Tuesday, November 21, 2006
Clasic
Clasic. Ofera un etalon pentru celelalte prin fermitatea trasaturilor pe care le intruchipeaza. Economia formei, eleganta continutului. Ce e clasic prinde in mod natural, poate fiindca aduce a Forma perfecta, recognoscibila imediat de catre spiritul uman. De ce toate astea suna a metafora pentru prostia umana in urechile multora? Sa fie oare simtul ironiei supradimensionat cu care natura i-a harazit? Imediat recognoscibila in enumeratia de mai sus: Prostia. Prostia, ca Idee primordiala, diluata in toate destul incat sa trezeasca reactia intuitiei. Prostia, clasica. Clasic e ceea ce este mereu actual. Si stim cat de perena e 'mneaei. Din demonstratia de mai sus reiese ca prostia [cu majsucula?] este unica valoare cu adevarat clasica. Ce a marcat istoria omenirii mai des decat lust for the other guy's goat, woman and such? Unadulterated stupidity. Pare-se, nu Multiplul [opus lui Unu] este definitorie pentru lumea noastra. Multiplul deriva din Unu, dar nu Multiplul sare in ochii oricui. Prostia, insa, este subinteleasa sau constientizata macar in fundul cortexului de catre tot ce misca. Daca esti prost, simti macar ca prostia iti prieste, chit ca nu te identifici cu ea. Daca nu esti chiar prost, simti cum te inglodeste in realitatea de zi cu zi. Either way, prost sa fii, caci esti mai aproape de o Idee esentiala. Si esti, cum ar spune clasicii, clasic.
Luceste
La Vasiliada, Stau si citesc. Beau un ceai, Earl Grey Blue Flower, indulcit cu zahar brun si citesc Marte Rosu de Kim Stanley Robinson. Citesc in secret din motive de rusine. Mi-e rusine sa citesc SF la vasiliada, ca sa nu mai vorbesc de ultimul numar din Top Gear din geanta sau de campania la DnD under construction. Cand nu citesc Ma uit la oamenii care intra si ies. Literati, in general. Cei mai multi religiosi. Eu, ca agnostic nu ma simt in largul meu.
Usa se deschide si intra o fata si un baiat. Amandoi pe la 20 de ani, amandoi in geci de vinilin si blugi cu sclipici. Ea are par cu suvite , sateno-blondo-roscato-brunete, el negru cu tepi. Intra ca intr-o cripta, pasind cu grija, isi fac ostentativ cruce la una dintre icoane. Se uita nedumeriti dupa daemon locus.
Acesta, un tinerel cu un inceput de barba preoteasca ii intampina.
El pare un pic dezorientat, de parca ar fi trait toata viata in imponderabilitate si acum greutatea ideilor din rafturi il atrage cu multipli g. Ea preia initiativa:
"Nu va suparati, aveti cartea (coboara vocea) Luceste "
Tipul, nedumerit, intreaba ce carte.
"Cartea Luceste" revine tipa.
Vanzatorul se incrunta: "Stiti cumva in ce colectie?"
Ea Zambeste gales: "hihi, nu." (un fel de , hai ma, las-o moarta, am eu fata?).
"Stiti Autorul?"
Fata Zambeste cu gura pana la urechi, tipul ranjeste. Ea completeaza.
"Luceste de Mircea Lucescu!"
Nedumerit, Daemon Locus se duce sa se uite. Cei doi schimba priviri apoi se uita in jur la cartile ce-i inconjoara. Singuri impotriva tuturor.
Tipul se intoarce, dand din cap.
Cei doi parasesc libraria.
Tipul se intoarce la ale sale lecturi. Cum s-a intunecat afara, aprinde lumina jos. Apoi la etaj.
Becul de deasupra mea se aprinde. Luceste.
Platesc si plec.
Usa se deschide si intra o fata si un baiat. Amandoi pe la 20 de ani, amandoi in geci de vinilin si blugi cu sclipici. Ea are par cu suvite , sateno-blondo-roscato-brunete, el negru cu tepi. Intra ca intr-o cripta, pasind cu grija, isi fac ostentativ cruce la una dintre icoane. Se uita nedumeriti dupa daemon locus.
Acesta, un tinerel cu un inceput de barba preoteasca ii intampina.
El pare un pic dezorientat, de parca ar fi trait toata viata in imponderabilitate si acum greutatea ideilor din rafturi il atrage cu multipli g. Ea preia initiativa:
"Nu va suparati, aveti cartea (coboara vocea) Luceste "
Tipul, nedumerit, intreaba ce carte.
"Cartea Luceste" revine tipa.
Vanzatorul se incrunta: "Stiti cumva in ce colectie?"
Ea Zambeste gales: "hihi, nu." (un fel de , hai ma, las-o moarta, am eu fata?).
"Stiti Autorul?"
Fata Zambeste cu gura pana la urechi, tipul ranjeste. Ea completeaza.
"Luceste de Mircea Lucescu!"
Nedumerit, Daemon Locus se duce sa se uite. Cei doi schimba priviri apoi se uita in jur la cartile ce-i inconjoara. Singuri impotriva tuturor.
Tipul se intoarce, dand din cap.
Cei doi parasesc libraria.
Tipul se intoarce la ale sale lecturi. Cum s-a intunecat afara, aprinde lumina jos. Apoi la etaj.
Becul de deasupra mea se aprinde. Luceste.
Platesc si plec.
Saturday, November 18, 2006
The Life and Death of Borat Sagdiyev
"There used to be a real me, but I had it surgically removed."
Peter Sellers
Borat: The Cultural Learnings of America for Make Use of Glorious Nation of Kazakhstan.
It's all in the name.
Let's break it down.
Borat.
Borat is Sacha Baron Cohen And Sacha Baron Cohen Is Borat. He is also Bruno, Jean Girard (Taladega Nights is rescued by his performance, despite inept acting by John C Reilly And Will Farell) and last but not least the Infamous ALI G. He made a name for himself in the Uk through this last character and now he is assaulting "the US and A" as Borat Sagdiyev, Kazakstani reporter.
Cohen is a very rare sight: a Cambridge Educated Jewish British Comedian that rivals Peter Sellers in Character Immersion. He does not play Borat Sagdiyev, he becomes Borat Sagdiyev, he IS Borat. Out on a rampage. Assaulting the likes of Linda Stein or Alan Keyes (" a real chocolate-face, no make-up!"), and creating a special blend of humour: sarcasm, faux-naivite and toilet jokes working together as one.
The Cultural Teachings Of America.
