The depository for ideas Site {FRIDAY EDITION}

For those that missed it this is a site for Ideas and stories. Am putting it up as a Friday thread so you can all see what it,s about.

(Plus I am running very late again).

 

Jaycee’s idea

Raffle and trivia night will be held next Friday.

TONIGHTS COMMENTS START AFTER ABOUT 33

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783 thoughts on “The depository for ideas Site {FRIDAY EDITION}

  1. THE MONUMENT ……..By IRWIN SHAW .

    “I DO NOT WANT ANY OF HIS OWN BRAND,” MC MAHON SAID FIRMLY. He blew on a glass and wiped it with deliberate care. “I have my own opinion of his own brand.”

    Mr Grimmet looked sad, sitting across the bar on a high stool, and Thesing shrugged like a salesman, not giving up the fight, but moving to a new position to continue the attack. McMahon picked up another glass in his clean, soft bartender’s hands. He wiped it, his face serious and determined and flushed right up to the bald spot that his plastered down hair couldn’t cover. There was nobody else in the bar at the front part of the restaurant.

    It was three o’clock in the afternoon. In the rear three waiters stood arguing. Every day at three o’clock the three waiters gathered in the back and argued.

    “Fascism,” one waiter said, “is a rehearsal for the cemetery.”

    “You read that some place,” another waiter said.

    “All right,” said the first waiter, “I read it some place.”

    “An Italian,” the third waiter said to the first waiter. “You’re without a doubt one lousy Italian.”

    Mr Grimmet turned around and called to the waiters:

    “Please reserve discussions of that character for when you go home. This is a restaurant, not Madison Square Garden.”

    He turned back to watching McMahon wiping the glasses. The three waiters looked at him with equal hate.

    “Many of the best bars in the city,” Thesing said in his musical salesman’s voice, “use our own brand.”

    “Many of the best bars in the city,” McMahon said, using the towel very hard, “ought to be turned into riding academies.”

    “That’s funny,” Thesing said, laughing almost naturally. “He’s very funny, isn’t he, Mr Grimmet?”

    “Listen, Billy,” Mr Grimmet said, leaning forward, disregarding Thesing, “listen to reason. In a mixed drink nobody can tell how much you paid for the rye that goes into it. That is the supreme beauty of cocktails.”

    McMahon didn’t say anything. The red got a little deeper on his cheeks and on his bald spot and he put the clean glasses down with a sharp tinkle and the tinkle went through the shining lines of the other glasses on the shelves and sounded thinly through the empty restaurant. He was a little fat man, very compact, and he moved with great precision and style behind a bar and you could tell by watching him whether he was merry or sad or perturbed, just from the way he mixed a drink or put down a glass. Just now he was angry and Mr Grimmet knew it.

    Mr Grimmet didn’t want a fight, but there was quite a bit of money to be saved. He put out his hand appealingly to Thesing.

    “Tell me the truth, Thesing,” he said. “Is your own brand bad?”

    “Well,” Thesing said slowly, “a lot of people like it. It is very superior for a product of its type.”

    “Varnish type,” McMahon said, facing the shelves. “Care-fully matched developing fluid.”

    Thesing laughed, the laugh he used from nine to six.

    “Witty,” he said, “the sparkling bartender.” McMahon wheeled and looked at him, head down a little on his chest. “I meant it,” Thesing protested. “I sincerely meant it.”

    “I want to tell you,” Mr Grimmet said to McMahon, fixing him with his eye, “that we can save seven dollars a case on our own brand.” McMahon started whistling the tenor aria from Pagliacci. He looked up at the ceiling and wiped a glass and whistled. Mr Grimmet felt like firing him and remembered that at least twice a month he felt like firing McMahon.

    “Please stop whistling,” he said politely. “We have a matter to discuss.”

    McMahon stopped whistling and Mr Grimmet still felt like firing him.

    “Times’re not so good,” Mr Grimmet said in a cajoling tone of voice, hating himself for descending to such tactics before an employee of his. “Remember, McMahon, Coolidge is no longer in the White House. I am the last one in the world to com-promise with quality, but we must remember, we are in business and it is 1939.”

