Saturday, May 26, 2018
Thursday, May 24, 2018
U.S.A.! U.S.A.! vol. 129
Why Long Island Still Loves Trump
In Suffolk County, N.Y., where the Hamptons collide with MS-13, the president feels like a local.
because Long Island is comprised of mean spirited hyper-entitled property values fetishizing pants-shitters who have become irreparably deranged from their naive quest for a 1950s sitcom reality that was never going to exist, no matter how much of the ocean you can see from your hurricane-target homestead.... no matter how many able-bodied young people you shoo off your lawn and into those bursting metropoli you've spent your life mis-avoiding because fear is the bored man's orgasm... no matter how many well-meaning brown people you passive-aggressively hector in the hope that they'll leave you to your fading collective dream of an affluent sexless white utopia where life is an infinite loop of bland shit going your way.
so bafflingly petty, cartoonishly arrogant, and myopically near-sighted that the thought of anyone (especially someone younger and/or of another race) having just as much or more than you have sends you into a eco-genocidal blind rage where you'd rather blow it all to volcanic nuclear hell than just be fucking happy that you still live in a relatively quiet area that isn't anywhere close to as besieged with violence and death as your real exploiters would have you believe.
so bafflingly petty, cartoonishly arrogant, and myopically near-sighted that the thought of anyone (especially someone younger and/or of another race) having just as much or more than you have sends you into a eco-genocidal blind rage where you'd rather blow it all to volcanic nuclear hell than just be fucking happy that you still live in a relatively quiet area that isn't anywhere close to as besieged with violence and death as your real exploiters would have you believe.
Long Island doesn't love Trump.
Long Island IS Trump.
Monday, May 21, 2018
Negation Aspiration vol. 109
One of Pagourtzis' classmates who died in the attack, Shana Fisher, "had 4 months of problems from this boy," her mother, Sadie Rodriguez, wrote in a private message to the Los Angeles Times on Facebook. "He kept making advances on her and she repeatedly told him no."
Pagourtzis continued to get more aggressive, and she finally stood up to him and embarrassed him in class, Rodriguez said. "A week later he opens fire on everyone he didn't like," she wrote. "Shana being the first one." Rodriguez didn't say how she knew her daughter was the first victim.
Texas school shooter killed girl who turned down his advances and embarrassed him in class, her mother says
i remember when i was the age of this shooter, clinging desperately to the hope that the one girl i had wanted every day for 2 years would finally give me a chance, despite her barely concealed loathing of what this obsession had made of me.
the two of us were able to keep it relatively civil, and i confined my frustration and self-loathing to band practice and increasingly deranged masturbation habits. but one day i couldn't hold it in any longer. we were sitting in the cafeteria, and she was griping about her aunt giving her a gift certificate to the Gap (she was a Hot Topic loyalist, 'natch), and for some reason it was this annoyingly trite expression of moody teen angst that started the reactor, and i launched into a pretty nasty tirade about her being a poser, and... at the top of her lungs... in a crowded cafeteria... at a table full of friends and acquaintances... she called me "dickless".
it was in that moment that the revenge fantasies directed at her succession of boytoys were now sharply pointed toward her person... doing physical harm to her...nearly mummifying her body in spools of garrote wire, dangling her from a ceiling by a meathook, whipping her exposed flesh with extension cords, branding and carving my initials across her skin ala Krug and Mary in Last House On The Left. the permissive nice guy shit clearly wouldn't work on this fucking pig. she needs to be deconstructed until there's nothing but streaks of mascara, snot lobs, and split lips. it wasn't about not fucking me. it wasn't about not loving me. it was about not respecting me. leaving me alone for entire seasons once things got to real. not being direct. making me afraid to be direct. for all the "well maybe later"s. for us making out on more than one occasion only for her to tell people that i'm "more like a brother". for her warm facade and pre-scripted cuteness acting a mask for vengeance-motivated sociopathy. she hated the word "cunt". maybe i'd brand that word on her cunting forehead....
after imagining all of this, i felt better. i found (and still find) that ventilating my loathsomeness through writing was enough to alleviate the enhanced stings of rejection. it acts as an emotional/intellectual detoxifyer, enabling me to go about the rest of my day without coming apart at the seams.
i would recommend this practice to anyone who is going through something similar. any man or woman... straight or gay.... and everything in between. these feelings have no gender bias. they need to be processed, digested, and the waste expunged from out hearts and minds.
i'm honored to accept your waste.