The Purpose of Comedy is to make you laugh. And with Borat you are guaranteed to laugh. However one man's humour is often another's temple. Such is the case with this movie, Borat slowly unravelling the web of dreams and wishful thinking surrounding America. Because Borat is on a Quest. To discover "Deep America" ( And marry/kidnap/rape Pamela Anderson). Borat's humour come s in many shapes and sizes, from nude wrestling a fat guy in various homophobia-inducing positions to chasing people around New York just to try and say hello. But the Funniest moments in the entire movie stem from the fundamental difference, the Huntingtonial Clash of Civilisations. When Borat gets a solid round of applause after saying "I hope President Bush drinks the blood of every man, woman, and child in Iraq!" but is booed off after messing up the Anthem at a Rodeo, you start to laugh but you also start to wonder. Sure, stuff like "Jagshemash! My name a Borat. I like you. I like sex, it's nice. These are my country of a Kazakhstan." is fun but when Borat goes to the "shit-hole" in the middle of a formal Southern Style Dinner, and is complimented ad absentia as "a very nice man" who can "very easily be turned into a real american", only to return with a bag of shit moments later, that my friends is beyond toilet humour, going into those gray areas that show how, despite the technological gap and cultural differences, we humans are all alike. America is deconstructed and its "cultural teachings" of jingoism, xenophobia, homophobia and its pretended superiority are revealed for what they are. Borat is simply the magnifying glass, "distorting the image" so that we can see
it in all its glory.
For make Benefit glorious nation of Kazakhstan.
The great nation of Kazakhstan insists that Borat Be banned, not realising that they are causing more damage to their image than the Mock-kazakh, Borat is. They shut down his site and the media howled, they deliberately countered him with statements as bland and idiotic as "Kazakhstan does not export Potassium, we export oil", causing greater publicity for him
and a media disaster for the country. Meanwhile the Kazakhstan we know and love is closer than we thought. It is in Romania. The Gypsies and the "pizda ma-tii" gave it up. But are we so in denial as to simply say "oh that's not Romania", just as Kazakhstan did. Brush up on your Crimele de la ora 5 and feel the pain.
This movie is disgusting, inept and gut-popping fun. And, yes, that translates as a must-see.
Borat lives on as a living testament that every man has his skeletons, as does every nation. His in-depth character study and his shell of coarse naivite brush off the thin layer of politically-correct varnish off anybody revealing the strong beliefs underneath: the anti-semitism, xenophobia and intollerance in us all. And just as the world remembers Clouseau and not Sellers, they will talk about Borat long After Cohen is Forgotten.
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
Web-ul ca o Prada 1: Ars Bloggetica
Incercam acum vreo cateva zile sa explic in termeni pseudo-tehnici tot conceptul de Web 2.0 unor cunoscuti de la facultatea de filozofie. Asta, bineinteles pentru a dezbate ramificatiile extinderii sociale a internetului. Auzindu-ma vorbind, incercand sa explic destul de detaliat concepte ca Folksonomies si diferentele majore dintre www si web 2.0 mi-am dat seama intr-un scurt si atat de rar moment de luciditate ca nu am de fapt cel mai mic habar. Maybe, la fel ca la Cthulu the stars were right, maybe de vina era jumatatea (de sticla) de votca dar mi-am dat seama ca ceva trebuia facut. Asa ca, in ciuda partialelor de la scoala, in ciuda cartilor care ma asteapta in a neat stack pe noptiera ba chiar si in ciuda obligatiilor sociale, am decis sa ma avant cu toate panzele sus (vb. lui Tudoran) in fenomen.
To tread carefully am decis sa take it slow, soft-porn even si am inceput cu celula-ou. Blogul.
Blogs come in all shapes and sizes. De la blogul adolescentului care e sau ar trebui sa fie pe Litiu la blogul rece, factual, (nothing personal, just business- been there, done that, got the t-shirt) si extinzandu-se in aberatii pretentioase, pseudo-academic mumbo jumbo precum blogul de fata.
Blogul e atat un instrument cat si o arma, un mod de relaxare, un statement, un rant sau de multe ori un pathetic way of begging for attention. Sau mai multe deodata. Sau toate.
Blogurile sunt peste tot azi (Met a girl who asked me if I read the blog I was writing, stiu zeci de oameni who read hers) deci varietatea e aproape infinita. But why? Why Blog?
Cool people blog to show how cool they are , emo people blog to tell the world how pitiful their lives are, pretentious sods have pretentious blogs. And the list goes on.
Blogurile sunt si o unealta de networking, Blogroll-ul e un studiu social on it's own, e-versiunea zicalei cu "birds of a feather" si caseta cu "pretenari" in acelasi timp. Blogs can help you make friends, extend your social circles, make you see new sides of people you know. Who knows, you may even fall in love.
Blogs can boost your career sau daca deja esti faimos pentru a career, pot arata o alta fata a ta (Norman Mailer blogs, Weird Al Yankovic blogs). Blogurile deschid calea pentru anonimi in fata lumii si deschid lumea pentru personalitati.
Dar cel mai important lucru la bloguri e ca sunt dincolo de constrangeri. Sunt gratuite si libere. Oricine poate scrie orice despre orice. Nici o cenzura pe langa autocenzura, nici un angry editor, nimic. No limits.
In plus, la fel ca scriitorul, bloggerul adopta o persona. Aceasta persona poate (sau nu) avea ceva in comun cu personalitatea sa. In all the beauty of the greek theatre tradition, masca si nu actorul primeaza. Persona ne vorbeste prin blog. It is the whiny emo-kid or the pretentious know-it-all. In real life, Gigel poate fi prostul scolii dar seara, la fel ca Batman, Batman, isi pune masca si capa si vorbeste , nay, educa masele ignorante despre ramificatiile copilariei lui Kurt Cobain in opera sa ca unicul NirvanaFan89.
Andrei Plesu vorbeste despre dezresponsabilizarea cuvantului scris via Internet. NirvanaFan89,
intr-o incercare (esuata) de analiza politica, poate spune ca Basescu e poponar. Daca CTP-ul ar zice asta ar pupa un proces de calomnie, NirvanaFan89 o pupa pe mami inainte sa mearga la scoala ca are teza la mate. Indeed, ORICINE poate SCRIE ORICE despre ORICE.