    “Thesing’s own brand,” McMahon said, “would destroy the stomach of a healthy horse.”

    “Mussolini,” the first waiter’s voice came out from the back of the restaurant. “Every day on Broadway I pass forty-five actors who could do his act better.”

    “I am going to tell you one thing,” Mr Grimmet said with obvious calmness to McMahon. “I am the owner of this restaurant.”

    McMahon whistled some more from Pagliacci. Thesing moved wisely down the bar a bit.

    “I am interested in making money,” Mr Grimmet said. “What would you say, Mr McMahon, if I ordered you to use Thesing’s own brand?”

    “I would say, ‘I am through, Mr Grimmet.’ Once and for all.”

    Mr Grimmet rubbed his face unhappily and stared coldly at the waiters in the back of the restaurant. The waiters re-mained silent and stared coldly back at him. “What’s it to you?” Mr Grimmet asked McMahon angrily. “What do you care if we use another whiskey? Do you have to drink it?”

    “In my bar, Mr Grimmet,” McMahon said, putting down his towel and the glasses and facing his employer squarely, “in my bar, good drinks are served.”

    “Nobody will know the difference!” Mr Grimmet got off his stool and jumped up and down gently. “What do Americans know about liquor? Nothing! Read any, book that is published on the subject!”

    “True,” Thesing said judicially, “The general consensus of opinion is that Americans do not know the difference between red wine and a chocolate malted milk.”

    “In my bar,” McMahon repeated, his face very red, his wide hands spread on the bar, “I serve the best drinks I know how to serve.”

    “Stubborn!” Mr Grimmet yelled. “You are a stubborn Irish-man! You do this out of malice! You are anxious to see me lose seven dollars on every case of liquor because you dislike me. Let us get down to the bedrock of truth!”

    “Keep your voice down,” McMahon said, speaking with great control. “I want to remind you of one or two things. I have worked for you since Repeal, Mr Grimmet. In that time, how many times did we have to enlarge the bar?”

    “I am not in the mood for history, McMahon!” Mr Grimmet shouted. “What good is a bar as long as the Normandie if it is not run on a businesslike basis?”

    “Answer my question,” McMahon said. “How many times?”

    “Three,” Mr Grimmet said, “all right, three.”

    “We are three times as big now as we were six years ago,” McMahon said in a professor’s tone, explaining proposition one, going on to proposition two. “Why do you think that is?”

    “Accident!” Mr Grimmet looked ironically up to the ceiling. “Fate! Roosevelt! The hand of God! How do I know?”

    “I will tell you,” McMahon said, continuing in the professorial vein. “People who come into this bar get the best Manhattans, the best Martinis, the best Daiquiris that are made on the face of the earth. They are made out of the finest ingredients, with great care, Mr Grimmet.”

    “One cocktail tastes like another,” Mr Grimmet said. “People make a big fuss and they don’t know anything.”

    “Mr Grimmet,” McMahon said with open contempt, “it is easy to see that you’re not a drinking man.”

    Mr Grimmet’s face reflected his desperate search for a new line of defence. His eyebrows went up with pleasure as he found it. He sat down and spoke softly across the bar to McMahon.

    “Did it ever occur to you,” he asked, “that people come into this place because of the food that is served here?”

    “I will give you my final opinion of Greta Garbo,” the first waiter’s voice sounded out defiantly. “There is nobody like her.”

    For a moment McMahon looked straight into Mr Grimmet’s eyes. A slight bitter smile played at one corner of his mouth. He breathed deeply, like a man who has just decided to bet on a horse that had not won in fourteen races.

    “Shall I tell you what I think of the food that is served in your. restaurant, Mr Grimmet?” McMahon asked flatly.

    “The best chefs,” Mr Grimmet said quickly, “the best chefs in the city of New York.”

    McMahon nodded slowly. “The best chefs,” he said, “and the worst food.”

    “Consider,” Mr Grimmet called. “Consider what you’re saying.”

    “Anything a cook can disguise,” McMahon said, talking now to Thesing, disregarding Mr Grimmet, “is wonderful here. Anything with a sauce. Once I ate a sirloin steak in this restaurant .. .”