Sunday, May 20, 2018
Friday, May 11, 2018
Books... Are FUN vol. 000: RIP Adam Parfrey
Adam Parfrey Dies: Feral House Publisher, Author And Editor Of Forbidden Knowledge Was 61
In the last 25 years, any subterranean grapevine rider who has entertained nursing even the most meager notions of misanthropic literary outlaw godhood probably has a few books from Adam Parfrey's Feral House on their shelves.
before any jaded teenager with a cellphone could dispassionately scour the mossy undersides of 4Chan and Reddit for twisted visuals and searing counterpoints to the status quo, a small but determined band of true provocateurs with an unquenchable thirst for the bizarre, the troubling, the profane, and the surreal took it upon themselves to unveil these myriad hidden furies through physical print media, deconstructing all corners of the vast cultural underground until all that was left was raw-boned shivering truth.
arguably the most prolific in importing this cold hard razor of unvarnished reality was Adam Parfrey, both in his own writing (his essays in Jim Goad's Answer Me! remain a highlight) and through his own publishing company Feral House. He has the distinction of outlasting nearly all of his peers both in the volume of his output and his dedication to the cause, to this day inspiring new believers to to plum similar psycho-terrestrial depths, ventilating their findings upon the printed page.
personal favorites:
DEAR ANDY KAUFMAN, I HATE YOUR GUTS!
LEXICON DEVIL
The Fast Times and Short Life of Darby Crash and The Germs
Thursday, May 10, 2018
NERRRRRRRRD! vol. 67
Fun is fun; I can’t resist an occasional curious click. But the queasy part is how this effectively turns everyone into a publicist for the next corporate venture, their excitement bottled and rebranded as “organic growth.” Such unpaid labor is historically consistent. These companies insist they’re treating important cultural legacies with respect, but they’re monetizing characters and stories taken from creators who signed iffy contracts regarding ownership, and have likely never seen any profits now that their inventions bring in millions of dollars. They partner with the military; they collaborate with Donald Trump. Superheroes espouse the worth of truth, justice, and the American way, only they mostly benefit the forces who’d oppose Captain America.
YOU’RE NOT A FAN OF THE AVENGERS. YOU’RE THEIR PUBLICIST.
lately i've been on a big 1970s-80s Marvel Comics kick; reading the Epic Collections of Black Panther, Moon Knight, Captain Marvel, Doctor Strange, Spider-Man, etc. back when the company seemed to let the artists and writers really plum the infinite interiors of their imaginations, refurbishing the Marvel Universe with endless possibilities.
then i watch the movies, and i see nothing but focus group micro-managing from an endless ream of meddlesome producers, script doctors, and pushy talent agents.
there's more life and passion in one panel of Steve Englehart / Frank Brunner's run on Doctor Strange than in the entire 2 hr 45 minute run time of the overproduced Infinity War movie, and it's becoming increasingly troublesome to witness the flippancy (if not outright malice) toward those who remain in the corner of the creators (and in many instances toward the creators themselves) who initially breathed life into these universes that are now being sold as Disney attractions for babies, moms, and disinterested tweens who are ever getting closer to the realization that they've been had... that these aren't mythologies anymore, just derivative interlocking brands that are ultimately tethered to the toxic mechanics of extreme capitalism.
playtime's over.
then i watch the movies, and i see nothing but focus group micro-managing from an endless ream of meddlesome producers, script doctors, and pushy talent agents.
there's more life and passion in one panel of Steve Englehart / Frank Brunner's run on Doctor Strange than in the entire 2 hr 45 minute run time of the overproduced Infinity War movie, and it's becoming increasingly troublesome to witness the flippancy (if not outright malice) toward those who remain in the corner of the creators (and in many instances toward the creators themselves) who initially breathed life into these universes that are now being sold as Disney attractions for babies, moms, and disinterested tweens who are ever getting closer to the realization that they've been had... that these aren't mythologies anymore, just derivative interlocking brands that are ultimately tethered to the toxic mechanics of extreme capitalism.
playtime's over.
Sunday, May 6, 2018
Saturday, May 5, 2018
Wednesday, May 2, 2018
Negation Aspiration vol. 107
previously on Negation Aspiration
Sympathy for the ‘Incel’
A young man like Jack Peterson, a self-described ‘incel,’ seems not so much a product of toxic masculinity as a failure of masculinity itself.
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