Dar oare asta e ceva rau? Cuvantul scris a suparat intotdeauna, de la Modest Proposal-ul lui Swift la Dan Brown si a sa constipatie a Graalului. Masca, pseudonim-ul nu e ceva nou iar "parerile noastre personale" daca nu se scriu pe net, se spun la birt si tot se transmit. Lipsa de responsabilitate de pe net nu face decat sa simplifice un pic treaba si sa-ti permita sa emiti pareri fara sa vezi lumina soarelui
Iar paradoxal e ca datorita acestei lipse de responsabilitati, persona-ul , masca, e adeseori mai apropiata de sentimentele adevarate ale individului decat masca sociala pe care o purtam cu totii, i don't care how rebel-ish you think you are.
Povestea blogului e povestea soapbox-ului din Hyde Park. ORICINE poate SCRIE ORICE despre ORICE. Atata timp cat nu spui ceva nou sau ceva vechi mai bine si nu apuci sa transmiti ceea ce spui la n altii NU O SA TE ASCULTE NICI DRACU'. Cati prim ministri britanici si-au inceput cariera politica de pe soapbox?
Ajungem la vorba lui Tzestos cu al sau cinism cirotic de ASE-ist de la Finante. "Mda, blog, alta ocupatie de om la douaj' de ani..." In definitiv are dreptate: blog-ul e un paradox. Mananca timp, nu da aproape niciodata nimic bun inapoi si totusi il privim cu atata patos . E ca un copil: Inutil dar il iubim, ca-i al nostru.
Blog-ul e un pass-time. And the time has passed. And now it is way past my bedtime.
So keep on blogging in the free world.
To tread carefully am decis sa take it slow, soft-porn even si am inceput cu celula-ou. Blogul.
Blogs come in all shapes and sizes. De la blogul adolescentului care e sau ar trebui sa fie pe Litiu la blogul rece, factual, (nothing personal, just business- been there, done that, got the t-shirt) si extinzandu-se in aberatii pretentioase, pseudo-academic mumbo jumbo precum blogul de fata.
Blogul e atat un instrument cat si o arma, un mod de relaxare, un statement, un rant sau de multe ori un pathetic way of begging for attention. Sau mai multe deodata. Sau toate.
Blogurile sunt peste tot azi (Met a girl who asked me if I read the blog I was writing, stiu zeci de oameni who read hers) deci varietatea e aproape infinita. But why? Why Blog?
Cool people blog to show how cool they are , emo people blog to tell the world how pitiful their lives are, pretentious sods have pretentious blogs. And the list goes on.
Blogurile sunt si o unealta de networking, Blogroll-ul e un studiu social on it's own, e-versiunea zicalei cu "birds of a feather" si caseta cu "pretenari" in acelasi timp. Blogs can help you make friends, extend your social circles, make you see new sides of people you know. Who knows, you may even fall in love.
Blogs can boost your career sau daca deja esti faimos pentru a career, pot arata o alta fata a ta (Norman Mailer blogs, Weird Al Yankovic blogs). Blogurile deschid calea pentru anonimi in fata lumii si deschid lumea pentru personalitati.
Dar cel mai important lucru la bloguri e ca sunt dincolo de constrangeri. Sunt gratuite si libere. Oricine poate scrie orice despre orice. Nici o cenzura pe langa autocenzura, nici un angry editor, nimic. No limits.
In plus, la fel ca scriitorul, bloggerul adopta o persona. Aceasta persona poate (sau nu) avea ceva in comun cu personalitatea sa. In all the beauty of the greek theatre tradition, masca si nu actorul primeaza. Persona ne vorbeste prin blog. It is the whiny emo-kid or the pretentious know-it-all. In real life, Gigel poate fi prostul scolii dar seara, la fel ca Batman, Batman, isi pune masca si capa si vorbeste , nay, educa masele ignorante despre ramificatiile copilariei lui Kurt Cobain in opera sa ca unicul NirvanaFan89.
Andrei Plesu vorbeste despre dezresponsabilizarea cuvantului scris via Internet. NirvanaFan89,
intr-o incercare (esuata) de analiza politica, poate spune ca Basescu e poponar. Daca CTP-ul ar zice asta ar pupa un proces de calomnie, NirvanaFan89 o pupa pe mami inainte sa mearga la scoala ca are teza la mate. Indeed, ORICINE poate SCRIE ORICE despre ORICE.
Dar oare asta e ceva rau? Cuvantul scris a suparat intotdeauna, de la Modest Proposal-ul lui Swift la Dan Brown si a sa constipatie a Graalului. Masca, pseudonim-ul nu e ceva nou iar "parerile noastre personale" daca nu se scriu pe net, se spun la birt si tot se transmit. Lipsa de responsabilitate de pe net nu face decat sa simplifice un pic treaba si sa-ti permita sa emiti pareri fara sa vezi lumina soarelui
Iar paradoxal e ca datorita acestei lipse de responsabilitati, persona-ul , masca, e adeseori mai apropiata de sentimentele adevarate ale individului decat masca sociala pe care o purtam cu totii, i don't care how rebel-ish you think you are.
Povestea blogului e povestea soapbox-ului din Hyde Park. ORICINE poate SCRIE ORICE despre ORICE. Atata timp cat nu spui ceva nou sau ceva vechi mai bine si nu apuci sa transmiti ceea ce spui la n altii NU O SA TE ASCULTE NICI DRACU'. Cati prim ministri britanici si-au inceput cariera politica de pe soapbox?
Ajungem la vorba lui Tzestos cu al sau cinism cirotic de ASE-ist de la Finante. "Mda, blog, alta ocupatie de om la douaj' de ani..." In definitiv are dreptate: blog-ul e un paradox. Mananca timp, nu da aproape niciodata nimic bun inapoi si totusi il privim cu atata patos . E ca un copil: Inutil dar il iubim, ca-i al nostru.
Blog-ul e un pass-time. And the time has passed. And now it is way past my bedtime.
So keep on blogging in the free world.
Summa
Iata inca un episod din "Moartea lui Homo Faber", serial de mare audienta, scris pe genunchii unei minti grabite. Ideea incoltita in miez de noapte, dupa un asediu prelungit asupra notiunii de cunoastere completa, este una simpla. Omul a ajuns in stadiul in care a pierdut conexiunea cu ideea de summa, de cunoastere sumativa. Relationarea a ceea ce creeaza intr-un sistem coerenet si comprehensiv suna stupid, nu? Prea bine, iata sistemul nostru scolar, prasind cunoasterea enciclopedica. Trebuie sa stim totul oricum, de-a valma, ignorand ideile celor care cu milenii in urma *bla bla* au venit cu draftu' a ceea ce azi numim noi scoala, sperand ca stiind geometrie, filosofie si alte asemeni ne facem oameni (si nu prin diluarea nivelului de pregatire pe o arie curriculara extinsa, ca sa spoim cu var chirpiciu'). Coerenta a ceea ce ni se vinde ca fiind un surogat satisfacator de curiozitate [trasatura ale carei gene nu s-au mai perpetuat] este, pare-se, cu totul si cu totul secundara cand vine vorba de mentinerea aparentei unei continuitati a cunoasterii. Ne furam caciula? Absolut. Asta-i neincrederea in metanarative postmoderna: cand suntem prea smecheri sa mai si credem sincer ca facem ceva bun si inaltator cu naivitatea celui care are curaj sa spuna ca regele e-n pielea goala. Respingem povestea "cunoasterii complete" prin alaptarea progeniturii ei degenerate, invatamantul modern. Na-ti-o franta, ca ti-am dres-o, homo faber!
