Friday, April 18, 2014

Friday Jukebox: Dirty Rotten Cheating Bastard Edition

What can I say? Outside of my Bride, I can't think of anyone I love as much as Blossom Dearie.

Inside my Bride it's...hey! This ain't that kinda blog!

(I was going to say "'s too dark to read" but, still...)

Kaiju Hentai!

Every so often something utterly innocuous just tickles the living shit out of me. For example:

Over at Lawyers, Guns & Money one of the bloggers (bspencer, to be specific) does something called a "Friday Creature Feature" where she profiles some sort of paleontological critter. Today's was the Permian reptile Dimetrodon - that's the dinosaur-y looking one with the big sail on his back, right?

OK, so I enjoy this little feature and I'm reading down the comments section and I come to this:
Denverite says:
April 18, 2014 at 12:59 pm

So I had no idea these “mammal-like reptiles” were around long before the reptilian dinosaurs.

Yeah, a lot of people don’t realize that dinosaurs and mammals really kind of evolved parallel with each other. A good way to think of it is that the dinosaurs were the reptiles that evolved into birds, and the mammals were the reptiles that evolved into rats.
And in the comment string to this comment are the following:

mike in dc says:
April 18, 2014 at 4:42 pm

B-B-But then, where did Godzilla come from, if not from the unnatural union of a stegosaur and a T.Rex?

sharculese says:
April 18, 2014 at 4:57 pm

Well, see, when an undersea lizard and a nuclear blast love each other very much…

And that's the point where I completely lost it and laughed so hard my Diet Coke came out my nose.

Tuesday, April 15, 2014


One of the good things about time is that it makes kids grow up.

Okay, sure; babies and toddlers are very cute; indeed, its probably that very cuteness that saves dozens of them from being drowned in sacks like excess puppies.

But they...well...let's just say that if they were a dive, or a gymnastic routine, or a video game, they wouldn't rate high for difficulty.

It's not that they're easy easy. They're fairly to insanely high-maintenance and burn through your waking time as well as depriving you of a hell of a lot of your non-waking time, at least when small. You're always doing something to or for them when they're little.

But they don't really actively engage your brain. Most small-child-rearing can be done pretty much on mental cruise-control. Love. Hug. Babble at. Feed. Change clothes/diapers. Play simple games with. Read brain-killingly-simple stories to. Wash, rinse, repeat.

Day after day after day...

I know, I've said this before but it's worth repeating; all this bizarre love and respect that a big chunk of American society lavishes on parents for how haaaaard they work, how much they sacrifice, how good and wonderful they are?

Utter bullshit.

Not that parents - a lot of parents, anyway - don't work hard, forego pleasures, and are good people in general and towards their offspring in particular.

But parenting as a job beats the hell out of mining coal or butchering hogs. It sucks way less than cleaning toilets.

Clearing mines under artillery fire? Harder and sucks waaaayyyy more than parenting.

It may often be thankless and at times the hours are bad. But its not like wrestling with psychotic mental patients (and if it is you probably need to have the kid seen to by a specialist...).

The actual worst part about it is the fucking boredom.

Let's be honest with each other; to an adult with a functioning cerebrum a 4-year-old is like a labrador with less bowel control. Just like the pooch will happily play fetch for hours past the moment your mind implodes from the utter sameness the toddler is generally limited to doing things that are about as interesting and engaging as staring at paint chips and to an adult about as enjoyable as eating them.

Doesn't mean that parenting that 4-year-old isn't important, or that doing it well and throughly isn't worth the doing.

But it's kinda hard to get excited about it.

So. Time is great. It turns these little labradors into little people.

Sometimes perverse, infuriating people. Sometimes people who seem determined to piss you the hell off.

But, as often as not, funny, clever, inventive, curious, engaging people who are interesting to be around and to do things with.

The Boy and I spend most of Saturday together because his soccer team, the NoPo "Cheetahs", is playing their hated rivals the "Aftershox" over at Flavel Park in northeast Portland.

After a grab-ass half hour assembling everything we needed (and if you have a kid, or if you've ever run a crew of 10-level workers you know about the grab-ass; "Where's your (fill in the blank)?" "Did you shut your room light off?" "Do you have water in your water bottle?" "Where's your PYSO card?" Yeah, it's like that.) we jump in the Honda and roll out for Parkrose.

On the way we talk tanks, mostly.

