The MSM, aka, the PR wing of the modern corporatocracy

We all know (ie, shouldn’t be surprised to learn) that the MSM is nothing but a highfalutin, Constitutionally-backed PR hackdom for the American corporatocracy. It can’t be any other way. MSM outlets are owned by all varieties of parent corporations whose global dominance is secured by a vast array of industries and products. The same parent Corp. who brings you the news or your favorite sitcom is probably also bringing you that unnaturally high-glucose dosage cereal that your kids gobble up as part of a “nutritious” breakfast. The MSM are PR hacks; they are Mad Men for the oligarchical purveyors of culture. My intention is not to pass this off as some sort of lame epiphany I’m presuming no one else is intelligent or insightful enough to realize themselves. What I’m saying is that it is mildly amusing to catch an obvious glimpse of the not-so-transparent motives of our corporate/consumerist spewing media and the lengths it will go to legitimize, or at least project the ostensible aims of the corporatocracy in a favorable light.

Our consumerist and insanely capitalist culture is a self-perpetuating beast; self-replicating in respect that the structure fortifies and breeds new generations of demon spawn willing to gladly and vacuously carry on the message and convention of spend, spend, spend, compete, compete, compete…that ridicules your humanity but praises and elevates your conformist pretentiousness to glorious pinnacles of necessity. The MSM does an absolutely fabulous job of spouting the party line of their masters. The MSM praises the principles and practices of the materialist matrix. The MSM glorifies involvement in this matrix; not only the involvement, but to excel at it, to play the optimum role within the closed loop dead-end feedback maze that is required for one to devolve sufficiently in order to play the society’s game.

All you need to do is open up any MSM news site any time, any day of the week, and you’re guaranteed to find an example of its empty-headed lunacy as it parrots the company line, courtesy of GE or Xerox or General Motors or…forever the list descends. Today, on my lunch hour, before I headed to the kitchen, I browsed through msn’s news site and found not one, but two effervescent rah-rah pieces of hollow status-climbing exercises in mindlessness gracing the same page. Unfortunately, I didn’t grab a screenshot, so I can’t show here how they both appeared on the same page at the same time. But there they sat, greeting me like a couple of friendly but vacant-headed cheerleaders entreating me to cheer for their team because I should. Equally annoying, both stories graced the website just separated by a couple of lines. They flashed their buxom promises of unattainable but visceral drives. The 2 articles beckoned like a pair of Barbie twins.

The twin sirens began first with a piece titled “6 reasons to keep using credit cards.” The subtitle, in all its glittery self-delusional consumerist logic, read, “If you’ve chosen to stop using your cards, it might be a good idea to revisit that decision. Shunning plastic may be more costly than you think.”

Refraining from using credit cards is the ultimate no-brainer piece of logic we can all institute individually which corporate society tries to quell. The banks and corporatocracy blast the clarion call to spend, spend, spend; spend what you don’t have. The last several years of economic stagnation have put a damper on the culture of easy credit and herdish spending, but still, the MSM, the Front in the financial corporations’s war upon our logic and good sense, does its best to rationalize and encourage the practice of plastic debt., Every news item I see which celebrates the fanatical use of credits cards seems predicated upon the principle of paying one’s dues in order to join the Consumerist Club. This is a club composed of exclusive and like-minded members that one must display materialistic prowess in order to enter and thus, once admitted, enjoys the spoils of rampant commercialism. Credit cards and our “healthy” reliance on them is predicated on the notion that they are but one of the initial keys that must be turned just correctly in the right lock before future posterity can be unlocked.