Rant 1: Radiohead to Pokemon
An Evening Well Spent. A Rant Amongst Friends. A Blog Release. A Whole Lotta Fun. Remember that show, Connections? Here's our version: Radiohead to Pokemon & Beyond in a few easy steps.
Trotsky: radiohead? appreciation or desrved scorn?
Tsavatar: eh radiohead is complex
Tsavatar: it is musical onanism played by a gay, neurotic british combo
Tsavatar: with emo lyrics
Tsavatar: and nirvana guitars
Tsavatar: + synthesyzers
Trotsky: yet inextricably linked to any and all musical progress in the 90s
Tsavatar: hmmm
Tsavatar: call your bluff
Tsavatar: de ce?
Trotsky: well dealing the deathblow to the first wave of britpop from the inside
Trotsky: for starters
Tsavatar: true
Trotsky: and thusly concluding the grunge wars
Tsavatar: opening the road for today's indie-rock-lo-fi-hipster tripsters
Trotsky: by assimilating grunge dynamics. un pic ca dubioasa romanizare a dacilor
Trotsky: tripsters? i fail to see where yorkie would dare inject anything
Trotsky: mayhaps on his bulging forhead during his wholehearted renidition of some tribal dance
Trotsky: now that they're all electro
Tsavatar: come on
Tsavatar: a guy don't get that thin by dieting
Tsavatar: they are, aren't they?
Trotsky: he's free from the tyrany of the guitar he used to hang on to for dear life
Tsavatar: what ever happened to the good ol' radiohead of pablo honey and ok computer
Tsavatar: those were the queerest days ever
Tsavatar: but at least they made sense
Tsavatar: acum cu vocal synths galore
Trotsky: well that's my point
Trotsky: they'll turn into geeky nazis
Tsavatar: si dickslapping on the guitar whilst shaving his pubes with the c chord
Trotsky: sehr gut, herr kommandant
Trotsky: ich habe eine indie pubiss
Tsavatar: ja, ja spritzen mein assen'
Trotsky: ein relikv
Trotsky: now really
Trotsky: what IS left
Trotsky: of the good ol days
Trotsky: ?
Tsavatar: indie pubis ist deutsch for dick refuses to grow. Hair too. Shave dog and buy superglue and carrot
Tsavatar: nu prea mai e nimic left
Trotsky: stuck in one big tapeloop of yorke's flacid asscheeks
Tsavatar: i mean radiohead used to be good ol
Tsavatar: slit your wrists and die without being pathetic enough to listen to emo
Tsavatar: music
Tsavatar: now it's just cat scratches on a guitar and reverb orgy, puncture your ear drums music
Tsavatar: not to fret though
Tsavatar: mayhaps coldplay shall fill those shoes
Tsavatar: after a few more years
Tsavatar: of make trade fair lameness
Trotsky: well emo as it may sound, i find coldplay's antics a tad worrying
Tsavatar: ?
Trotsky: they're hybridising u2's gayness
Trotsky: with radiohead's
Trotsky: surely this can’t be right
Trotsky: i mean the edge and bono... why splice them with selway and yorke
Tsavatar: well didja listen to the castles b-side compilation
Tsavatar: not bad
Tsavatar: dar i must agree
Tsavatar: there is only room for one bono i this world
Trotsky: this is the ultimate decebal+traian thing
Trotsky: castles b-side compilation?
Trotsky: whose?
Tsavatar: coldplay
Tsavatar: deci daca chris martin goes bono on us
Tsavatar: the world will explode
Trotsky: or better yet
Trotsky: he'll go the edge on us
Tsavatar: get himself a keytar
Trotsky: and become some sort of carefully constructed “true-to-life”-ish stage personna
Tsavatar: and take the band out for a little elevation cover
Trotsky: well by all means
Tsavatar: yeees?
Trotsky: let's think of it in freudian terms
Trotsky: we have an oedipus complex, right?
Tsavatar: why?
Tsavatar: ah
Tsavatar: you mean all of us
Trotsky: in the music world
Trotsky: we find the edge as the paternal figure
Trotsky: threatening c. martin with castration
Trotsky: the edge as all-mother
Trotsky: and of course
Tsavatar: then again we have
Tsavatar: the edge and
Tsavatar: The EDGE
Tsavatar: aka occam
Trotsky: i wonder
Trotsky: is it occamian to commit suicide?
Trotsky: being an emo kid
Trotsky: after all
Trotsky: it IS getting rid of unnecessary baggage
Trotsky: burdening the train of thought
Trotsky: of society
Tsavatar: the simplest sollution is, i think to go on living and continue to be a pain in the ass
Tsavatar: a bane in the ass cheek of the world
Tsavatar: dying implies unnecessary thinking
Tsavatar: and you know, emos are like
Tsavatar: braaaaaaain
Tsavatar: must eat braaaaaaaaiiiiiiinnnn
Tsavatar: but what's the pooooiiiint
Tsavatar: live is braaaaiiii...uh...paaaaiiiiinnn
Trotsky: they all deny the brain sustenance
Trotsky: are unabashedly gay
Trotsky: i wonder if we'll ever see the day when hairmetal, emo and manele merge
Tsavatar: that'll be the day
Tsavatar: replace keytar with tzambaltar
Trotsky: are self-refferentially hetero
Tsavatar: wear makeup
Tsavatar: curl your hair
Tsavatar: wear a 2kg gold(plated) cross
Tsavatar: spike your wavy hair
Tsavatar: pune-ti salupe, start playback
Trotsky: and above all use apparel that is or will be deniend entry in thrift-shops in the next 20 years
Tsavatar: ah
Tsavatar: gay
Tsavatar: happy
Tsavatar: queer
Tsavatar: strange
Tsavatar: cornholer
Tsavatar: Cucuruzator
Tsavatar: Fitter, Happier
Trotsky: balls-out for castration
Tsavatar: castration?
