Clinton.

One for the choir in the echo chamber...
I've had a couple of mates contact me in private, of late, ranting about Clinton. So I'll put this out there, hopefully for the last time, to ward off any further ulcer-inducing, headfucking dialogues. Why are we concerned from twelve thousand miles away? It's simple. All politics is compromise because no two people are alike, let alone any two families, households, streets, suburbs, states, nations... You get the picture. Everyone is fighting with one hand tied behind their back. So what happens in the States affects everyone in the west, the east, the north and the south.
Clinton? I like her. I want her in. I loved Gillard and I have deep respect for Clinton that may grow or it may not. But she will get in. The avalanche of anti-Clinton stuff is for the most part veiled sexism of the most derisive and populist order. Seriously, you look at your partners and think shit like that? Fuck off. "No, I'm not! I wouldn't care if she WAS a man! She's the antichrist and her track record parallels that of Elizabeth Bathory, Genghis Khan and Alan Greenspan combined!'"
You're awfully focused exclusively on her in ways that I've never known you to be in all our years of friendship - even for the (war) criminals, lackeys and Wall Street flunkies we've had here in Oz over recent decades. Are you sure you're not just a little, teeny-weeny bit scared of some healthy and long overdue pussy-power? "But she's a criminal and a Wall Street drudge." So are you if you trace your paycheque and leisure time activities back far enough. So am I. Show me a better way. An historical entity where we are free to ride our high horses and live in our unblemished glass houses? But I must warn you, if any fucker mentions Auroville or any of its lath and plaster analogues, please kill me now.
Trump. He's a despicable prick. Possibly with a coke addiction if the debate was anything to run with. As with Abbott, you're not betting against Labor, you're betting for Abbott. The same goes for the whole Clinton/Trump thing. And if that's your bag, then so be it but if it's not...?
And finally, "But I thought you were a Sanders man!"
No sooner would Sanders be in than every daft, whiney twat would be pegging stones at him too because skeletons. Because that nasty word compromise again. And because- Well? Because real world. Sanders is an idea. The best of Sanders is the best of us. The best of Clinton. The best, perhaps, even of Trump. And Sanders may yet see the light of day. But if not him, the idea is good and robust and will break through eventually.
So again, I ask, don't. Please. Just don't. Not with me, leastwise. You're better than that. Fuck it, we all are.
Time for a cup of tea and a lay down.

Stop your sobbing.

The Facebook Years #3 - The Dove

Watched a dove holding its own today
Pecking and scrabbling on the footpath
A couple of common mynahs swooped and gangstered the bird.
It ignored 'em at first but suddenly switched tactics and started charging them - hell for leather.
Only time I've ever felt sorry for mynah birds. They shit me.
Then, for round two, a big raven came down to see what the ruckus was about.
The adrenaline must've been up because the dove just went that as well.
Helluva free for all.
Then the cops arrived, spoiling everything. The avians all scattered when they saw the flashing lights.
The law asked me if I'd seen anything but as in the past when these things occurred, I told 'em nothing.

Tough love

The Facebook years #2 - The bath.

My last post may have alarmed many of you but I can say without an iota of doubt that the bath was jolly good. Much better than many FB food pics I've seen, in fact. Although why anyone would want to bathe in food is beyond me. Still and all, I do have many fine friends who are into that sort of thing... But that's for another time. Onwards with 'Tales from the bathtub', then!
So I was seven eighths submerged in the bath just now, surreptitiously appreciating the magnificent fifty year old form before my eyes. Well, the knees anyway. And frankly they were indistinguishable from the Radox suds. So we'll meet halfway and say that I was admiring with no small amount of cordial and critical eye the lithe, muscular, vaguely humanoid form of Adonis before me when (for no other reason that I'd been inadvertently sniffing petrol from the mower earlier in the day) it occurred to me that Anthony Robbins and his dream mongering clones may well be onto something.
Peut-être there is a cosmic determinism at work. My curiosity piqued, I ebbed until my ears were well below the suds and water line to hear only my murmuring heart and sibilating breath. It was in that instant - with the ghost of Basho upon me - I realised that I was womb-wrapped once again and that when I emerged newborn, the world would be fresh and new! Correlative and contingent to this and still abusing the Robbins logic, as it were, I would also mysteriously have won the Lotto to the tune of forty three million dollars and simultaneously find myself having to turn away any number of celebrities and sirens because, 'Scorcese is screaming for the screenplay I promised him and I'm already two weeks overdue and when am I going to find time in my jet-setting life to star in his remake of 'Night of the Hunter'.
Well I needn't tell you, dear reader, that I emerged from that bath with my mind overflowing with all manner of earthly delights and wrinkled like my grandmother (my body -not my mind). Mention too should be made of the unmentionable matter covering me from chiseled head to cutesy little toe that deserves no further attention in these august and manly circles. So newborn I surely was! Could it all be true?!
Alas, however, that is as far as the cosmic joke played out because here I sit once again. A beloved mock turtle to the many, an idiot to most, typing my foolish and whimsical daydreams and laying my twisted DNA bare to the masses.
Let me simply end by uttering the wise words of somebody or other (possibly a doppleganger who, like me, also happened to escape the pathetic clutches of of the Scientologists in Castlereigh Street);
Fuck Anthony Robbins. Fuck him, fuck him and fuck him.
Or to put it more civilly, determinism schmismism.
Yours in modest sincerity,
No Relation (No relation)

Far away...