Monday, September 30, 2013

The State of Discourse Today

Man:  Well, it is an indisputable fact that even in this age of reproductive technologies such as artificial insemination and in vitro fertilization, coitus is still far and away the most common and popular way to have children.

Woman:  Don't tell me what to do with my vagina!

Saturday, September 28, 2013

Saturday Night

I am too busy to listening to the rain drops drop to write anything.  Save this:  Good writers will use rainfall to describe other sounds.  Great writers can describe the rainfall itself.  But I am not a great writer.  Sorry.  I can only say that it is a strong, steady rain, but not a fierce one, the kind that harbingers broken limbs, a blackout, or a tornado.  It is coming straight down, not at a slant.  There is little wind driving it.  To compare the sound to a distant roar of an ocean is, perhaps, understandable but a bit trite. It's not a sizzle in the frying pan.  That's an alarm. What this rain sounds like to me is a billion kisses falling to the ground.

Friday, September 27, 2013

Thanks, Chris O'Leary!

I admit it. I ADMIT IT! My opposition to the legal recognition of ss'm' is based on nothing more than irrational hatred. I want to hate, hate, hate. There's nothing I love more than hating. I even hate that I love to hate. Don't think about that logical contradiction. I am irrational, remember? And now that I have admitted that I am nothing but a hater, who wants pure hate to consume all his mind and body right down to his last lymph node, I feel free, free, free. Oh, God, what joy! Even though I hate joy, and because this confessional mode is so thrilling, I have a couple more things to confess. 
Opposition to the legal recognition of ss'm' is just a fucking gay outlet for all this vehement hatred pent up in me. I mean, seriously, insisting that sexual difference matters, saying that it is normal to have a mother and a father, drooling at pin-ups of Maggie Gallagher, eating Barilla Pasta does not quite cut it when it comes to releasing the Kraken that is my avalanche of irresistible hatred. I need something a tad more Sturm und Drang, ya know?

And that's why I want to thank from the bottom of my hate-wallowing heart Chris O'Leary for comparing me to a racist and an anti-Semite. I did not want to admit it at the time, but what he did was to tell me my true calling. He made me confront my true self. He forced me finally out of my hate closet, in which I have been suffocating my truest yearnings for over four decades. Now, finally, I can be honest with myself.  So, I am now going to stop writing these piddling arguments against "marriage equality" (which no one reads anyway, except for bored Latvians) and embark on something more suited for my raging hate.  I am going to start building some gallows and gas chambers.  Because I want to lynch Niggers and gas Yids.  
Finally, my life has purpose and meaning, and I owe it all to Chris O'Leary.

For the all-too literal minded the following disclaimer may be useful: THE ABOVE IS REALLY THICK SARCASM.

Thursday, September 26, 2013


Don't ever get Pizza from Papa John's.  I ordered a pizza from a Papa John's once and have made a solemn vow never do that ever again.  I hate the pizza and got a violent attack of diarrhea.  I shall spare you, gentle reader, the feculent details.  Use your imagination.

Wednesday, September 25, 2013


According to Freudian Theory, I should be gay because I had a hovering mother and a distant father.  And according to simple behaviourism I should be gay because my first sexual experience was with a male.  One day I was playing out in the backyard with a boy (older than me by two, three years--I forget) named Darron.  He slid my pants down, my drawers as well, and sucked on my penis for about two or three seconds.  Actually, I don't think he sucked.  I think he bit my penis.  So, fine, behaviourism explains not why I should be gay but why I'm supposedly so anti-gay.  My first sexual experience was a boy biting my penis.  Therefore, I am opposed to the legal recognition of same-sex "marriage" because of the subconscious fear that gay "married" couples will bite my penis off.

Yeah, but why am I not afraid that gay men will come and bite my penis off if I do not support the legal recognition of same-sex "marriage"?  After all, you don't have to be in a legally recognized marriage to have sex, have and raise kids, or bite some one's penis off.