Tsavatar: i think not!
Trotsky: well oedipianly yours
Trotsky: their secret longing
Tsavatar: we are not animals my dear trotsky
Tsavatar: they need their balls
Trotsky: to be punished gaily by their dads
Tsavatar: you know
Tsavatar: i know from a very reliable source
Tsavatar: that
Tsavatar: when in a high stress situation
Trotsky: balls retract
Tsavatar: yes their balls detach and turn into eggs
Trotsky: dar nu e stres aci
Trotsky: pana si emo au faza cu pretenarii
Trotsky: chit ca sunt inanimate objects
Tsavatar: the creatures emerged from the eggs are called emospawn
Trotsky: gen lame
Tsavatar: they blame their emo parents for their pitiful emo lives
Tsavatar: they try to listen to velvet underground as revenge
Tsavatar: but, c'mon
Tsavatar: they're not THAT lame
Trotsky: sounds like the latest in pokemon reproduction
Trotsky: are pokemon emo?
Tsavatar: well, you gotta catch em all
Trotsky: i remember my 4th grade mates
Tsavatar: so they may be
Tsavatar: but naah
Tsavatar: they may be gay
Tsavatar: but they're too colourful to be emo
Trotsky: scrambling for the latest in cards
Tsavatar: plus they don't wear converse
Trotsky: hold on
Tsavatar: or paint their fingernails black
Trotsky: are’nt those cards more or less blades
Trotsky: the colours wash away
Tsavatar: what cards?
Trotsky: trading cards
Trotsky: y’know
Trotsky: razorian in nature
Trotsky: take away the colour
Trotsky: and voila
Trotsky: emoness
Trotsky: this is a novel approache
Tsavatar: aa
Trotsky: i must saye
Tsavatar: yup but they're not emo
Trotsky: methinks
Trotsky: that we have found seeds of emo
Tsavatar: it's a group things and it doesn't involve gay kissing
Trotsky: in this seemingly emo-free world of preteen TCG
Trotsky: but it does evolve into gay orgies known as d&d later on
Tsavatar: ahemm!!!!
Tsavatar: thou slall not make fun of DND
Tsavatar: or PELOR shall smite thee
Tsavatar: and ST. Cuthbert shall stick his cudgel in your as...damn
Tsavatar: it is gay
Trotsky: sounds like the pee-lor that gives me spasms when i drink my milk
Trotsky: see
Trotsky: it all winds up into twisted sister
Trotsky: thus our philosophical system is complete
Trotsky: being circular in nature
Trotsky: a la blaga
Tsavatar: more like bleaga
Tsavatar: …i think efectul is complet, the Circle is Complete, Obi-Wan.
Trotsky: emo-pokemon-radiohead-manea-hairmetal thing. kewl.
Trotsky: radiohead? appreciation or desrved scorn?
Tsavatar: eh radiohead is complex
Tsavatar: it is musical onanism played by a gay, neurotic british combo
Tsavatar: with emo lyrics
Tsavatar: and nirvana guitars
Tsavatar: + synthesyzers
Trotsky: yet inextricably linked to any and all musical progress in the 90s
Tsavatar: hmmm
Tsavatar: call your bluff
Tsavatar: de ce?
Trotsky: well dealing the deathblow to the first wave of britpop from the inside
Trotsky: for starters
Tsavatar: true
Trotsky: and thusly concluding the grunge wars
Tsavatar: opening the road for today's indie-rock-lo-fi-hipster tripsters
Trotsky: by assimilating grunge dynamics. un pic ca dubioasa romanizare a dacilor
Trotsky: tripsters? i fail to see where yorkie would dare inject anything
Trotsky: mayhaps on his bulging forhead during his wholehearted renidition of some tribal dance
Trotsky: now that they're all electro
Tsavatar: come on
Tsavatar: a guy don't get that thin by dieting
Tsavatar: they are, aren't they?
Trotsky: he's free from the tyrany of the guitar he used to hang on to for dear life
Tsavatar: what ever happened to the good ol' radiohead of pablo honey and ok computer
Tsavatar: those were the queerest days ever
Tsavatar: but at least they made sense
Tsavatar: acum cu vocal synths galore
Trotsky: well that's my point
Trotsky: they'll turn into geeky nazis
Tsavatar: si dickslapping on the guitar whilst shaving his pubes with the c chord
Trotsky: sehr gut, herr kommandant
Trotsky: ich habe eine indie pubiss
Tsavatar: ja, ja spritzen mein assen'
Trotsky: ein relikv
Trotsky: now really
Trotsky: what IS left
Trotsky: of the good ol days
Trotsky: ?
Tsavatar: indie pubis ist deutsch for dick refuses to grow. Hair too. Shave dog and buy superglue and carrot
Tsavatar: nu prea mai e nimic left
Trotsky: stuck in one big tapeloop of yorke's flacid asscheeks
Tsavatar: i mean radiohead used to be good ol
Tsavatar: slit your wrists and die without being pathetic enough to listen to emo
Tsavatar: music
Tsavatar: now it's just cat scratches on a guitar and reverb orgy, puncture your ear drums music
Tsavatar: not to fret though
Tsavatar: mayhaps coldplay shall fill those shoes
Tsavatar: after a few more years
Tsavatar: of make trade fair lameness
Trotsky: well emo as it may sound, i find coldplay's antics a tad worrying
Tsavatar: ?
Trotsky: they're hybridising u2's gayness
Trotsky: with radiohead's
Trotsky: surely this can’t be right
Trotsky: i mean the edge and bono... why splice them with selway and yorke
Tsavatar: well didja listen to the castles b-side compilation
Tsavatar: not bad
Tsavatar: dar i must agree
Tsavatar: there is only room for one bono i this world
Trotsky: this is the ultimate decebal+traian thing
Trotsky: castles b-side compilation?
Trotsky: whose?
Tsavatar: coldplay
Tsavatar: deci daca chris martin goes bono on us
Tsavatar: the world will explode
Trotsky: or better yet
Trotsky: he'll go the edge on us
Tsavatar: get himself a keytar
Trotsky: and become some sort of carefully constructed “true-to-life”-ish stage personna
Tsavatar: and take the band out for a little elevation cover
Trotsky: well by all means
Tsavatar: yeees?
Trotsky: let's think of it in freudian terms
Trotsky: we have an oedipus complex, right?
Tsavatar: why?
