critika memética

Fear of Place VIII

I was up all night that night, drinkin' and druggin', but it was all worth it. The next morning I had birthed a song that would make me the most famous person on the face of this place. It spoke of love and suffering, of relationships, of rolling naked in a pile of Eternity, Inc. stock certificates with the one you love. Things like that. This song was something everyone could relate to in their own lives. "Ooooh baybay. Mmmm. Yeah. I really want/your love." The lyrics were profound, deconstructed, poignant, alive with a primitive meaning that eluded even me, that harked back to the origins of time and space, I'll be honest, being so great that they took on a life of their own. The words just came to me, too, like I was possessed, almost like someone else was guiding my thoughts, some force, something else, a ghost, or a God, Buddha, or... what's that other one, the lady with a whole bunch of breasts? Right. Movin' my hand along the keyboard. "That's the way I like it/do it to me like that, uh-huh/ again and again." The song speaks of human joy and suffering through the ages, of drama and bittersweet irony, of that painful aching one gets in that special place for the one one one one loves. Poetry. "Baybeeee." Know what I mean? "Shake it but don't break it. I wanna hold that thang tight and bounce it up and down. Mmm-hhuh. Like that. Mmm-hhuh." Words that faithfully describe longing and frustration, melancholy; that seep "deep inside of you, baybay, doin' you like you like it, yow!" The stations picked it up right away. Word-of-party made it spread like a rash among young people, college types, 'cause they know what's good. They listened and shook their booties together to the rhythm. "That's the right thang, baybay, uh-huh, move it like that fo' me." People couldn't get enough of it. It had this sort of bohemian, existentialist, New Latin Hump feel to it that even very young children could pick up on. Philosophical, know what I mean? After the chocolate cereal offer aired, even toddlers were soon to be spotted everywhere walking around singing "move it up and down, uh! up and down and up and down on me." They used it on sneaker ads, pizza jingles, to open news broadcasts, public television shows about nature, presidential debates... "Tell me, oooh baybay, is this love long long long enough for you?" It was so... catchy, so... melodious, so classy. It was an instant classic. A week after the release they were already playing it on oldies shows, that's how much appeal it had. It was featured in the kid show "Benny's," and a new line of clothes called "Benny's Thang," featuring snap flies, took off like a prom dress. "Shower me with your sweet love/you know I won't go down until the sun comes up/unless you really beg me to, huh!" Two-cent bands were using it at weddings as the special song for the bride and her mother. "Taste all the love I have to give, sugar/ it can't be wrong if it feels so right, to me. Ow baybay." I was hailed as The Truth, giving new meaning to existence. Spanish people loved me. A lot. Offers flooded in from each of the lower forty-eight. Latin American dictators had my picture in their offices. I gave speeches for $50K a pop, basically reciting the Elizabethan dub/trance version of the song. "Do it, I sayeth, oh Bard... doest thou giveth me thine loveth thang!" with a little theatrical license, if you please. I got every award there was to offer. I oversaw my autobiography and sold twenty million copies and got the Pulitzer Prize an’ such. "Lean on forward now, and let my love come over you/till you're satisfied, I'm never gonna give up on our thang." It had a cathartic yet vulnerable, politically correct, New Age aura that transcended everything. It was published as a single poem and translated into all the languages in the place. The Peace Prize was also a nice touch. Peace, yo, now bend over! And my father, my dad, the factory worker, who threw me out of the house at thirty-three, who called me a bum because I never wanted to study or work, who said I'd never amount to anything... isn't he surprised now! Who's the bum now, dad? Huh? Who's watching who on TV? Huh? Baybay?

Fear of Place VII

What is this place, coming, to?

