Free in the Land of the Free: They don’t waste time do they?

Read this as if it didn’t happen this morning. Read this as if it didn’t happen to you, or me. Or, read it as it is written. Your choice. I just wish it didn’t happen.

Yet it didn’t take too much time for things to heat up in my world ( you know what I mean).  The right wins, because they own the left in America. Crypto-fascists cannot be trusted. I will write more on that when myhead is more clear.

Do you believe in coincidence? I don’t.

They are everywhere. And watching. Listening, but not hearing; looking without seeing. And don't even think they have feelings--they don't.

But two people that came here to live the American dream, who ‘rode across’ in gasoline tanks, and walked across deserts, and mountains with a liter of water and worn out shoes–people who came,  and worked hard, and  lived nearly free in a foreign country are no longer amongst the ‘free’ in the ‘land of the free’.

They are at INS-ICE lockup, down  in […]. I can’t tell you the all the details of how they actually get here,  as I  do not want  to add to their misery with more useless ‘facts,’ which are always ‘ammunition’ for right wingers, crypto-fascists and ‘officials’ of government.

This morning at8:30 a.m. I got a call–the INS had come to round up a few “illegals” who were living in […].

My caretaker says ”  They wanted to know if […] and […] live here.”

I said “Don’t open the door. They can’t come in without a warrant.”

He said ” It’s too late. They had some serious looking papers. They came earlier, and your phone was turned off. They took […] and […] and they even asked me for papers. But they were here specifically for those two. They had pictures, and some papers.”

I said “But they can’t do that–she is here seeking asylum! She filed papers and …,” and I stewed about how ignorant people are– of the warrant requirement.

He said “They took her anyways. I don’t know what she was saying because I don’t speak […], but she was crying, and had papers in her hand-and[…] was crying too, and he tried to explain that she was here as an asylum seeker. They left a card and a number for you to call.”

I was outraged. I was pissed–in fact, there are no words to describe what I am feeling now. Flashbacks maybe, or just fucking pissed. And I never imagined […] could cry–he is such a stoic.

For the record, I am not  ‘family’, and I cannot speak with them unless I am their lawyer, advocate or other legally appointed representative.

Both of them are people that I ate with; played volleyball with; shared language, and learning with, and planted flowers with all summer long; and people who i cooked for, who always acted overly polite when offered it  ‘small portions, only  please,’ (!), but who always gave me huge plates of theirs saying ‘”try this. I used to serve it in a restaurant back home -try it”.

And i would eat, and never ask for seconds because it was worth thirds. It was THAT good.

“Did you get any paperwork at all?”

“No,” he says, ” It was all so fast…she was cooking breakfast …and…”

“The law says they have to leave paperwork,”  I said, not sure of the law and immigration or myself at that moment. I remembered that they put their names on the mailbox: “he” was giggling, her future husband was teasing “her” about having a home…

Turns out he–my caretaker- let them in–so, no paperwork required. See what happens when everybody doesn’t know the rules…?

I had been trying to drum up money to buy them a restaurant–my thought had been to buy an old house, and start it as a soup and coffee shop. Their idea was far more humble–they only wanted a stand in a market. They could hide easier amongst others in similar situations.

Both of ‘them’ were driven off in ” a big white van” this morning. Name it shame it, tame it–then claim it,  mother fuckers, but this ain’t even started yet, was my first thought.

Time will tell, was my second–and my third thought? Refer to the first thought if time don’t open it’s mouth pretty damn quick.

‘He’ was a fry cook, and ‘she’ was fleeing a country that was recently on the U.S. ‘watch list’ of potential terror ‘supporters’.  She was also a domestic violence victim: her husband told her that he would chop her into pieces and cook her if she ran away.

And when she told me that story, she would laugh, and then, look away nervously, or at her new mate, who, as it turns out […] was her ‘old love’ as well; her lover back home, and itwas he who paid her way here, too. They planned to get married…

So she ran away anyways, against her husbands ‘will’.  ‘Welcome to America,’ I remember telling her with an odd ‘paternal’ happiness–happy that I could provide a home.

She and her would-be-future-brother-in-law will be flown ‘home’ after a hearing or two, I am told, to live once again next to a trembling volcanoe. Her love–the man she ran away to be with, will remain here, because he has the right paperwork.

Or: he or  I can pay for a lawyer, and be told the same thing i was told last time: they can extend it by a year, and then, maybe, she will be able to stay–but, like last time, if experience is any kind of teacher, she will be sent back anyways, and right quick.

But likely, she will be dumped just across the Mexican border, in Juarez, like so many are these days, as the U.S. refuses to accept some forms of paperwork from ‘illegals.’

