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The STFU Fight Song

CEE

    “I think people don’t...really want constant...divisiveness. I really don’t think they want that.” —Stephen Colbert, Face the Nation, 12/27/15
    ++
    Shut up. This isn’t working. You know it. I know it. Just STFU.

    My earliest memories of family life, center ‘round the breakfast nook (separating wall torn down in 1974, like ISIS blowing up Buddhas, when my stepmother moved in). Two redwood-stained benches flanking a dinerlike table. Me, defying Freud, absorbing, recording it all in my high chair. Every day, a war. Balboa vs. Creed. Clay vs. Liston. Raging Bull. The War of the Roses. The Jerry Springer Show. Blondie and Dagwood with the humor sucked out of it. It almost never stopped. My parents’ marriage, was one of only passion. Woe unto you, if you do not marry a friend.
    The eternal war, exhausting, debilitating, from time to time, was attempted end. By only one party, however, which, we all know how that works. It was Mom sometimes, Dad at others, who would retreat to disconnect, and try to not retort. Try to allow the fire die. Try and beat back intensity with simple disinterest. The other, as any good spouse, knowing what combination of buttons to push, would do so. Like Scotty hacking open the space doors, but for selfish, hurtful purposes, and greeted not by escape, but by Michael Myers or Glenn Close. War, can only end with victory or defeat. Most of us don’t want to fight, barely ever! But most of us live life knowing we’re right, nonfriend. We’ll quit, we’ll drop out, but cancel your reservation aboard the USS Missouri, because you can take those Terms of Surrender, and...
    I agree with Bert. Barely anyone wants divisiveness. We’ve been hit as by both Klitschkos with it, for over a decade. The balance, wish argumentation in main to go away, they shun conflict, hate any hate returned. Please Stop Hurting Me, etc. It’s a leap of logic to make Carl Lewis blush, however, to assume this means we all wish peace and sharing and grinning all-Campbell’s Kids as we munch apples in a wistful ad from 1902 with Hearst subliminals in it. It certainly doesn’t portend a desire to roll up our sleeves and get to work. A lot of people, today, don’t want a solution or even happiness, and more than you know, are silver screen Sarah Silverman in their inner soul, minus the illogical baby bawling ala Kirk Meets Sartre of “CAN’T...ACCEPT...NO...SOLUTION!” People want the sons of fortunate contract, to make like Yakov Smirnoff and disappear to a little white dot. They want the imp eyes or elfin grin or Cobra Kai sneers or Borg Queen leers to go away. Most, would like them replaced by a rerun. Or a pleasant memory. Or visions of some era of hope, already known and in the can.
    And, they—we—want the smarm to be replaced by silence. Or a favorite tune. Or the laughs of our loved ones, or the sense memory of lovers we lost. We want rain dropping, outside. We want the warmth we chose. We want on the dial, what We Want, and if in the end, that means the “uh-oh” of The Next Voice You Hear, hey, that’s life, STFU. Point of least resistance, though, silence. Close mouth, bugger off. Basic cable package, that’s what we want, perhaps nothing more, but definitely nothing less. We who would have divisiveness dead, only really want the other party to SHUT UP.
    You need to grasp this. Go around getting up a sample group which excludes demagogues like CEE, but also excludes your wine club...and you need to disallow any response you can hear as peacemaking (“okay, I ‘cede, let’s not fight”) or self conscious (“hey, calm-the fuck down, others can hear you”) or passive-aggressive (“totally with you, call sometime, we’ll organize a plan, probably not this next week, though”). Serious. Make the rounds. Also when traveling. Search the supposed “proactive” in your area. Test the boundaries, push at the walls. Rap, Tom Bombadil, upon any and all Old Willow Men. You’ll find a pretty even divide, if you avoid your pals. And, the-not pals, will be as the dinner guests of The Little Red Hen, I’m calling that one like Babe Ruth versus the Cubs. Others, will seem like they should be clad in undershirt of Tony Soprano. These last, don’t want to hear you. Stay frosty. There is darkness, here. Say to yourself, “And...Scene”, and walk away.
    Scolds, however, those social gymnasts on Jolt, backflipping to the point they’re willing to suck misdemeanor charges defying the First Amendment (y’know, the irony, is poisonous...it just is), don’t walk away. They won’t. I finally concede they can’t, as no one’s been able to parent, for over 20 years, now. Scolds, are guilty of exactly one real crime: Noise Pollution. They’re right at you with the babbleshit. All one wants is silence, but to a scold? You may as well be John Cleese as the French Knight, mocking, in ...Holy Grail. Or Alan Burke of gunslinging 20^th Century radio, interrupting, insulting and hanging up without regard. Or Ayn Rand on Donahue, coldly treating every audience member as an idiot. Or me, 1994, at Chi-Chi’s, ending an argument by saying, “Okay, I’m just gonna say this, and then, I don’t wanta hear any more...”
    .Silence, to scolds, is not golden, but Uranium 235. NOT talking about it, to those on point, isn’t seen as compromise. No, to scolds, the fight continues, as “doing nothing” is seen as victory for one side. You can’t “No mas!” your way out of it. You have to be my Mom or Dad, dealing with an SO who decided to have a Clint Eastwood day. You Are The Problem, You Ass. Welcome To The Initial Interrogation in The Last Emperor. They then open mouth, project agenda, and here’s the divide, worse than ever. They will not shut up. They are often disdainful. And like my Mom, like my Dad, they dynamite through the permafrost of refusal to fight, until Krakatoa erupts. Microwar, without end. “Day of the Dove”, in Actual ‘Trek’. They are dauntless. Mindless. Scolds, never shut up. And they don’t want a friend or comrade, but a willing thrall.
