Is the Armageddon thing happened yet?

“Is the Armageddon thing happened yet?”

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On my way to pick up my meds (Tazo Organic <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Darjeeling Tea), I was at the edge of the sidewalk about to jaywalk across to Whole Foods when off to my left in the dimly streetlight-lit dark, I heard a woman’s voice ask someone, “Is the Armageddon thing happened yet?”

 

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Well, there is nothing one can possibly say about something so sublime, so terrifying. But that’s never slowed down pogblog before.

 

1. It really happened, in a kind of cross between poe & kafka. I whirled whiplashilly to my left, agog, hearing my telltale heart beating in the night made crepuscular by the eerie strontium-vapor streetlight.  

 

2. “Is the Armageddon thing happened yet?” [sic]  Sic means ‘thus,’ implying that a mistake in the sentence just written is from the original deliverer, not a typo of the scribe. Sic should be put right after the offending part, but jeez, it makes it so yucko to read then. It's also supposed to be italized, but then so is the Catholic Mass. (Yes, I know you know about sic, but we’re trying to reach a range of folks not all of whom are among the arcane-minutiae zealots of English-language giga-elite.)

 

3. Suppose she was right, the ancient street mariner? Suppose the Armageddon thing has already happened and we’re just not aware of it yet, not aligned with the Shining Truth yet? Maybe it’s like that before Enlightenment ‘wash the rice bowl'; after Enlightenment ‘wash the rice bowl’ thing?

 

4. The gods are fond of this sudden icepick made of ice hit tactic. They murder you with an icepick made of ice. Then the murder weapon melts and you’re left with a small hole and terminally out of breath. This give them the usual deitific deniability.

 

5. Samuel Johnson, lexicon artist, one of pogblog’s mentors, drank 60 cups of tea a day. My guess is that tea in those days was ‘organic’ by default. Pogblog doesn’t slosh down 60, but probably 15. You can’t chaindrink that much milky tea if it’s some harsh stomach-dissolving crud. The Tazo Organic Darjeeling (teabags) is fine stuff. (Their own regular Black Tea is a battery-acid equivalent.)

 

5a. How can doornail Sam be pogblog's mentor? (It's that same tone and sneeréd curl of lip you use when you say, “Yeah, and I bet you've seen unicorns too!”)  Just because you don't do time travel and have ghostly guests doesn't in the slightest degree inhibit pogblog from same.

 

6.crepuscular sounds scary which is its overwrought irony-boosting purpose in the fablet, but means: like twilight or dim;

 

7. Maybe the Armageddon thing is past & we lived? We could let the patient people on the tedious Armageddon Watch go home to their famlies [sic]? We could just get on with the rest of Eternity after a restorative nap? Pogblog will cogitate on it for you.  

 

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6-16-05 3:20:12pm.us 2 Eagle . Men  tzolkin 15

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family values? piffle!

 

    Good morning, ClownSchool, this today's topic is Corporate Porn in Sunland, now called USofA Inc. You should note this material under TheoFascism/USofA Inc.

    What should give you a Sign that the Reptilians are a different species is how remarkably serious and self-important they are

   If you study them in the social wilds, in their habitat like a herpetologist, their fanged tendency to strike out, to spew poison even is one of their most vivid serpental behavioral patterns. The Democrats, as mammals, are ill-adapted to respond in kind.

    The ViperLizards, the leaders of the lizardsnake pack, have a kind of lidless vigilance for offense, for being offended. The cheney viperiens (chay-knee vie-pair-ee-ens) species that dominates on the Eastern Seaboard and <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Midwest of the continent of Sunland, now usurped by USofA Inc, has a particularly virulent venom. These are very aggressive reptiles.

    But what is offensive, what is obscene is not a janetjackson duskybosom, but a version of competition run amuck, of accumulation so midal that the definitions of corporate porn have to be shockedly rewritten.

    I’d institute a salary cap because the present game is heading for ruin. It is in the interest of Greed itself, surprisingly enough, for the henryford dictum to be widely spread.

   First, under Clown Rules #1-#10, it should end up being fun (x 10), we get Clown Rule #11: Each person’s life is as valuable to her/him as yours is to you. Juan is not worth 30 cents an hour. He's worth what you're worth. You can screw him with conditions so onerous that he’ll endure the 30 cents an hour, but it ain’t right and you know it. While we’re still unimaginatively locked into a wage framework, we need to talk about a human wage not a minimum wage.

    This is really, in strictly economic terms, haha, as if there could be any such thing, directly related to the henryford dictum: pay your workers enough so they can afford to buy your cars. This is not some namby-pamby altruism, you pork-fed, slavering Fat Cogist who treats your poor (and I mean poor) workers like cogs and lunches on Filet of Worker. You could prosper instead of foiegrasing yourself, stuffing money down your throat until your liver bursts. 

