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John L. Sullivan vs. Dialog (1 vs. 2)

CEE

    Permitted by The Boss Lady to again heave stone tablets at your head, I’m wanting to pick up on her rejoinder to my words last August, re: the seeming imbalance within Man—the ‘why’ of so much id, ego, emotion and The Donald breakin’ balls, versus so very little Mr. Spock and his ears. It’s worse news than you’d think, as from my vantage, this binary condition is in its display, not ‘Trek, but H.G. Wells...
    “Facts”, here, receive quotation marks, as one can shove, bad animal trainer, another’s face into the monitor, and, “well, no, I just don’t b’lieve that”. Why this matters, stumps me, but the culprit, per non-acceptance of anything or anyone, lies in the very year. Many of us, still date it, beginning with a “1”. Life in the 21st Century in These United States, the ramping up of the senses, has spilt socially, those who welcome this New, and those who hate it. The Q many of you struggle with, that of “Why can’t there even be dialog on, like, anything?”, is grounded in the coaxial of an analog world still present...one mostly schooled by and stuffed with role models from a still earlier America.

    Those who love Before, who live Then, who worship Was, venerate it, present it offering and whole burnt offering, quite often will not listen. Not budge. Some, not a nano. I know. I’m one. But I’m leaving, soon, and either way, this world’s a hellhole. So, let me tell ya, what you’re up against:
    The Sopranos, was compelling television, unless one believes that an oxymoron. Compelling, yea, buddy, right down to the end, which was an attempt at higher artistry viewers rejected like they rejected Fritz Mondale or New Coke. I rejected it, too, but I reject most endings, including Catcher in the Rye, St. Elmo’s Fire and the gold medal roundball final at Munich. Or that Charles will never be king. Most, wanted some crescendo, the 80’s on steroids, and got existentialism. And they raged. And the creator/producer, whom I won’t dignify, fucked the peasants with his disdain. They were, to a man, trogs, and who gave a shit what they wanted? They didn’t know anything. This disconnect between Cloud City and the masses, is why there’s never a national referendum on any issue. Only Macbeth’s witches, cubed, stirring the shit-brew, preparing judicial slumgullion for intravenous, as on any issue, half of us—48% either way, with crawlspace wiggle room—well, we who lose what we do not decide upon...we gotta learn.
    And that’s where so many, turn into my Dad.
    Pop, was a decorated NCO in the Pacific Theater of Operations, during the fight between humanistic Heaven and Hell. He was the Middle American selfmade man, blue collar to minor league Thurston Howell, III in 50 postwar years. Total “do”, didn’t give much of a shit about “be”. My father approached the world with a tunnel vision, blind to all but his own, single-minded purpose. He died at age 82, spotless of police record, having lived his life upon a different sphere than you and I. Dad, representative of his era, wasn’t one for forgiving or forgetting. Or walking away. Or “being told”. Anyone interfering the slightest degree, in matters he valued or saw as personal, spiritual or dear (money), received his pet phrase, declared John L. Sullivan, “Ain’t no son of a bitch gonna tell ME ____________!!” (cue Phil Hartman in Newsradio, “...good times...”). You weren’t going to give Dad your new, improved spin with specially selected key points from often un-vetted sources, without a roar into your face that would misshape it like G Force. And you weren’t going to do the half-head sneer with serial villain “hehHEHH...!”, or you were going to meet shore leave in the 1943 Philippines, faster than my flying DeLorean at 88 mph.
