I am the Bitch

Beating old fence rows wary
of tetanus and the creeping
crucifixions of multiflora Rose,
I am the Bitch.

Stomping briars and pallets
old mattresses and drain pipes
mounting a Calvary of Brush,
I am the Bitch.

Peeking in the mews window
with a flashlight, sleep tight
hawk, a Cephalaphore,
I am the Bitch.

The NYT Bestseller's List

The Athenian General Phocion, who lived roughly four centuries before Christ, was always in attendance at the monthly meetings of the Athenian Assembly and he always cast his vote against the majority. Phocion was convinced the Many are stupid, and in this, he was not wrong. Plutarch reported that on one occasion when the General deigned to speak to the Assembly (mob, really) he told them he was going to cut down a huge fig tree on his property to make room for a small house. He then invited them, his fellow citizens, to go hang themselves from it before he cut it down. He urged them on, as he believed it was the best thing for most of them to do. Of course, flying in the face of the Mob is not a wise thing to do if you value your physical safety and Phocion was hanged himself. You see, he had merely questioned their decency all along, and he got his answer. They had none. In recent times only has Saddam Hussein comported himself as well.

The Idealogues of Hell

It's too easy to say with Yeats that the best lack all conviction. It also takes a certain amount of conceit. So the previous two sentences conditionally applied to me today as yet another Teabagger polluted my intellectual space with his trailer park proselytism. Of course, I know what the score is. He watches a lot of FOX, listens to Glenn Beck and Rush, and attends Metallica concerts even though he's pushing fifty. This is a serious man. So as he fumbles with the appeals to "Reagan cut the taxes" and "one world currencies" even as the Eurozone crumbles and the telezombie president lay rotting (still) in his grave, I wonder if I might convince him to legitimize his imprecise rantings by recommending a book that actually says something that might speak to him - Hayek's The Road to Serfdom. I'd rather have an enema than read it again, but for those who need to define themselves as an economic animal on the prowl it does it job without sounding imbecilic. Then I look at that goddamned Star Wars novelization in his hands, and the name of the dour Austrian dies in my throat...

Le Nain Rouge and Woody the Vernors Gnome

The lutin has haunted Detroit since Lafayette's time so one must presume he followed him from France. Once, when I was a child, I remember feeling ill at Cobo Arena during a Knicks/Pistons game. Dave Bing, Earl Monroe, Willis Reed and Bob Lanier - but all I could think about was going to the concession stand to get a soda pop to calm my stomach. They served hot Vernors, something I'd never had before, and I bought one. There was Woody the Vernors Gnome on a sign smiling at me. Intuitively, I felt myself in the presence of evil. Later I would discover the urban legend of Le Nain Rouge, and come to the conclusion that Le Nain Rouge and Woody the Vernors Gnome were one and the same. If we admit that terrorists read their own press clippings, and thus evolve their public personas with the passing of time, it is the only logical conclusion one can come to.

Mon frere, what does it mean?

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Victor Salva and the Foxconn Demons

It was one of those ill spent evenings. There's no taking back the hours of life lost watching the SyFy channel, but I've a soft spot for bad horror movies and most especially when they offer allegories for the fin de siecle of American cultural experience. The film was that latterday B film classic Jeepers Creepers (2001). The story centers around a winged demonic creature that comes forth every twenty-three years to feed (on humans) for twenty-three days. The brother-sister team of Darry and Trish Jenner are returing from spring break, driving through rural Florida in their 1960 Chevrolet Impala when they spot the demon creature disposing of a body in a culvert pipe that leads to an old church basement. Here I will abbreviate the synopsis and cut to the chase. The demon creature knows that it has been found out and the rest of the film centers on its pursuit of the siblings, but most crucially and specifically - its pursuit of the brother Darry.




The first 45 minutes of the film are what raise it above the most horror movie schlock. Unfortunately, after the genius of the film's climactic scene , writer/director Victor Salva allows his superb psychodrama to fade into the usual horror movie cliches and dimwittery. You see, Mr. Salva is a convicted child molester - had been for years before he made this film, and he still continues to get work every three or five years directing. Evidently the patronage of Francis Ford Coppola goes a long way for a convicted pedophile. The scene in question occurs outside a little diner/gas station on a Floridian blue highway. While Darry and Trish explain to the police what happened, a waitress watches out a window while the Creeper (he appears human to her) ransacks their Impala while its parked at the pump. The cops and Trish and Darry run out into the parking lot, but the demon is gone. The waitress reports that the Creeper had been sniffing their laundry, and sure enough, it is strewn about the backseat of the car and on the ground. The waitress says the he really seemed to be enjoying it. Darry is distraught and picks up his tightie-whities, complete with his name scrawled on them, and despairs that the Creeper has sniffed his Fruit of the Loom, and now 'knows' his name. So convincing is Darry's outrage, the righteous outrage of the victim, that one wonders if Victor Salva did not molest him too.







