually acts as if she doesn’t even know who he is. After much hand ringing and crying he finds out from their mutual friends that Clementine had a “procedure” done that “erased” her memory of him out of her brain.

Infuriated Joel storms down to the doctor’s office and decides to have the operation done on himself. The doctor (Tom Wilkinson) explains that what they do at the office is use some sort of computerized cat scanning machine to create a “map” of the brain that color coats any area of the brain that contains a memory of the person who the patient wants to remove.

The doctor tells Joel to physically remove anything in the house that could remotely suggest Clementine (“A CD you use to listen to together, Things you bought together,” etc.) and puts Joel through a battery of tests. Joel is then required to make a tape recording, documenting his feelings towards Clementine. Needless to say, they are not very flattering.

Finally he is told to “…go home, take these pills and go to sleep. When you wake up you will have no memory of Clementine.” When Joel asks about the possibility of brain damage, the doctor says, “Technically, the procedure IS brain damage. But don’t worry, it is nothing serious. It will be like having a slight hangover.”

After Joel goes to sleep two technicians come into his house, apply a machine that looks like an old hair dryer to his head and begin the erasing process. What follows is a trip through Joel’s mind as, unbeknownst to the technicians; he changes his mind and realizes the erasing process is a terrible mistake. Inter-cut with Joel’s attempt to “wake up” and stop the operation are scenes involving the other characters in “the real world.” Shot are intertwined so the viewer is sometimes caught off guard as to what’s “real” and what is, literally, imagination.

At this point it is necessary to mention the star of the movie Jim Carrey.

Shocking

I confess I never liked this guy or his particular brand of humor. Now don’t get me wrong, I always thought he was talented, going all the way back to his “In Living Color” days. But his performances always seemed forced to me. The over the top mugging for the camera. The manic style of speech. The all too often reliance on cheap flatulence or shit jokes.

While others saw zaniness, I always saw the sadness and the anger behind these antics. He looked to me like he was trying to hard. As if he desperately needed us to love him.

When “The Cable Guy” came out, Carrey’s performance as a psychologically deranged man obsessed with one of his customers was supposed to be a departure for him. I thought it was just the logical conclusion of all his other characters.

Even in his more mature, subdued work, that needy trait had a way of rearing its ugly head. There were scenes in “The Truman Show” that reeked of Carrey retreating into his protective cocoon of wacky faces and broad gestures whenever the camera was getting to close to the truth.

With that track record, I never thought I would be writing the following:

Jim Carrey was FANTASTIC in this role and quite possibly deserved the Academy Award for best actor.

Now some of the credit for his performance must go to the director, Michael Gondry. He successfully kept Carrey reigned in whenever he started to drift towards ridiculous pantomime. I counted at least twice when the lead was in danger of falling back on old habits.

Another part of the credit goes to Carrey’s co-star, Kate Winslet who plays his slightly weird girlfriend, Clementine. She is flighty without being ridiculous. She is moody without being unreceptive. She is strong willed without being domineering. She plays a perfect foil for Carrey’s character, the lacking in confidence, shy, Joel.

But, with all that said, I overwhelmingly salute Carrey for the portrayal of the character Joel, an everyman whose emotions range from hate to love and finally tremendous regret and loss, as he fights to hold on to the memories of the woman he loves.

I say this because, although there are several inventive editing sequences as we tour the inner most mind of Joel, the strength of the movie lies in the facial expressions and dialogue scenes that play straight with nowhere for the actor to hide.

Unbelievably, Jim Carrey was up to the task.

Consider the scene when Joel is remembering the first time he and Clementine met at a beach party. Knowing that his memory of her is fading, which is tantamount to a death sentence, he confesses that Clementine’s free spirit and boldness, the very things he loved most about her, initially frightened him so much that he had to run away.

The way this scene is performed is perfect. Joel’s admission is at first reluctant to confront his cowardice and then full of sorrow for his foolishness. Finally Joel’s tone changes to one of great acceptance. He comes to terms with the reality that he is never going to see her again and realizes that any petty differences they might have had, pales in comparison to the bond they shared.

The scene is the epitome of poignancy.

As far as Jim Carrey is concerned, this movie is a revelation. If, for some unfortunate reason, he goes back to his old ways of butchering any subtlety out of any script he touches (and Lemony Snicket's A Series of Unfortunate Events (2004) suggests he is.) years from now, he is going to look back at this film with a great deal of remorse and ask “…what could have been?”

Like other Charlie Kaufman works (“Confessions of a Dangerous Mind,” “Adaptation” and “Being John Malkovich”) “Eternal” is a tad “off-kilter” but yet completely believable. Besides the obviousness of the subject matter, I believe there are two other things at play adding to the film’s oddness:

1) The Setting

The movie is set on Long Island with several major scenes taking place in Montauk which is on the very tip. There is nothing unusual about that but, interestingly; the story takes place around Valentine’s Day in February. At that time of year that part of New York is usually deserted. The weather is bitterly cold and gray. The beaches are not enjoyable and certainly not picturesque. To center the action in a place that, although does exist, is rarely photographed in these conditions very subtly keeps things primed for the viewer to accept more “unbelievable” premises.

2) The Casting

If you were to read this script cold, and disregarded any gender issues, you would immediately assume that the roles would be reversed. That Winslet would be the reserved, somewhat dour person and Carrey the impetuous, somewhat crazy guy. Scene after scene would play to his “strength” as an energetic physical actor with Kate reacting to his silliness. The choice to make Carrey subdued, and the belief he could pull it off, deserves some kind of mention and, again, works subtly with the audience, playing against our subconscious type casting, making the more outlandish stuff seem more believable.

The obvious villain of the movie is Stan(Elijah Wood) a sleazy computer technician who, we find out in a juvenile confession, after assisting in the erasing of Clementine’s memory, steals her panties and later starts hitting on her. He also uses Joel’s old love letters and gifts that the doctor told Joel to remove, in his attempt to woo Clementine.

In the unlikable department, the deck is stacked against this character.