Let’s look at the 6 items this MSM site listed regarding the beneifits of using credit cards:

-Credit cards help your credit scores
-Credit cards offer consumer protections
-Credit cards offer safer automatic bill payment
-Credit cards offer protection against identity theft
-Credit cards can help in an emergency
-Credit cards reward savvy users

Look, these MSM outlets fully realize that the public’s attention span is just one step above that of a recalcitrant ADD-stricken 9-year-old boy holed up in the middle of a lazy afternoon church service. They put the real reason first before we lose interest and move on. It’s about credit scores, stupid. It’s about augmenting and padding them with all our stupid illogical purchases. Purchasing shit with credit cards rewards your credit score. Credit scores will allow you to progress further along the chain of consumerism, as well. It’s a win-win for the banks and lending institutions. You use credit cards to buy and buy and they make money. You use credit cards to buy and pay and they make even more money. And they have it rigged so they make a boatload of money even if you don’t pay! A byproduct of the process is that you demonstrate your fierce consumerism and you are empowered within the financially subservient framework to make further purchases down the road with different loans, and your materialistic reputation is cemented in place. And there are so many things to buy which the MSM orgasms over in their incessant parades of “consumer” news.

All the other reasons listed are BS. They are filler and mindless affirmations. Marketing garbage and none of them come close to presenting a truly legitimate or logical reason to pay credit card interest. Rewards points? This stuff is portrayed as a great “free” hope which dupes eat up. Enter the MSM to make the corporate case.

But hey, that wasn’t enough inspirational cheesiness for the day, was it?

Also on the same page was another story entitled “5 secrets to climbing the ladder faster.” Why is it all the hypnotic illusions of consumerist suggestion begin with a number and are listed in the form of a series of bullet points? Well this story was even more bloated with the farcical cheerleading and inspirational career -oriented platitudes of the day. The story grooms the reader to be the best little worker-bee contributer to the oligarchy he can be. In fact, they are not so secret any more, are they? Five little hints that will allow you to rocket within the corporate Hive and make lots of disposable income so you can open up and use a scintillating deck of credit cards. Proliferating your wonderfulness within the structure of the corporation, of your work place, is another important stepping stone in your march to efficient and grandiose-minded consumerist fiend! It’s the Consumerist Club and if you want to join, you better play the game, and play it right. This article, a PR pitch that the HR sycophant-minded legions of workplace misdeed enablers and apologists would be proud of. Those types love this schmoozy feel-good Anthony Robbins script. Wanna play the corporate game well and to its utmost potential? Why follow these 5 steps.

-Accumulate knowledge
-Know how to ask questions
-Think outside yourself
-Give it your all
-Let your passion shine through

That’s it. These are certainly words of wisdom you should bring to any endeavor you undertake. However, in the context of this article, these 5 steps and their application are contained entirely within the field of your employer’s scope and best interests. Disguised as personal career advancement. Common sense code for faking an active interest in your job. For being a company man; a brown-noser. Problem is, too many people live out these 5 “steps” only within their professional sphere but neglect them for the remainder of their daily life. Vacating these principals outside of work leaves their personal life a drab testament to ignorance and complacency. I don’t dispute these points or the vibrant involvement they preach about making the most of life. But I’m talking about life; your job, your profession, is one element of life and you are only complete if you bring this attitude to all aspects of your existence. To concentrate single-mindedly on bettering yourself only within the context of your wage slave reality is to fuel the strength of the Consumerist Club while demanding proportionately little in return. Slave existence. Like a good robot, these 5 steps, when applied solely to your standing and performance within your job, as the article insinuates, is to come home and detach yourself from life while you find a recharging port to slumber until you wake up again tomorrow and run off to your master’s global plantation whiere you can once again contribute a precious piece of your humanity to a colossal entity which saps you of that very humanity.

Discipline’s 10 commandments

So this is my view of mankind, and thus by extension, most members of its vastly underachieving species.
Man is largely ignorant, lazy, gluttonous, weak and undisciplined.