But fuck you, and anyone who shits on ‘the little people’: capital FUCK, littler you, and anyone who condones this, or pushed for it to happen–team ‘community snitch’ ala the Patriot Act. The problem is, it’s always the ‘wrong’ people getting shipped out of here, and the ‘right’ ones remaining.  And when I say right, I mean–that was really, really wrong.

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The Real Skinny: Gossip, Infidels, and Ayaan Hirsi Ali on Nicking Clits

Well, anyways–I needed a break away from ‘white people‘, and all of that violence, and political bad touch that they bring with them. It always precedes one kind or another of  their wars.

And the white women!! OMG!!  They scare even me with their desire to lift up women’s burqa’s, and peek under the skirts of culture.

No man–no PUA or MRA– could ever dream up a plan to get between women’s legs that is any greater, or more diabolical, capitalistic, or more invasive than the white women and ‘feminists’ have done to get a peek at Somali‘s and their clitorises.

So I went out and got hammered last night, bummed out. But really, my thoughts  started a few weeks before, when  I was talking to Skinny, in Somali. And we were talking about Moqtar, Aayan Hirsi Ali’s cousin.

The Somali’s I know like to gossip. No big deal, we do it every time we meet, and this time it was just me and Skinny talking about Aayan. But I was trying to clear a few things up in my own mind about who she is, and I couldn’t remember her.

Then Skinny,* the film maker  says  ” You remember when we were sitting at[…] that coffee shop? It was me and you and Moqtar?”

“Nope,” I said. “I know too many Somali’s–and they’re all Moqtars too.”

“No, no, you would know this guy, He’s  handsome guy. You know,”  he says, pointing to his HP computer screen.

“This one.”

Oh! The picture is from Vancouver, and he sits with a lovely long nosed girl. Then I remembered him. Moqtar is very distinctive, and very handsome from what I remembered–and in my way of remembering, or categorizing Somali’s, he looks more Isaaq than Darod.

Well, I say to Skinny,”Lots of atheists are talking about Aayan these days,” and in my mind I couldn’t remember why she was filed in my mental Rolodex at all. I can only remember something about her “passport, a scandal, or the Dutch Parliament.”

An atheist took me to task on that awhile ago [ @19 and onwards] , and virtually called me a cunt over my response. But I am a forgiving sort, well aware of the cunty sensitivities of some cunty atheists–especially the white, middle class female ones who have so little to grasp at apparently, that they can only hate you with their vaginas, despite their padded bank accounts, new cars, and Macy’s points cards…

I remember now where my thoughts about Aayan came from to begin with–from Moqtar and Skinny, the last time I saw them.  We were talking about a film.

And I remember how tall she  seemed last time I saw her; but many Somali women are tall, once you learn how to talk to them.

“You remember,” Skinny says. “She made the film.”

Well anyways, we sure did share a laugh about how white women rapeflate everything; how they try to get close to “other women”–and how the cultural practice of FGM is conflated with ‘religious practice’ by the white folks from the ‘west’–even if their rapeflation often misses the ‘nuance’ of how corrupted culture’s that themselves are slaves to religion, view THEMSELVES.

And we laughed about how rapeflation causes many Somali’s to distrust the latest form of western cultural imperialism–feminism.

After all, Africans are used to cultural Imperialism defining them, and defining their bodies as property–no one has anyything on Somali’s in the discussion of slavery, except maybe, West Africans.

Africans are used to having scientists quantify them in some bizarre Linnaean system of social order: measurements of their character, viewed through binoculars and microscopes, and reduced to the status of bugs.

No big deal. Just me, and Skinny, and Moqtar, chatting about Aayan, and western cluelessness.It became nearly a decade long conversation that shined a lens into a culture that desperately seeks affirmation, yet struggles with the mechanics of self governance amidst a climate of western projection.

And all of the recent scrutiny of their bodies, their practices, and their ‘selling points’ is coming from females–western females, with western concepts of power, not least of which is sexual in nature…

And we laughed about the Tanzanian word firconi…[to be continued…]

Nicking Clits, and Slippery Slopes: Aayan Speaks about inept western Medicine, and its genital references.

BTW: Fuck the American Association of Pediatrics–they are the folks who allowed America to whack little boys penises in half with circumcision for the last 100 plus years ( and counting)

* He has a Somali name, which has been changed into the English, to confuse the informants and the spooks whose dialect begins and ends in Mogadishu.

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Protected: I Have Some Credit Card Numbers For SZale: Machiavelli’s Playbook, Series 1

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Oh Shit. I won an award…and I hate recognition

Goats are always butting heads, even when they don't mean to. It's what they do!

