Is it anti-communitarian of me to say that I’m wryly amused by all the ‘bloggers’ jostling like wee piggies for a nipple at the Democratic convention? That jockeying for pole position in the anecdote-race to be the first to fellate the rich and powerful is a teeny bit distasteful to me?
Will I get in trouble (again) with all those otherwise good and smart people who are all a-twitter about the fact that they really really matter now? Now that they’re inside the chalk borders of the pentagram? I mean, it’s cute, all right. Sure. Like the wallflower become belle of the ball. And having them tell themselves, and us, in public, how it’s a sign that the heavy elements of democracy are sinking through the clouds of the blogosphere, like the glittering dusty fallout from the Blog Bomb, back onto the heads of the Common People? That a change is a-comin? That’s precious, and may even have a kernel of truth to it. More power to ’em. But.
But I’m still waiting, and still looking, for one — just one! — who has the bravery and the cockeyed gonzo ballsiness to rip a few new assholes in the purveyors of all that sanctimonious ‘America The Great’ autowankery, and, say, fling an empty Royal Reserve bottle at the stage while Joe Lieberman does his coattail ride into obscurity. Metaphorically or otherwise. And then write about it. In realtime.
How I wish that there were a few writers there splashing their talent (and cocktails) all over the web. Not just permalink patriots and also-ran digerati, but mad bloggy bastards who’d give me some stank, some snark, a few laughs. How I wish Rageboy could’ve gone and kicked out the motherf–king jams, or dong_resin, or Golby the crazed. Whoever. Just somebody whose panties don’t go all damp at the idea of getting spattered with John Edwards’ sweat.
I don’t want to see digital snapshots of you posing with some other blogerati dildo or fawning over some Real Celebrity, framed with a bit of Commentary Lite, damn it. I want you to write something that will make me laugh and weep and want to go and break a bottle over someone’s head (or laugh and weep and give somebody an equally random big ol’ kiss on the lips), then dance like a tarantula-bitten gypsy. Something to fire me up a bit! I want a Hunter S Thompson, by god, a Mencken, somebody with a bit of rage and a bit of juice in ’em, with too many damn words and a talent for juggling them. Someone who sees the opening, seizes it, then drives a juggernaut of text right through the quivering greasy middle of it, while lesser mortals scatter in fear for their lives.
Hell, maybe there are bloggers out there doing that at this convention. If so, point me to them. If not, well, get me a plane ticket and a pass to the Republican Clusterf–k, and I’ll do the damn job myself.
Never send a blogger to do a wonderchicken’s job.
[Update : Well, OK, this is pretty damn cool. But I’m stickin’ to my knee-jerk contrarian guns, damn it!]
[Update 2: Well, besides the Mighty Fafblog, even if I do have my suspicions that Fafnir and Giblets aren’t actually there. Still: fafferrific or faffelicious? You decide!]
[Update 3: Oh, crap. Me and John Freakin’ Dvorak. I’m turning in my decoder ring.]
[Update 4: f–kin’ A, Tutor, my old nemesis.]
Join the conversation! 17 Comments
Comments are closed.
(PS : Don’t go and get all offended, folks. I’m just riffin’ here.)
Offended?? By you, sweetie pie? Perish the thought.
hehehhhee.
Heh…said almost the same thing in my AudBlog and, wouldn’t you know, evoked HST too.
I’d imagine there’s not much hope of some good ol’ fashioned acid-tounged iconoclasm in the hizzy there, Stav. After all, those conventions are at this point, 100% pure manufactured spectacle, a chance for the pre-selected candidate to prove nothing more than that he can “electrify” (alas, not literally) a roomful of people who are already in his camp anyway. Preaching to the choir and all that.
Still, in the “media snafu” category, I got a laugh outta this.
I would love to send you to the RNC, STWC. Shall I start taking up a collection? Get bloggers to put banners on their sites, send a chicken to NYC for the RNC?
Hell, given the way ‘Merika is today, you probably wouln’t be allowed into the country, much less the RNC convention.
Nice screed. Don’t demean yourself or back away from the plate by pretending it is all in fun and you are just riffin.
Thanks,
P.S. Months later, I still can’t get bootfucked out of my mind.
Patriotism and the martial state
Late yesterday afternoon my sister, having made me a soy milk cappuccino, was watching the TV news in the next room while I was setting up her new Dell PC–to tell the truth, I was reading Dennis Keene’s translation of Maruya Sai’ichi’s
I’ve been saying it too, but you said it better.
Thank you.
I can live without the fancy lanyard and plastic credential holder. But I cannot live without rage and joy.
I’ve proven who I am so many times
The magnetic strip’s worn thin
And each time I was someone else
And every one was taken in
Hours chatter in high places
Stir up eddies in the dust of rage
Set me to pacing the cage
I never knew what you all wanted
So I gave you everything
All that I could pillage
All the spells that I could sing
It’s as if the thing were written
In the constitution of the age
Sooner or later you’ll wind up
Pacing the cage
These “conventions” are a complete and utter scam, no matter how you slice them. Not being a native ‘merkin or even having ever been there may not give me the right to comment, but it also lets me see them for what they are – they are, quite simply, advertisements for whichever candidate has been chosen as the Great White Hope of American politics and the next Saviour of the Free World. The amount of taxpayers’ money spent on Presidential elections in the US is obscene and to view the process as anything other than a pale reflection of the democratic process is akin to drinking the Kool-Aid.
Would that there were people out there with the clear eyes and the desire to see the truth. Who, though, would attend one of these pep rallies who has the honesty and impartiality to tell the truth about what they are?
I thought you were Mr. Let a Thousand Flowers Bloom, blogging’s what you make of it, fuck-any-standardizations of the form. Which is cool. But then why bitch and moan about how other folks go about doing what they do? If you want some rage and juice, go watch the coverage and juicify away.
Ah, but wouldn’t it have been grand to have been awarded one of those Dem convention nipples? Suckling on the the warm milk of fame and celebrity? Nuzzling into the soft breast of multimedia coverage?
Of course, I don’t really care about politics, American or otherwise. I just want to be popular. *laugh*
I AM MR LET A THOUSAND FLOWER BLOOM! LOOK UPON MY FACE!
LOOK UPON MY FACE!
Being Australian I do not understand the Democrat Convention. But it looks like quite the place to get stoned. Come visit me: http://theraving.blogspot.com
The Art of Blogging (Horace and St. Paul)
A Post from The Happy Tutor to all Humankind Say, Candidia, is avarice the fire, Leaves you sweating with feverish desire? Know, there are pills will help you to allay That itch, and put good part of it away. You’re…
The Art of Blogging (Horace and St. Paul)
A Post from The Happy Tutor to all Humankind Say, Candidia, is avarice the fire, Leaves you sweating with feverish desire? Know, there are pills will help you to allay That itch, and put good part of it away. You’re…
The Fafblog Fraction Numbers 382
Twenty… well, thirteen, anyway… prominent members of the Fafblog! fraction. Only Fafblog! is capable of understanding American culture and politics at an appropriate level. We are a political tendency of a new kind. Organized. Disciplined. Committe…
The Fafblog Fraction Numbers 382
Twenty… well, thirteen, anyway… prominent members of the Fafblog! fraction. Only Fafblog! is capable of understanding American culture and politics at an appropriate level. We are a political tendency of a new kind. Organized. Disciplined. Committe…