But what of Mary (Kirsten Dunst), the young receptionist who “pops up” during Joel’s erasure? She proceeds to get high and have sex with the chief technician Patrick (Mark Ruffalo) while he is performing the procedure. He screws it up so badly that he has to call the Doctor to the apartment to take charge of the operation. After a little time, Mary starts coming on to him as well.

These actions can be choked up to hormones for all the characters involved but what follows is particularly interesting. As it turns out, Dunst was “erased” herself, deleting any memory of her own affair she had with the Doctor.

When she finds out she is horrified.

How does she react? She quits her job, which is to be expected, but takes all of the names and addresses of everyone who had the procedure performed on them. She then mails the cassette tapes that the patient made right before the operation detailing all the horrible things thought of their partners soon to be the “erased person.”

Let’s think about this for a moment. What she is thinking is a “good” thing will probably be devastating to the recipients as is shown when Clementine, after miraculously meeting Joel again after they both have been erased, plays the tape in front of him not suspecting what it is.

What if the person has a new girlfriend/boyfriend and is completely happy? By opening up old wounds, Dunst is either dooming the new lovers or at least making it harder on everyone involved. But she thinks she is doing the right thing so our concerns are squelched.

Also her actions play into a subtext I felt throughout the whole film. The old standby, “Man should not play God” and “whatever was meant to be was meant to be” theme. I say I only felt it because it is never flat out said but in the sympathetic portrayal of Mary and the end results of these operations depicting emotional “half people,” the writer makes his feelings known.

In other words, the film considers the question once pondered by St. Augustine:

Is it better to have loved and lost, than to have never loved at all?

But, in my opinion, that angle is only a sideshow.


The majority of romantic movies, the genre “Eternal” is firmly entrenched in, prior to this one usually involve some form of “Boy meets girl/Boy loses girl” scenario. The audience is kept in suspense through the plot with the payoff being either a tear (Casablanca), a cheer (An Officer and a Gentleman) or a smile (The Philadelphia Story). They are all well crafted and acted superbly but in the end; they are all just entertainments.

Although, like these films, the plot is important and involves a degree of suspense pertaining to the fate of the lovers, Kaufman does so much more.

Instead of addressing the traditional concerns of a “love story” which are:

Who will fall in love?
When will they fall in love?
How will they fall in love?

He asks the simple, but yet infinitely more complex question,

What is love?

In Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind (2004), Charlie Kaufman uniquely and cinematically demonstrates the emotion of love, an emotion whose absence so often creates anger and bitterness; whose quest is the basis of passion and vitality; and whose discovery usually leads to happiness and contentment.

But he never attempts to explain it.

This is a beautiful film.

Sixth Army

Don't Need None of that Mad Max Bullshit

7/25/2005

This was the front page of the Daily News today.

This was page two and three.

I’m sorry if you can’t read it to clearly, but the gist of the article is that, yesterday at about 11:35 AM, on a Gray Line tour bus in midtown Manhattan, the police responded to a call from the bus driver reporting some suspicious people on the tour.

The driver (Pictured lower left) is quoted as saying:

"I was definitely frightened from the beginning.
That’s human nature."

The police forced all the passengers off at gunpoint and searched all their belongings. (Pictured upper and lower right)

The five tourists who the driver thought were the culprits were hand cuffed and forced to kneel on the street while the police searched the bags. (Pictured lower right)

According to the article:

Fear grew when cops ordered everyone to put their hands up and walk off the bus – leaving their bags to be searched.

"You want to talk about real terror?" (Kathy) Arrigio’s husband, Robert said. "There were two little girls with their parents who were just terrified. They were crying uncontrollably."

I guess they’re not coming back to see "The Lion King" any time soon.

Here’s another example of freedom:

Cops raced into a McDonald’s nearby and told workers to shut down the place and get out as fast as they could.


"The cops just came in and said to evacuate the building and to run," said McDonald’s employee Catherine Melendez.

Now, granted, this is the News' version of the events and I didn’t get a chance to see the Post’s idea of truth. They probably had something like, "The heroes apprehended a bunch of darkies…" etc. etc.

But either way you look at it, NOTHING was found.

The bottom line is Midtown Manhattan was shut down for at least an hour in Mid Day. A bunch of tourists were treated to some old school police work. A bunch of McDonald’s patrons were forced to flee in a near panic.

All because some driver didn’t like the way some one looked.

I read the article five times and NO WHERE in it did the writer/reporter ask anything to the effect of

How could this possibly happen in America?

That damn liberal media!!!!


But, lets just look at the facts:

Almost immediately after 9/11, this administration, through it’s policy of "pre-emptive strike," have whole heartedly embraced imperialism. Now before you say, "The best defense is a good offense," the target of our aggression had absolutely nothing to do with the attack on the United States. The terrorist network responsible for that is still operating with impunity.

We have A fully operational concentration camp located in Cuba. The last time this country embraced such an anti-constitutional inhuman institution was during World War II when we decided to round up anybody who happened to be a Japanese American, stripped them of their businesses and property and threw them, men, women and children in disgraceful "detention centers" for purposes of "national security." The only crime they committed was being of Japanese descent. Any American citizen, with a hint of compassion, considers the actions of the U.S. government at that time to be a serious stain on our history with no justification whatsoever.

(As a side note, Michelle Malkin, a hopelessly ridiculous conservative lap dog, recently wrote a book entitled "In Defense of Internment: The Case For Racial Profiling." Just look at the title. Totally disgusting.)

Mayor Bloomberg, the mayor of New York, has instituted a policy of "random searches" of any bag you may be carrying. I want to repeat that. If you are walking, with a bag, valise or purse, a police officer can look through it, just because he wants to. I guess the fourth amendment doesn’t have the same weight it used to.

How about this quaint little piece of rhetoric from the first amendment, "Congress shall make no law…abridging the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the government for a redress of grievances." During last year’s Republican convention, Bloomberg’s goon squads arrested thousands of people and kept them in a cage for well over 48 hours JUST FOR SAYING that they thought our President was wrong. I guess that one means nothing either.