The Boy has some inventive notions of building the ultimate tank and how he'd fight it. Given that he has no actual idea of the nature of war, for which I thank the Gods of Blood and Iron every waking moment, and an eleven-year-old notion of how machines, physics, ballistics, and human nature actually work he actually has some intriguing notions.

I try not to shoot down too many, though I may mention the ones that have already been tried and failed (Multiple turrets? Usually not a good idea...) but I have to say I'm slightly impressed at the encyclopedia of knowledge of WW2-and-early-postwar armor he's built up from his beloved World of Tanks game.

We also chat about the soccer game.

He's already a little depressed; in two season the Cheetahs have never beaten the Aftershox. Worse, the typical Cheetah-Shox derby ends with a burst of Aftershox scoring that boots the Cheetahs off the pitch in disarray. It's not a simple fix; the Aftershox have just been all-around better in all things soccer.

We get to the park, already noisy and busy with kid soccer and the bathtub-ring of parents, siblings, pets, various required impedimentia (the average kid soccer team comes to play with more tote-able crap than Hannibal's Army including the elephants. Just sayin') and rations. After all, life does not consist of Sport alone.

Afterwards, there must be Snacks.

The Boy and I traipse over to the north field where his game is scheduled and begin the process of assembling him as Goalkeeper Kid when we discover that in the grab-ass half hour young Peter Shilton has forgotten his shinguards.

Fortunately Coach once played recreational soccer as an impoverished college student and knows the trick of slicing up a cardboard box and slipping the bits inside the knee-socks.

They provide no protection - I caution the Boy that his days of going in hard with his studs flying should be considered over for the day (he snorts derisively) - but will produce an appropriate thump when the referee raps his shins.

The Cheetahs take their warm-ups as seriously as any other group of eleven-year-olds take a mundane and humdrum chore, which is to say not at all. There is lots of silliness and chatter and horseplay.

But as the team huddles up after I look over to see the Boy standing alone, quietly surveying the pitch and swinging his gloves from shoulder to shoulder.

There is a moment before every match when a goalkeeper, if he or she is worth anything, realizes that its their work that day to keep the ball out of their goal.

That while there may be ten or a dozen or a hundred different excuses or reasons or rationalizations for failing to do that in the end it comes down to their speed and strength and skill.

If sport has any value at all it is in that. You are matched against an unyielding standard and you stand or fall. There is no middle ground, no equivocating, no penumbra of doubt. You either give all or you don't, you either rise to the standard or not.

The Boy is learning that hard lesson on the lumpy ground and untamed grass of northeast Portland.

I don't think that's a bad thing at all.

Our usual linesman is missing so I volunteer to run the touchline, limping, attempting to appear neutral and unbiased whilst muttering tactical advice to a group of grade-school children.

At least I manage to avoid using the phrase "utter rubbish!" which I've been told is my standard curse at professional games.

The first twenty minutes or so are fraught. The teams trade goals. There are moments of lovely precision amid the usual schoolboy booting and fumbling. The Boy lets a dangerous bounding cross go right between his hands but luckily for him and the Cheetahs there are no Aftershox on the far post.

The halftime whistle blows with Cheetahs up 3-2.

After a sip and a quick talk the boys run out for the second half. On the sidelines the parents gossip and laugh, happy with the progress of the game, the sunshine, and the Spring all around us.

One of the moms has rushed outdoors - undoubtedly having waited until the last moment for the grab-ass half hour! - in a light dress on a breezy cool day and has had to dig around in the family car to find something warm to wear over it. What she's found is a sort of knee-length light woolen coat that would not have looked out of place on this field fifty years ago.

One of the Boy's defenders' sister stands slim in the shade of a park maple, her long pale hair caught up in an elaborate braid studded with small white daisies the color of the cords and earbuds of her iPod. She gazes into the middle distance, listening to music no one else can hear, little concerned with the doings of smaller brothers.

Suddenly, shockingly, the Cheetahs take control of the match. One of the Boy's teammates is a skilled attacker, but he is usually isolated and suppressed by his singularity. Today the Cheetahs have no less than three players running free, and their interplay slices through the Aftershox defense.

The red-shirted rivals, on the other hand, appear to be missing several of the players that provided them with their most dangerous threats. Their attack is not quite working, their last pass intercepted or wide. When they do fire off a shot the Boy is there to slap the ball away or field it.