But it helps.

So I am told, anyway.


Interesting question, this.

Tuesday, September 24, 2013

Tut mir leid

Ich habe nix Interessantes zu erzählen.

Sunday, September 22, 2013


Our Men in Blue are excellent in following orders, particularly stupid ones.

Saturday, September 21, 2013

It's coming back to me now

Yes, yes, I remember.  When I was first taught what marriage is, way back in Catholic Grade School, I remember one of my classmates asking why marriage had to be between a man and a woman.  The nun told us that otherwise society would not be able to demean and humiliate and oppress homosexuals.  My classmate, by the way, was never seen again.  I think he was burned at the stake.

I am so glad that Pope Francis is making the Church more gay-friendly.  But evil homophobic oppression won't stop until the Vatican is razed to the ground and replaced by a big gay bathhouse.

Friday, September 20, 2013

I admit it

I think marriage is between a man and a woman.  Therefore, I want to put pink triangles on all homosexuals and send them off to be gassed.

Satisfied, Stephen Fry?

Thursday, September 19, 2013


The Owls are still quiet.  This withholding of wisdom is killing me.

Wednesday, September 18, 2013

What I learned today

I learned that the majority in Virginia v. Loving, the case that struck down anti-miscegenation laws, predicated the fundamental right to marry upon the fundamental right to procreate.  That means, kiddies, that Loving cannot be used to show that there is a fundamental right to enter into a legally recognized same-sex "marriage".  More later.

And the owls are still quiet.

Tuesday, September 17, 2013


The Owls are quiet tonight.

Monday, September 16, 2013

The Owls are Loud Tonight

I can hear them even though I have a fan on high.  It seems that they are actually shouting at each other.  A fierce disagreement among the wise, perhaps.  The Owl of Minerva spreads her wings only at dusk, and yet it is well past dusk.  It is, in fact, an hour before the bewitching hour, and yet the philosophers are still not taking flight but are bogged down in a whooping dispute.  History is not over.  Yet.  So, fuck you, Hegel!


Writing scares me.

Saturday, September 14, 2013

LG v. T

The media has by now trained us all to say “LGBT" unthinkingly, to take it for granted that Lesbians, Gays, Bisexuals, and the Transgendered are all one harmonious group with the interests of the constituent parts all perfectly aligned with one another. This is bunk. The primary goal of the Lesbians and the Gays is the complete overthrow of what is called heteronormativity, the idea that sexual difference actually matters for anything more than someone's purely private preference. The push for “marriage equality” is the push for the de-sexing of the one institution premised upon the public importance of sexual difference.

Yet, the transgendered rely upon the societal valorization of sexual difference for their identities. A man who really thinks he is a woman wants to be known as a woman in public, wants to be treated as a woman in public, wants, in other words, to inhabit the gender rôle that society has constructed for the other sex. If heteronormativity goes, so does the idea of gender rôles, and if there are no gender rôles, sexual difference does not matter and neither does the quest for a public sexual identity. In sum, the Gays and Lesbians want to scrap the very thing that gives the transgendered any meaning at all. Therefore, the L and G are logically not the allies of the T, but its enemies.

Friday, September 13, 2013

September 13, 2013

I am too parakevidekatriaphobic to write anything today.

Thursday, September 12, 2013

Just checking in

Just want to assure my Latvian readership that I am still alive.  Other than that, I have nothing to say.

Wednesday, September 11, 2013

Anger Management

Hey, everyone, look at these pictures of really deformed babies. Don't they just tug at your heart strings? Don't they make you disgusted? Don't they fill you with livid rage? Don't they want to make you bomb the everliving shit out of whomever was responsible for this unspeakable cruelty? Well, if they do and you are a citizen of the "anchor of global security since 1943", then you would do well do keep that ragin' will to bomb to yourself. Seek counseling for anger management if need be. Otherwise, you just might be charged with High Treason.