Here’s a juicy little nugget from the sixth amendment; "…the accused shall enjoy the right to a speedy and public trial, by an impartial jury of the state and district wherein the crime shall have been committed." Well, with our concentration camp in full swing, not only is "habeas corpus" out the window but YOU DON’T EVEN HAVE TO COMMIT A CRIME!!! Didn’t we use to believe in these things? Why the hell did we write them at all?

Chicago in 2006?

And now we got a heavily armed para-military unit, in the middle of Times Square, forcing a bunch of tourists off one of those double decker tour buses with their hands in the air like they are a surrendering enemy army all because the bus driver, "…thought they looked suspicious."

But, you’re right.

Why should we give a shit?

Fear Factor is starting in a few minutes.



Have another one...on me.
Sixth Army

What The Deuce?

7/21/05

A recent pitch meeting at the Malibu offices of Happy Madison which is Adam Sandler’s production company:

Schneider: So, did you read it?

Sandler: Yeah, I did.

Schneider: Well, what do you think?

Sandler: Uh…yeah…I was meaning to talk to you about that. I don’t know about this one.

Schneider: Why not?

Sandler: Well…you know…I’m doing more serious work now. I did that “Punch Drunk Love” thing and the critics loved that and...

Schneider: That and a dollar will get you a cup of coffee. C’mon man. I know no one went to go see it and you lost a bundle on that thing. I read the trades…and so do you.

Sandler: Yeah...I know. But I tell ya...it felt GOOD...you know…to be…well...respected. THEY finally recognized me man! Me. So, I don’t think I should...well...you know.

Schneider: NO, I DON'T KNOW!! Now wait just a God damn minute here! When you called me last year and needed to be bailed out of “50 First Dates,” who, right after your secretary faxed over the expense account information, dropped everything I was doing and got on a plane to Hawaii? WHO?

Sandler: Well…it really wasn’t...

Schneider: ME!! And who came up with that coconut bra and titty bit, huh? HUH? That was all me, man! All fucking me!

Sandler: But...

Schneider: And who carried your ass in “Big Daddy...”

Sandler: Now wait...

Schneider: ...and “The fucking Waterboy”?

Sandler: ...that's not...

Schneider: AND “THE WATERBOY”?!? Yeah that’s right. ME, that’s who. And not once did “respect” “recognition” or “feeling good” ever fucking come up. NOT ONCE! Nah, all I needed to know was “Adam’s in trouble” and I was there for you brother...I was there for you man.

Sandler: ...fair.

Schneider: Well, are we square Cochise?

Sandler: Aw c’mon. We square. It ain’t like that.

Schneider: Oh it ain’t, huh? THEN HOW IS IT LIKE?

Sandler: Look. I’m working with guys like Nicholson now. I can’t be…

Schneider: Nicholson? C'mon. I'll say the guy is good...but man...he is yesterday. Like fucking last week. Who the hell DIDN’T like “Witches of Eastwick,” but man...you got to live in the present.

Sandler: Um...

Schneider: Look brother, I’m not asking for nothing, man. Nothing. Just some lousy “front money” for my project and, man, this property is hot, like smoking cinder baby. You know. You’ve read it.

Sandler: Yeah, I did. I got to admit it is good.

Schneider:And it’s got commercial appeal. The kids eat this shit up.

Sandler: I know. I know. That whole 42 year old, very unattractive guy running around with woman for money thing, I admit, great shit.

Schneider:Yeah, man, now you got it. And the way I wrote that beginning? You know, how I got this bull shit office job but then I get canned because I spend all day sitting next to a copy machine annoying all my co-workers with obnoxious nicknames.

Sandler: STEVERINO...THE STEVEMEISTER...STEVIE STEVSTER. Yeah, that was good.

Schneider: That was good? THAT WAS FUCKING BRILLIANT, MAN! And then he’s broke and can’t get a job anywhere in Los Angeles so he moves to the south of France and tours all over Europe.

Sandler: I like it. I like it.

Schneider: C’mon man. You know we are going to make a mint. What do you say? For old time’s sake? For “SNL”?

Sandler: Well...

Schneider: Maybe I shouldn’t be telling you this because it’s not 100% but I heard this morning that Nealon said he would sign on!

Sandler: All right...I’m in!

Schneider: Fucking A!!!!

They jump up and high five each other after which they both slump back in their swivel chairs. After SANDLER takes a deep breath, he picks up the blue folder that is right on top of his desk. He sighs and reads what is printed on the cover out loud.

Deuce Bigalow: European Gigolo

By Rob Schneider and Harris Goldberg
For the woman of Europe...
The price of love just got a lot cheaper.

Same Ho…New Low.

Schneider: Great tag, huh? Came up with that shit myself.

Sandler: I don’t know, Rob. I don't know.

Schneider: What is it, man?

Sandler: It's just that...well...It's just that we’re starting to sound like bad people, Rob.

Schneider: That’s because we are, Adam. We are.

Look at it and keep looking at it.
Dwell on it awhile.

All available units proceed to the local Multi-Plex.
There is a robbery and an intellectual debasement in progress.

Sixth Army

Triumpharate

The new corporate logo of the
phone conglomerate Verizon

7/20/2005


Completing "The Big Three," the phone company Verizon has consistently shat all over their paying customers, treating them like serfs, demanding their "Right of First Night," whenever they want to fuck them.

Well my Independence Day came last October, right after my mom died.

Like I mentioned before, my mother had a very lengthy hospital stay before she passed. This internment period included not only the hospital, but also several stops at different healthcare facilities.

Now the way these places work is if you want a telephone in your room you supply you own and then set up an account directly through Verizon. The hospital, on the other hand, supplies the phone, but the charges for the calls are billed to your home number, again, directly through Verizon.

To make a long story short, by the time she was completely incapacitated, she had several different Verizon bills coming to the house and, unfortunately, she had it directly debited from her account.

One day in September, I took a look at one of these bills and immediately realized that yet another forced sodomy was in progress.