Now time is an enemy, seeming to slow to a crawl. Up 6-3 the boys in NoPo blue want the final whistle that doesn't blow. Another Aftershox attack goes out for a goal kick. Cheetahs midfield plays smart, pushing the ball out to the touchline, into the corner, forcing their rivals to chase.

Regaining possession the tall kid with the light-blue shorts plays a good long ball through towards my touchline. One of his teammates on the far side is goal-side of the last Cheetahs defender and my arm goes up as the Aftershox attacker turns with the ball but is met and tackled neatly away. The referee looks at me inquisitively and I explain; she shakes her head, either dismissing the infraction or doubting my impartiality.

The long throw goes up the sideline.

Finally, finally, the long whistle, and the Cheetahs collapse into a huddle like a neutron star of satisfaction. There is the obligatory cheer-and-handslap for the defeated, but both sides know that the underdog has won this year's Superclasico, that the perennial champion has been dethroned. The Boy throws me his gloves and sprints back to the sack of granola bars and juice bags, grabs his share, and is munching and sipping contentedly as we walk back to the little Honda.

"You stood in against some tough shots, little man." He smiles around his juice-pouch straw, satisfied with his play.

The Boy is not built anything like me. Where I am squat and thick with short legs he is gracile, slender and tall, his shoulders narrow as mine are heavy and sloping.

I think of that as I touch his back, feeling the light bones of his shoulderblades like the wings of birds beneath my hand.

Friday, April 11, 2014

"All right, then, I'll GO to Hell."

From Anais Mitchell's brilliant Hadestown, Greg Brown performs "Why Do We Build The Wall?":

Damn, but it's been a long time since I posted a Friday Jukebox, hasn't it?

Thing is, I'm kind of funny about music.

There's music I love the hell out of. Play it over and over again.

But I don't like a hell of a lot of music. Not hate it, just don't like it. And if I don't really like the music I much prefer silence.

But I like the hell out of this one. It mirrors the burly vigor I'm feeling looking forward to the end of a hard week's work and a pleasant upcoming two days off...while echoing the little trickle of tired, sullen anger that's always within me as my country slides unthinking into the New Gilded Age. I love the funky growl Brown gives his Devil, smoothly chortling his way to his appointment with Armageddon while he grins mercilessly at the fucking rubes and fools he's got doing his work for him.

The rubes and fools all around us; looting what they can take and spoiling what they can't, sporting their bling as the World burns.

As Huck said; I'll go to Hell.

But don't expect me to be fucking gracious about it.

Thursday, April 10, 2014

Janet Christ!

Got to thinking about this when my cousin posted this article from the Times talking about some sort of 4th to 8th Century manuscript that contains a fragment where Christ talks about the missus:
"Skepticism about the tiny scrap of papyrus has been fierce because it contained a phrase never before seen in any piece of Scripture: “Jesus said to them, ‘My wife...’ ” Too convenient for some, it also contained the words “she will be able to be my disciple..."
Now I have as little religion as the most Godless heathen. But I got to thinking about this a bit in the context of the period when the guy is supposed to have lived and wondered...why not?

I once read somewhere that one of the strongest lines of evidence that the Christ - assuming that there was an actual person living in Galilee around 32AD who claimed to be the Son of God and went around talking about that until he was arrested and executed and the whole magilla isn't a Book-of-Mormon-level scam - was married was the importance of marriage as a social signifier in Roman Judea.

Bottom line; a thirty-something Jewish guy with no wife and family? Slacker, or worse. Can't hold down a job long enough to afford to marry? Too poor? Too chancy?

Who the hell would listen to that joker talk about God? What the hell would he know?

The bizarre Christian obsession with celibacy really sort of turns up associated with Paul of Tarsus. He was sort of a freak about that. I tried a quick search for "What did Christ say about chastity" and result was, pretty much, "nothing".

Here's the Mormons trying to come up with something. The best that Bishop Elder "of the Seventy" can do is cite the Matthew version of the Sermon on the Mount where Christ says "Don't commit adultery."

Here's the Catholics talking about it and the best the Church webmaster can come up with is "Sexual intercourse outside marriage is formally condemned I Cor 5:1; 6:9; 7:2; 10:8 Eph. 5:5; I Tim 1:10; Heb 13:4; and with explicit reasons I Cor 6:12-20."

Get the connection there?

No Gospels.

