I admit I've enjoyed not enjoying shit like this shit the past few days:
Some of the smartest and most sophisticated people I know—canny investors, erudite authors—sincerely and passionately believe that President Barack Obama has gone far beyond conventional American liberalism and is willfully and relentlessly driving the United States down the road to socialism. No counterevidence will dissuade them from this belief: not record-high corporate profits, not almost 500,000 job losses in the public sector, not the lowest tax rates since the Truman administration. It is not easy to fit this belief alongside the equally strongly held belief that the president is a pitiful, bumbling amateur, dazed and overwhelmed by a job too big for him—and yet that is done too.
That's David Frum's latest greatest anti-cracker apostasy, and here's what occurs to me beyond post-duh yawn on Frum's assclownery: assorted angles on bleggalgazing and my complicity via shorthanded code I assume you know ending in self-recrimination that's serious enough for self-mockery but not serious enough to make me materially change the life I'm vested in. I'll embed this block between photos of Earthgirl's latest paintings, her recent burst of creativity, width, depth, breadth, space and time, I don't feel a need to say more I assume you know what I mean, adding, save the landscapes and use as desktop backgrounds for full effect.
No 3 was the most clarifying: draft laws against the little-known loophole that currently allows members of Congress to pass legislation affecting Delaware-based corporations in which they themselves are investors. When I saw this list – and especially the last agenda item – the scales fell from my eyes. Of course, these unarmed people would be having the shit kicked out of them.
Since Occupy is heavily surveilled and infiltrated, it is likely that the DHS and police informers are aware, before Occupy itself is, what its emerging agenda is going to look like. If legislating away lobbyists' privileges to earn boundless fees once they are close to the legislative process, reforming the banks so they can't suck money out of fake derivatives products, and, most critically, opening the books on a system that allowed members of Congress to profit personally – and immensely – from their own legislation, are two beats away from the grasp of an electorally organised Occupy movement… well, you will call out the troops on stopping that advance.
I admit I've enjoyed not enjoying shit like that duh the past few days.
- Next: Mayor Antonio Villaraigosa gave a lengthy tribute to Occupy LA protesters on Friday before telling them they must leave their encampment on the lawn of City Hall by 12:01 a.m. Monday, citing public health and safety concerns. Villaraigosa, who has expressed sympathy for the protest’s aims from its beginning seven weeks ago, announced the ouster at an afternoon news conference with police Chief Charlie Beck. He said the movement that has spread in two months from New York to numerous other U.S. cities has “awakened the country’s conscience” — but also trampled grass at City Hall that must be restored.
- Occupy the Action Committee.
- As I type, this piece of shit is the banner story at YFWP, displayed as a news story, not a self-serving op-ed by motherfucking John Kyl.
- YFWP embraces new Fox talking point on Occupy.
- This is true. Bloomberg also thinks you want Bloombergocracy.
- Tool and die.
- Fruits of liberation.
- Para-professional librarianism!
- Also, motherfucking crackers.
- Also, motherfucking crackers.
- Police shoot man threatening suicide.
- More lists.
- Beckett, for those of you who do and will.
There's just no accounting for happiness, or the way it turns up like a prodigal who comes back to the dust at your feet having squandered a fortune far away. And how can you not forgive? You make a feast in honor of what was lost, and take from its place the finest garment, which you saved for an occasion you could not imagine, and you weep night and day to know that you were not abandoned, that happiness saved its most extreme form for you alone. No, happiness is the uncle you never knew about, who flies a single-engine plane onto the grassy landing strip, hitchhikes into town, and inquires at every door until he finds you asleep midafternoon as you so often are during the unmerciful hours of your despair. It comes to the monk in his cell. It comes to the woman sweeping the street with a birch broom, to the child whose mother has passed out from drink. It comes to the lover, to the dog chewing a sock, to the pusher, to the basketmaker, and to the clerk stacking cans of carrots in the night. It even comes to the boulder in the perpetual shade of pine barrens, to rain falling on the open sea, to the wineglass, weary of holding wine.