commies, ponzis, nukes, possums and water. lots of it.

david harvey – what a way to wake up – was on NPR thursday morning. or was it wednesday morning?
i don’t know days anymore.
this is a temporary condition that i’ve had all my life, it may have something to do with relentless drug and alcohol addiction poured over me in the space of thirty years or it’s part and parcel of the vampire cafe-trade. who knows?
the david harvey conversation on wnyc is available on the link i put to his name above .
i think he’s a bunko artist. a real intelligent one. he’s selling marx.
sell sell sell. i’m selling goodbye blue monday all the time.
shame on everybody. we’re all right and we can take comfort in this thought while we’re treading water.
what a wonder of holy-moses proportions.
pbs last week and nbc this week have the accent on glacial meltdowns of “oh-fuck” proportions, hastening to state that we’re putting a bandaid on a suicidal hemophiliac swimming an a sea of razorblades.
i can almost hear the quiet “uh, oops,” and most certainly my own voice among them.
i’m craning back in an effort to lay blame the industrial revolution. “look what you’ve done, 1822, you bastard.”
oh, youooo,…. you combustion engine, you.
“henry ford, i wanna kick your ass.”
i think that’s a great name for a song.
i can see that i’ll be going back to this again and again, but back to waking this morning to NPR – there’s something frightening about anyone so sure of themselves. this guy creeped me out as much as a smart-ass, conservative banker could, who equates religion with politics (the day before a dinner-date with some intergalactic schemers who will have a few surprises of their own, in store for them).
i can almost hear one of those lizards say something like, “oh god, this is delicious” as he/she burrows through the entirety of one dinner-date or another.
or maybe i’d hear, “i hope he wasn’t too rich for you, HAHAHAHAHAHAHA” a snickering lizard would howl to another while viewing the devouring the way a kubrick film scene would be staged.
the grifting lizards love catered affairs, by the way. it’d be perfect.
like living life on a dais, when you’re lucky and there’s oodles of cash around, you can preach to any choir. you can yuck it up at a like-minded event.
it’s a plateau to speak from when you’re sure of things. it worked for me, you better believe it, and i wasn’t even rich, i just thought i was gonna be.
it was a safe place, up there in my head. my voice was so comforting to me……now, well….
the best i’ll ever be is an ineffectual anarchist.
the one thing david harvey did say, however, that put us at the same cafe table is that what triggered the massive financial bloodletting were banks and insurance hustlers running a ponzi scheme. derivatives totaling upwards of 700 trillion against an “actual value” of roughly one percent of it, well, you have a ponzi scheme. you have an U.M.B.O. BOX-driven laughathon directed at everyone, though only the poor get the joke.
to hedge is to play.
call it all the economic science you want, it’s still a scheme….ahh, never mind.
ask bernie madoff.
but you know this already.
small tragedy, that.
with this information, the need for clarity rang in my head like a gong and there’s no better place for clear-ringing gongs than a shrine dedicated to the protection of the gateway to new york city; the home of the higher-order of gastronomic-ness, whether a word or not, you know who i’m talking about, dontcha? –
a place where i forged an intergalactic alliance of sorts, predicated on the notion that i won’t be dinner-and-suit-material, at least in the near future and my journey there today, a day that i will climb down into the lair of the lizard-con-artists, but moreso, i’ll linger with the ghosts of the cold war in the underground chamber that strikes me so christian and white for some reason….a time of american otherness, a time when shame held us in check so well, when old white men were right, when ignorance may not have been bliss, but it kept a certain type of caste system operating effortlessly, almost cozily, keeping the shroud of fear nestled in every home, right there, a place to rest your feet, a place to cuddle your terror. to be oblivious, white and christian in 1957. you can humm into your own ears loud enough to not hear a thing and between knowing exactly who your enemies were, a father-figure president, the post-war boom, the martini and the valium…well it was just about perfect.
maybe that’s what i was seeking as i went down the ladder.

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linus accompanied me – i needed someone to keep maxx occupied and protect the hatch from unexpected occurences. the adrenaline rush of going down the hatch caused speilberg movie soundtracks to play in my mind. the boogie man still lurks in dark places and for a while, i knew it was going to be pitch-black for a few seconds at least. i fumbled slightly as i readied my camera and mini-maglite. i dropped down the last two rungs of the ladder causing my cellphone to jump from my breast pocket and onto the floor of the hatch. this ended the movie music and i said “fuck,” but aimed up and snapped this,

…picked up my phone, turned right and entered blackness.
switching on the flashlight i stepped forward about six or seven feet and turned left and walked toward a room of partial-natural light.
this was the place that had the planks of wood strewn carelessely across that i photographed a few weeks ago. the pic is back-a-ways.
i walked from the doorway to the other diagonal corner and snapped this – the doorway is in the left-hand corner at top.

i figure the room to be about 60′ X 60′.
then went to the center of the room at the far wall and took this picture because i remember the sketch (shown below the pic);

this is where i was, if i were part of a sketch;

the phantoms that inhabit this space are memories of world wars and stalemates.
things that don’t matter because they are dead or they seem to be.

and i thought, what a place for a rave, if they could get the platform to go up.
getting the party going just using that ladder would be a task, for sure.

what’s it all matter, anyway?

somewhere in this rumpus, there was information about getting to the high ground.
run to wyoming.
just try to forget that’s where the “mega-earthquake to end all earthquakes is gonna hit.
the red river’s cresting as we speak, but that ain’t nothing compared to the ice shelves way north and south of here and the likely ocean height change and everything that goes along with it. mankind might be in for a bit of an ass-kicking.
we’ll die and we’ll live and we’ll do despicable and heroic things and we’ll die tragically and comically and we’ll go on because that’s what organisms do.
just like the fishes and the birds and the rats and the roaches.
we’ll always be the better dressers, but that’ll just be our own opinion.
there’s always the eighth-electro-plasma ocean of the ninth-dimension, among other places.
btw/ my vanity google link is eight pages long! ain’t that hole in the head?

then, there’s the legendary goodbye blue monday possum.
yes, we have had one here since late last summer, but now like the yeti, elvis, sasquatch and nessie, the already becoming legendary goodbye blue monday possum of untold dimensions (but the word is, it’s GRAND) is gaining fame due to increased sightings.
i wander down there, camera on the ready.
googling, i read about their diet (cat food seems the ticket).
this is a lot better than dwelling on things.

About stephen trimboli

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One Response to commies, ponzis, nukes, possums and water. lots of it.

  1. andy combs says:

    hey! thanks again for lettin me fill that spot tonight(if that was of course your doing). you gonna come down to the show?(9pm) i’d love to say hello and shake you hand, meet the guy behind the guy. your blog is brilliant as always!
    andy c

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