The bill was large with calls made at very odd hours. Ten successive 1 or two-minute calls at 3 in the morning. Directory assistance calls. Operator assisted calls, etc. etc.

The irony of course was that, by this time, my mother not only couldn’t reach the phone in her room but she could not hear anything even if she could.

Unidentified Verizon employee (Face concealed)
resolves a client inquiry at the newly constructed
"Central Customer Care Center" (The CCCC)
located on 9th Avenue and 21st Street in New York.

I immediately got on the phone with Verizon who put me through a myriad of low level "customer care specialists" whom all said there was nothing they could do. When I pointed out the ridiculousness of the charges, describing my mother’s condition, they still were of no help.

Me: But just look at the times of these calls. 3:30 AM…

C.S.R.: She must have made the calls.

Me: But look 3:30 AM, 3:31 AM, 3:33AM…

C.S.R: If that’s what the bill says, then she made the calls.

Me: You mean to tell me that a woman who can barely move, sat on a phone and dialed a number over and over again for a half an hour?

C.S.R.: She must of.

Me: BUT SHE IS PRACTICALLY DEAF!!!!!

C.S.R.: Well…someone did.

After about thirty minutes of hammering my head against the wall with these brain dead jerk-offs, I came to the conclusion THEY were the ones who were deaf.

Giving up, I then demanded to speak to someone "in charge" not really knowing who the hell I would get. After about another five minutes of bullshit I was told I was going to be transferred to a "Mr. Johnson in the Actuaries Dept."

WOW…the "ACTUARIES DEPARTMENT."

Impressive!!!

Mr. Johnson comes on and sounds like a "nuts and bolts" kind of a guy. He reminded me of a Cop you call at the local precinct when you want to follow-up on some kind of traffic accident report.

Unfortunately for the first few minutes of the conversation it is almost an exact replay of the last thirty minutes. But then something happened.

He actually looked at the bill in question.

After looking at the ludicrous call times and durations, he admitted that there was obviously a problem and agreed to stop the "direct debiting" of my moms account. I said, from now on, transfer the account into my name.

He said he couldn’t do that without a written authorization" so I agreed to get a signed letter from my mother which I did that day and mailed it addressed personally to him somewhere in Yonkers almost immediately. He promised to call me as soon as he received it to discuss what calling plan and DSL package I might be interested in.

Everything seemed to be resolved so, you are probably asking yourself,

"What’s my beef?"

What bothered me was the fact that it was obvious that NONE of the people I was talking to at that shit hole were OBVIOUSLY LISTENING TO A WORD I WAS SAYING.

After about 45 minutes of talking till I was horse, finally this Mr. Johnson guy actually LOOKED at the bill and agreed. Everything that came before that rare moment of reason was "on book." Just general scripted responses to my very specific questions.

As far as "customer service" goes, there is only one word to describe that performance:

PATHETIC

But if that were it, I wouldn’t be writing this.

Nope. The steady stream of urination continued.

For example, weeks went by and I didn’t here from Mr. Johnson.

Then my mother passed away.

She died very early on a Saturday morning. I spent the next week taking care of phone calls, funeral arrangements, insurance paper work, etc. One day I come home, during that week, and guess who is on my answering machine.

That’s right, it was Cock Sucking Deush Bag…I mean Mr. Johnson from the Actuaries Department!

The message said he received my letter and is ready to discuss "our services.’

Being that my mom was dead and anything this guy had to say was now completely moot, I laughed so hard, and for so long, I eventually buckled over clutching my stomach with a slight muscle pull.

Now, keep in mind, I mailed that letter a little over a month ago from the Downtown Manhattan post office who send out their carriers once every half-hour. If I mail a letter there early enough in the morning, the recipient could possibly receive it that same day.

Believe me, it has happened before.

AND this clown had my cell phone number.

But I knew I was going to eventually call him back because, as it turns out, I decided to move into my mother’s apartment to help out my handicapped sister. To be honest, I had been a Verizon customer since I first left home to go to college in 1985 and I saw no reason to change.

For those of you old enough to remember, that was right around the time Ron Reagan first busted up the "Ma Bell" (later re-named Verizon) monopoly. For the first time we, the public, had a choice of phone companies to provide our service. Everybody who had any kind of start-up capital opened up a service (MCI, Sprint) and, most importantly, were offering outrageous deals often halfing the old Bell prices.

I, personally, found these services to be less than adequate.

Yes, you would pay half the price but, all of sudden, you would get messages like "all our circuits are busy" when you would try to make a call. That NEVER happened with Verizon so, I stuck with them. It was "you get what you pay for" personified.

I would even tell me people not to switch almost like a mid 80s white James Earl Jones.

So, upon returning to work the following Monday, I called the 914 number Mr. Penis…I mean Johnson…left for me. A woman answered. I asked for Mr. Johnson but he was not there but she informed me that she could help because she was, "intimately familiar with all of the cases."

Within minutes I realized she was bull shitting me so I went through the whole song and dance of my circumstances. And requested that she tell me what Verizon’s different calling plans, DSL packages and costs.

After she gave me about three different choices, all with a disinterested tone that suggested she was going to put no effort into this sale:

Me: Those prices are kind of high. I had DSL from you guys about three years ago and I remember it was a lot cheaper.

Bee-atch: Yeah.

Me: So the price went drastically up?

Bee-atch: I guess.

Me: I’m going to have to think about this. I will call you back.

Bee-atch: Well OK, but we really got to hurry on this because we need an answer.

Me: OH REALLY??? NOW we’re in a hurry???? I contacted you guys over a month ago and you didn’t seem to be "in a hurry" then.

Bee-atch: Yes, but…

Me: I’ll call you back on Thursday.

I hung up pretty disgusted but what was I going to do?

I called Cablevision that’s what.

Oh believe me, I have no illusions. They are just as bad, if not worse, as any other faceless behemoth that would cut your heart out and eat it before your dimming eyes. But, in this case, they offered me unlimited telephone, high speed Internet and digital cable TV for $150 a month.