Tsavatar: ah
Tsavatar: you mean all of us
Trotsky: in the music world
Trotsky: we find the edge as the paternal figure
Trotsky: threatening c. martin with castration
Trotsky: the edge as all-mother
Trotsky: and of course
Tsavatar: then again we have
Tsavatar: the edge and
Tsavatar: The EDGE
Tsavatar: aka occam
Trotsky: i wonder
Trotsky: is it occamian to commit suicide?
Trotsky: being an emo kid
Trotsky: after all
Trotsky: it IS getting rid of unnecessary baggage
Trotsky: burdening the train of thought
Trotsky: of society
Tsavatar: the simplest sollution is, i think to go on living and continue to be a pain in the ass
Tsavatar: a bane in the ass cheek of the world
Tsavatar: dying implies unnecessary thinking
Tsavatar: and you know, emos are like
Tsavatar: braaaaaaain
Tsavatar: must eat braaaaaaaaiiiiiiinnnn
Tsavatar: but what's the pooooiiiint
Tsavatar: live is braaaaiiii...uh...paaaaiiiiinnn
Trotsky: they all deny the brain sustenance
Trotsky: are unabashedly gay
Trotsky: i wonder if we'll ever see the day when hairmetal, emo and manele merge
Tsavatar: that'll be the day
Tsavatar: replace keytar with tzambaltar
Trotsky: are self-refferentially hetero
Tsavatar: wear makeup
Tsavatar: curl your hair
Tsavatar: wear a 2kg gold(plated) cross
Tsavatar: spike your wavy hair
Tsavatar: pune-ti salupe, start playback
Trotsky: and above all use apparel that is or will be deniend entry in thrift-shops in the next 20 years
Tsavatar: ah
Tsavatar: gay
Tsavatar: happy
Tsavatar: queer
Tsavatar: strange
Tsavatar: cornholer
Tsavatar: Cucuruzator
Tsavatar: Fitter, Happier
Trotsky: balls-out for castration
Tsavatar: castration?
Tsavatar: i think not!
Trotsky: well oedipianly yours
Trotsky: their secret longing
Tsavatar: we are not animals my dear trotsky
Tsavatar: they need their balls
Trotsky: to be punished gaily by their dads
Tsavatar: you know
Tsavatar: i know from a very reliable source
Tsavatar: that
Tsavatar: when in a high stress situation
Trotsky: balls retract
Tsavatar: yes their balls detach and turn into eggs
Trotsky: dar nu e stres aci
Trotsky: pana si emo au faza cu pretenarii
Trotsky: chit ca sunt inanimate objects
Tsavatar: the creatures emerged from the eggs are called emospawn
Trotsky: gen lame
Tsavatar: they blame their emo parents for their pitiful emo lives
Tsavatar: they try to listen to velvet underground as revenge
Tsavatar: but, c'mon
Tsavatar: they're not THAT lame
Trotsky: sounds like the latest in pokemon reproduction
Trotsky: are pokemon emo?
Tsavatar: well, you gotta catch em all
Trotsky: i remember my 4th grade mates
Tsavatar: so they may be
Tsavatar: but naah
Tsavatar: they may be gay
Tsavatar: but they're too colourful to be emo
Trotsky: scrambling for the latest in cards
Tsavatar: plus they don't wear converse
Trotsky: hold on
Tsavatar: or paint their fingernails black
Trotsky: are’nt those cards more or less blades
Trotsky: the colours wash away
Tsavatar: what cards?
Trotsky: trading cards
Trotsky: y’know
Trotsky: razorian in nature
Trotsky: take away the colour
Trotsky: and voila
Trotsky: emoness
Trotsky: this is a novel approache
Tsavatar: aa
Trotsky: i must saye
Tsavatar: yup but they're not emo
Trotsky: methinks
Trotsky: that we have found seeds of emo
Tsavatar: it's a group things and it doesn't involve gay kissing
Trotsky: in this seemingly emo-free world of preteen TCG
Trotsky: but it does evolve into gay orgies known as d&d later on
Tsavatar: ahemm!!!!
Tsavatar: thou slall not make fun of DND
Tsavatar: or PELOR shall smite thee
Tsavatar: and ST. Cuthbert shall stick his cudgel in your as...damn
Tsavatar: it is gay
Trotsky: sounds like the pee-lor that gives me spasms when i drink my milk
Trotsky: see
Trotsky: it all winds up into twisted sister
Trotsky: thus our philosophical system is complete
Trotsky: being circular in nature
Trotsky: a la blaga
Tsavatar: more like bleaga
Tsavatar: …i think efectul is complet, the Circle is Complete, Obi-Wan.
Trotsky: emo-pokemon-radiohead-manea-hairmetal thing. kewl.
Friday, November 10, 2006
Teveu' de dincolo de realitate
Hipertrofierea unei trasaturi-cheie a insemnat moartea multor pradatori de succes. Mana-n mana cu hiperspecializarea pe un segment de vanat, tigrul cu colti sabie si multi alti confrati ai sai au pierit datorita exacerbarii coltilor care, pentru a o spune pe sleau, erau o fudulie ce sfida deja bunul-simt. Era logic, deci, sa moara, nu? O analogie nu prea stupida se poate face si cu situatia vajnicului plasmoi cu Ambilite, daca stam sa ne gandim. Iata cum un mare omnivor devine un carnivor de nisa, impodobit cu colti si toate cele - all show and ridicule.
Caci despre ridicol e vorba - ridicolul subtilizarii si remixarii unui spectacol deja regizat (desi televiziunea ne este vanduta ca "immitation of life"[hats off to REM]) este simptomatic pentru ceea ce arta imaginii a ajuns in mainile noastre. Aspiratia de a recrea realitatea in conditii de laborator pentru a ne putea fura in siguranta caciula atunci cand ne-o vindem tot noi de buna e de o candoare copilareasca ce ne arata imaturitatea. Installment no. 2 din homo faber mortus est, am putea zice - caci iata inca un pacat capital al nostru vizavi de responsabilitatea noastra creativa ca specie: nu (mai?) avem masura realului in arta.
Teveu', in sine benign ca inventie, a ajuns sa nu mai fie centerpiece-ul unei sezatori de mahala (suna mai sanatos decat pare), ci masinaria de furat caciula. S-ar zice ca pradatorul s-a eficientizat, daca victimele cad prada mai repe. Nu cred. Daca acum prada e mai fraiera, nu e meritul pradatorului, care nu mai are stil, eficienta sau demnitate. Conceptul de televiziune a murit prin materializarea, fie si simbolica, a aspiratiei ultime, obscene, de a detrona realitatea. Artificiul sfidator de bun-simt intrupat de luminitele dashtepte care dau vezi-Doamne un aer mai cu suspans si fiori lirici canned laughter-ului e semnul ca am dat de filonul unei grave alienari. Sau poate doar de ignoranta. Prefer sa cred ca e a doua (asa de alienat sunt).