First Corinthians, Ephesians, First Timothy, Hebrews...those are all Paul getting all pissy while riding his usual hobbyhorse, "Fucking is the Devil's horizontal rhumba and only if you're married it's only just barely preferable to depopulating the Earth." The sonofabitch was just obsessed with his purity of essence; I'll bet he had something going on about his precious bodily fluids, too. Dude was a freak. Period.

Jesus, based on what got written down, seems to be a whole 'nother guy.

He gives the usual prohibitions against adultery, but physical chastity?

Doin' the nasty so long as it was with your legally-sanctioned partner?

That seems to have been jake with Jesus.

(And, along those lines, Paul Rudnick has a funny "I was Jesus' wife" story in the New Yorker.)


Is this odd little scrap a forgery?

Who the hell knows? We don't even know if Jesus himself isn't a massive 1st Century practical joke, much less whether he really was married if he really was real.

But if there was an actual person, was it likely that he was married?

Seems to me, what the hell - it's as likely as not.

To which, being who I am and what I am, I have to close with this delightful image of "The Bride of Christ" from Pastor Dobi's blog:

Which I found searching for an image of "The Bride of Christ".

Pastor Dobi, "your sister in Christ" describes the little scene as:"...The Bride of Christ coming to her beloved! Look at the picture closely. We see our dear Jesus coming to His bride..."

And as instructed I looked at the picture closely and my immediate thought was:

"I'll bet! I just hope that dear Jesus is thoughtful enough to tip His bride the hint before he comes so she knows that she's about to get a faceful of the Holy Spirit..."

Yeah, yeah, I know. Sorry. I just can't help it.

Proof once again if any was needed that a) I have a filthy, filthy mind, and b) I better hope that all this really is a big practical joke because, if it's not, when Jesus returns I am in SO much trouble...

Tuesday, April 08, 2014

Monday morning

For just a moment, perhaps less than a minute, I have no idea where I am.

Have you ever had that fractional minute of complete confusion just as you wake?

I have no idea where I am physically, or how I have arrived...where ever I am. I have no idea what the time is, or the day, or the date.

And for just that tiny time-period, I am seized by an overwhelming panic.

What is happening? Am I in danger? Where am I, and why don't I know where I am?

And just as suddenly I know exactly where I am, and when, and my fears seem immensely silly.

I am in the little house in North Portland, it is Monday, and - since I had set the alarm that is beeping on the nightstand in a very nastily superior way as if it has seen and sneered at my panicked waking - I know it is 5:10am.

I stop the clock with a vengeful slap and lay for a moment inventorying the silent insults of age. Grinding in the shoulders, ache inside the hip, sore knee. The overall sensation that my body lacks the suppleness and strength it once had, that they have been replaced by a sort of surly stiffness.

I swing my feet over onto the floor and rub the stiff bristles the still barb the back of my skull, thinning remnants of the primeval forest that once grew there. Before I can pad halfway across the kitchen in my strange rolling short-right-legged gait Nitty the cat is following-me-in-front-of-me, weaving across my bare feet meowing as if she was last fed halfway through kittenhood rather than the previous day.

I don't worry about the noise; half my family are heavy sleepers and I know that the third is already out on the couch, ghost-footed little shadow in the early morning fleeing who knows what from her bed to the safety of the cluttered front room.

Given the cat's frantic noise I can't do anything else until I find her food. I get a can out of the cupboard and open it.

The meatlike substance commercially sold as food for cats may well be the most revolting thing ever placed in a can. Seriously. I am not particularly delicate about smells; my Bride insists that I would be unable to find a camel six months dead hidden under the bed if all I had to rely on was my olfactory sense. But the pong that bursts from the little metal can is vile, even to me. How the hell can any creature, even one that cleans its anus with its tongue, find this goop appealing?

Why would I even want to know that?

The cat meowls again, an odd little mashup of cry, rumble, and purr. I dump the ghastly offal into Miss Nitty's sparkling bowl. My inamorata insists that the cat's dishes need to be scoured regularly. I point out that this is an animal that cleans its anus with its tongue.

My bride claims that makes no nevermind, and washes the cat's bowl until it shines.

Prey provided to the domestic predator I turn my hand to making coffee.

Ah, coffee.

With a hefty dollop of cream I carry my cup full of earthy, rich savor into the darkened room where my daughter curls on the couch, a crumple of polka-dotted robe with a tousle of midnight hair peeping out from the end.