Hearing about this deal right on the heals of my soul sucking experience with Ms. Personality over at Verizon, I said the only thing I could really:

COUNT ME IN!

And the bonus was I got to rip Verizon a new one on Thursday when I called them back! But, when I returned home from work on Wednesday there was a message on my machine:

Hello. This is I am a fucking asshole, (I didn’t remember his name) I’m calling to confirm your DSL order…

MY WHAT?!?!?!????

He gave some number to call between 9am and 5pm so…you got it…I was on the horn at 9:01AM the next day.

And of course the tool, who was neither Prick...I mean Johnson...or Bee-atch who both were not in, told me not to worry because there was "No order in."

I was satisfied with the result of this call… for the moment.

That night, after another day of mind numbing paper pushing, I arrived home to find a plain brown cardboard box sitting on the dining room table. My sister very enthusiastically told me we received a package.

My mouth quivered and my eyebrow started to twitch as I slowly, ever so slowly, lumbered towards THE BOX.

I read the label:

Verizon DSL Services

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!

It was a DSL modem.

The next day I called the actuaries department and had someone on the line who, "worked with both Mr. Erection…I mean Johnson...and Bee-atch." She sounded like a sweet old lady.

What followed was a ten-minute diatribe about the complete incompetence and unbelievable unprofessionalism that I experienced over the past two months. I detailed their crimes; I gave dates and times; I named names; I used such blunt, undignified language I could hear her blushing on the other end.

I ended my stroke inducing bellow with the definitive statement:

"You have lost me for life."

Like I said before, this person was very nice (or possibly scared) and she ASSURED me that all of my mom's accounts, as well as anything under my name. were closed so there would be no future charges. She also, very politely, asked me to drop the DSL Modem box with a "return sticker" that she would send me on it, at any UPS store which I did as soon as it came.

My long personal nightmare was over.

My Heroes.

To this day, I still receive bills with my mother’s name on it. The last ones were actually from some law firm/debt collectors in Minnesota. Needless to say I use these official looking documents to line the bottom off the litter box.

In this way Meng and Manny get to do to Verizon what Verizon did to me for 20 years.

I don’t intend to make this blog a dull laundry list of my petty complaints against all the corporations that have screwed me over my 37 years on this Earth. If that were to occur, not only would this journal become somewhat repetitive and fairly uninteresting but, more practically, I would probably never leave my keyboard, because the shear volume of words would be a full time job.

And, of course, that would be impossible because I have to put in my forty hours at the sycophantic company I’m currently toiling for.

After all, I have to eat too you know.

But the point is that these complaints are not strictly personal. I would argue that most of you who have stumbled upon my writings have suffered some similar type of indignity and/or robbery at the hands of these very same Houses of Pain who masquerade as pillars of the community.

Why do we put up with it?


All of this reminded me of the time in 1967, during America’s other quagmire Vietnam, when the boxing heavyweight champion of the world Muhammad Ali was drafted into the Army.

He refused to go.

When he was asked why, he famously responded,

"Ain't no Vietcong ever called me nigger."

Using Ali’s logic, whose "Axis of Evil" makes more sense:

The President’s...or mine?

And we could be heroes
Just for one day
Sixth Army

Axis of Evil: Part Deux

The new corporate logo of the
investment firm of Charles Schwab

7/19/2005

Charles Schwab makes the list!

One of the evening rituals I have, after getting home from work, is to check the mail. I find some solstice in this institution of civilization. It is dependable and, if you think about it, amazing.

For 37 cents I can drop an envelope in a blue box anywhere on the eastern seaboard and it arrives, in a relatively short period of time, anywhere in the United States.

Fantastic!

I know it sounds corny, but every so often I think about these things because after a full day of pushing meaningless paper for The Man, I need something, anything, to reaffirm the possibilities of what life could be.

Well, lately, my mail reading experience has not been soothing at all. In fact, it seems like every time I open an envelope it is from someone asking, wanting or demanding some kind of cash payment.

Be it:

Con Ed - Tripling their bill just in time for summer!
Sprint – For a cell phone I rarely use.
Cablevision – The price of assisted suicide.
A Credit Card Company – For some meal I had in 1994
A Catalogue - Selling useless junk.

I call the whole twenty-minute ordeal the "getting on all fours" experience.

But last night took the cake.

My mom, passed away last October after a very long hospital stay. But don’t worry, I am not trying to "bring down you trip" and I am certainly NOT looking for any sympathy.

The only reason why I mention that fact is because, just recently, I found out that she had a small stock account at Charles Schwab, which had my brother my sister and me, listed as beneficiaries.

I contacted that grand institution and they sent me a whole bunch of forms. I filled out all their paperwork, returned it to them and just sat back and chilled, waiting for my slice of the American Dream to arrive via the US Post.

Now, I don’t know how much money she sank into this pipe dream account. Her records show that she opened it in 1998, height of the Dot Com craze, that period in time when any joker and their cousin thought they could be a millionaire. I do know the ending balance when they received my papers saying that she had passed and to liquidate was $3,569.

Last night I found sitting in my mailbox a couple of envelopes from The Champions of Freedom (Schwab) so I naturally assumed that one of them was my check, which roughly should have been $1,150.

I ripped at the envelopes like an animal having his first meal in weeks; My anticipation was out of control. All I kept thinking about was ALL THAT MONEY. There were 1,100 slices of cabbage waiting in that envelope for me. THIS IS WHAT IT WAS ALL ABOUT! MINE…ALL MINE!!!

But then reality set in.

There was no check. Just some official "trade confirmations" which, at least meant the ball was rolling. At first glance, the figures running up and down the pages looked pretty innocuous. But, upon further inspection, as I started to read the details of these "trades," there was nothing innocent about them at all.

I was lucky my pills were within arm’s length.

What it boiled down to was my take, my one-third beneficiary share of $3,569, was going to be a total of $959.37.

It would have been more apropos if they just removed all the numbers and figures on these offensive statements and wrote across the pages "Giulliani Time!"

