I always laughed at the concept of an American “Race War.” I thought it unlikely. I’m still not entirely convinced there ever will be a clearly defined and delineated race war in this country. However, I believe we are finding ourselves drawn into an American “Race Conflict.” It began so insidiously, incrementally, almost invisibly. And now, hearing that Zemir Begic, a 32-year-old Bosnian, was hammered to death by a group of Blacks, and maybe a Hispanic, leads me to wonder what the hell is going on.
We are experiencing a race conflict in the United States. It is a thinly veiled series of battles and political maneuvering; a clash of cultures and the United States is currently at a critical juncture in its history.
Will the conflict escalate into a domestic Vietnam War or will it burn itself out?
A graphic created in the memory of Zemir Begic by his family and friends
Update: when I posted this earlier, I had no idea the full extent of the story and known facts. Having learned more of what is happening, the real story here is the blaring silence of the major news outlets. It appears the murder of Whites by Blacks is not the fodder for Liberal Dialog they seek… If it had been the other way around, I’m confident we’d be seeing a relentless outpouring of concerned journalists flooding the Bevo neighborhood in St. Louis. Funny, they aren’t showing us photos like this splashing CNN’s home page:
It seems everything in the Missouri-Illinois Midwest corridor has been about race lately.
A 32-year-old man, Zemir Begic, a name which sounds awfully Eastern European White, was beaten to death with hammers by two boys in St. Louis, 15 and 16.
I wonder if this is the murder victim. According to Facebook, he is a resident of Iowa, and graduated from a Minnesota high school in 1996. That would make him 32 now
Two juveniles are in custody Sunday, suspected in the death of a man beaten with hammers on a St. Louis street.
The victim, 32-year-old Zemir Begic, suffered injuries to his head, abdomen, face and mouth, according to police.
He was unconscious by the time officers arrived. Begic was taken to an area hospital, where he was pronounced dead, police said.
“Investigation revealed the victim was traveling in his vehicle when several juveniles approached his vehicle on foot and began damaging it.
“The victim exited his vehicle and the juveniles began yelling at the victim and striking him with hammers. After the assault, the juveniles fled the scene on foot,” read an incident report.
Two suspects were later located and taken into custody, police said. They are 15 and 16.
A motive for the attack was not immediately clear. An investigation is ongoing.
What would you venture are the races of parties involved? The murder suspects are minors. This story already stinks.
I hope it’s not another high-profile racially tinged act of violence, with the Victim of the Month now being White. The media can’t and won’t conjecture or pursue such lines of questioning. But I can…
Everything must become a discussion, a goddamned dialog of yammering and yammering and bickering and partisan, ideological sparring. The internet turns everyone into a drama queen. Everyone must be heard and everything must be a discussion and a round-table and everyone just talks and talks and the aim is to drown out all the other talking. There is no listening.
So much discussion and dialog about nothing but SHIT.
It’s the internet’s fault. It has allowed us to be up everyone’s stinky business. Who the hell cares about most of it. The real downside is that we expend most of our “mental” energies on trivial crap that doesn’t matter while neglecting the stuff that does deserve media discussion.
The internet equalizes the gravity and urgency of all matters and our intellectually lethargic culture has lost the ability to distinguish between the vital and not.
We concentrate so much on people and their who-gives-a-flying-fuck affairs, as discussions of the higher plane, philosophy, great concepts, have been trampled underfoot.
Who in the world, other than your typical dyed-in-the-wool repressed Bible-thumping Republican, cares at all how Sasha and Malia act while their father speaks. They are teen-aged broads. Do we expect anything stoic or mature from such a demographic? In the past, pre-internet days, First Children were tolerated with bemused wariness and perhaps a little public banter. The Bushian twins were round one of this farcical social phenomena. Now, the internet raises such pointless banter to the level of global issues of life and death.
When people talk about the “feminization” of society, this dead-end yapping is exhibit 1.
Our pointless indulgence in talking incessantly about people and their innate trivialities. That’s what women do, and now, it’s what we all do as a collective society.
For the second day-after-Thanksgiving out of the last three, I did nothing. But this is by design. I refuse, refuse, REFUSE, to share the streets, aisles, floors, with the mad American shoppers. Too many crazed, wild-eyed consumers; too many people who would rather sit out in the cold on the nicest, most relaxing day of the year. I can’t even consider spending any appreciable amount of time in the vicinity of someone like that. I value my sanity.
So Black Friday means only one thing for this wild-eyed misanthropic blogger: stay home.
Sometimes, I do make an exception.
Yesterday, my car was down to its last 13 miles of gas (give or take 12), and foreseeing that I would need to drive about 10 miles early this morning, I decided I needed to, 1) get cash in order to, 2) fill ‘er up.
Afterwards, my delicious plan was to come straight home, sit in front of the computer, do some household chores, and not leave the house, nor indulge in those activities that make it seem you still haven’t lost your marbles (showering, brushing teeth, getting some fresh air and sun). My day was mapped out.
I visited my local no-fees ATM machine and on the way passed a store whose sidewalk was lined with early morning shoppers-in-wait. How early did they get there to line up at the front, I wondered. And why? Is it that important you get such a deal from a store that promises never to charge you one dollar or more for any of the merchandise on its shelves? I’m convinced that Black Friday isn’t about deals as much as it is about shared, collective lunacy, a capitalistic frenzy of mass madness. I drove by these losers and took out my money.