The Girl was fitted with braces just last week, and one of the caveats she received was that she must not suck her thumb or she could damage all the expensive fretwork.

Little Miss has sucked her thumb since she was tiny. Nature provided her with a perfect socket in her upper jaw where her cleft had taken one of her incisors away, and the quintessential Missy was a pair of bright eyes behind a fist and a raggedy scrap of terrycloth that is her beloved "stripey wubbie".

That thumb, and the fit of it and the gentle osculation on it is comfort, and surety, and peace, and she has never been without them until now.

Suddenly the world is a less comforting and peaceful place for our little traveler. She has been fretful, and as evening draws on to night and bedtime has been fearful. She has taken to wrapping herself in her mother's garish pink-and-white-polka-dotted robe to sleep, drawing comfort from my Bride's smell infused into the fabric. Now she makes small mewing noises as she skootches around to put her head down on my lap for our morning cuddle.

That, too, is essential to Little Miss; whenever she finds that I have left the house without taking a moment to sit with her she cries. We don't actually do anything. There is no talking, or singing, or storytelling. She does not hold me or curl against me and my only contact with her is to gently stroke her hair or down her back as she sleeps.

Together we sit, silent, in the darkened house, the only movement the slow petting of my hand and the steam rising invisibly from my cup. Her head, heavy with dreams and warm with sleep, weighs down on my hip.

Eventually I have to get up and dress.

From over the square bulk of Astor School the eastern sky is lightening, the pale sky outlining the branches of the magnolia in the front corner of the yard already heavy in bud and filters through the red flowering currant, its candy-pink blooms no more than a lighter gray in the grayness around them.

I move as silently as I can. Pulling my right sock on is a trial; the stiff hip won't bend and I contort and skew my leg to fit the end of the damn cotton mitten over my toes and then bend the knee to reach and pull it on. Finally I have socks and boots on, pocket my phone, shrug on fleece and cap, pour the dregs of the coffee into the red-and-silver container from the little coffeehouse in Port Angeles.

Before I go I must return to the couch for a drowsy spastic hug from The Girl, another ritual that cannot be skipped.

The door locks behind me with a dry click.

The morning has brightened to full day, but still with the cool pastel colors of the immediate post-dawn. Urban birds - chickadee, robin, junco - are all voicing their morning complaints over the obbligato of city noise; a dog barks, distant traffic-sough from the arterial six blocks north, car door slams, a faint siren in the distance.

Traffic on North Columbia is light, so it isn't very long before I'm standing in a muddy empty yard looking down at a pile of rusting, oily metal. My workday is beginning, and this is where it begins; with some sort of jerry-rigged underground storage tank that has been discovered during the grading of what is to be a drive-through Starbucks.

I sip my coffee. It's still smooth as a lie, as hot as hidden lust.

"These damn things were buried all plumbed together, hunh?" I ask. "This was what they used for an underground tank?"

The contractor nods, not taking his eyes off the pile of metal as if it might leap up to attack him if he did.

"Wow. You gotta wonder who thought that was a good idea. That's some sort of fucked-up hillbilly shit."

The man nods again, turns slowly, looking for the enviro guy who's supposed to be here to haul the congeries away.

I stand motionless, enjoying the rising heat of the morning sun, and sip my coffee, and wait.

Thursday, April 03, 2014

Winter is coming?

My friend Ael had a nifty tagline for the latest anthropomorphic global warming report from the UN and the potential for some life-altering changes it describes:

"Summer is coming".

Any Song of Ice and Fire-themed political references are jake with me, and it has the added encomium of being terse and ominous at the same time.

That's the scary long-game.

In the short-term, however, some people are getting all sorts of up in the Big Whack about Eurasian politics:
"Nato's military commander in Europe has issued a warning about the build-up of Russian forces on Ukraine's border. Supreme Allied Commander Europe Gen Philip Breedlove said Nato was in particular concerned about the threat to Moldova's Trans-Dniester region."
Wait, wait, I hear you say. Why is this whack, Chief? I hear you say.

After all, Putin is an Evil Emperor, right? Oligarch, Stalin-wannabe, all-around thug and blight on the landscape who wants to grab back all the bits of the old Soviet Union and reassemble the Evil Empire? Why is it whack to be concerned about him waving the Big Red Stick around his western borders?

OK, I'll put it this way; is NATO, and, by inference, the United States, ready to fight Russia over Moldova?