I know what you are thinking,

"Hey wait a minute, unless my math is wrong, isn’t one third of $3,569 actually $1,188?"

You would be correct!!! But then you might ask,

Then what happened to the $229?"

That amount is what Charles Schwab charged me in fees and commissions (My brother and sister are also going to get urinated on when it’s their turn to liquidate their thirds) to get my third of my dead mother’s meager account. For those of you who are keeping score that is a little less than 20%.

Not a bad cut for a bunch of scumbags.

After I sat down, exhaled and checked my blood pressure, I called up Schwab and, after about twenty minutes on hold, some guy got on the line. I have know idea what his name was so for our purposes I will call him "shit for brains."

Shit for Brains confirmed with me that those fees were "legitimate" because I ordered to liquidate "full service." He continued to explain that, "What I should have done was transfer the funds to my own account and then sell them myself."

When I said I didn’t have an account with Schwab he said then we could have sent me, "the physical Stock Certificates."

HUH!!!!

Then I said, at the time I informed his fine Institution of Wage Slavery about my mom’s death, no one ever told me anything about any options.

Shithead paused for a second, then sheepishly said,

"Well, I guess somebody should have discussed this with you at that time."

Beautiful!

It occurred to me rather rapidly he had know idea about beneficiary type accounts. My mom had the same exact kind of account at CitiBank (and you KNOW how much I hate those Cock Suckers!) and, after I filled out THEIR forms, they just cut me a check for a third of it’s value. They never said anything about "sell options" or "stock certificates."

They did, in this very RARE case, what a financial institution was supposed to do; GAVE ME MY FUCKING MONEY.

After I decided Feces was of no use to me, I asked to be transferred to the Estate’s Dept. because that is who I initially spoke to and were the "somebody" who should have discussed my options at the time I informed them of my mom's passing.

Fecal Matter for Brain Matter informed me that he could transfer me but, "…no one was there right now." He then, very graciously, gave me the number to call back in the morning.

In retrospect, he was an OK kid. It wasn’t his fault that he was a stupid piece of dog shit with a life sentence of being a pawn for a bunch of soulless greedy slugs, totally in over his head.

So today, I arrived in my cube, armed with those ridiculous Schwab statements, sat down and made some calls. Being up till four in the morning stewing about this shit did not quell my anger. I was ready to do battle.

After yet another twenty minutes on hold, (But I didn’t mind this time because the company was paying!) some one from the Schwab Estates Dept. finally picked up.

Again, I didn’t get her name, but for our purposes I will refer to her as "Bitch."

The Bitch, once again, confirmed that the fees were correct but she was a tad more understanding. When I pointed out one of these brokered sales was:

Stock Symbol: ‘CPROF’
Total # of Shares: 33
Sale Price: .32 cents a share.
Total amount of sale: =$10.56
Minus Schwab Commission: -$10.56

Net Proceeds to Me: Nil

She actually said she "understood."

When I asked how it was possible for her organization to print things like this and then look at themselves as productive members of society she placated me.

When I suggested that it was "ghoulish" and "Jackal-Like" to skim the money off a dead woman she was a little more defensive but still "understanding."

Finally, I asked her point blank if she was ashamed of her employer’s behavior. She didn’t answer, but suggested I might call the Trading Dept. to see if they could help me out. "It wouldn’t hurt to ask," is the way she put it.

Although I do not let this bitch off the hook, because, in the final analysis, we are all responsible for our actions and choices, I have to admit it was no fun berating her because, in all fairness, she is caught between a rock and a hard place.

It is not her fault that the John (Schwab) she whores for all day and all night has no scruples. Just because she is crawling through the debasing fluids of corporate greed and anti-humanity all her waking hours, doesn’t make her a bad person.

I thanked her for her time and decided to try the Traders.

Unidentified Charles Schwab
executive photographed here
on his boat in the Hamptons

At this point I was beaten and resigned to the fact that the little guy took it in the ass again. I was hoping my $200+ was at least being spent in some swanky bar by some corporate suit, trying desperately to fill the empty void in his compassionless, soulless existence, with a round of drinks for some high class whores.

Alas, perchance to dream because The Trader got me going again.

Again, I did not get his name so I will refer to him as "Prick."

This prick had an attitude at hello. He spoke like he had something serious to prove. Like he had no joy in any aspect in his life so, instead of re-evaluating his disastrous life decisions and empty core values, he was going to take it out on me.

He couldn’t understand what the problem was or my astonishment at his employer’s Shylockesque practices.

Verbatim: Remember you could always check the tape!!!

Me: Is it normal to take 20% of someone’s money?

Prick: Yeah, sounds about right.

Me: I didn’t see that in any of the brochures or literature that you sent when you enticed my mom into opening this account. You don’t think this is outrageous?

Prick: Well, no, not really. Look, when you got eight or so positions like she had to sell that sounds about right. If your mom wasn’t so diversified…

Me: That’s a BAD thing? I always thought you were supposed to "diversify."

Prick: Well…

Me: So what are you saying, your taking a fifth of my pittenance?

Prick: Right…

I slammed the phone down in a rage.

I took a very deep breath. I needed to calm down because I realized my ranting would probably get me terminated. I decided to check on my E-Bay account because I was bidding on two items that were pretty worthless but keep me entertained in my hours of despair.

A smile came to my face because I won! The item was a 45 RPM record of a now defunct rock group and the final bid was 75 cents. It was probably worth less but what the hell.

In my inbox was the invoice from the seller. This is what it looked like:

Item: 75 cents
Shipping: $3.98
Handling: $1.00
Insurance: $1.24
Total: $6.97

You can not make this shit up!!!!

Again, there was no sense of shame at sending out a statement that had absolutely NO JUSTIFICATION WHATSOEVER. But this wasn’t from some Corporation Board member who made his Faustian deal with the Devil decades ago. This was from some local woman from Texas who probably legitamately goes to church every Sunday.

Needless to say, I received no comfort from this extortion.

Simply awful.