    “Careful, McMahon.” Mr Grimmet jumped off his stool and ran around to face McMahon. ,

    “What can be done to disguise a sirloin steak?” McMahon asked reasonably. “Nothing. You broil it. Simply that. If it was good when it was cut off the steer, it’s good on your plate. If it was bad .. .”

    “I pay good prices!” Mr Grimmet yelled. “I’ll have no allusions .. .”

    “I would not bring a dog into this restaurant to eat sirloin steak,” McMahon said. “Not a young dog with the teeth of a lion.

    “You’re fired!” Mr Grimmet pounded on the bar. “This restaurant will now do without your services.”

    McMahon bowed. “That is satisfactory to me,” he said. “Perfectly satisfactory.”

    “Well, now, everybody. Boys!” Thesing said pacifically. “Over a little thing like our own rye. . . .”

    McMahon began taking off his apron. “This bar has a reputation. It is my reputation. I am proud of it. I am not interested in remaining at a place in which my reputation will be damaged.”

    McMahon threw his apron, neatly folded, over a towel rack and picked up the little wooden wedge on which was printed, in gold letters, “William McMahon, In Charge.” Mr Grimmet watched him with trouble in his eyes as McMahon lifted the hinged piece of the bar that permitted the bartenders to get out into the restaurant proper.

    “What is the sense,” Mr Grimmet asked as the hinges creaked,”of taking a rash step, Billy?” Once more Mr Grimmet hated himself for his dulcet tone of voice, but William McMahon was one of the five finest bartenders in the city of New York.

    McMahon stood there, pushing the hinged piece of the bar a 1ittle, back and forth. “Once and for all,” he said. He let the aged piece fall behind him.

    “I’ll tell you what I’ll do, Billy,” Mr Grimmet went on swiftly, hating himself more and more, “I’ll make a compromise. I will give you five dollars more per week.” He sighed to himself and then looked brightly at McMahon.

    McMahon knocked his shingle thoughtfully against the bar.

    “I will try to make you understand something, Mr Grimmet,” he said, gently. “I am not as fundamentally interested in money as I am fundamentally interested in other things.”

    “You are not so different from the rest of the world,” Mr Grimmet said with dignity.

    “I have been working for twenty-five years,” McMahon said, knocking the shingle that said, “William McMahon, In Charge,” “and I have constantly been able to make a living. I do not work only to make a living. I am more interested in making something else. For the last six years I have worked here night and day. A lot of nice people come in here and drink like ladies and gentlemen. They all like this place. They all like me.”

    “Nobody is saying anything about anybody not liking you,” Mr Grimmet said impatiently. “I am discussing a matter of business principle.”

    “I like this place.” McMahon looked down at the shingle in his hand. “I think this is a very nice bar. I planned it. Right?” He looked up at Mr Grimmet.

    “You planned it. I will sign an affidavit to the effect that you planned it,” Mr Grimmet said ironically. “What has that got to do with Thesing’s own brand?”

    “If something is right here,” McMahon went on, without raising his voice, “people can say it’s William McMahon’s doing. If something is wrong here they can say it’s William McMahon’s fault. I like that, Mr Grimmet. When I die people can say, `William McMahon left a monument; the bar at Grimmet’s Restaurant. He never served a bad drink in his whole life.’ ”

    McMahon took his coat out of the closet next to the bar and put it on. “A monument. I will not have a monument made out of Thesing’s own brand. Mr Grimmet, I think you are a dumb bastard.”,

    McMahon bowed a little to the two men and started out. Mr Grimmet gulped, then called, his words hard and dry in the empty restaurant. “McMahon!” The bartender turned around.

    “All right,” Mr Grimmet said. “Come back.”

    McMahon gestured toward Thesing.

    “Any liquor you say,” Mr Grimmet said in a choked voice. “Any goddamn whiskey you want!”

    McMahon smiled and went back to the closet and took his coat off and took the shingle out of his pocket. He went back to the bar and slipped on his apron, as Thesing and Grimmet watched.