Op-Ed by Robert o'Bobo

I remember one Holy Man Bob's Day several years ago when revelation struck the shit out of me, right smack on the friggin' forehead and gave me an H-Bomb of a headache for weeks afterwards. It had gotten to the point where there just was no point to it at all, and that pissed me off big time. I mean, remember when we were kids, how much fun we used to have on HMB Day? We used to sing Bobbers day and night, those popular, familiar ditties like "We Hope Yours Is A Happy Bob's Day," "Flush The Coins," and "Here Comes Ché Guevara," you know, and sat around burning money, destroying each others' presents, having a blast. Most people did that then. I never heard anybody complaining about it. Even newcomers who were unfamiliar with ol' Bob picked it up with ease, back then. You didn't have to do it, it was just a social thing, but it was great fun and essentially harmless. Now it seems I'm due to be relegated to the "cranky old man" bin, because all that has virtually vanished, and Holy Man Bob's Day is quickly becoming a thing of the past. I'm ashamed to be called an inmate of this place. I mean, this is ridiculous. Come on. Because of the social, economic, and political pull of the unbelievers, who have deftly whored their way to the rafters of power, secretly, defiantly... suddenly the old traditions are disappearing. First they changed the lyrics. "We Hope Yours Is A Pleasant Day Off." Come on! I mean, "Flush The Prejudice"? "Here Comes Another Mythical Figure"? They claimed that the values the old lyrics represented were no longer valid, because they did not represent "all" of the people. And in a perfect place you cannot, should not, "exclude" anyone. Imagine how bad they feel when you're out there cavorting around burning bobber bills in their faces! For HMBob's sake! Do we complain when they're cavorting around at their One Place festivals, their One People parades? Do we ask them to call their own holidays Whatever You Want day or the Anything Goes festival? Do we ask them to change their lyrics? Their message? Do we put up posters of HMBob during their sexAll weekend extravaganza? But they want their symbols up during Bob's Day. They demand it. They will not accept no for an answer. They are ready to enforce a disproportionate positive reaction. You don't want to give the impression that you are in favor of "excluding" anyone. And we put up with it, because we don't want to be perceived as "impediments," we don't want to become marginalized. The fact that we celebrate Bob's Day burns them up, because there should be no festivities but theirs. Ours are old and dandruffy. Well excuuuuse me! And now, freedom of all freedoms in a democratic wonderland, they have decided to uphold the ban on deliberate mutilation of consumer goods and currency, and are prepared to vigorously prosecute offenders. Now it's practically criminal to celebrate Holy Man Bob's Day at all. They have imposed sanctions upon those sectors that appear unwilling to comply. I'm sorry. It's time to call a spade a spade. It's about to get ugly. Their One People/One Place idea is beginning to sound more and more and more like a final solution to the problem of Many Places/Many People. They do not seem to be able to attain the light of reason on their own. They need help focusing. It pleases me to remind them that during Holy Man Bob's Day we celebrate precisely our diversity and our liberation from all that "inclusivist" bullshit. I don't want to be like them. I want my children to be like me, not like them. It's time for this wanton elimination of culture, diversity and tradition to be stopped. You celebrate diversity with diversity, not with oneness, for chrissake. I, for one, am putting my foot down. I will not budge. I will not become an automaton. I will put up posters of Holy Man Bob on his day, and sing Bobbers at the top of my lungs, and throw open the windows so the whole place can hear me, because it comes out of my ass to do so. I will burn all the bills in my house, and flush all the coins down the eliminator, and my friends and family will join me in exchanging extravagant presents and share the joy of destroying the ones we receive. It doesn't matter to me that Holy Man Bob, or Ché Guevara, are mythical legends. You can't kill the message. That's where you're dead wrong. I'm sure somebody out there agrees with me. The more profound meaning of this holy day has to do with emancipation, with freeing one's soul, if only symbolically, and for only one day, from the servitude of the daily grind. Bob's message is a message of hope and glory. I don't care if there's never been any proof that he actually existed four thousand years ago. It's the message, you fools. If you eliminate that message, and leave us with just a plain old Order... I cannot allow it. You should pay attention to what Bob had to say. He wanted people to stop sucking up to the consumer game and stop wanting to be someone else and to free their souls from the material quagmire. He believed that one day people would become intelligent enough to free themselves once and for all from the inclusivity crap. I'm glad he never said one day soon. He believed in diversity and in tolerance through separate development. He died with that glorious glimmer of hope in his heart. You know what that means, don't you? Can you still think in images? I don't care if he didn't really die a martyr, that he was not a proper prophet, and that all his apocryphal writings have been declared anathema. I believe in Holy Man Bob. I know I'm not the only one.

These amusing ramblings are strictly the opinion of the writer. We, being censor-free publishers, have decided to let it run. Everyone's entitled to their own opinion, even raving idiots. Robert o'Bobo is a ex-government official, he had a portfolio, but he left it behind somewhere.