Anyone who knows me–I mean, really knows me–knows that I hide out under bridges all day long, waiting for the little goats to clatter across and poop on my head.

And I am always surprised–no; astounded, when they stop instead, and smell the flowers that I planted in the pots that sit directly above the keystones. I am even more stupefied when they don’t nibble the leaves off, or poop on my head!

So many discussions that take place on the internet are just that–a bunch of useless crap, and you always go away feeling like you’ve been used somehow, or cannibalized for someones political agenda.

Moreover, I am most surprised when I realize that some of the goats who tramp across the internet all day long are not goats at all! But real human beings, with real issues that affect them every day too–just like me! Sharon,  who writes at Day in the life of a Busy Gal, is one of those people that I bumped into in such a way.

Sharon gave me an award, and I do not deserve it.

Versatile Blogger Award

And, anyone who knows me, also knows that I hate notes passed around the classrooms, because they always carry the implication that some get to read the note, while others are denied the contents of the secret missives.

Worse, some use note- passing to actually and deliberately cause harm!  Which has a net effect of disenfranchising some at the expense of others.  I don’t like those kind of people at all.

 

Awards I Do Not Deserve, no, really, I do not deserve this; no–I do NOT DESERVE THIS AWARD. Let me tell you the five hundred ways I do not deserve this award, and about who deserves it more (my mom)[*sound of curtain being yanked open as big huge hook comes out and grabs me by the neck, and !YANKS! me off stage*]

 

When I say that there is a difference between people and goats, it may sound like I am being only half serious–which is true–but also, I am pointing to the fact that many people seek a society– a sense of belonging somewhere–at the expense of questioning where it is that they are fitting in! Most people are just like a herd of goats.

So I will warn any and all who might be reading that I carefully avoid herds, and herd behaviors like religion, feminism, militants, most atheists and skeptics, junk science, conservatives, most serial murderers (…), and the cult of the high-flying pigs. All of them have the net effect of forcing me to suspend reason and rational thought, by playing on one fear or another, or by manipulating my perceptions and suspending my belief in my own ability to reason.

And that,  so that I have a seat at the table–or my snout in a trough as it were.

Perhaps I am  a battle-scarred, presumptive, distrustful man who resists attempts at  socialization in any form, and who resists my people-loving, generous, impulsive, trusting nature, because there is too much baggage attached to western society and it’s presumptions for and about people–and I resist how that society will use us.

Worse, because I come from that society too, I must be cautious at all times, and fight any attempts  to be included in societies  presumptions about me.Because I am male, I have to be extra cautious, and we know how our society views males right? They seem to only like us when we are mangina’s…

I choose unusual tools to fight with: race class, gender, and the intersectionality of them–the sliding scales of privilege and power that fence us all in. Sometimes I choose the tools they use, like racial stereotyping; other times I choose to employ “good advice”that we all can use or learn from; but always, I try to have a laugh with it, even if to myself.

I hope you do to. I know Sharon does: because how else could she have read my work, after all of my “white women this and white women that?”

Proof that she checks her own baggage at the door, and applies her tongue to her cheek, and makes friends the old fashioned way: by acknowledging that we are all different, and individual, despite what the feminist word mangler would have us believe.

So:

To accept this award I must:

1. Formally thank the person who gave me the award [x]

2. List 7 things about myself that others might not know about me [x]

3. Pass it on the award to 15 other bloggers […you will have to wait on that…[…]

4. Inform the bloggers I have given them the award.[ see number 3]

Thanks Sharon–you have made more than one of my days worth the sardonic echoes of laughter that I hear when I gaze into my late night bowl of soup, and realize that the mirror next to me has a crack in it–and it’s probably because  all the noodles in the bowl are out to get me…

Mental health Trigger Warning--oh shit, it’s too late! The warning came AFTER the meltdown!! AGAIN!?!

😉

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Midnight Cowboy, 1969: a masterpiece of deconstruction, and a harbinger of dialectic double standards.

One of my all time favorite movies is Midnight Cowboy, for reasons that go beyond being a mere devotee of the acting of Dustin Hoffman, or  the music of Henry Nilsson, a fan of the young Jon Voight, or practitioner of  deconstructionism. Or the fact that  it only got a showing at the seedy theaters in my town when it came out.

It is one of the best, most insightful scripts I have ever read too, and in fact the background guys–like song writer Fred Neil, and script writer Waldo Salt, who survived and thrived after being blacklisted during the red scare of McCarthy–are more incredible than the actors .