    I use this illustration from which most of you recoil, to remind you of the many, intense people out there, concerned only with “living”. “Do”, is all that matters in their world, Life truly Is Ant Community, and so it is, and leave me alone, shut your yap, that’s stupid, try workin’ a real job, yer really full a’ shit, ya know? There are Americans today, numbering in (I feel safe in saying) the tens of millions, who Do Not want to hear a peep, re: opposing viewpoints, who Do Not value self awareness, or learning beyond the narrow scope of Point A to Point B. Who mistrust, distrust, and frankly HATE anyone trying to inform, much less alter or “correct”. To “correct” them means they are “wrong”, nonfriend, no matter you redefine all terminology. And “wrong”, they cannot be, as that makes them beneath you, making this in effect, you issuing challenge. Not smart, as those baseline, those of “do”and where-do-you-get-all-that-shit?, morph quickly into the gang down at Satriale’s or Bada Bing!, if you push The Immovable Object a handsbreadth. If you cluck-cluck at them? OMG. Are you that far gone on “we have evolved”? Uh! That’s neat! Let’s us sit, dangle feet, and talk about puppy doggies and kitty cats and snakes and birds!
    Study Aide: ‘flix/’tube Of Mice and Men, or the Bonanza episode, “The Ape”. Object Lesson: Even gentle primitive, is dangerous. He knows what he knows. Your words, if he even comprehend, are nothing, as you presenting them would not be doing so, if you were just getting on with living your life. Like you should be.
    The reason conceptual, abstract thinking plows Zero ground, is because it literally plows no ground. It does not toil, neither does it spin. A Marxian collective true to principle, wouldn’t give a shit for idea men, let alone singers of songs, if they played no role in digging the taters. As for America, it may well no longer be an agrarian society, but trying to “correct the thinking” of anyone not fed greens of ivy in airtight halls shutting out all cooties, is asking for a Texas dustup cum Texas biker spree. Dr. Phil, is not indicative of the stereotype his voice evokes, but said stereotype, should you press your petition or social point, turns “step outside”, DSL, nonfriend. The cave, is deep within us; there’s a reason I call Man, “The Brute”. One can’t do much more, now, than share views in the first place, if that. And, you’re likely to get a sneer, as via primal processing, you’re the idiot. Certainly, your toy prize at Golden Ticket-best, are the words, “Well, I just don’t b’lieve that.” I don’t recommend giving the hate-chuckle you learned from your most hurtful friend or angriest professor, no, not even to save face. It’s many years into the millennium, but creatures of the earth and the field, of shelter, food and warmth, are Here. Among you. Walking your hometown’s concrete. Or perhaps, by your reading, the newly minted Republic of Texas.
    This is no caution to shrink or shirk or fear. I’m all for getting in faces (excepting mine). Here’s an appropriate extreme, to reassure you: the case of the American Nazis and the 1977 fight over the proposed Skokie march. Why legislate, was forever my Q. Why mince over what is “hate”? Why cry to “authority”? Why even be fearful? By all means, fight! Like Rocky Balboa or Audie Murphy or as if the last crust of bread, was at issue. The community solution on a united level was the correct one, in Skokie; it’s said storm troopers feared for their lives. It’s certain that, had Chicago not appeased the ANP’s original grievance, the resulting riot and mass casualties would, and according to political scientists, have set back the issue of free speech in America, by decades...but, it was a necessary response. The Immovable Object, is just that. You cannot best The Brute by yelling “cop”. A gavel banging its condemnation is unreal, until it happens. The Brute won’t be told and he won’t go away, he won’t learn what you desire, and Today, he will neither compromise nor cooperate. At All. The only thing that works in face of “the line drawn”, ironically is what George Lincoln Rockwell himself, wrote, “Somebody has got to go, ugly as that may be.”