Fear of Place VI

There, look, among m o o d y shadows, under melancholy willows, wrapped in the gauzy mists of dawn, the cool spray from a thousand fountains refreshing their senses to the point of bored exhaustion. They are future children, retro to the max, with flowers pasted to their shaven heads, preaching the gospel of ignominy. Happily they volunteer for abuse and debauchery, intemperance, debouching from what they see as damp, cavernous confines into what they assume is sunshine and total freedom. There are other words to describe them, but they won't listen, so don't bother. They are so busy contemplating the totality of their existence that they have long ceased to exist individually, and their senses have been blunted from prolonged exposure to rebellious acquiescence. Freedom! Freedom! Incontinent, searching for that mysterious coitus that will one day make up for the lack of crass sensation in their lives; expecting to find the all, in the nothing-in-particular... you see them tanning themselves, lounging intoxicated, shouting, laughing with sickly, cackling laughs, posing, pretending to exist, pushing the limits without concern for consequences, we're number one, without concern for limits. Stop. Hurting and violating and deceiving each other into an emotional oblivion... there are places where there are so many of them that... even though not one of them truly exists, they have managed to convince themselves that they exist as a group, because they happen to be alike, and they give themselves an absurd identity, an obnoxious vernacular, a boring history, a tired tagline, a plagiarized logo, an ordinary flag, a humdrum religion. They salute themselves in the mirror as they salute everyone else: to impress, to call attention, to stand out... But privately, in the interior mirror, they are concerned. Aren't we just human? Am I losing my hair? My God! Is this a wrinkle? If she truly loves me, shouldn't she do everything I tell her to do? Shouldn't I be worshipped for being as grand as I am? Shouldn't people be punished for not recognizing my greatness? My God! Watch me now, watch me linger along the storefront windows, staring at my own reflection... I am in my very own special videoparallelohologram, did I mention that one yet?, with special ultrasensory effects, full of the smell of narcissus up your nose and the taste of tarragon on your tongue, my appearance done-over by a technoguru. I would never have imagined that I was capable of this. They brought it out of me. I just blossomed like a flower! If I removed my clothes teasingly and danced, right now, performed one of those alluring dances I have learned, rolling on the sidewalk, sliding down a pole, I'm an entertainer, dammit!, you would all attend, try to reach out and touch my body, caress me, desire me with every beat of your pulse. I could entice you all, all at once, and we could all dissipate in one sublime, terminal orgasm, inch by inch.

Believe it or not, there are millions of people who wake up in the morning and ask themselves: "What kind of day will this be for me?" I shit you not. They are oblivious to the raging torrents of blood that flow millimeters from their skin, that speak of such eternal longing that provokes diseases of the mind, that cascade in a flood of genetic molecules the moment they open their uncouth mouths. Putrid people who are taking up precious blood that might flow in the veins of some divine being, full of some wonderful antibody that could rid the race of bloody idiots such as populate the peaks and valleys of this perverted crust of dust. Go on, call the psychic line. I would like to be the one to tell you just what kind of day this ought to be for your behind.

This, then, constitutes our loose description of civilization: the organization of our own state. Or the state of our organization. It's not confusing at all. Don't be confused. We are organized to ensure that the purposes of the organization are enforced upon the individual, while the individual is compelled to sacrifice the present for what the organization defines as the proper future, and that involves enforcing these pursuits upon everyone else ad nauseam. Only, if I have the means, if I acquire the right weapons, I don't have to be the one to suffer. Alex, I'll take your present suffering for my future happiness for five hundred, pretty please.

Mirror in the Bathroom.