    All of the gains we achieved in the 20th century to lift the lead-heels of the Cogists off the throats of the workers have to be fought for globe-wide. But we know enough now so we should instantly begin a basic Workers Bill of Rights in order to get imaginatively without the blood to where we would be in a coming century of blood. On PBS Global, in addition to the Nightly Business Report, there would be would be a Nightly Workers Report anchored by Paul Krugman and Jim Hightower and pog. We need to have a very smart global commission studying the integration of the several virtues of competition with the many virtues re happiness-pursuit of  a prosperous workforce.

   Get over shuddering about ‘failed communism.’ Take your meds, ViperLizards. We are now looking ‘failed capitalism’ right in its black eye. Get eclectic. Weave the best from all possible sources.

    //pogblog’s gotta run off and put out the new pogblog posters and buy Trader Joe’s keylime pie and Tazo Organic Darjeeling, upon which one can live, apparently. Can’t transcribe any more ClownSchool til later.

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6-15-05 12:58:53pm.us 1 Jaguar . Ix . Panther tzolkin 14

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LQ .. Lizard Quotient

LQ .. Lizard Quotient: If we say that Mr. Cheney’s LQ, or Lizard Quotient, is the platinum standard, a perfect 100, the Grand Imperial Lizard, the benchmark, then the rest of the Lizard Cabal ranks down in scalyness from that apogee.         

      When in the USofA Inc Nation, our Emperor George is defrocked in your insight, in her insight, in his insight, one by one we will see clearly that the ghastliness is that his naked scalyness is revealed. It’s like the Gorgon of yore, if you glance upon the unclothed Lizard, you may turn to stone. You will certainly be petrified. Better to keep your rose-colored glasses on. 

 

[This makes you queasy? Goes too far? What is far? Pogblog didn’t blow up any kids today on your behalf.]

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<?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />6-16-05 3:20:12pm.us 2 Eagle . Men  tzolkin 15

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living hog ..

   There’s a difference between living large or even living hog — and living obscene.

    Arnold Schwarzenegger is very short, very orange, and owns nine SUVs. This is vile.

  Now, short is fine, all my best friends are short. But elevator shoes? He is deeply orange from all the years of ManTan use, one supposes. Or maybe it’s just his inner wickedness radioactively glowing? When you are summoned to his governor’s office for a meeting in the evening, you don’t go through the closed great ceremonial doors that the public would enter during normal business hours. You are sent down a hidden corridor, and there is short, orange <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Arnold, toadesque, behind his desk, lighted exclusively by hundreds of scented candles. (“Please don’t tell him you like the candles!” the cringing staff said plaintively before sending you alone to the eerie audience.)

     Nine SUVs – after the initial reeling, the mind collapses in a coma, a catatonia. One SUV is already grotesque. (Yes, dear reader, if you succumbed to the machomoronic SUV craze, this vehicular viagra, – this lapse of yours is the least cool thing you have done.)

    Living clown like pogblog may lean you precariously too near to living culvert, but some self-examination in consumer gluttony might not go amiss. (I’m not against indulgence. Butter is better. Belovèd Julia Child lived on butter –just not too much in any day.) Shame. People who drive an SUV should feel shame.        06.05.05

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For informed & only slightly politer rage, see

http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?file=/gate/archive/2005/01/07/notes010705.DTL

 

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06.05.06  4 Lizard  tzolkin 4 sunday 

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President George Bush — Tin Ear, Tin Heart, Tin Soul?

Please note: Some names, dates, and non-essential details have changed to protect the innocent. Eveyone's innocent in this except BushCo.

 

    My friend whose only son, 28, was killed in <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Iraq one year and ninety-four days ago told me a story that I will never get my mind around, not ever.

    There was another woman I’ll call 'Jane Smith' whose son ‘John’ also had been killed in Iraq. Jane was in a group of families meeting with President George Bush.  Before the meeting, she had sent a long and anguished letter to Mr. Bush trying to describe the particular reality of her son, that he was not just a number, this complex and unrepeatable darling, daring life whose unique loss was unbearable to her. One of the details that she mentioned was that when anyone asked John how he was, he had this motto: he always said, “Life is good!”

   Eventually it came Jane’s turn to have an audience with President George Bush. He said that he’d heard that she had especially wanted to talk to him. As they talked, the subject of John's motto came up. George Bush leaned, as my friend described it, “right up in Jane’s face, way too far into her personal space.” And then President George Bush said, “How do you know his life would have been good?”