The typical human will choose the path of least resistance and aspire to the bare minimum. Or he will do only enough to maintain his own complacent role of self-banishment. He will avoid that which calls him to initiate odious tasks, those which interrupt his emptily satisfied existence. He will not surmount the threshold of Average if he has a say. Unless there is a remarkable payoff which usually involves the hollow reward of money or sex, or both. Ultimately, man is a societal performer and 98% of everything he does is for the benefit of the Club of Mankind which either rewards his good behavior or punishes his social detractions. Every single moment that man struggles to climb out of bed and leave the lush comfortable warmth of his cloth womb behind he, he climbs the global stage. All he accomplishes now is disingenuous because he would not do it if not for the rest of mankind’s rapt attention and his desire for reciprocal approval.

Discipline. Now there’s a crock of shit.
What the hell is discipline?

It is a humanly fabricated convention and delusion.
There is no such thing as discipline.
It only exists in our minds and describes a manner of behavior which is extraordinarily difficult to face. Discipline is a positive enforcer; it is not negative, for many times, the act of discipline is difficult and painful and uncomfortable enough to act as an aversive agent in itself. For instance, there is absolutely nothing joyous or pleasurable about climbing out of bed on a cold winter morning four hours before work with the thermometer reading 53 degrees in here just so I can crawl under hundreds of pounds of iron and repeatedly hoist them while my joints and mind cry for another way. That is aversive and negative; only mankind’s higher conscious which promises long-term rewards make him do such unnatural shit. Discipline is unnatural. And positive. We could argue that a trained dog will continue sitting, immobile, in the face of a large juicy slab of meat. That is a sort discipline, I suppose, but it’s not supra-normal. The dog fears punishment and verbal scolding and his canine mind has been so distorted through generations of domestication that the easy way now is to not take the easy way by succumbing to instinct and hunger. A trained dog is not displaying uncanny discipline. He is displaying an utmost form of low-minded obedience. Human discipline is “high-minded” and spiritual. It is belief, it is conscious, it is ethereal. Hence, its relative scarcity.

Humans are irretrievably animal and act the part.

Mankind is not high-minded. He is a guttural stray dog looking to scavenge his next easy meal.
Discipline does not come easy for it is not natural. Mankind does not actively seek to surmount his fruitless existence for yet another dead end. For man to do this insinuates that he must turn his back on his primitive nature. The example in which we are able to train a dog to ignore its own nature is rare. We are unable to force animals do anything they are not evolutionarily equipped to do. You can lead a horse to water…said the wise old cattle rancher. Discipline requires a conscious sacrificial effort with the ostensible aim of bettering one’s state of physical or mental existence. Effort. Concerted effort.

Man cannot pool his own personal resources in order to achieve such grand aims.

He is a lazy dog laying in the shade on a hot day.
Man stays out of the sun and off his feet when he can help it. Man’s elevated mind maps what is wrong, but his primal nature dictates his actions because he has freedom of choice. He has the freedom to rise, and the freedom to sink. Sinking is invariably the easiest way because gravity paves the way. Mankind will flock in the direction he is pointed and he resists all that is contrary to his nature. Man is an undisciplined lout. He is sloven and insolent.

Indiscipline is the way of man and the context of civilization is structured around such inability to coerce great effort on his own.

Institutions and morals and self-directed artificial limits of behavior (laws) answer man’s fear of discipline which must issue from the the deepest layer of his soul.

Society thus imprints all its inhabitants with a structure that forgives and enables a lack of discipline. Social constructs reward both the heart and the mind overrun with sloth; and those who dare to rise and seek a higher level of disciplined existence find themselves outside the arena of popular thought and are forced to wait in the shadows. Until that time when, and if, they forfeit their illusory discipline for the simple pleasantries of the artificial life. To strive for a spiritual existence is to turn one’s back on the lazy platitudes of common culture. For here is the thing: discipline is lonely. Discipline does not attract the shallow plethora of simple-minded sheep.

Discipline is ultimately a folly. It is pursued and sacrificed in the name of a questionable state of fulfillment which neither satisfies or feeds our primitive hungers. Discipline only nourishes the spirit and is faithfully embraced as such; discipline tells us to chase the ghost that never stood before us. The ghost beckons and hides behind corners but we always chase it because we know it’s there and we devote ourselves to the march of discipline that proclaims the reward is unseen. Faith.