Anchor of Global Security since 1943!

Last night Our Dear Leader said that our nation has been "the anchor of global security for seven decades."

The obvious question is, global security for whom.

Certainly not for the Guatemalans, whose country became a bloody anarchy after we invaded it in 1954.

Certainly not for the Korean Peasants whom we shot in the back by the thousands as they tried to flee the war.

Certainly not for the Vietnamese Peasants, whom if we did not kill, torture, or mutilate we poisoned with tons and tons of Agent Orange.

Certainly not for the women Iraq, many of whom fled our war only to wind up as sex slaves while others must see their babies born as irradiated cyclopses because of all the depleted uranium we dumped upon their mothers.

I could go on (after all, there are many, many thick books that document all the atrocities we've committed while we were "the anchor of global security"), but I trust that anyone reading this with even half a brain will get my point.  Whatever Obama may have meant by "global security", he obviously could not have meant security for the poorest and weakest among us.  If there is one thing that stands out like a garish neon sign in a desert in the seven decades we've supposedly been the anchor of global security, it is this:  our anchor has always fallen upon the weak and has crushed, killed, maimed, mutilated, deformed, starved, desolated, and poisoned them.  U.S. Foreign Policy doesn't care about protecting those who cannot protect themselves.  At all.

And if you believe that this time our President actually means it when he says he wants to protect the poor, defenseless people against the big, bad meanies who rule Syria, even though everything in the last seven decades of U.S. Foreign Policy should have removed the Commander-in-Chief's benefit-of-the-doubt privileges years, if not decades, ago, then, well, I've got some really cheap beachfront property to sell you.  And a bridge in Brooklyn as well.

Yeah, fine, that's a cliché.  So is the use of a humanitarian sob story to justify our Imperialist Interventionism.

Tuesday, September 10, 2013


That's the name of my cat.  I named her that because when she was a wee little thing, little enough to stuff in my pocket (which I could have done but did not, so don't you call PETA on me), she had the face of a bat.  Now that she's all grown up, she does not look a bat anymore but is nearly as acrobatic as one.  So, the name still fits.  Sort of.  Of course, she can't really fly, but the way she is able to get on the roof of my house and back down again with such easy celerity can produce moments of doubt.

But if bats are fearless (and I wouldn't know if they are or not because I've never been around bats long enough to measure their fear or lack thereof.  And I don't know how one would go around doing that.  Have a staring contest between a bat and Robert de Niro and see who flinches first?  No idea.  But, all I am saying is IF bats are fearless), then my cat is nothing like a bat.  Today I waved a sock at her, and she ran away in mortal terror.  Perhaps, it was her way of telling me to do my laundry more often.  Perhaps.  But she doesn't seem to mind ripping apart the corpses of mice.  Well, yes, but she does that before the stink sets in.  Fine.  Fledermaus is not timid.  I just need to do my laundry more often.  Women!  Always nagging!

Monday, September 9, 2013

Saved from Guardian Censorship

Transsexuals should cut it out by Julie Burchill

The brilliant writer Suzanne Moore and I go back a long way. I first met her when she was a young single mother living in a council flat; she took me out to interview me about my novel Ambition (republished by Corvus Books this spring, since you ask) for dear dead City Limits magazine. "I've got an entertaining budget of £12.50!" she said proudly. "Sod that, we're having lobster and champagne at Frederick's and I'm paying," I told her. Half a bottle of Bolly later, she looked at me with faraway eyes: "Ooo, I could get to like this…" And so she did.

I have observed her rise to the forefront of this country's great polemicists with a whole lot of pride – and just a tiny bit of envy. I am godmother to her three brilliant, beautiful daughters. Though we differ on certain issues we will have each other's backs until the sacred cows come home.