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Who, what, could possibly say such a thing to anyone? Least of all the President of the United States to a grieving mother who just buried her only son? I have spoken the essence of this ghastly encounter as starkly and unvarnishedly as I can.

    In the conversation, the Mother translated this as saying, “Your kid got killed on my lying watch, but his life probably wouldn't have been so hot anyway.”  “How do you know his life would have been good?” Chilling. 

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8 Rabbit . Lamat  tzolkin 8  06.09.05  2:30:54 am

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Speciation, a pleasantly nasty confection

Speciation, a pleasantly nasty confection 

   You think the vile & violent must win, but belligerence becomes too dangerous and tediously wasteful, & some day quite soon we’re gonna collectively say, “C’mon, grow up, get over it, this paranoid merde de crapaud is a steaming, screaming bore. Take your meds!”

    Ask yourself if you’re really the same species as George Bush and Karl Rove? Suppose for every thousand, oh make it ten-thousand people they are directly responsible for having mutilkilled, they grew a saberfang or a wart-covered horn? So about now they each would have four saberfangs and seven wart-covered horns. If we could see the differences between you and BushRoveCheneyRiceRumsfeld, homo theofascistiens, you would know they were a new and malignant species.

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crapaud = toad in French; crah-poh;

 

05.31.05 12 Rainstorm . Redbird tzolkin 259 montues

1:18 pm

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Love letter to Lewis H. Lapham, Harper's Magazine Notebook

to Lewis H. Lapham, Harper’s Magazine

06.02.05  1 Alligator  tzolkin 1 thursday  <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />12:25:53 p

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   This is a love letter, Mr. Lapham, there’s no way around that. Every month for some years, your diamond has arrived in the post, its faceted gleam returning me from despair in these obsidian-dark times.

   Harper’s Notebook – I tug my forelock, sir. I tell my friends, “Mr. Lapham can seriously sling a sentence.” It’s not just the Swift, Ambrose Bierce, Sam Johnson, Nabokov, Thoreau, Mencken in your DNA, it is your unique cogency that made me compelled, from afar, to become your love slave.

    If as Alphonse Karr suggests, we must be thankful that thorns have roses, in these dread and thorny years, Notebook is a monthly rose of such origamic unfurling that I simply bloody can go on.

   People speak of 9/11. I find 11/02, the horrible US election of 2004, a slo-motion disaster, a date of more and dreader consequence to our nation. I sometimes literally clutch the magazine to my wounded citizen’s breast to staunch the hemorrhaging.

    After that grisly election when theofascism slouched to Washington to rule & roar, my pulse was faint, my brave heart dimmed. So concussed was I that you may or may not have literally saved my life, I think you did, but I know you held my citizen’s soul from plummet. Notebook stirs my courage; I have all but torn the very pages into pieces and eaten them, raw and hot, like the liver of the bear, for bravery. There will never be enough said to speak either my devotion or my gratitude, Mr. Lapham, but I remain, sincerely,

 

Your obedient Servant,

pogblog

 

ps. So you know these are not only vapours, I even cajoled a friend to walked out around her small city some every day since October 2002 with her now very dog-eared, 2-sided ‘Teach Peace’ sign on a four-foot stick, in solitary witness against the blood-dimmed tide. She's a brave lass. I write trenchant Letters to Editors. The brandy, the distilled courage, of your words has sustained doggèd citizen action, not just warmed the literary cockles.

 ……………

If pogblog only subscribed to one magazine for info, insight, & courage, it would be Harper’s Magazine (14.97$ yr) (http://www.harpers.org)

 

 

 

Love Slave Harem .. update 06.20.05

 my LoveSlave Harem — the guys for whom I would be a Love Slave — content merely to bring mead cooled by snow brought from distant mountain peaks in fine porcelain vessels on leopard's backs, and juicy ripe peel-me-a-cantelope slices chilled in same. 

It amuses me to say about someone that I rather dig, “I'd run off and be his Love Slave.”

My Love Slave Harem is: borges; gerard manley hopkins; frank gehry(bilbao); peter jackson; clive owens clive owens clive owens; will s X a zill, duh; (Who in words doesn't tug their forelock for will s?); tobias smollett;

Love Slave Harems have no redeeming features — you don't have to have some Big God's name like Zeus on your Harem List to prove your piety cred or something. Or even Will S to prove your wordslinger cred. This is eros, not agape. Will S stays. He may have looked like a 2.5, but he could sling a sonnet nothing but net and no net. The dreaded inner beauty.

Tobias Smollett wrote About the Adventure of Roderick Random and of Peregrine Pickle; and the Expedition of Humphrey Clinker. Which buoyed me up no end in the murked political seas of  nixon, reagan, and several shrubs. And no doubted ignited my joyous devotion to allowing characters to have the names they wanted.