As mentioned above, the film degenerates after this scene. Poor Victor Salva will find no salvific in his genre exersize. He can't bring himself to kill the creature, and the films pathetic denouement features Trish offering herself in place of her brother to no avail. This demon likes boys, and he will fly off into the night carrying Darry to his horrific death. Salva may have paid his debt to society, but he knows something many don't: He isn't, can't, won't be 'cured' of his pedophilia. Anything is possible with God, but this man consorts with demons.







The years pass. Salva is reported to be at work on Jeepers Creepers 3. The actor who played Darry, Justin Long, has gained a passing fame portraying the Mac character in Apple's Mac vs. PC television ads. PC is portrayed as a slightly dumpy version of Bill Gates - and he sort of looks like Victor Salva with glasses. Jeepers Creepers opened at theatres on Labor Day weekend 2001. It broke all (then) records for a Labor Day opening, and thus, by the vulgar definition that defines greatness for the American public (ie, the social proof of a bunch of idiots laying out good coin to see a movie, read a book, or buy a product because everybody else is) it must qualify as the last great artifact of the pre-9/11 (the towers would fall eight days after its release) world by those who subscribe to such infantile notions - here we must kick to the curb the great Lardass Glenn Beck and his coterie of nabobs and AARP members. They protest too much. The the 9/12 world? Same as the old. A battle for brand loyalty and franchises. Apple vs. Mac, Coke vs Pepsi, Christianity vs. Islam, America vs. The Other ad nauseum.





Mac shows no signs of his former violation by the demon. His soft irony when dealing with the pudgy little Gates avatar is endearing. Buy Apple, and stand down the big corporate demon. No need to bet nasty about it, just affect a posture of bemused tolerance for the lumbering corporate giant and all its iniquities that are the phenomena of Microsoft (PC). It will eventually go away a loser. And yet, I'm not convinced. I saw what the Creeper demon did to Mac. The odds were stacked against him from the beginning. The victim becomes a victimiser. Its how monsters are born.



Eight and a half years later the demon finds himself some twelve thousand miles away in Guangzhou, China. He has taken Mac along for a ride. At the Foxconn manufacturing facility there have been a spate of suicides. Twelve hour shifts of putting iPhones together for the western world and beyond takes it toll on the spirit - especially when you have to live in the plant too. We're talking 350,000 human beings living and working in the same factory. Mac, and his friends Dell and Hewlett Packard, put pressure on their contractor, Foxconn, to do something about the suicides. It's bad press, and we can't have Americans feeling bad about themselves as they furiously text in their laps on the way to the local cineplex or shopping mall. Terry Guo, chairman of the Foxconn group, must have taken one look at Mac and knew what he was dealing with. He called in the exorcists.

Urbi et Orbi

For if a preest be foul, on whom we truste,
No wonder is a lewed man to ruste;
And a shame it is, if a prest take keep,
A shiten shepherde and a clene sheep.
Well oghte a preest ensample for to yive,
By his clennesse, how his sheepe sholde lyve.

Geoffrey Chaucer, from the General Prologue

Neanderthals: So easy a Cro-Magnon can do 'em

Now comes the news that anatomical modern man interbred with the Neanderthal. If the genomists are correct. we must admit that I carry somewhere between one and four percent Neanderthal legacy genes. Let us say 4% in deference to certain social manners. Origen would have us seek the spiritual sense where the historical sense would be a scandal. Grant this if we must accept the fossil record. No coherent picture has emerged of the art or relgion of the Neanderthal. The species is not believed to have representational art and excepting one grave in Northern Iraq, no especial burial rite or religion(the exception in Iraq was a male buried with flowers). Marriage could be only a speculation. Thus three of the foundations of homo sapiens culture that Giambattista Vico posits are far from established. All is not lost however. The method of Origen, if confronted with these 'facts', would seek to allegorize them back into the ground of Sacred Scripture. If we look to the story of Cain and Abel, we will see that the descendants of the murderer Cain, of which we are all, were complicit in the rubbing out of the Abelites - our brother the Neanderthal. We were genocides from the beginning.