With this in mind, I was incredulous to read that my friend was being monstered on Twitter, to the extent that she had quit it, for supposedly picking on a minority – transsexuals. Though I imagine it to be something akin to being savaged by a dead sheep, as Denis Healey had it of Geoffrey Howe, I nevertheless felt indignant that a woman of such style and substance should be driven from her chosen mode of time-wasting by a bunch of dicks in chicks' clothing.

To my mind – I have given cool-headed consideration to the matter – a gaggle of transsexuals telling Suzanne Moore how to write looks a lot like how I'd imagine the Black and White Minstrels telling Usain Bolt how to run would look. That rude and ridic.

Here's what happened. In a book of essays called Red: The Waterstones Anthology, Suzanne contributed a piece about women's anger. She wrote that, among other things, women were angry about "not having the ideal body shape – that of a Brazilian transsexual". Rather than join her in decrying the idea that every broad should aim to look like an oven-ready porn star, the very vociferous transsexual lobby and their grim groupies picked on the messenger instead.

I must say that my only experience of the trans lobby thus far was hearing about the vile way they have persecuted another of my friends, the veteran women's rights and anti-domestic violence activist Julie Bindel – picketing events where she is speaking about such minor issues as the rape of children and the trafficking of women just because she refuses to accept that their relationship with their phantom limb is the most pressing problem that women – real and imagined – are facing right now.

Similarly, Suzanne's original piece was about the real horror of the bigger picture – how the savagery of a few old Etonians is having real, ruinous effects on the lives of the weakest members of our society, many of whom happen to be women. The reaction of the trans lobby reminded me very much of those wretched inner-city kids who shoot another inner-city kid dead in a fast-food shop for not showing them enough "respect". Ignore the real enemy – they're strong and will need real effort and organisation to fight. How much easier to lash out at those who are conveniently close to hand!

But they'd rather argue over semantics. To be fair, after having one's nuts taken off (see what I did there?) by endless decades in academia, it's all most of them are fit to do. Educated beyond all common sense and honesty, it was a hoot to see the screaming mimis accuse Suze of white feminist privilege; it may have been this that made her finally respond in the subsequent salty language she employed to answer her Twitter critics: "People can just fuck off really. Cut their dicks off and be more feminist than me. Good for them."

She, the other JB and I are part of the minority of women of working-class origin to make it in what used to be called Fleet Street and I think this partly contributes to the stand-off with the trannies. (I know that's a wrong word, but having recently discovered that their lot describe born women as 'Cis' – sounds like syph, cyst, cistern; all nasty stuff – they're lucky I'm not calling them shemales. Or shims.) We know that everything we have we got for ourselves. We have no family money, no safety net. And we are damned if we are going to be accused of being privileged by a bunch of bed-wetters in bad wigs.

It's been noted before that cyberspace, though supposedly all new and shiny, is plagued by the age-old boredom of men telling women not to talk and threatening them with all kinds of nastiness if they persist in saying what they feel.

The trans lobby is now saying that it wasn't so much the initial piece as Suzanne's refusal to apologise when told to that "made" them drive her from Twitter. Presumably she is meant to do this in the name of solidarity and the "struggle", though I find it very hard to imagine this mob struggling with anything apart from the English language and the concept of free speech.

To have your cock cut off and then plead special privileges as women – above natural-born women, who don't know the meaning of suffering, apparently – is a bit like the old definition of chutzpah: the boy who killed his parents and then asked the jury for clemency on the grounds he was an orphan.

Shims, shemales, whatever you're calling yourselves these days – don't threaten or bully us lowly natural-born women, I warn you. We may not have as many lovely big swinging Phds as you, but we've experienced a lifetime of PMT and sexual harassment and many of us are now staring HRT and the menopause straight in the face – and still not flinching. Trust me, you ain't seen nothing yet. You really won't like us when we're angry.