Fear of Place V

Somewhere, over the rainbow, in the promised land, women finally rule with a loving iron fist. The once odd conjunction of “nurturing man” is now a functional reality. I swear on the bible. Bible. Women are in control, well organized, well armed, and pissed off. Ten girls for every boy. Holy jaysus. Under this scenario the center made a coalition with the right (right after the right agreed to drop its demand for mandatory emasculation starting at age five and to keep it voluntary) and was able to form a government, while the left, some of whose members still find some forms of masculinity acceptable, keeps up a loyal, if fulsome, opposition. Go figure. It's only temporary. If they watch their step, rethink some of their ancient suppositions, they'll have a run at it too, some day. It's a free place. The ruling party favors a feminine definition of male gender nurturing (mariconism), with the result that masculine nurturing (machism) is no longer welcome. Masculinity is a negative trait, anyway, right?, and because the advent of machism is the first step toward violence against all women and all children and all old people and all effeminate minorities and everybody knows this except criminals, it is no longer tolerated. Of course, the ruling party has redefined "masculinity," and "machism," so there can be no chance of an irksome misunderstanding. Democracy (and general good taste) now truly reigns supreme. Four out of five voters agree, or else. Poll this. Actually, ten and a half out of eleven. Boxing was first to go. Spitting. Then ice hockey became a nurturing sport, with players helping each other up off the ice and over to the bench after a rough tumble. Things like that. Kickboxing. Loud snoring. Punk music. Leaving the toilet seat up. Sideburns. Smelly feet. Rap. Out. Crime is being eradicated by arresting all violent offenders in advance (preventata… tative meyshers), swiftly sentencing them to stiff prison terms (they are released only after a panel of prominent antimachism specialists agree on the probable success of their rehabilitation), and forcing them to build their own jails, keep them clean and tidy, and take dancing classes. Only males need to be jailed, it's clear. Women can't be machists, by cojones. In the dark days, the menstrual period was considered a bad thing, a jinx. As it turns out, the jinx was always testosterone, and the evil, uncontrollable rages it provokes. Any man found guilty of abusing the advantage of physical strength receives a mandatory twenty years in the pen. Domination violence against women, children, defenseless minorities and the elderly provoke the death penalty except for extraordinary cases (two out of fifty thousand in the last decade). Men can be arrested and held without charges for up to sixty years, with no limit on extensions, for reasons of state security, on simple suspicion of being too male. Male nudity in any form is aggressive and threatening and evil and criminal unless the woman wants it really badly and is willing to write the male in question a permission note. Otherwise it's considered outrageously threatening behavior. It's about time! Some forms of public nudity (like little children at the beach) are allowed, but only if they meet maternal ethical standards. Everyone associated with "gentlemen's" entertainment has been prosecuted and jailed by now, so we're safe there too. Party girls have been rounded up and enrolled in deprogramming clinics. Get thee behind me, Satan. The all-purpose pocketless jumpsuit has become de rigeur. The army and police are dominated by serious-minded women who are taught to think like a mother lioness defending her pack. Lately some women have begun to resurrect diversions that were once banned as being too machist, but which are now deemed reasonable because they are practiced by women and have become feminine activities. Natch. A male striptease artist is a respected professional because he has learned to do it so women are no longer offended or treated like a piece of meat. Or only a little bit and when they ask for it. There is still some way to go, but further progress is being made even as we speak. Male children are well behaved and docile. When they reach school age (there are special schools for male children, all free of charge and mandatory, run and taught by specially trained women) they become the responsibility of the mother, and the father (if he is living at home) must test for and obtain a nurturing license from the government before he is allowed to participate in instructing his sons. Without a license, this activity is illegal. And a father instructing his daughter is illegal and not appreciated in any case. The license is renewable every year, but can be revoked by the authorities at any time, and the child-rearing privileges rescinded, even for probable cause. The father has the right to appeal, of course, since this is a true democracy, like I said, so in a year or two his case will come up for review. We have less and less trouble with male children now, and experts surmise that in a few years, with the added benefit of chemical regulants, male violence will be entirely a thing of the past. Everything has changed. Males can own property and drive and travel and so on but they need written permission from their mother or wife. Wars nowadays are just wars, defensive wars, righteous wars. Bombing raids are carried out with much regret and copious tears, not like in the olden days. Cluster and phosphorous projectiles are hurled at suspected male terrorist cells throughout the world only as a last resort. The remaining countries that are too masculine in their attitudes are being confronted and rectified, all for the good of the world's future babies. It is the duty of every mother or potential mother to contribute to the cause. Silence is death. Secret women's organizations do an admirable job of coordinating their work abroad, saving lives by setting up female defense centers, women-only health clinics, forceful gender reprogramming action cells, and generally promoting empowerment seminars for tomorrow's leaders around the world, none of which will be men, for obvious reasons. There is hope. Finally.

Fear of Place IV

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