Discipline is to man what the dog trainer is to Fido.
Discipline flowing from our deepest voice and gushing in a shower of spiritual devotion is the highest form of humanity.

Religion and dogma is all bullshit.
It’s discipline fancied up and disguised and perfumed and deep-fried in order to make it more palatable to man’s inherent laziness.

Call “discipline” an ancient Latin word, or an exotic undecipherable Asian or Middle Eastern word, and it assumes a role greater than life and man chooses to “discipline” himself when in fact he is simply heeding the dog trainer’s whistle. You see, the deepest inkling of discipline we conjure is also the sparsest and most rudimentary sort of faith; faith in oneself. Man has no faith in himself and thus must substitute the magnificence of his existence for some magical entity who he can bestow his worship on instead. The fictional entity must embody “discipline” to inhuman levels and only then can man follow his fictional lead character’s path and thus elevate the road of discipline to godly levels while treating it as Heaven’s road. Man is slothful and unwired to reroute his commitments and abilities to pursue stringency. Give him an externally foisted force of negative reward, a negative feedback loop, and he will discipline himself for the sake of the … “larger loop.” Just like Fido is primitively afraid of the master’s negative and stern reprimand, so is man’s fear of the religious deity’s reprimand.

Discipline rising from within our soul is divine.
Discipline rising from an ancient Volume of castigating commands is lazy.

The Ten Commandments are the greatest dog training manual ever written.
The true ten commandments of human behavior are not written. They are breathed.

Love ain’t never enough


There was a time I could have killed this song.

That’s right.

If I was capable of such a thing, I could have killed this song down to its lyric sheet and musical notes.





Back in 1992 I was sorta dating, going out with, chasing, this unavailable Hmong chick from Orange County. Unlike most pleasant Asian chicks, she was slightly hard and rough around the edges. She was unavailable not because she was married or had a boyfriend or hated Mexicans. She was unavailable because she was simply not willing to spread herself thin for any man. Our first date was magic. We ate at some chain restaurant and we quickly fell into a demented state of superficial love. We talked on the phone non-stop for the first few days after our date. I was a desperate dork and willing to submit my manhood and dignity to a piece of ass that could not be bothered to look at me. On our first date, we had come back to her weird back lot one bedroom bedroom. That’s what it was. A bathroom and no kitchen or even an attempt at a kitchen. It was like a whore den. She pulled out an acoustic guitar and began playing and singing for me. It was magical. God, I was in utter love. I thought I had found the One. We made out and got naked but she held fast to some principles and since I was not equipped with a condom, I would not be dipping my stick tonight!! It’s OK, the warm and magnetic atmospheric vibe of our union promised to be more fruitful next time I came slithering around here as long I was packing some serious latex in my wallet with which to cover my member and its hard-earned spills.


We talked on the phone forever those first few days. I was working in a bar and I talked to her on the bar phone a few times (I worked the slow day shift) and finally we planned to meet again, I believe it was a Thursday night. She would drive to my parent’s house east of Los Angeles where I lived. I rushed home and showered and prepared for her arrival. She drove a red Sentra and she called that she was almost there a few minutes ahead. I waited anxiously in the house on the precipice of an indefinable life-altering Love. This was it. We had spoken in raptured whispers. We spoke of our hearts and soulful longings. We were amazed at the magical spell that had fallen upon us. She told me she felt as if I had put a spell on her. When she arrived, she parked across the street and I rushed to her car. The minute she opened the door, the magic crashed to the ground like a brittle sheet of glass. It was gone. It was unspoken and physically embodied, this feeling. The sensation was visceral. A sensation of loss, of nothing, of electricity diffused, an empty barren sense of failing to find something that had sat under my nose a week ago. Gone. We still embraced, talked a little, but the hushed electric and sexual overtone was gone and she left and I felt empty. I reminded her that she told me she would bring me a gift. She said “oh yeah” in an less than deliberate manner and handed me a box of something. After she drove away, I stood in the street, spiritually dismantled.


