Thu Sep 16 11:25:42 MDT 2004
My plan, in reverse chronological order. Times are estimated.
Thu Sep 16 15:11:08 MDT 2004
About to leave now. Yeah, I'm running late. Was gonna post a lyric, but I guess I'll save it.
Meanwhile, I'll pass along this: Immanuel Goldstein writes about what happened to him in New York on August 31, 2004. During the Republican National Convention. A chilling tale.
And yes, I did actually get a little coding done. At this rate, I'll actually be somewhere near finishing what I told Scott I'd do by the time I depart in a week and a half or so. It also reminds me why I might want to find another career. Uggh.
Gotta get to Boulder. Outta here. Peace.
Thu Sep 16 23:25:51 MDT 200
Artist: And One. Track: Men In Uniform.
Having heard and danced to the song many times in clubs (one of the many secret weapons of the DJ's around here, it seems), I finally decided I had to google for it. Today, I read the lyrics, and downloaded it from my favorite online music source, and... wow. What a beautiful song! Not only dancable, but very touching on a deeper lyrical level, when you really look at it.
I am angered whenever I hear more about the condescending treatment our goverment is showing toward the soldiers it sent to Iraq. Unconscionable. CNN, if it has such a "liberal bias", should report on this, and then ask how much respect a Commander In Chief who allows such nonsense to happen under his watch really accords to the troops we are "supporting".
...
I pretty much executed everything according to plan for the afternoon and evening. Food Not Bombs had a rather large turnout, due in part to another event that was taking place in close proximity. That made it even more fun.
A little irquiring around, and I also found out from one of the individuals there about the current status of the grocery strike. First, the strike is not underway quite yet, nor has an agreement been reached. They made an extension of a couple more weeks to try to hammer out a deal. Also, it isn't just King Soopers, but all the major grocery chains in Colorado. So we'll see what happens. (Amazing how knowledgable some of the people who attend Food Not Bombs happen to be... heh.)
I decided to wander by King Soopers anyway. So I journied across Boulder on foot to the store where I once worked. At the deli, I didn't see anyone I recognized, but some of the other employees in the store had familiar faces, so I assumed that the information I had been given was correct -- no strike quite yet. Didn't talk to anybody there, because the ones I did recognize were people I didn't know very well, and I didn't want to bother them during their shifts to inquire about what I already knew.
My journey continued.
I arrived at Cafe Sole early, and took advantage of the opportunity to catch up on a little of my reading. More of No Trespassing by Anders Corr. Reading about incidents in land disputes which escalated to the use of violence by both sides -- most of them in third world countries, but some in the U.S. as well -- made me wonder just how far we might be from widescale use of such tactics in this country. We're certainly not there now, but I could easily see it coming to such a point, especially if we get "4 more years" of banana republic style governance, complete with crony favoritism and the use of state-backed mercenary forces pitted against the country's own people. I guess we'll see.
As Hacking Society got underway, much interesting discussion ensued. Blah blah blah.
I left with the strong urge to listen to Tool. (After official closing time passed, our favorite guy behind the counter was cranking it in the register area, and I got into a little discussion with him about the band. Summary: Every project Maynard Keenon gets involved with is utter genius. Yeah!)
Since I happened to have most of my cd collection with me in the car, I listened to AEnema on the way home at a nice high volume. Driving down US-36 as "Hooker With A Penis" blasts every particle of dust in the air to smithereens makes for one hell of a release!
Now I've got the Sisters of Mercy filling my headphones. Am I too much of a music fiend? I swear, I can't help it. Music is my soul! That's just how it is.
Music is the one place where I can most reliably find solace in this utterly fucked up world.
So... There's a point I've been meaning to write about, which relates to this.
I firmly believe that places such as Rock Island and similar clubs are among the last lines of defense that "the system" uses to prevent revolution. If George Bush and John Ashcroft want to maintain their power, they had better think long and hard before they shut down or otherwise curtail such outlets in the name of "morality", or whatever other excuses they might employ.
Every week -- no, every night -- a massive dose of pent-up energy is channeled into what effectively amounts to a societal sink-hole; people get drunk, inject their ears with some Skinny Puppy, bang their heads against the walls (or each other) for a while, and bask in the beauty of the underground atmosphere. A few hours of this almost makes it feel as if another week of toil might be worthwhile, even if it means trading days of meaningless labor for just a few more hours of pleasurable release in the swirling lights, sound, and magic.
It is no accident that pseudo-revolutionary ideas (or even genuinely revolutionary ones) often permeate the lyrical content of the music, and otherwise decorate the atmosphere. Many people deeply want revolution, even if it's only on a subconcsious level. If a cheap facsimile of revolution can be sold to them, this averts the action (and pain) of real revolution. But take away the fake, and people will find the real.
Revolution might very well happen anyway. As the regime grows increasingly repressive with each passing day, there exists a limit to how much pain and anger can be siphoned away, numbed to comfort by such distractions. Nevertheless, they will try. Watch as the S&M shows become ever more explicit and brutal, the porn more hardcore, the models younger and younger.
But eventually, even that will cause another kind of explosion, as those at the bottom rung -- the ones who absorb the biggest brunt of society's psychological shit heap -- decide they have had enough, and spit it all back in our faces.
There are two choices: Either we, collectively, figure out a way to find some compassion for our fellow living beings -- especially those who serve under us, manufacture our computer chips in sweatshops, prepare our food from the slaughterhouses, and drink (or otherwise absorb) our semen -- or every bloody scenario ever envisioned by people with imaginations wilder than that of the Marquis de Sade will happen. Parse?
Good.
Did I have a cohesive point to make in there somewhere? If so, was it articulated effectively? Probably not, but oh well. That's what happens when I just start writing without a clear plan about where I'm going with it.
I'll be going to bed soon.
Fri Sep 17 01:01:16 MDT 2004