    IOW, it’s as I’ve told you, Yankees-Red Sox. Lincoln’s assertion, re: “a house divided”. Hell, The Weavers themselves, in in popularizing “Which Side Are You On?”, admonished, “...there are no neutrals, there...you’ll either be a union man, or a thug for J.H. Blair”...effectively, you think it takes a village as Mrs. Clinton does, or like my Mom did, when she smacked the most insolent neighbor kid, right on the mouth. Another mother, one block over, later clocked the same kid. There is solidarity, in any gens, even those of mere social roots. Mind that.
    Police, are limited in their manpower...and sensitivity training only works until they pass that exam and hit the local tavern. Their Plan B as, very normal, they themselves flip off being “corrected”, is to stand there. Chill. Take five. And let it all burn down. So far, this has not impacted me, personally, as when Bob Earsay stole his Colts out of Baltimore, I stopped caring about that particular village...but, minus public servants, even confused ones, the social contract becomes bird cage liner...primarily because the social contract, is bird cage liner. And oh so absorbent!
    The Water Flume spits us out, Huey, at Everyone a Narcissist, as attempts at changing or altering or curtailing or reversing or editing or “improving” your life, only flies across the board, if you are quintessentially a follower. A bump in a parking lot of a person. A deadminded zombie. Windup citizen. Robo-activist. Weeping tears down a face of slate, whenever your own, ideological Maharaj Ji appears on a screen. Now, he’s cool, your lil” Master-guy! And, why? He (or she or spectrum) was your personal choice. Nothing satisfies so well, as anything beyond the eyes giving Self what Self wanted in the first place. The cockroach on this wedding cake of one, being the current, polarized society. Aided by media bombardment, the 31 flavors of America have been riceballed so expertly, so Iron Chef, there exists nothing to consume of The Big Picture. Only the personal, and down the Tootsie Roll center. And the game afoot is no hot dog snarfing contest, but Rollerball Murder.
    The point I’m laboring toward, is that intellectia lose utter touch with life beyond brie and crackers, in that, when encountering my Dad in any form in 2016, they think he’s kidding. Or being infantile. Or just doesn’t get it, and must be shredded with more shit he thinks is shit. “Educated” in antithesis to Self, like that’s possible past cap and gown day, without imprisonment. But, by God, Helen’s going to understand “water”, by way of Learning Through You’re A Dumbass! It’s foolproof, R. Lee Ermey meets taunting little shits from childhood, and that carries no risk whatever! After all, inertia won’t turn bestial and leg up to a headline, that’s silly, do grow up! No one’s going to go Woody or Juliette in Natural Born Killers, hey, drop the drama and hold the solipsism, now, back on point, o Lesser Peon...
    And this is the weakest limb of the human tree, as “live and let live”, has been reduced to a paranoid, shrieking, “Mind your own fuckin’ business!”, to which those who disagree with those who are shrieking, frown the “Really?” with the hate smile of a Gorgon and address the animal backed into a corner as if the Borg Queen and an encyclopedia salesman had a kid. My father would have, I assure you, chosen the headlines. He is, fortunately for him, long gone. But he is in fact all over the place, as the old Father Guido Sarducci-bit, re: “The Five Minute University”, applies, and in all directions. Daily reality, is its own primer fuse. It’ll take but one, minor archduke getting whacked, or several inflammatory copycat incidents immediately on top of a biggie, then the Hell with Texas, it’s Fort Apache, the Bronx, spattered Pollack-at-work, all over the map.
    Please understand. Narcissism as an actual disorder, has been stricken from the new DSM. The reasoning, is that it is exists too pervasive within society, to assert it as standing outside the norm. My likes, it never did. But when entitlement meets entitlement, or indeed unaware Hatred of entitlement, “come let us reason together”, has vanished. A miasma. Leaving in its wake, Michael Buffer booming ringside introductions. The Brute knows his math. Someone loses and someone wins. Life as understood remains or is taken away. One cannot mix an acid with a base. There can be only one, Highlander. Ein volk, ein paradigm, etc. And gosh, we’re back to those legendary battles, aren’t we? Only this time, no one has common purpose. Just a membership in what club they joined. Which is not decided by facts or logic or reason, but by The Other, whomever they be, leading you by the nose. Me, I won’t be led by anyone. It’s literal in my case, and in the genes, “Ain’t no son of a bitch...”. That would be neither gender, and no thought group but as Self-selected. Life is a buffet—a sorry one, but there you are. People Make Choices. And they do not wish Other-based input. You reach a fork into my plate, you’re in big, big trouble, Bart. And I’m one who at least gets why the crappy food is offered. Millions more, think it’s crowding out extra catsup choices.
    Thus, will answer my editor and publisher, and all you who wish “Maria” of Fritz Lang’s silent, silver genius to heal rift between Head and Hands, that such a coming together, by hook, crook, or a tenth-rate Christ, is not a human process. Not on the national level. Too many are hardcores, default No Go. The monster in a maze arcade, who never approaches but is difficult to kill, and fucks up your game just by blocking your way. There’s no effective weapon to use, not argumentation, not the courts—these now, loaded dice, dare the ante to Hulk hating puny canvasser, and thence to August, 1914. There is no grand table of arbitration set by St. Marvin of Miller, and no blasting past resistance unless you systematically round up every enemy, and...you see?
    Post-analog, you can’t talk to anyone, beyond Polly Prissypants of social media. I therefore talk to no one. I just write things down, and let the Internet scream. Perhaps, to answer my own chapbook on mental illness, that’s the one word, which defines Man: “Scream”. Survival mode, in all aspects. Screams, hear no Other. And they have teeth in them. Man, is hot breath in darkness, by me. Some of them, just think they’re David Letterman.

CEE

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