Caci despre ridicol e vorba - ridicolul subtilizarii si remixarii unui spectacol deja regizat (desi televiziunea ne este vanduta ca "immitation of life"[hats off to REM]) este simptomatic pentru ceea ce arta imaginii a ajuns in mainile noastre. Aspiratia de a recrea realitatea in conditii de laborator pentru a ne putea fura in siguranta caciula atunci cand ne-o vindem tot noi de buna e de o candoare copilareasca ce ne arata imaturitatea. Installment no. 2 din homo faber mortus est, am putea zice - caci iata inca un pacat capital al nostru vizavi de responsabilitatea noastra creativa ca specie: nu (mai?) avem masura realului in arta.
Teveu', in sine benign ca inventie, a ajuns sa nu mai fie centerpiece-ul unei sezatori de mahala (suna mai sanatos decat pare), ci masinaria de furat caciula. S-ar zice ca pradatorul s-a eficientizat, daca victimele cad prada mai repe. Nu cred. Daca acum prada e mai fraiera, nu e meritul pradatorului, care nu mai are stil, eficienta sau demnitate. Conceptul de televiziune a murit prin materializarea, fie si simbolica, a aspiratiei ultime, obscene, de a detrona realitatea. Artificiul sfidator de bun-simt intrupat de luminitele dashtepte care dau vezi-Doamne un aer mai cu suspans si fiori lirici canned laughter-ului e semnul ca am dat de filonul unei grave alienari. Sau poate doar de ignoranta. Prefer sa cred ca e a doua (asa de alienat sunt).
Double Entendre?
Discovery, show about Architecture and Engineering:
"As the module element is set into its place the USS "George H. W Bush" is one step closer to completion. It is the end of an era. This will be the last Nimitz class carrier to ever come out of a shipyard. The next carriers will be smaller, more technologically advanced and more automatized"
Acum, I know ca H W a fost Daddy Bush, nu Dubya but am I the only one that sees a camouflaged Joke here? Urmatoarea generatie de dupa H W WAS SMALLER (in thought and in grandeur) , it had the benefit of more advanced tech and was TOTALLY dependent on outside Intelligence (hello Condi). And Yet what did he achieve. Considering the Congress statistics this Bush will probably only get a Zodiac inflatable named after him: USS Dubya.
"As the module element is set into its place the USS "George H. W Bush" is one step closer to completion. It is the end of an era. This will be the last Nimitz class carrier to ever come out of a shipyard. The next carriers will be smaller, more technologically advanced and more automatized"
Acum, I know ca H W a fost Daddy Bush, nu Dubya but am I the only one that sees a camouflaged Joke here? Urmatoarea generatie de dupa H W WAS SMALLER (in thought and in grandeur) , it had the benefit of more advanced tech and was TOTALLY dependent on outside Intelligence (hello Condi). And Yet what did he achieve. Considering the Congress statistics this Bush will probably only get a Zodiac inflatable named after him: USS Dubya.
Thursday, November 09, 2006
The amazing antics of one Kilgore Trout
There is such a thing as Kilgore Trout.He is neither fat nor thin, He is not black, nor white, nor green or yellow either. He is a writer and a damn good one too, he writes all kinds of fiction. He writes about love and pain and chocolate cheese cakes. He once wrote a book that inspired a man to destroy the world, he wrote a book Pacino read. In a movie. He had three kids and loved them dearly. He spooned with mr. Rosewater. He never got to Galapagos, he was not from Indiana.
He has gray hair and thick eyebrows, blue deep eyes with a spark of madness. He was strong chiseled features and a brain the size of a whale calf. He has rough hands with fingernails bitten to the flesh and a broad, red white and blue back. Kilgore Trout is a Republican. He is also a patriot and an artist of world renown.
He is a nice man, he is. Striking in his youth he is now mottled and aged he writes about the trials of German American War Criminals. He is a good man.
In his little cot in his little room in a Mental Asylum in America, Kilgore Trout sits wide awake and dreams...
Darth Trout stares through his Troutvisor in his Troutship from a Troutsand trouts above the planet Trout. Earth, trout and fire surround him. He can rain trout on the Trout whenever he desires, he is the trout trouts are made of, and his little trout is rounded with a trout. The troutcoats were coming and he trout3d them all. He is faster than a speeding trout, in the trout, a trout, a trout, trouterman. He trouts around like there is no troutmorrow like...like...like the very trout of trout can be untrouted at the very mention of his trout. Like the only trout trouting the world together is the immense trouter of his sheer trout. He does not believe in Trout. He IS Trout. Kilgore Trout. Double-oh-trout.
He is Trout, hear him roar.
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
Art Brut
"Those works created from solitude and from pure and authentic creative impulses - where the worries of competition, acclaim and social promotion do not interfere - are, because of these very facts, more precious than the productions of professions. After a certain familiarity with these flourishings of an exalted feverishness, lived so fully and so intensely by their authors, we cannot avoid the feeling that in relation to these works, cultural art in its entirety appears to be the game of a futile society, a fallacious parade." - Jean Dubuffet.
Nu am crezut ca o sa gasesc un citat care sa legitimeze conceptul de "indieness", atat de ridicat in slavi de lumea in care ne ducem veacul. Binenteles, indie la modul mai inainte-mentionat nu exista decat ca deziderat in mintea celor care au puterea de a mai crede in asa ceva, mai ales in conditiile in care pana si D[o] I[t] Y[ourself], fratele voit comercial al indie-ului a esuat lamentabil. Daca tov. Dubuffet se referea la the art of the lucidly challenged [indie supreme!], ce ne face oare sa credem ca, fiind amintrilea, putem atinge acelasi nivel de sinceritate si dezinteres? "Dezinteres", bineinteles, nu fata de produsul finit, tinand cont ca si hipercosmetizarea din pura horror vacui a rezultatului muncii de creatie este o izbitura zdravana in mecla intelegerii conceptului de telos artistic in egala masura in care miile de exemple de "art without input" ale cimpanzeilor manjiti cu tempera sunt vandute pe bani grei. Sa intelegem, dar, ca homo faber a murit? Posibil. Daca ceea ce se chema odata constiinta actului de creatie se regaseste acum numai la cei dusi oleaca pe Teleajen in jos cu pluta, inseamna ca avem o problema cu intelegerea realitatii, bat-o vina.
