post-apocalyptic-optimists: the manifesto
“I assure you, doctor…It is relatively simple matter for a weathered charlatan like myself to put up with so small a carnival as this…”
— Friedrich Nietzsche (post-sanity)
…and here I thought there would be nothing at this party besides the cool, incandescent judgements of a million intellectual cripples and the high-minded/lowbrow slop addicts only a fan of uber-bourgois TV prattle could love. Yet, alas, dear reader, it is only you and I and me and you and that’s not much fabric between the buttons if you are into crass innuendo.
Twenty years. Twenty-glorious-freaking-years. Yes, hard to believe, I know. Especially on my end. It’s been two decades this month since I’ve been on the “internet” — mostly using pseudonyms and well-crafted monikers to write what I truly wanted to write. And not risk being censored as myself, warpedor unread. Call it an “easy out”…call it “spanking grandma for more biscuits”…Call it “the cops are here and I just remembered I can’t speak English…por favor…”
And now, I don’t care. I don’t have to care. I’m alive. And trust me, I’m more alive than you are.
Standing at the sliding door convergence of a claustrophobic Trader Joes parking lot in Los Angeles, the WILD EYED MAN speaks to the mouth-breathers who’ve gathered in the area, believing there were being given free meatballs to anyone who showed up at the on this particular day, repeating the magic word (of the day) — RAGU…RAGU….RAGU….and injustice…and does so emphatically, gently, and lest I forget…
“Let’s — for a moment…and then, maybe 10 so I can grab a smoke — imagine a world without _______ . Wouldn’t it be lovely to live in a _______-less world? I think of this world, which is the one of which I think, the one we fondly refer to as _______ among friends — and to the morons, slack-jaws, and crackerjacks? We simply refer to it as ________.
If you’ve filled in the blanks with the name of the inner jack-ball deep within you? Kudos. You win. And your prize is absolutely nothing. Which is the net worth of your contribution up to this point. And whether or not you created a Silicon start-up whose sole purpose was to remind new-born parents that they needn’t wait in line anymore for baby formula…<gasp>…because you, Jeremy…yes, you…you invented an app to remind users and then bill them indiscriminately for deliverable diapers that had both ponies and flying saucers on those for the respective girl-babies and boy-babies.
You may be successful, recognizable, and branded…but America?
You ain’t no Howard Hughes.
Is there a single billionaire whose story rivets me to the back of my imaginary chair? Is there anything about the current state of “fame” and “pop culture” that sounds remotely desirable as a destination point or acts as an incentive for taking over the entire fucking world?
Answering this with anything only casts dumb-ass shadows all around you.
So, welcome. And please sit down as we take you back, way back, to when people then referred to their past as a simpler time — without the hangups and materialists and assholes and what-not — and now you can breathe in the afore-mentioned story-time happy horse-shit some refer to as a yarn…
It’s no surprise that it was He, the man in the raincoat ON A BUS going SOMEWHERE with a HINT of TOBACCO hugging his already self-satisfied body…that it was he who was charged for the double murder of two kids holding onto a dream, but in this sordid yarn, they die and my, they die gloriously — on a jelly-bellied hog farm that once prospered but now crumbling — like everything — long time ago, left to the caretakers and what a crap factory it’s become, lurching on the twisted ankles of a litany of family history, schizo-fueled relationships, and friends that never seem to be available much like I’ve been — for most of my life.
And so he killed them…
Oh, what a champ.
And myself? None for me, thank you. I already ate in my car.
Good night and sweet dreams to those all around me — and to those who are way-too-close, you’d better take a step back before loving-kindness swaps out for no-more-teeth.
Brian John Schaefer
Re: Manifesto — This isn’t it. I’ll circle back soon. Carry on…