Wednesday, November 2, 2011

The Andromedans Hear Your Voice Like Distant Amusement Park Music Converged on by Ambulance Sirens and They Understand Everything

I could pick Herman Cane out of a line-up but I've no idea what he sounds like or what he says. Since POTUS12 will be the first time I've played POTUS as an ever-recovering .06% less-shittierier, I can ask .06% more dispassionately, why the media shit-funnel aimed at Cane now? This sexual harassment story, primed and trip-triggered years ago, why the detonation now?

Market logic suggests the timing is nothing more than the story's maximum return on investment re: eyeballs and commercial dollars - Cain will never be bigger than he is now - but may I suggest, a daydream from my romantic pwoggle heart, that Occupy is scaring the 1%, that Corporate felt a need to whack the cracker hive, turn up the siren of the waambulance of Cracker Victimization at the hands of the Great Satan Liberal media bias, this time spiced with accusations of racist Liberal hypocritical Uncle Tomming, give the hippie-hating a jolt demonizing Occupy hasn't.

Plus the bonus that Corporate, Cracker Division, doesn't want Cain as nominee in POTUS12, can both damage Cain's chances when he's at his peak and blame the whack on Corporate, Pwoggle Division, making Corporates' stockholders happy. Maximum return on investment. It'd be brilliant if it wasn't standard operating procedure. Also, this blog's Official Theme Song Two:


Denis Johnson

We mourn this senseless planet of regret,
droughts, rust, rain, cadavers
that can't tell us, but I promise
you one day the white fires
of Venus shall rage: the dead,
feeling that power, shall be lifted, and each
of us will have his resurrected one to tell him,
"Greetings. You will recover
or die. The simple cure
for everything is to destroy
all the stethoscopes that will transmit
silence occasionally. The remedy for loneliness
is in learning to admit
solitude as one admits
the bayonet: gracefully,
now that already
it pierces the heart.
Living one: you move among many
dancers and don't know which
you are the shadow of;
you want to kiss your own face in the mirror
but do not approach,
knowing you must not touch one
like that. Living
one, while Venus flares
O set the cereal afire,
O the refrigerator harboring things
that live on into death unchanged."

They know all about us on Andromeda,
they peek at us, they see us
in this world illumined and pasteled
phonily like a bus station,
they are with us when the streets fall down fraught
with laundromats and each of us
closes himself in his small
San Francisco without recourse.
They see you with your face of fingerprints
carrying your instructions in gloved hands
trying to touch things, and know you
for one despairing, trying to touch the curtains,
trying to get your reflection mired in alarm tape
past the window of this then that dark
closed business establishment.
The Andromedans hear your voice like distant amusement park music
converged on by ambulance sirens
and they understand everything.
They're on your side. They forgive you.

I want to turn for a moment to those my heart loves,
who are as diamonds to the Andromedans,
who shimmer for them, lovely and useless, like diamonds:
namely, those who take their meals at soda fountains,
their expressions lodged among the drugs
and sunglasses, each gazing down too long
into the coffee as though from a ruined balcony.
O Andromedans they don't know what to do
with themselves and so they sit there
until they go home where they lie down
until they get up, and you beyond the light years know
that if sleeping is dying, then waking
is birth, and a life
is many lives. I love them because they know how
to manipulate change
in the pockets musically, these whose faces the seasons
never give a kiss, these
who are always courteous to the faces
of presumptions, the presuming streets,
the hotels, the presumption of rain in the streets.
I'm telling you it's cold inside the body that is not the body,
lonesome behind the face
that is certainly not the face
of the person one meant to become.


  1. turn on the siren of the waambulance of Cracker Victimization

    I'm pretty sure that siren is never off.

  2. Heh, I was changing "turn on" to "turn up" literally as you were typing your comment.

  3. Dawn is a way better flick than Day.

    I just hope the gooper nom is sufficiently entertaining, which is all that really matters since we're fucked either way, +/- .06%.

  4. Nice thought, but too broad imo. Dirty tricks division, oppo research: Karl Rove's fingerprints all over this. Crossroads, etc. Guy's swimming in too much anonymous cash. Somebody sticks his/her head up, s/he gets it punched. No first placers but Mittens—or draft Jebbie.

    'Course you're right: blame it on the Donkeys. How? "Their internal polling suggests that the person they really have to worry about is the true Conservative in the race who, b/c he's black too, will split the minority vote." "Republicans would never do this to one of their own." Pretzel logic.

    Some might want to lay this on Rick Perry. That Chucklehead might be good at negative campaigning and character assassination, but he cut his chops w/ and through Rove. And now he's too busy trying to right his own ship to take down the other 'viable' VP candy-date.

    Give it a locality and a name: Karl Rove. Crossroads. And yes, they work for Corporate.