December 21st, 2012

Ghost Rider

How will you face the Mayan Apocalypse?

You forgot it was today, didn't you? Fortunately the Weather Channel provided an Accuweather Forecast for the Hell on Earth to come:

Anything to confess as we face our final moments?

I saw Gymkata in the theater.

I had a mullet in the 80's(no, I won't share photos of my Billy Ray Cyrus-like hair).

I've frequently considered faking my death to avoid having to send Christmas cards every year.

Your turn.

Lols... So that's how it ends...

All right guys, sorry, I know it's still Thursday at most of your places (those living down-under are obviously excluded), but it's well past midnight where I am right now, so it's practically Friday, Dec 21. And still no shroud of darkness engulfing the sky, and no horizon approaching me at the speed of light. And I had stored sooo much food and drinks! Hey, I even joined a nightclub orgy (What. Why are you looking at me like that? There's plenty of them in Phuket), doing things unthinkable and unforgivable in the eyes of the gods - like doing the limbo dance with a pink boa wrapped around my neck, and a banana hat on my head! Can you imagine how hard that is after the stick has reached knee-height? Ehhh? But hey, this is supposed to be the end of the world, no? It could at least be fun, if anything.

I'm still not hearing anything evil coming towards me. What the hell!? *disappointed*

OH WAIT... That last statement could've been a bit premature...

(Fading voice) Oh well. At least it didn't hurt. Much.

You're next. Don't worry. It's not as bad as it looks.
Sri Yantra

Back to politics.

And some chap called Carl Bernstein has produced an article for amongst others the Grauniad about Murdoch and Ailes attempting to get General Petraeus to run for President.

Of course, I have to quote a smidgeon, being who I am.

"McFarland clarified the terms: "The big boss is bankrolling it. Roger's going to run it. And the rest of us are going to be your in-house" – thereby confirming what Fox New critics have consistently maintained about the network's faux-news agenda and its built-in ideological bias.

And here let us posit the following: were an emissary of the president of NBC News, or of the editor of the New York Times or the Washington Post ever caught on tape promising what Ailes and Murdoch had apparently suggested and offered here, the hue and cry, especially from Fox News and Republican/Tea Party America, from the Congress to the US Chamber of Commerce to the Heritage Foundation, would be deafening and not be subdued until there was a congressional investigation, and the resignations were in hand of the editor and publisher of the network or newspaper. Or until there had been plausible and convincing evidence that the most important elements of the story were false. And, of course, the story would continue day after day on page one and remain near the top of the evening news for weeks, until every ounce of (justifiable) piety about freedom of the press and unfettered presidential elections had been exhausted."

Now David Petraeus doesn't to me seem too bad a chap. Obviously got into a spot of bother about keeping his trousers on, but aside from that an infinitely better choice than Mitt the dog-lover, or Santorum, the après-sex bodily exudation. But even so, it's the process that fascinates me. Imagine the scene:

Media Baron of unrivalled wealth, power, and influence: "I like the cut of that chap's jib. Let's buy him and make him president."

Servile lickspittle of a toadying nature very high in the confidence of Sauron Mouth of Murdoch: "As you say, my Lord. I'll get a Balrog McFarland on it right away."

pastorlenny reminded me the other day that money is speech, and free speech costs much more than the ordinary person can lay their hands on. So, given that it is Friday, I have a modest proposal: I think free speech can be monetized. Folk who are too poor, too stupid, or not glamorous enough to have "Free Speech" shall be denied access to it. They won't be able to air opinions unless they can prove that they are, I don't know, let us say, newspaper owners, Radio and TV station magnates, interweb moguls, advertising executives, or folk conversant with the law, or in possession of extremely large bank balances: excepting in rare circumstances of being an accessory to a newsworthy item.

I think that should solve all the problems there and then. Who wants to step on Rupert's toes, after all?
  • paft

For Friday: On Race and Stereotypes

Lately, I've been thinking of something that happened to an uncle of mine.

It was summertime, during some racial debacle akin to the Rodney King fiasco, the weather was hot, even for New Orleans, and race relations were tense. My Uncle Ray was a large, impressive southern progressive living in Algiers -- a working-class black neighborhood. Ray was an elderly Caucasian gentleman, on the roundish side, with a broad, milky-white patriarchal beard spread over his chest. Nobody in the neighborhood had given him any trouble so far. In fact, people were universally nice, but he was still a little nervous, given the news.

It was late afternoon. He was alone at a bus stop. A black kid who looked to be about nine or ten came over to wait and sat at the other end of the bench. My uncle became more and more aware that the kid was staring at him. Hard.

Ray glanced over. The boy was sitting slightly forward, as if he were about to spring, his mouth pressed into a straight line, his brow furrowed, his eyes narrow. He was husky kid, and my uncle, as I said was elderly. Ray sat there in his tie-dyed t-shirt, shorts and birkenstocks (with socks, of course.) He was that his own eyes weren't visible behind his sunglasses, because he was becoming well and truly scared. Sure, the kid was young, but who knew what he was thinking? Maybe he had a knife? A straight razor? Every stereotype my uncle had known as boy growing up in the south -- and resisted -- came crashing down on him. "Urban poor," "welfare mothers" "young gang members..."

Then, with a suddenness that caused Ray to jump, the kid declared, with the air of someone who'd come to a momentous decision.

"You IS Santa Claus!"