Because that's really the bottom line. Is the West willing to fight (since assuming that the only way to ensure that Putin's ambitions don't mean Russian troops back in Latvia, say, or eastern Ukraine) to contain Russia in its present borders and prevent the reassembly of the Soviet Union? Will we fight to preserve the independence of the Baltics, or the states on the Ruthenian plain?

We weren't in 1945, and that was before the Soviets had nuclear weapons.

We weren't for Hungary in 1956, or for Czechoslovakia in 1968.

Even beyond the question of open warfare, are we prepared for a new Cold War over eastern Europe?

We might need to be, as we were prepared to face off with the Soviets over Western Europe in the last half of the 20th Century.

But if that's the case we, We the People, should really have a serious talk.

Are we ready for another Cold War? What's our goal? What's our strategy? How much are we willing to spend in blood and treasure?

Where do we draw the line where we'll fight the Russians rather than let them cross?

The eastern border of Latvia?

The eastern border of Ukraine?

The eastern border of Poland?

Do we even know?

This isn't a spur-of-the-moment sort of decision, or one that is best made around one individual incident. And, no, I don't like what Putin has been doing in the Crimea and I don't trust his ambitions in the Near Abroad. But to mobilize for a new Cold War is committing ourselves to a winter that might last for generations as the previous one did.

I don't trust GEN Breedlove - or any other serving officer - to make that decision for me. There's a reason that Congress was given the authority to declare war and formalize peace, after all.

Wednesday, April 02, 2014

Choking on silver

In case you wanted more doom and gloom (and talk about the weather, Ael...) here's two related news items laying out in excruciating detail the killing blow awaiting us at the top of the dark ramp ahead.

First, the near-certainty that we are in the process of baking our world to a delicate crunch.

And, second, that we are ensuring that our New Oligarchic Masters will not give a flying fuck about that.
And despite the furious verbal and written smokescreen that the meeching coterie of remoras for the wealthy and powerful will emit, these are related, and unless We the People act decisively and swiftly mean that those of us not insulated by wealth and power are headed for an ugly future.

Simply put, since the advent of the Industrial Revolution we've been transforming our planet not so much to an unprecedented degree but at a hyperkinetic rate. Our average global temperature has both risen and fallen significantly before this, but these were part of the larger global/solar system heat cycles.

What we've done has been, in effect, to add a heat wave to the vast swells of insolation, ocean circulation, carbon sequestration and release that affect the Earth and have pretty much since the damn thing cooled enough to accumulate an atmosphere.

We con't be sure how big this wave is relative to the swells. But we can tell that it's there, and that it has the potential - assuming that the overall global climate isn't dropping back into a glacial period - to drive our planet towards the kind of climate that makes grasslands of forests and deserts of grasslands, raises oceans and otherwise creates some pretty impressive changes in our local flora and fauna.

And the critical factor is that this is happening fast; a couple of hundred years, a flick of geologic time.

Things like our food crops are the products of generations of selective breeding, and our food-producing regions developed of millenia of human history. And the same history shows that when those crops and regional conditions change, as they did for the Sumerians, as they did for the Anasazi, that can get very difficult and deadly for the humans involved. have the wealth and power to insulate you from that change.

If you can move freely about the globe, if you can pay for your own sources of food, of heating and cooling, if you can pay for your own armies to secure those things and to defend you from those who don't have the wealth and power to secure them for themselves, well, then...why should you care?

Why shouldn't you be more interested in your short-term wealth and power? Why should you give a flying fuck what happens, then?

That's one of the huge reasons that oligarchy and plutocracy are bad for everyone outside the oligarchs, plutocrats and their entourage and, eventually, for them, too.

When you put that much wealth and power into the small group that also controls the polity you produce a perfect storm of ignorance and indifference. The aristos don't know how bad it is for the proles and don't care.
We know what the inevitable result is. The ugly mess shambles along until finally some sort of unholy disaster unhinges everything. The society disintgrates into a war of all against all. The usual conclusion is either the ascent of a strongman, a Lenin or a Napoleon, or a descent into anarchy and barbarism as after the fall of Rome.

And for some reason we've managed to construct this meatgrinder and are ramming our collective dicks into it while we worry more about missing airliners and white girls and who's got the inside lane on this season's reality show.

I have absolutely no idea what the fuck to say about this except the dinosaurs had the excuse that their brains were the size of a fucking walnut.