Nu am crezut ca o sa gasesc un citat care sa legitimeze conceptul de "indieness", atat de ridicat in slavi de lumea in care ne ducem veacul. Binenteles, indie la modul mai inainte-mentionat nu exista decat ca deziderat in mintea celor care au puterea de a mai crede in asa ceva, mai ales in conditiile in care pana si D[o] I[t] Y[ourself], fratele voit comercial al indie-ului a esuat lamentabil. Daca tov. Dubuffet se referea la the art of the lucidly challenged [indie supreme!], ce ne face oare sa credem ca, fiind amintrilea, putem atinge acelasi nivel de sinceritate si dezinteres? "Dezinteres", bineinteles, nu fata de produsul finit, tinand cont ca si hipercosmetizarea din pura horror vacui a rezultatului muncii de creatie este o izbitura zdravana in mecla intelegerii conceptului de telos artistic in egala masura in care miile de exemple de "art without input" ale cimpanzeilor manjiti cu tempera sunt vandute pe bani grei. Sa intelegem, dar, ca homo faber a murit? Posibil. Daca ceea ce se chema odata constiinta actului de creatie se regaseste acum numai la cei dusi oleaca pe Teleajen in jos cu pluta, inseamna ca avem o problema cu intelegerea realitatii, bat-o vina.
Killing a Dead Man
Iraqi Prime Minister Nouri Maliki has told the BBC he expects Saddam Hussein to be executed by the end of 2006.
Asta declara domnul Maliki pentru BBC, in acelasi timp rugand the whole world sa respecte the judicial system of Iraq. Saddam, judecat pentru nshpe mii de capete de acuzare, toate purtand pedeapsa capitala, cerea ca toti irakienii sa reconcile cum a zis Profetul. Forgiveness i thell thee. Toata aceasta circoteca cu tirani executati si criminali pocaiti avand ca deznodamant o iluzie a dreptatii dar si o nevoie disperata de normalitate si razbunare. Saddam in perioada lui de glorie executa oameni la micul dejun, iar acei oameni vor dreptate acum, nu? Executia dictatorului o sa aduca o noua epoca de stabilitate in istoria Irakului. Irakul se va lepada de trecut ca de Diavol si calea ii va fi batuta
Nope.
Saddam a fost odata. Acum tot ce a mai ramas din el este o epava, umbra acelui batranel cu barba pana la buric ascunzandu-se intr-o groapa din Irak. Nimanui nu ii mai pasa de Saddam, executia sa e un moft, nedemn de prima pagina a ziarelor. Saddam is history, un dictator decazut.
Castro inca face primele pagini ale ziarelor pentru ca si-a aratat popoul zbarcit maretei natiuni Americane si lived to tell the tale dar popoul usor mai rotofei ai lui Saddam l-a vazut o planeta intreaga pe prima pagina din The Sun. Nimic interesant.
Si atunci de ce sa-l executam pe batranelul acela tupeist? Irak-ul are alte belele momentan cum ar fi un regim marioneta si niste insurgenti nervosi rau de tot. Surely, executia lui Saddam nu e destul. Irak-ul nu e Israel, Saddam nu e in floarea varstei. Lock him up in solitary, lasa-l sa-si scrie memoriile si mai scoate-l prin oras in chiloti tanga just for laughs. We killed our dictator cand era inca "proaspat", imaginea sa starnea frica ura si regret. Saddam starneste doar mila.
Saddam e mort. Antiteza lui Castro, este dictatorul ingenunchiat, umilit, inexistent. Executia sa e o sarada bolnava, un alt mod prin care fragilul guvern irakian isi arata supunerea fata de SUA si nu in ultimul rand, o franghi irosita, franghie cu care poti face atatea lucruri minunate, de la priponirea cailor la Bondage.
Asta declara domnul Maliki pentru BBC, in acelasi timp rugand the whole world sa respecte the judicial system of Iraq. Saddam, judecat pentru nshpe mii de capete de acuzare, toate purtand pedeapsa capitala, cerea ca toti irakienii sa reconcile cum a zis Profetul. Forgiveness i thell thee. Toata aceasta circoteca cu tirani executati si criminali pocaiti avand ca deznodamant o iluzie a dreptatii dar si o nevoie disperata de normalitate si razbunare. Saddam in perioada lui de glorie executa oameni la micul dejun, iar acei oameni vor dreptate acum, nu? Executia dictatorului o sa aduca o noua epoca de stabilitate in istoria Irakului. Irakul se va lepada de trecut ca de Diavol si calea ii va fi batuta
Nope.
Saddam a fost odata. Acum tot ce a mai ramas din el este o epava, umbra acelui batranel cu barba pana la buric ascunzandu-se intr-o groapa din Irak. Nimanui nu ii mai pasa de Saddam, executia sa e un moft, nedemn de prima pagina a ziarelor. Saddam is history, un dictator decazut.
Castro inca face primele pagini ale ziarelor pentru ca si-a aratat popoul zbarcit maretei natiuni Americane si lived to tell the tale dar popoul usor mai rotofei ai lui Saddam l-a vazut o planeta intreaga pe prima pagina din The Sun. Nimic interesant.
Si atunci de ce sa-l executam pe batranelul acela tupeist? Irak-ul are alte belele momentan cum ar fi un regim marioneta si niste insurgenti nervosi rau de tot. Surely, executia lui Saddam nu e destul. Irak-ul nu e Israel, Saddam nu e in floarea varstei. Lock him up in solitary, lasa-l sa-si scrie memoriile si mai scoate-l prin oras in chiloti tanga just for laughs. We killed our dictator cand era inca "proaspat", imaginea sa starnea frica ura si regret. Saddam starneste doar mila.
Saddam e mort. Antiteza lui Castro, este dictatorul ingenunchiat, umilit, inexistent. Executia sa e o sarada bolnava, un alt mod prin care fragilul guvern irakian isi arata supunerea fata de SUA si nu in ultimul rand, o franghi irosita, franghie cu care poti face atatea lucruri minunate, de la priponirea cailor la Bondage.
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
Un monstru bicefal se ridica, punand in umbra si la indoiala mai tot ce e sub soare. Cum Marea Revolutie din Octombrie a avut loc in noiembrie, nu simtim cum ca am fi intarziat prea mult, ba dimpotriva, niciodata nu poate fi prea tarziu pentru o forta a naturii sa se faca simtita. Nu v-am tansformat in stalpi de sare, fie si numai pentru ca aveti curajul sa va lasati retina necalita sa priveasca macelul prin care scufundam cetatea voastra; ba, mai mult, oferim locuri front-row-center. Popcornul vi-l luati si voi.
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