    “One thing,” Mr Grimmet said, his eyes twitching from the strain, “one thing I want you to know.”

    “Yes, sir,” said McMahon.

    “I don’t want you to talk to me,” Mr Grimmet said, “and I don’t want to talk to you. Ever.”

    Thesing quietly picked up his hat and stole out the door.

    “Yes, sir,” said McMahon. Mr Grimmet walked swiftly into the kitchen.

    “I will tell you.something about debutantes,” the first waiter as saying in the rear of the restaurant, “they are overrated.”

    McMahon tied the bow in his apron strings and, neatly, in the centre of the whiskey shelves above the bar, placed the shingle, “William McMahon, In Charge.”

  2. ESSAY: A Work of Art? Or; The Art of Work?

    The motivation for this essay came from four packets of ladies’ cotton lace handkerchiefs. I had bought them some years before at a garage sale for the princely sum of fifty cents each. One was from Nth’n Ireland, two from Switzerland and one from China. Looking at them in their flat boxes, with the delicate lace folded into diamonds and squares, the brilliant whiteness and small embroideries of flowers, folk images or other set-patterns around the edges and in the corners, I thought they were too, too beautiful for their intended use so I made four frames and placed those “art of work” behind glass to be admired rather than soiled. I could imagine the girls and women (for that would be the reality) sweating over those pieces of cloth . Pieces of work became pieces of art, hence the title of this essay.

    Another excuse for this article, comes from a dispute I am having with a writer on the whys and means of artistic licence. In my calculation, the presumption of “art for art’s sake” is a modern affectation that cannot be justified except in the market place for commodity exchange…the historical creation of what we call ; “art” was once the work-a-day depiction of cultural hopes and activities. The coincidence that such hieroglyphic imagery has a pleasing appearance to human senses and sensibility is more accidental purity of line and length combined with colour and pleasing perspective.

    Certainly, there were some plundering tribes that made use of cultural depiction to amaze and frighten the opposition and then in the more sophisticated societies , the wealthy commissioned artisans to depict statuary and icons for decoration. But these were restricted to the wealthy and state propaganda, the rise of “art for art’s sake” was still a long way away.

    I, am an artisan (tradesman carpenter), my father was an artisan (stone mason-bricklayer), the people who made those hankies were (or are) artisans! A multitude of people producing, constructing, molding, knitting and on and on and on are artisans (from the French : ‘without art’). Getting back to my father the bricklayer (you were wondering why I put him in?) . My father came to Australia from the north of Italy before the 2nd world war. Back in Italy, he was a stonemason, out here where there was not much call for ‘stonies’, he worked under the more familiar nom de plume of bricklayer! But in his employment around the city and suburbs, he built quite a few stone walls and such. One was the long weather-wall along the foreshore at Glenelg . He told me years later that if I was to look at a certain place on that wall, I would see, shaped within the stonework, a map of Italy with all the provinces in varying shades of stone built cunningly into the wall (a stunning…. ,no; a cunning stunt!)….Artisan becomes artist!

    It stands to be proposed: When and who stationed “artists” and “artisans” in their prospective environs? What are the boundaries of these environs, ie; when does artisan become artist and vice-versa? Who adjudicates on works that can be either? What can be done to redress the problem of “artistic” excess?

    Perhaps the first true “artist”, that is; the first person who deliberately constructed a feeling for the sheer pleasure of it, was, perhaps, the person who, seeing the drabness of the cave so depressing, went outside and gathered up a handful of flowers, took them inside, placed them strategically and well, the rest is history! Many a person has gilded their drabness with a “bouquet of lilies”….and received just reward for their initiative!

    There is another boundary, a rather more insidious thing a political thing….a class thing , hardly more ‘enforced’ than now, at this point in time, where the “artist” must be “educated” into the hierarchy, or be politically “in tune to the current needs of the populace!” This has polarized creative works into ; “Creative art” and “Marketable art”.

    This combination of evils, being class-controlled by nurture, locks the more industrious of the producing class out of the race, being, as their ancient forebears, too busy “gutting the mastodon” to have time to become illuminati-ed into the “mysterious paths of creativity”, it has come to the point of my mocking, it’s just that I cannot abide the pretentious waffling of the “artistic” clique that claim unique ability to sway or impress upon the collective desires of the populace such mundane predictability.