Now the reason I pay cash for my gas is that I prefer ARCO gas stations. Their prices are usually a tad lower than the larger chains, and it seems one reason may be that they do not accept credit cards. If you want some ARCO gas, you better have cash or an ATM card in hand. I’m fine with this. Anything to minimize my gasoline bill. There’s a neighborhood ARCO I’ve used for ages, but recently I’ve begun visiting another one because they seem to cost about a penny or two less. I’m such a fickle gas bitch.
No loyalty from me. No sir.
I’m a gas whore and I will betray my closest gas station wife for the sake of one cent. It’s a disgrace and shamelessness is my fuel!
Whereas the ARCO I’ve been faithful to for years treats me steadily and dependably, the new ARCO is a cunt.
The first time I gassed up there, about a month ago, I decided to put all the cash in my pocket to gas – $24 of it.
I was running on fumes and I knew 24 bucks would not fill up my tank, but it would buy me a week or two (I don’t drive very often). I pulled up to pump # 12 and carried my money to the counter. I have this very bad habit of talking too fast when ordering anything and many times, I speak like a total retard in such situations. I speak in an irregular and chaotic cadence and frequently, the cashiers don’t understand what I said. I’m constantly being asked to repeat my order. So, with this in mind, I made sure to slow down and speak clearly. I made sure to enunciate. I told the kid, “Hi…twenty-four…dollars…on…number…twelve.” He looked at me with a tinge of confidence, so I walked away assured. While the gas nozzle pumped steadily into my tank, I stood by and began to zone and was startled when the pump began counting down slowly, indicating it had neared the prepaid total.
But it was too soon!
Sure enough, my pump was only going to give me $12, not $24. The moron cashier got it wrong, despite the fact I deliberately slowed down my verbal gait. I marched back in and explained what happened and the stupid expression on his face did not fill me with confidence this time around. After explaining what happened again, he mumbled that I should go back, turn of the pump and come back in so he could enter another payment of $12. Sigh. I went back to the pump, did as he told, walked impatiently back to his counter and said, “OK.” Back to the pump I went and entered the second half of my $24 order. What should have taken a couple of minutes took almost five.
Nevertheless, in a fit of masochistic optimism, I drove back to this ARCO yesterday, $200, warm from the ATM, in hand.
It was early on Black Friday. All sane people were asleep or drinking coffee at the computer, the psychotic people were braving hordes of bargain shoppers, and the morons were putting gas in their cars.
The gas station was empty and being the creature of habit, I once again pulled up to pump # 12.
When I entered the station, I was pleased to note that the mathematician from my previous $24/$12 visit was not manning the cashier. Now it was an older dark Hispanic man with aquiline features. He very well might have been Indian, but after I handed him $60 which I had just fished out of my ATM stash, he looked slightly displeased and said “OK” with a Spanish accent. His brows furrowed and something about him annoyed the shit out of me. I can’t say what it was.
Now I realize three $20 bills was probably overkill, but that’s the way I roll. Of course gas prices have plummeted and it no longer requires between $40.01 and $60 to fill up a small 4-cylinder tank, but I’m not the type of guy to take chances when it comes to filling my gas tank. I want to be confident that I will be able to top it off, even beyond the acceptable safety limits of overfill, and if it means that I must temporarily part with an extra $20 bill, so be it. Consider it a deposit for chrissakes.
Sure enough, I engorged my gas tank right to the $36 mark. I went back in for my $24 in change and it occurred to me that everything about this damned gas station, and my experiences with it, involved $24 and all other amounts divisible by $12.
I told the man that I was ready for my change from pump 12 and he made some condescending dark face (the complexion, he can’t help that part) and said something about me giving too much money and seemed to hint that it was ridiculous I gave him that much money. He made a big production of gathering my change, still saying something like it would be nice if I didn’t give him so much money.
What the fuck, you asshole? Since it was early on day 2 of my 4 off, I was in a reasonably good mood and refrained from arguing or being an ass. Apparently it was a struggle for him to get out that extra fifth bill. As opposed to giving me back four $1 bills, he would now have to throw in the extra $20. Heaven forbid I would give him an extra microsecond of work to do! His face, those little beady eyes and preachy demeanor…he needed to be slapped. “It would be nicer if you took credit cards here,” I snarked ineffectually and walked out.
As I headed to my car, I realized he had the last laugh.
Instead of giving me five bills of change, thanks to my overbearing and useless $20, he still managed to give me 4 bills and cut out that microsecond of work I had caused him. He gave me a two-dollar bill. Bastard!
At the risk of presenting a long, wordy, supercilious examination of this cinematic tour de force, I will merely say that Birdman is one of the most intelligent, peering American films ever made.
I would say it’s “ironic” that the film offsets the idiocy and American cognitive shallowness of superhero movies against the cerebral, fraught baggage of a thinking person’s struggles from within the confined maze of a layered, non-contiguous existence.
I won’t cite irony, however, as this is the purpose, the artistic design, of Birdman.
Birdman is a testament to this duality.
The battle that tears those of awareness apart: the whorish, sensory-laden call of the basest human hedonism versus the cathartic, but not entirely unpleasing, repulsion found in our bones and its reaffirmation of soulful self-awareness and spiritual ascendance.