Here’s the intro clip:

Midnight Cowboy is the only X rated film in history to ever receive an Oscar. Maybe it was the “gay theme” or maybe it was because it was one of the rare films in all of history to examine the issue of women who sexually abuse young boys; and how women are complicit, if not instrumental  in shaping the sexuality of children (no pun intended–but you will see what I mean). Here is a bit of Joe Bucks nightmare:

Zoom close-up -- Anastasia screaming soundlessly...
... thermometer under Little Joe's tongue... 
... Sally Buck shoves chocolate in her mouth... 
... bewigged poodle licks her fingers... 
... Sally Buck hangs enema can on bedpost... 
... Ratso leads ratpack chasing naked Anastasia... 
... corona of flashlights...

I still remember the run-down, dirty white theater fronts that had it up on the marquee in blue letters, or red; and everything about cowboys fascinated me in that era.Certainly everything about the forbidden letter X fascinated me too.

Being stoic, self reliant, silently suffering  cowboys was what they taught boys to be back then, and to think about being when we got older–little men running around with guns that go *BANG!*,  fighting the bad Indians, and the ‘bad men’ who were-apparently-everywhere. And certainly, we were taught to always tip our hats for the ladies–even if they were sticking enemas in our asses.

But by the time I was old enough to watch it myself, some fifteen or years later, it showed me some things about cowboys that John Wayne and the other cowboy as uber-man posturing of that era never did, and I liked that too.

But I like Midnight Cowboy because it’s just plain old, incredibly good film, full of stunningly complex images that are explained to us with remarkable simplicity.

Original Movie Poster

Very few films address sex and gender imbalances in ways that are inclusive of the recognition that men are engendered in certain ways that women cannot, or will not understand, even when they see it in action. Women as a rule are either not equipped to understand the male experience, or because of the nature of woman is equipped only to stare at herself, and issues that reflect herself constantly–or something like that…;-)

In the case of Joe Buck, the intrepid male prostitute, our character learns that the world is not equal, and we, as an audience, learn a bit about what creates false constructs of sexuality in the mind of a young boy. And how those constructs lead to poor choices.

In one scene we have the gang rape of a woman who could aptly be called “the town pump”, and Joe Bucks inability to stop that rape–of the woman who he thinks he loves; in another scene, aptly a nightmare, we have Joe Buck being anally raped by his grandmother; and the all too obvious conclusion that male sexuality is undervalued, or disposable to women.

It’s a film about the awakening of America to issues of  the human body as a commodious object, and the reality of under-valued male love. It’s a gay film in as much as it has a theme of men, loving each other, or men who are used by other men, but it’s a human story beyond that.

If you haven’t seen it, rent it, and if you have seen it, rent it again. Or just have a good read tonight--here’s the script.

 

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Female Blogger Raped by TSA!!! OMFG!!!!

When feminist  blogger Jill Filipovic opened her suitcase after the TSA had been sniffing through it, she discovered a note, which said “Get Your Freak On Girl!

They had found an item related to something that always raises a huge red flag:

“The item in question was a small, inexpensive silver bullet vibrator from the sex toy chain Babeland, chosen because Filipovic thought it “wouldn’t raise any flags at TSA.” Now “I’m grossed out,” says Filipovic, “but it’s also hilarious.” The TSA says it’s investigating the incident.”

Ahhhh….those western women and their sex robots…

Note found after the TSA had sniffed through her luggage, and found her vagina massaging robot.

Holla Mom

HollaMom, from Not For Pink Hats echoes my thoughts exactly:

Holla says ” What if maybe, just maybe…  she made the whole thing up??   Of course I do not know this woman but to me it’s a brilliant plan.  Everyone hates the TSA and wouldn’t put anything past them, so she planted the note at some point.   Because there are worse things to get harassed over then a $15 dildo and judging from her website she certainly wouldn’t be embarrassed about having this kind of thing made public.  So perfect plan right?  She’s the latest TSA victim, gets to yak and talk about it all week and her only crime is what… the fact that she brought a cheap drug store toy over to Dublin, big deal.

Genius!!

Well I guess we’ll never know.  But if she did plant the whole story, it’s a good one and it’s getting huge press today, which means she’s getting huge publicity for her blog, and mission accomplished….”

Yup. And Filipovic bought that vibrator in Dublin, apparently, which has recently  gained notoriety for Rebecca Watsons elevatorgate stunt.  Bunch of scandal engineering blog-runts…

In the age of the internet, feminists have taken to orchestrated publicity stuntsthat involve their…um….hunt for a wider audience. And the credibility of anyone who calls themselves a feminist is a huge red flag against credibility.

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