    There are no boundaries.. “art” does not exist in itself, but rather as an adjunct to physical experience and cultural existence!… it is not a separate construction of the imagination, if it was, every wicked deed, every insidious act must also be construed as a “work of art” alongside sublime desire! No longer do we aspire to the heroic deed or moment as depicted in Odyssey or Aenied, easier to descend to the lowest common denominator. Elitism in “art” has created a dearth of imagination in the population. So now we are indoctrinated to accept an ” “image” of the “artist”, the falsely constructed behaviour, the “fop”, the contrived personality ponceing around with those two inseparable companions: angst and ecstasy!

    Art has a social obligation…a social objective , but it has been perverted by a market mechanism. There is a serious distortion of our perceptions of achievement within the realms of creativity once we accept the lie of “art for art’s sake” , this is a postmodern prescription and debasement of a noble act. We have given over both riches and recognition to those who ill deserve and abuse both and we receive (unlike our caveman ancestor) little or no representations of our collective struggles in return. The progression to true artistic depiction is a one way street: The artisan has every qualification to aspire to true art (by “true art”, we mean; creative art, including that which is esoteric or aesthetic) because of their connection with physical activity or cultural ambition. The skill needed to envisage, conceive practicalities, collect materials and thoughts and then to “mold” all this plasma into a cohesive design, makes experience in the practical work-fields an essential qualification for the undertaking of an artistic project. That and the emotional trysts of success and failure, strength and weariness , love and loathing of the work involved, gives the artisan all the training needed for creating a “work of art”. The “artist”, conversely, rarely. very rarely, becomes artisan they just do not have the skills.

    Which leads us to ask; who judges on what is a ” work of art’? Who indeed! This leads us back to my statement concerning class boundaries. Invariably, it is in the interests of a certain class to maintain “ownership” and therefore set a “monetary value” on pieces of “art”. The judges, therefore, tend to be those who collect, contract, earn a living by, or just generally set commercial boundaries to : “Objets d’art”, whatever material they be.
    This narrow-minded presumption confines the creation of beautiful objects or imaginative constructs of the mind again to those “qualified” to create!

    A parable : A builder engaged in the construction of a room decided to enhance a window with a little ‘Australiana scene ‘ carved from wood and fixed on the surface of a window so that when the sun shone through it formed a “three-dimensional-silhouette” a rather pleasing effect! A visitor, admiring this scene asked the builder (ignoring the possibility that they could create such a work )..

    “Who made the carving?”

    “Oh, we got a bloke in to do it”. the builder replied.

    The visitor then asked the owner;

    “Who was the person that did the carving?”

    “You’re looking at him!” the builder said.

    The visitor raised one doubting eyebrow in query and had to be reasured by the owner. The insinuation is there. And that, I presume, is where the artisan is expected to remain.

  3. A lot of assumptions here. A minor correction is in order. “Art for art’s sake” is not a postmodern phenomenon. Unless the Impressionists circa 1875 can be classed as postmodern. Or unless the literary modernists of the 1920s can be considered postmodern. Or before them the painters of the very late renaissance beginning to use oil on canvas can be considered postmodern. Art for art’s sake is, when you think about it, a very old institution. My point is: art is a vast domain, and while it may be of interest to some to talk about it, it’s probably better for the artists themselves to do it, and the rest of us to view it.

  4. Ahh!…good on you dedalus…I could correct your correction, but i will wait for others to throw their hat into the ring…if they have the courage!…sufficient to remind yourself that the author who made famous your namesake in modern literature once chided Augustus John ; the painter of his portrait to ; “Never mind the ‘soul’, just make sure you get the tie right!”

  5. Pause long enough!…Well dedalus..assumptions indeed..but at least they are MY assumptions! And while I accept the slogan “art for art’s sake” is from the early nineteenth century, it still is a fatuous statement..and I leave it to Nietzsche to affirm my opinion.