Sunday, September 8, 2013

I have nothing to say

But I am determined, nonetheless, to write something if only to live up to the trite dictum, "a writer writes."  I want to be a writer even at my decrepit age.  And, so, I have to write.  Every day.  Even when I have really nothing to say.  Because if I do not write, I fall out of practice, and when I fall out of practice, then I can't write, and then my hope of ever becoming a writer is dashed.  And I don't want that.  So, I've got to learn how to write about nothing in a very interesting, scintillating, creative manner, and then people will say that I am a writer and hire me, and I'll finally have a paying job that will enable  me to buy more books by writers who are more talented than I am when it comes to writing about nothing.  And, maybe, I will learn from them how to be an even better writer of nothing.  And, maybe, I'll become a superduper writer of nothing.  Like, say, Dan Brown.  And, then, my dreams will come true.  I'll meet Tom Hanks.

I am obviously dithering.  My apologies to my Latvian Readership.

I want to fall in love.  Then I would actually have something to write about.  But I am too old to fall in love.  Vae mihi.

Nonsense.  Everything is nonsense.

Saturday, September 7, 2013

Just got back from the Clayton Art Fair

Saw a lot of wanna-be Dalis, wanna-be Miros, stuff that looked like it came from the R-Rated version of Struwwelpeter (which I kinda liked), and a bunch of rectangles of various bright colors or the dehumanizingly drab hues of industrial grey, showing that the twin legacies of Rothko and Serra are unfortunately still limping on.  And, of course, I saw many paintings of beautiful autumnal scenes that just would look great over a gas-powered fireplace in the hope of lending it some authentic rustic aura.  Yeah, well, the middle brow art scene is in a rut.  Still.  But it's supposed to be.  Middle brow is per definition in a rut.

But one artist wowed me.  Really wowed me.  Kathleen Eaton.  I haven't seen painted glows this alluring and magical since Latour.  From afar it seemed that her paintings illuminated her tent as dusk fell.  I asked her if she cheated and sneaked in some fluorescents.  She rather curtly said no.  Sorry.  Yeah, it's rather middle brow of me to be bowled over by a painter's tricks with light.  Well, perhaps, "middle brow" is too kind.  I am more like a cave man going onga bonga because he has seen fire for the first time.  Fine.  Great art is supposed to trigger in us a primal sense of wonder, and Ms. Eaton's paintings of scenes manage to do just that in the midst of what is supposed to have buried it, the artifice of modern urban life.

Friday, September 6, 2013

The Merchant of Venice

You're a bigot if you call your mother "mother" and your father "father"--in Venedig, at least.  I wonder how much Signor Seibezzi got when he sold his rational soul to the LGBTQ machine.

Thursday, September 5, 2013

Between East and Little East

Before I die, I want to pay homage to this alley:

I am Happy

Quadrophenia is now available for streaming on Netflix Instant Play.  This film is about the most fundamental antagonism of mankind, the eternal war between Mods and Rockers. I am happy.

Wednesday, September 4, 2013


I am in a Greek Philosophy Reading Group. We were supposed to have our first meeting of this academic year today, but it was postponed a week because the Atheist Professor who leads the group must attend Rosh Hashanah Service, which, of course, celebrates the 5774th anniversary of mankind's creation by an entity whose existence he disproves every semester in his Intro to Philosophy class.

Tuesday, September 3, 2013

If the apocalypse is truly upon us... lots of plums.  Plums are juicy and sweet.

Monday, September 2, 2013

My Friends

Books.  These are my friends, and because I am myopic, I can read without my glasses.  So, there is no danger, at least not in der absehbarer Zukunft, that I shall suffer the horrible irony of the Nightwatchman in that notorious "Twilight Zone" episode.  And my books will never leave me because of my supposed homophobic bigotry.  Books are my friends.  I have become a gnostic.  I am going to hell.  But my books will comfort me--this side of the eschaton, at least.

Sunday, September 1, 2013

Our dear leader deserves some credit

Obama at the very least had the decency not to launch an attack on Syria on the seventy-fourth anniversary of Germany's invasion of Poland.