Tailors' Dummies

"We are not concerned," he said, "with long-winded creations, with long -term beings. Our creatures will not be heroes of romances with many volumes. Their roles will be short, concise; their characters - without a background. Sometimes, for one gesture, for one word alone, we shall make the effort to bring them to life. We openly admit: we shall not insist either on durability or solidity of workmanship; our creations will be temporary, to serve for a single occaison. If they be human beings, we shall give them, for example, only one profile, one hand, one leg, the one limb needed for their role. It would be pendantic to bother about the other, unnecessary, leg. Their backs can be made of canvass or simply whitewashed. We shall have this proud slogan as our aim: A different actor for every gesture. For each action, each word, we call to life a different human being. Such is our whim, and the world will be run according to our pleasure. The Demiurge was in love with consummate, superb, and complicated materials; we shall give priority to trash. We are simply entranced and enchanted by the cheapness, shabbiness, and inferiority of the material."



Bruno Schulz, from Treatise on Tailors' Dummies, Or the Second Book of Genesis



The Polish Jew writer/artist, Bruno Schulz, thus foresees the very fetishists that will kill him a decade and a half later through the agency of SS-Scharfuhrer Karl Gunther (may he rot in hell eternally). Thus he also foresees, the whole psychological canvass of the second half of the twentieth century and beyond which survived its grossest manifestations in Nazi Germany only to be sublimated in the fetishists that would follow and ultimately become the norm in the Western World. Where there are no Tailors' Dummies, we will make them, and amazingly, they are only to happy to comply with our wishes. Inferior stuff indeed. We salute the Tailors' Dummy with his hand on a Blackhawk's joystick as he guns down a crowd of Iraqi civiliams. "Fog of War!", cry our nifty Tailors. But it is precisely a self-induced fog that allows us to fetishize the human being, to turn him into a dummy with a short role and no background.

The Sect of the Idiot

"When you pray, do not be like the hypocrites, who love to stand and pray in the synagogues and on street corners so that others may see them. Amen, I say to you, they have received their reward. But when you pray, go to your inner room, close the door, and pray to your Father in secret." Matthew 6:5-6

Teabaggers, Evangelicals, churches Protestant and Catholic, and the Justice Department work themselves up over Judge Barbara Crabb's ruling in Federal District Court that a National Day of Prayer is unconstitutional. The sect of the idiot grows larger by the day. It is the nature of the heretic that he believe his perverted path to be the true one. So we must not deny the genuine intent of Marcion 1800 years ago, excising all Judaizing influences from the New Testament until all that is left is Paul's letters and a truncated Lucan Gospel -nor our own relgious Founding Father with his Jefferson bible, wherein he literally anticipated the cut and paste technique to rob Christ of all divinity (and miracles) to give us something that must approximate what George W. Bush was thinking when he said Jesus Christ was his favorite philosopher. America is a Nation founded upon Christian principles, the sect of the idiot protests. But we must cry lies to them. America is a heretic nation lost in the desert, setting up idols to itself, requiring social proofs from its citizens to be complicit in its' heresy.

Cosmas Indicopleustes and the Bal-Chatri that is the World

Cosmas Indicopleustes, in his Topographia Christiana, surveyed his world and discovered it to correspond to the plan of the Tabernacle in Exodus. His cosmology has the virtue of being theologically and aesthetically pleasing even if it is scientifically laughable. The world is shaped like a coffin. It is a coffin. A receptacle for the living God and the dead human. From the ontological viewpoint of I Am that I Am on Mount Sinai how can Everest not look like a foot-hill? A great pile of earth piled at the edge of a vast shallow grave, waiting to be shovelled in. The Indicopleustes surname indicates 'he who sailed to India'. There is considerable doubt that he would have seen the boy's umbrella - the bal-chatri- which was used to catch hawks there and which is still in use, though a common shape, an example of which I possess, is in fact shaped like Cosmas' world and the Tabernacle. You place a couple of rats in it, preferably a male and a female, so they'll keep each other active in a tableaux of dervish copulation. The rat, familiar of Satan, disease vector of homo sapiens, and consubstantial for the most part with that species condition.