    Friedrich Nietzsche claimed that there is no art for art’s sake. He asked: “…what does all art do? does it not praise? glorify? select? highlight? By doing all this it strengthens or weakens certain valuations….Art is the great stimulus to life: how could one understand it as purposeless, as aimless, as l’art pour l’art?”

    …also we have to concede the first mention of “post-modern”..that title comes with Thorsten Veblen on culture , 1919 :

    Veblen / “post-modern.
    “…But it has been only during the later decades of the modern era — during that time interval that might fairly be called the post-modern era — that this mechanistic conception of things has begun seriously to affect the current system of knowledge and belief; and it has not hitherto seriously taken effect except in technology and in the material sciences.” [Thorstein Veblen, “The Vested Interests and the Common Man,” 1919]

    …and sure, while he did not pursue the doctrinaire of “Postmodernism” as a pseudo philosophy, he did have the knowledge that it presupposed a changing of the times.

    Your last sentence presumes the demand of an indolent society..: art as a consumerable article..: “You make it, we’ll arbitrate upon it and let the market decide”..again, art becomes a commodity, where in truth it is a cultural signal….or at least; should be.

  6. A Call to Revolution!

    Ma’ frens’, we need a revolution!..not to overthrow the state, but to replace the political, administrative and social control from a subservient middle-class with a more homogeneous mix of blue-collar, blue-collar and more blue-collar people…But I am not talking the stupid blue collar..; the bogan idiocy, nor the racist, bigoted goons who wrap themselves in a jingoistic flag and usurp the name of “The People”, such trash will always be trash and more than likely aspirants for a middle-class lifestyle.; “I want to be effluent, mum, effluent!”

    Now is the time for those of the producing classes, the “hands-on” skilled classes to take control of governance , training and administration of our nation. Such responsibility can no longer be chanced in the hands of those more willing to serve mammon and the vested interests than the interests of a nation and it’s peoples. For every time one attends a community forum or council meeting , it seems one is met with obfuscation, legalistic blockage and administrative hurdles, not necessarily for the benefit of good governance, but more than not for the benefit of this or that group of speculators or old family interests. We need “good governance”, not a reward system for mates!

    After all, it has always been the diligence and ingenuity of the producing classes who have advanced humanity through new discoveries or technology…never the financiers nor the indolent managers…BUT…they have always claimed reward and kudos for it!

    From Victor Hugo ; Essays on Humanity.

    “…The cleverness of the governing and the apathy of the governed have arranged and mixed things in such a manner that all those forms of princely nothingness have their place in human destiny; peace and war, the movement of armies and fleets, the recoil of the progress of civilization, depend on the cup of tea of Queen Anne or the fly-flap of the Bey of Algiers.
    History walks behind these fooleries, registering them. Knowing so many things, it is quite natural it should be ignorant of others.
    If you are curious to ask the name of the English merchant who in 1612 first entered China by the north, of the worker in glass who in 1663 first established in France a manufactory of crystal, of the (shipping) pilot who in 1405 discovered the Canary Islands, of the Byzantine lute-maker who in the eighth century invented the organ and gave to music it’s grandest voice, of the Campanian mason who invented the clock by establishing at Rome on the temple of Quirinus the first sundial, of the Roman lighterman who invented the paving of towns by the construction of the Appian way in the year of 312 BC.: of the Egyptian carpenter who devised the dovetail, one of the keys of architecture…of the Chaldean keeper of flocks who founded astronomy by his observations of the signs of the zodiac… “.. and on it goes, the distortion of history to serve the interest of the “managers of education”…sure, education must be managed, but in the interests of the whole of society, not just directed into cul-de-sacs suitable to the financial gain of this or that section of society.