With my veins bulging and sweating profusely, I immediately got out of my cube, deciding to take an early lunch to get my bearings back. I went to the local Subway sandwich shop which was packed with people.

When it finally came to my turn, the counterman barked at me in a hostile tone which, I think, indicated that he wanted to know what I wanted. I ordered a large ham and swiss and he waved me on wasting no time yelling at the next poor bastard.

After repeating three times which condiments I wanted added to my sandwich to the assembly line of "your tired and poor yearning to be free," I arrived at the register where the cashier pushed a few buttons and mumbled some number. I requested the gentleman in the undershirt to repeat what he said and with a great annoyance shouted

"$8.14."

I thought that’s what he said.

And I didn’t even get a soda or chips.

Unbelievable.

Totally disgusted and dejected, I paid the fool his ransom and walked out. As I walked down the incredibly hot, humid street back to the office I had an epiphany.

It was all so clear.

The Ronald Reagan "Trickle Down Theory" finally made sense.

Sixth Army

Two gin-scented tears trickled down the sides of his nose.
But it was all right, everything was all right,
the struggle was finished.
He had won the victory over himself.
He truly loved Big Brother.

George Orwell - 1984

CitiBank: We Got You By The Short Hairs.

7/18/2005

When ever someone asks me to reccomend a bank, I always respond, "I can't vouch for any of those blood suckers but wherever you go, DO NOT GO TO CITI BANK!!!!"

Whenever I am asked why, I say it is a long story. Well...

CitiBank's new corporate logo.

To make a long story short, a few years ago I had a serious cash flow problem which led me to run up some high numbers on the credit cards that were given to me by, among other soulless corporations pretending to be my friend, CitiBank.

Needless to say, although I was working forty hours a week, I was caught in a vicious cycle of circular debt where my whole paycheck was basically going to pay the vig of these legalized loan sharks and, also needless to say, I finally missed a payment in my attempt to flail at the water that was rapidly rising over my head.

Well that was all they needed to jack up my interest to the "fuck you" tier of 28% - 29%. It did not take long for me to realize that, at this rate, I would never get out of their clutches.

I called them and pleaded with this joker on the phone and he was all sweet and kind like I was fresh pussy getting off the bus at Port Authority from Oklahoma. He said exactly, and I repeat exactly,

"…after six months the rate would go down."

I hung up the phone feeling like a schoolgirl who just made the cheerleading squad. I figured that it was fair to have some kind of penalty phase because, after all, I DID miss a payment so, after six months of good faith on time payments, I could get back to a manageable interest situation.

Well, as it turns out, CitiBank wasn’t the star football player asking me to the prom.

They were a carnivorous pimp, turning me out for $10 lube free, balls deep, ass-fucks.

Too harsh? What do you think when, on the seventh credit card statement after our "deal," not only does the interest not go down, BUT IT ACTUALLY WENT UP!?!

Upon reading this absurdity (I believe it was at 28.679%) I immediately assumed it was a mistake. I dialed the number on the statement and was promptly told everything was correct. When I brought up my conversation with my dreamboat jock I had six months earlier the pimp said, "That is on new purchases."

My mouth dropped.

"You mean to tell me that this ridiculous 28% rate is for THE LIFE OF THE BALANCE?"

"Yes, that’s right."

"Is there anything you could do?"

"No, sorry."

"Thank you, goodbye."

I never made another payment to them again.

As the months passed, threatening letters started to come followed by threatening phone calls. I, of course, ignored them all because I remember something that no good toupeed scumbag Donald Trump said about owing banks money. When you owe the money, you actually have the power because there is no such thing as debtor’s prison anymore.

Well at least not yet.

One day I received a letter from CitiBank saying that they had a "one time offer" to settle the account "saving me thousands of dollars." After I stopped the deep belly laughing since this was the fourth time in three months they sent me this "one time offer," I decided to give them a call for the sheer fun of it and see what they had to say.

After a ridiculous automated minefield, a guy named Josh gets on the phone and asks me pretty munch the same information (Acct. #, etc.) that I just spent 15 minutes entering into my keypad.

CitiBank empoyee "Josh"
photographed here at
last year's company
Christmas Party

He said his name was "Josh" but that was just an alias. His real name was Low Level Citi Management’s Cock Receptacle. Evidently, at CitiBank, they name their employees’ "Native American style" like "Dances with Wolves."

Anyway Receptacle starts to tell me what their idea of a deal is. CitiBank would graciously "suspend" their exhorborant interest rate for a whole four months:

"And afterwards?"

"It goes back to 28%."

"That’s no deal at all. Look, I want to pay you guys’ back; I’m not a deadbeat. But you guys are suffocating me! How the hell am I suppose to pay (I think it was about six thousand on that particular account) at these rates?"

"I can suspend…"

"Listen, I have a deal. I had three cards with you. If you look at you records I paid one of them off in full months ago just to show some good faith. Now with the remaining two why don’t you cut down the interest to something reasonable say like 14%. Close the accounts, I won’t have any new purchases, and I’ll start paying you back tomorrow."

"I can’t do that."

"Why not?"

"Well sir, you have to see it from CitiBank’s point of view."

"OH, OK. Tell me CitiBank’s point of view."

"Well sir, in your plan, what stops somebody…I don’t mean you…"

"No, No, No...mean me."

"OK, what stops somebody from running up their balance, maxing out their cards, and then only paying 14% on the balance?"

"Only at CitiBank could someone say, with a straight face, that they are getting "screwed" because they're ONLY getting 14%. The last I looked I was only getting 1.5% at my bank. Jesus, Louie down the block would cream in his draws if he was guaranteed 14 points on his cash."

This was a real call and the automated voice before the cock master got on said that it was being recorded for "quality purposes" so I hope they use it to train the new cogs they get for that high turnover job. If the newbies hear what their new employer actually does to working people, they might not be as easily maninpulated.