    Point: This is nothing to do with positive regard. This isn’t Bill Maher being BFFs with Ann Coulter. Both identify their secret, as “we just don’t go there”. I suspect they go ‘there’ all the time, but both live inside such rhino hides, nothing fazes them. On a grass roots level, such a friend is not possible to endure, let alone cherish. Most, claim such a friend. Most, are referring to one, solitary issue their friend has all wrong, so I doubt most know their friend well at all...or they’re the sort who believe hanging out once a month, is soulish, lifelong “friendship”...or that EraseFace, has real, genuine “Friends” in it. “Not going there”, isn’t possible, for most...and our society has fewer in it every day, who sport rhino hides, and more all the time who cry out from the sting of the hurtful rhinos. Said rhinos paw the earth and bid the harmed “get over yourselves!”, but in a world with no parents, I’ll kind of say that ain’t happenin’. So, no, no one’s friends with someone who worships the Satan of Not My Politics/Theology/Social World View. Rhinos merely run with rhinos, and emo hemophiliacs prefer one another. I often feel sorry for animals, yet I live for the day the Human Rhino, is extinct. Garlic, stake, coffin sealed with a tire gun.
    Which, because of Not Talking, is what’s coming. Sadly, the waiting area at the Phlebotomy Lab will probably be cleaned out, too.
    Louis Anderson, in advocating for the homeless on Dennis Miller’s old HoBO show, explained his own inability in helping his mentally ill brother, this way: “Well...you can hardly ever help someone who’s close to you.” Twenty years ago, I found this a round cop out, but I believe him, now...for the place we are One, where Human is “family”, is only Here. Dysfunctional Brady Bunches, Eights Enough stuffed with couch issues. A Family for the 10’s, cutthroat and harmfilled and hatefilled and uncaring. A “I’m over your disgusting company, buy your own damned Coke” bonding. Where Love means nothing but as dry wall billboard, unless enough persons explain it to you, and then, it, too, is a dark thing, only useful if you cave to dark purposes. We Are One, because we know ourselves and often, thanks to social media, everyone within two degrees of separation. And, ain’t no “light”, there. Just a whole lotta preenin’, goin’ on.
    A relatively new deflection contrived to elicit the explosion of any depressives who would like all manics to get lost, is tied up in stage acting’s affectation, re: noncombatants’ refusal to shrug and at least accept “facts”. Sneak attack as it is, this complaint provides the answer to “Why divisiveness in the first place?” Indeed, it’s the linch pin. Moppet-eyed, every scold from pundits to rather more learned sorts, demand, “These are Facts! How can Facts, be bullshit?”
    Because You’re providing them. And we may work for you, or pal with you, laugh with, cry with, break bread with you, we may have grown up with you or wrestle naked with you, say Love words, even call you “Dad” or “Mom”...but, we don’t trust you. No one’s perfect. You broke the covenant, too many times. We saw it, heard it, we felt it, and how do we know 1 + 1 even = 2? How? That’s outta YOUR MOUTH! How many have been let down or cried or been lied to, by you? How many did you disappoint? I don’t know those figures are true, or the provided link untainted or your selfaggrandizing “facts” undoctored. YOU, are presenting them. And I don’t know much about history, don’t know much biology, but I know argumentum ad hominem, is wrongly demonized, only for that it injects Morality into Truth. So, as Viktor says in Red Heat, “I know you well, Vanya.” And, I wouldn’t believe you if you said Good Morning.
    So, uuuhhhyeeeaahh, Bert. People are tired. Of the Other across the divide of the breakfast nook, who won’t, in the words of Morton Downey, Jr., “Zip It”. It’s a poser. We can’t talk, and half say who cares, then try and eat their goddammed eggs. For more lecithin. Drink their milk for strong bones and teeth. They ask only be left alone, to train—after a time, they’ll be ready again, to kick ass in the never ending montage of throwdown. For now, people (and, sure, “half” is relative, but guaranteed I’m fudging to help the scolds) wish quiet, wish time of only themSelves and their own, atomized immediate family. Their own likes (minus thumbs), their own rain dropping, sunset watching, warm breeze blowing world of pursuits, happy or otherwise. For this, a Shut Up (and perhaps go pound sand up your ass) is required. Almost everyone can hit an “Off” switch on almost any media. What we can’t do, is silence anOther. And the Other, has their own, pesky rights, which include broadsiding those wishing peace of mind and spirit. Legally dumping the rancid, toxic, radioactive school spirit of Opinion with intent to Force. These cheerleaders, the Van Damme’s of lighting fires, hammer home in rhythm, that school’s about out. The Doomsday Clock is tolling for We.
    I know enough to say they’re right. Like I “knew” enough at 20, to believe the missiles would be on their way any moment. If I was 20, I’d care. Not enough to do anything about it. Work sucks. But I’d sure be pissed, at not getting to have a life, just because Science said so. I don’t hate problems and solutions, any more than I hated Jack T. Chick when evangelized in 7th Grade. But, I once had a life ahead, and Bible prophecy is so terribly rude! And now, that life is over, so by me, this one’s for You being rude. No force on Earth, is going to lift my ass out of this redwood-stained bench. And if we liken it to Spaceship Baby Poop, then count on me to reach over, apply a wrist lock, hit the necessary controls, and steer for the center of the sun.
    Those zealots who strive to “solve” anything, purporting, and for the children, to end endless bloodletting of the natural state of Human, are liars. They may indeed be liars telling the truth...but I know you well, Vanya. I tried to be nice. You weren’t having it. My parents’ passion made me realize Laziness is a sacrament, so like Johnson in The Defiant Ones, I’m just gonna drag on the chain, and with my very life. Fred Flintstone, with heels dug into the road. Doomsday Clock or Chick Publications, I’m not swerving the bus. It’s going right up Arnold and Jim. Because I’m right.
    Brace for impact.

    CEE

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