    But why are you learning this from me ; a mere carpenter, a nobody, a minute cog in the juggernaut wheel of society?…because, my fellow workers..you’re NEVER going to hear it from those who know better than to have you know too much!..”A little knowledge is dangerous” they warn…but we can now see that “ A whole lot of knowledge is deadly!!” So leave us with our collective knowledge, after all it is not intellectual copyrighted…

    To quote Thorsten Veblen..:
    “The institution of a leisure class has an effect not only upon social structure but also upon the individual character of the members of society. So soon as a given proclivity or a given point of view has won acceptance as an authoritative standard or norm of life it will react upon the character of the members of the society which has accepted it as a norm. It will to some extent shape their habits of thought and will exercise a selective surveillance over the development of men’s aptitudes and inclinations. This effect is wrought partly by a coercive, educational adaptation of the habits of all individuals, partly by a selective elimination of the unfit individuals and lines of descent. Such human material as does not lend itself to the methods of life imposed by the accepted scheme suffers more or less elimination as well as repression. The principles of pecuniary emulation and of industrial exemption have in this way been erected into canons of life, and have become coercive factors of some importance in the situation to which men have to adapt themselves.
    These two broad principles of conspicuous waste and industrial exemption affect the cultural development both by guiding men’s habits of thought, and so controlling the growth of institutions, and by selectively conserving certain traits of human nature that conduce to facility of life under the leisure-class scheme, and so controlling the effective temper of the community. “ (“Theory of the Leisure Class”)
    No longer can we serve under that sickly-sweet fondant of middle-class tackiness that has more an ear to the stock-market than to the street, that is more attuned to serving a insincere motto of ;” Tempus celerius radio fugit”, or ;” And Gladly Teche”, or; “Postera Crescam Laude”…but enough!…let us instead reflect upon that old alma mater motto of everyone..: “ Non illigitimus carborundum!”, or it’s primary institution..; “ Non credus taurus excretum!”….

    But seriously..

    If ever there was a signal of the decline and eventual destruction of a society, a culture and perhaps of a civilization itself, it is the rise in influence, financial control and political power of the ‘middle class’. From ancient Greece and Rome to the height of the British Empire..it will destroy the USA. too. I will confidently state that the decline and fall of every society which has reached it’s pinnacle of social, financial and civil administration skills, can be sheeted home to the rise in control and management of governance by the middle-classes. It is both the zenith and nadir of a people’s achievement. Let us not be mistaken nor tricked..; an “old school tie” reputation means more to these hustlers than loyalty to the nation it is sworn to serve.

    But it won’t end there, with their incessant analysis into every corner and worry of our lives, it won’t be long before those bourgeois economic hypochondriacs have us in therapy or on echinichia oil for everything from fear of stock-market collapse to shopping malls emptying! Directing, as usual, all their monetary attention to what is most important in THEIR lives…; their bank balance. For with their media dominance, their design of indoctrination has led the most easily influenced into a trap of ; high credit, high consumption …and low taste in entertainment for those masses.

    The insincere concern for the most vulnerable in society, through faux Christian charity programs can be evenly matched by the vicious snatching away of real. State financed programs for the long term…seeing many of the vulnerable, ill, homeless and most in need as ; “leaners” and in such a situation through a fault or choosing of their own…the perception amongst the more wealthy of the middle-class being that they achieved their level of status through their own hard work and ingenuity…yet you look at them..; slovenly or loathsome..opportunist or plain criminal..liars or cheats, and you are certain they never in a lifetime of Sundays could they have obtained ANY position save crawling on their knees without a network of like-minded and like-supportive bastards!

    The middle-class has corrupted nearly every corner of our lives…from simple, wholesome food to simple hard-won finances..they have corrupted our language through pedantic manipulation and twisting of the vernacular and idiosyncracies of the mother tongue into a perverted blancmange of tedious and boring grammatically correct doggerel.

    Our songs have been debased from a voice in the street to a fully orchestrated 32 channel syrup of “pop queens” and “boy bands” to faux radicals , pumping out mass-produced crap that one can neither tap one’s foot to nor shake one’s fist with…the whole “of the people” structure has been bleached into a white-noise of acceptable, non-aggressive political theatre, our ambitions are being “managed”, as is our language, our finances and our cultural heritage…but then we have to at the same time thank Christ for their destruction of the environment, culture, social structures and all we hold dear..for now they, in their overconfidence and cocky indifference, have shown us the face of our enemy…

    The bourgeois middle-class…time to rid ourselves of this pestilence!

    Time for a social revolution!

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