Because that is the true tragedy of my dealings with these dicks. The people I am dealing with don’t go far up the ladder. In fact they’re in the same boat as I am but they have been sodomized so systematically that instead of understanding the plight of a working stiff trying to get back on his feet, probably closer to their own experience, they relate more to the guy who dwells in an upstairs office whenever he decides to show up, mixing high balls, banging his secretary all before he takes off at 3 o'clock with the helicopter up to Foxwoods to drop a bundle of profits at the crap table.

One day, "Josh" is going to realize that he has been hosed.


1, 2, 3.
What are we fighting for?
Sixth Army

Score One For The Fat Man

7/15/2005


Sensing that I badly needed to get out of the rat race for awhile, last weekend my brother invited me out to the country, to stay at his house in Pennsylvania for a few days. We had no activities planned so, to escape reality for awhile, we spent much of the time playing a video game he just bought called “Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas.”

For those of you who are not aware, “Grand Theft Auto” is a series of ultra-violent video games created by Rockstar Games. The player controls a character with a criminal background through a series of “missions” set in a fictitious city. These missions usually involve murder and robbery and, upon their completion, the player is rewarded with cash and bonuses. (For example, in the previous Grand Theft game, “Vice City,” at one point you are told to kill a snitch with a chainsaw for $100.) You “win” the game by becoming the undisputed crime lord of the whole map.

What makes these games popular, besides the incredible amount of senseless violence and obscene language, are the laugh out loud funny scenarios as well as the sly comments on the culture of the time the game takes place.

Typical scene from GTA: San Andreas

Although the city is fictitious, “Vice City” is obviously supposed to be Miami of the cocaine fueled 1980s. The fashions, the soundtrack, the cars are all in period. The new one, “San Andreas,” is obviously supposed to be Los Angeles of the early 1990s. The soundtrack is loaded with “Gangsta Rap” and the screen is filled with “crack-heads.”

As I was playing the game, with its casual “drive-bys,” cop killings and the generous use of the words “Nigga” and “Bitch,” I thought of it as over the top offensive. I said to myself that the glorification of dopers, thugs and murderers is clear evidence that our culture is in the gutter. It speaks volumes on the decay of western civilization, etc. But, after awhile, I started to crack a smile.

I’ve changed.

Not that long ago, about five years, in fact right before January, 2001, Inauguration Day, I would have been saying all those things with conviction and passion. I look upon the popularity of “reality shows,” tabloid reporting and the debasing of thought with great sorrow, wondering just how far down are we going to go.

Hell, I remember one time in the 1990s ranting for an hour about how Adam Sandler represents the death of American intellectual expansion.

But, since the clampdown, I find great satisfaction in knowing that my brother was able to purchase this product over the counter. Not only is this game still legal, but it is incredibly popular which, I hate to admit, I say kudos.

Across the nation, films are being censored for being anti-creationist, the FCC is levying record-breaking monetary fines and penalties on broadcast outlets such as radio and television for airing “questionable” material, strip clubs are being deemed unlawful although all the patrons and employees are over 21 years of age and sodomy laws are being enforced.

Any regret I have about the moral and intellectual pollution this game is emanating is far outweighed by the hope I feel at the fact that, no matter how disagreeable it may be, there is still a chance at self expression in this country.

The current crop of righteous fools and über-mensch that are running this country, are trying very hard to destroy “obscene” or “vulgar” type entertainments all in an attempt to “bring back decency to our culture,” whatever the hell that means.

The irony, of course, is that they have had the exact opposite effect on me and, judging by the number of units of this product that have been sold, had the opposite effect on a whole lot of people as well.


So, yesterday, with all of these thoughts swimming in my head, I ran across a Roger Ebert review for a movie entitled Max (2003). I never saw it but I remember it being controversial because it “humanized” Hitler. Similar complaints were levied against the more recent film Downfall (2004).

It is a story about the fictional character, a one-armed Jewish art dealer named Max Rothman, who befriends struggling young artist Adolph Hitler in post WW I Bavaria. From Ebert’s review:

There is never, even for a moment, a glimmer of evidence to suggest that Hitler could have been a successful artist. His drawings look like the kind of cartoon caricatures that bored boys create in their notebooks in the back row of geometry class, playing with their protractors and dreaming of supermen. Hitler instinctively fails to see the point of abstract art; at one point he suggests that Rothman frame his diarrhea. We are reminded that, in power, both the Nazis and the Soviets banned and burned abstract art. Curious, that art which claimed to represent nothing nevertheless represented so much to them. Perhaps art is a threat to totalitarianism when it does not have a clear, censurable subject and is left to the musings of the citizen.

I have to admit I never thought of that.

Here is the final passage from Ebert's essay:

But what, we may ask, parroting Soviet realism, is the purpose of this movie? What is its message? It is not abstract but presents us with two central characters whose races have a rendezvous with destiny. I think the key is in Max Rothman, who is a kind liberal humanist, who cares for the unfortunate, who lives a life of the mind that blinds him to the ominous rising tide of Nazism. Can a man like this, with values like this, survive against a man like Hitler, who has no value except the will for power? It is the duty of the enlightened state to assure that he can. Dissent protects the body politic from the virus of totalitarianism.

It is not so obvious, but I think the Pullitzer Prize winning Ebert, once again, concisely wrote exactly what I was thinking.

Think about it
Sixth Army

Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité

7/14/2005

I know from the time we are school children whenever the subject of the French Revolution is broached we are immediately told how “brutal” and “barbaric” the revolutionaries were.

If you remember your old social studies days on that subject, you will remember how the period known as the “Reign of Terror” (1792-1794) is emphasized and not the fact that these ordinary people went to extraordinary lengths because their government had completely failed them in every way.

Les Misérables

As I grow older
The more I read
The more I observe
The more I understand

It is clear that The System keeps arbitrarily decided fates in place.
It is clear that we are taught to hate each other to keep us divided.
It is clear that the term “Status Quo” is the enemy of humanity.
It is clear that true power is not something that is given.

The more I understand these things
The more the French of the late 1700s don’t seem “barbaric” at all.

In fact,
They seem more like heroes to me.


HAPPY BASTILLE DAY!!!
Sixth Army