I started seeing these signs springing up in yards and peering out windows all over town shortly after the first half-dozen protests against president Trump. While to some I imagine its message may denote something akin to the famous Egalité Liberté Fraternité that was perhaps the only worthwhile and decent part of the French Revolution, to me it's just another semiotic bit of noise pollution emanating from another dismally absurd American cultural dialectic. Have we always been so toothbrush-commercial in our ruminations, evocations, and demonstrations? Do I even REALLY want to know? I just can't take it very seriously, because guess who IS in office, and who all HAVE BEEN in office, and are in office everywhere else the grinding machinery of the sausage factory of the World System is operated. The only way I can see movements such as these being lamer and sorrier is if Spencers set up themed gas-mask kiosks at their pre-march rallies. Remember We Are the 99%? I vaguely recall it.
Actually, wait a second! I DO take it seriously, so much so that just about every time I pass by one of these escutcheons of damnfoolery I bristle in indignation — sometimes even going so far as to send a middle finger or two its way. It reeks of the same self-serving victimhood I embraced for decades, which I recently chose to divorce from my self-image and life-orientation. Not only that, but it also feels like a continuation of the Great Sell-Out of me and my kind by those we foolishly hoped stood for us. The victim mentality offends me deeply: when I realized it facilitated me pissing three decades of my life down the drain, I also realized that it's a viral germ of myriad social evils — the heart of Typhon, victims are themselves victimizers. (Why do you think the street-life posts in my blog are full of tales of thievery, fear, greed, and violence? The ugliness of the primate survival machine is demonstrably apparent down here!) We're balkanizing in part because of how this mindset closes gates and raises pikes. And it's being perpetuated largely by the fools who encourage me to meditate and yoga my shitty life on down the Yellow Brick Road, or rather by those among them who are paid to interact with me; most seek as assiduously to avoid notice of me as do the Thurston Howells they feel superior in empathy to. Apparently my pedigree of pathetic is somehow wanting to them? I who am descended from a people whose sob story is twice as long as that of slave-born African Americans and who am currently a conscripted combatant in an escalating (and very hopeless-looking) class war — that may or may not be by design?
Which is why I took another photo of my recyclables languishing behind steel gates, money going to no one in the name of ... what, exactly? It's not like I can peek through Homeskillet's window to watch him molest his niece: the bins are practically on the sidewalk! Yet he has the gall to wave a banner fifteen feet away in his yard, telling me he stands fully behind every sorry sumbitch who isn't a male Caucasian citizen ... who incidentally needs to keep his ogreish carcass off his property, or else! I wonder, if I were to somehow pull together a middlin'-fair landscaping crew from among other welfare hotel rats and street drek, would this guy hire us for a job or stick with his (I hope legal) immigrants? When you can't conceive of making the world a better place without it necessitating playing a zero-sum game of musical losers, you have no claim on enlightened OR progressive and your bumbling social engineering will result in nothing but false colors unfurled over a still sinking ship.
