skonen_blades: (hamused)
I wanted to imagine what "A Few of my Favourite Things" from the Sound of Music would be like if written by the richest man on the planet. Here's what I got.

Back breaking labor for 9 cents an hour
Making sure corporations have the power
Paying off presidents, leaders, and kings
These are a few of my favorite things

Being the one per cent of one per centers
Owning the networks and squashing dissenters
Abusing the power that this power brings
These are a few of my favorite things

Running the banks to our selfish advantage
Using your armies as cops to mismanage
Helping Monsanto to grow all those things
These are a few of my favorite things

When the people rise. When the riots start. When I'm feeling sad.
I simply remember my favorite things and then I don't feel so baaad!

---------------------------------

I sang it at the slam on Monday. Here's the footage.




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skonen_blades: (Default)
The silly goose is wild.

The chase for meaning through whimsy is the most important one of all. There is no name for this pursuit. It should be up there with science, art and religion. The laugh track to enlightenment, the tension breaker, the communal language surpasser that brings us all together is the only reason to be here. Or at least the most valuable one. The chase for the silly goose is what gives validity to our lives and by that I mean it makes it enjoyable. And by that I mean it makes it tolerable.

Anyone can build. Anyone can destroy. The seeming pointlessness of laughter and the ability to generate laughter in others masks a much deeper and necessary wave of the best humanity has to offer. It’s more than just a break from the monotonous slide show of life. It’s more than a way to escape the worries of your bills, deadlines, mortality or love life. It’s a way to tap into the reasons for existence. It’s the hard left that can bring genius to research and get love going again.

Every court needs a jester. Raven, Loki, Puck, Eris, Prometheus, Coyote, Hermes, Mercurius, Eshu, Anansi, Monkey, Leprechaun, Set, Renard the Fox, Kokopelli, Tanuki, Iktomi, Bugs Bunny, Charlie Chaplin’s Little Tramp, Pippi Longstocking, the Joker, and again and again and again.

The clown that plays the subservient in order to entertain is stooping to conquer. It’s an act. The jester was the only person that was allowed to make fun of the king without fear of execution. Such is the power of the harlequin. It isn’t saying ‘fuck it’ with no knowledge of how terrible the consequences might be. It’s diving in knowing the stakes while completely disregarding them.

It’s dependent on wit without armour and tactics without brute strength. It’s beyond a survival or defense mechanism. It’s a mastery mechanism. As one laughs, one lowers one’s shield.

It’s not rooted in innocence thought it may seem like it. Its beauty does not lie in its innocence though it may seem like it.

The people that seem to take nothing seriously are the ones that see how serious the world is.

In case you haven’t heard it, there is a joke about a psychiatrist treating an exceptionally sad patient. The psychiatrist has tried everything but cannot get through to this patient. In a stroke of brilliance, he says “Hey! The great clown Pagliacchi is in town this month. You should go see him. He will cheer you up. He cheers everyone up.”

The patient says “But doctor, I AM Pagliacchi.”

The tears of a clown. The chase for meaning through whimsy can be profane and sacred at the same time unlike anything else. It’s the only church that’s necessary. It is the great equalizer. It exposes leaders as common people and the common people as universal. It breaks rules and gets applause. Comedy is given less credit and that’s just fine. The only way to keep its power secret is to exist under society like a carpet.

Then someone can pull that carpet out from under all of us.

So chase the goose. It is wild so that you can be. It is silly so that you can be.

The chase for meaning through whimsy is the most important one of all.






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skonen_blades: (bounder)
When we tried to pick each other up, we spoke at the same time, our pickup lines colliding with each other, two lines on top of each other, forming the sign for equals.

Your summon-answer sequence, my repartee discourse, and the resulting relational proposition was beautiful. I had never experienced a non-defective quotative act like it. I always had an open presupposed proposition that my impermissible mixed metaphors were weak epistemic qualifications at best, unproductive suffixes at worst. What’s a nice noun like you doing in a sentence like this?

Your elicitation frame introduced me to an irregular verb. I responded with a hedged performative. Your enablement schema gave me the proper field distinction to build a firm endocentric construction. In my pants.

There was no ambiguous phonetic transition. It was a conjunctive act. Your container metaphor mixed with my conversational maxim as both our tongue roots switched from accusative to dative case. Your indicating device told me there wasn’t a double stop in sight. We made the switch from question marks to exclamation points.

After some athletic subject/object relation, I flipped you over for an emphatic alternate relation. There was no failure of fit. Your dipthong circumfixated on my assertive illocutionary point. My antipassive voice became an emphasis marker. My anchored entity became fluent in gestural usage. Your breathy vowels began a future perfect tense as my counterfactual conditional relation found its way deep into your cleft sentence. I’m going to comma.

You spouted a hierarchical honorific as I repeatedly inflected your grammatical gender with insertion sequence labials. We switched to a new extraposition with a brief glottal plosive, defining ourselves through kinetic distinction. Nuclear syllables stampeded from your mouth before it quivered into a voiceless vowel. I responded with a phonetically similar segment and we were both lost in an obliterative overlap. We found new inflectional categories. Full stop. I ate my words. You swallowed my syllogism.

And that’s no hyperbole.



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skonen_blades: (Default)
He wasn’t the only hit man I ever met with a sense of humour but he was the funniest. Whenever he was going to kill a mark, he said that he was “going to a meeting”.

He dressed immaculately in black suits and crisp white shirts. Walking down the street in the financial district, he blended in like a tiger’s stripes in tall grass. He looked exactly the same as all the other businessmen.

He had this absent smile on his face at all times. His head nodded to an imperceptible beat. He laughed easily and often. The whole gig just tickled him.

Something was broken inside of him. I’d never once seen him twitch with something that could have been called remorse or reflection. He drank a lot but never seemed to get drunk.

They pulled him out of the river last week. I’ll always miss his eccentricity. The new guy that they hired as his replacement always stares. He thinks he’s hardcore. He speaks softly and it feels like an intrusion to ask him to repeat himself.

He has no style and I don’t trust him. He’s going to fuck up a job one day and I hope it’s not a job that I’m on.



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