Over the next few months I soldiered on against her cool, implacable female armor.


The magic was dead but I was playing the part of romantic Frankenstein. Trying vainly to reassemble the cadaver of the love we felt the night of our first date when she played guitar for me. She pushed me away the best she could, and being the clingy and creepy compulsive player I was, I continued to conveniently and blindly overlooking her distance, her emotional games, and I kept pursuing her heart and she did everything but shove NO down my throat. Still I persisted like a despicable stray, and she played with me, knowing she had a pathetic subject before her. During this time, that fucking song began hitting the airwaves and this Hmong chick would go uncharacteristically out of her way to sing it for me. Tell me what a great song it was. And I knew, I knew so well, but still. I convinced myself love was enough and the bitch kept singing.


And if this song was a living human being, I would have strangled it for my life’s misery. Beat it to a bloody, fleshy pulp.



Blind Glory (and happy endings suck)

Why am I drawn to such sad and tragic endings?
Ever since I can remember, I’ve always preferred the unhappy ending. I always favored the sly evil of Little Red Riding Hood or Jack & Jill’s broken crowns or Hansel and Gretel’s festive servings.

Fuck happiness.

Forget the joyous and heart-felt good-natured Disney bullshit. I hate Disney and its tales of hapless optimism. Bunch of garbage. Women eat up Disney. They eat up happy endings and riding off into the sunset. Just like they love Love at First Sight. Womankind, the great fantasist, fetishist, the romantic and the poetic. Womankind devours happy endings and the unrealistic garbage that enables them.

It’s not that I’m a pessimist. Not in the least. I believe most is in our control and we posses the capablity of turning dire situations into treasures if we would just get off our ass, work hard, and sacrifice. It’s simple. The exemplary life is not handed to us. Even if you are born with a sterling silver spoon in your mouth, you must continue to fulfill the promise of your genetic riches or you’ll get drawn right into that smorgasbord of ill-fated self-chosen downward spiral of destiny’s. Nah, the pessimist believes life and fate are fucking him over. In other words, life is out of his hands and dictated by the ruthless and evil shenanigans of a great Controller. Like most religious freaks. The pessimist believes that no matter how hard you work, how hard you toil and sweat, the outcome of your personal script is inevitably steered by another writer’s hands.

Fuck that. You assemble your life, you assemble your future.
And fuck optimism and that pedantic sort of fixation on gleaning joy and wonder from life’s stupid-ass rigors that Disney Chicks suckle.

That is the kind of garbage that is the opposite of pessimism. Yet, I won’t call it optimism. Optimism believes that hard work, an animated spirit and a vigorous enthusiasm are rewarded with auspicious events. No, the opposite of pessimism which these Disney wenches are guilty of is blind glory.

Blind glory is an empty triumphalism. It celebrates a life in search of nothing. Blind Glory is hollow and born of deceit, usually self-deceit, and as such, is not bolstered by trial and tribulation. It is cosmetic happiness. If a woman can get a boob job or a lap band and act as if she has mastered fate, so to can she easiliy revel in the phoniness of a contrived happy ending.

Fuck happy endings.

Patsy Cline’s dark past?



I recently had a discussion with my mother in which I tried to convince her Patsy Cline was part black. It’s so obvious to me. I would never have even stumbled upon such a ridiculous postulation if not for the old black and white video clip in which she belted out “Crazy” in that awesomely sexy, velvety voice. I had never seen Patsy Cline before but I was intimately familiar with her music because she is one of my mom’s favorite female singers of all time and I could always count on listening to Patsy almost every Saturday afternoon while my mom swept and mopped and did all her other weekly cleaning chores around the house. The smell of Pinesol and Patsy Cline’s maudlin twangy longings will always be conjoined in my memory.


Anyways, after watching the video, I was intrigued. The way I saw it.
Either Patsy Cline was publicly known to be of mixed blood; or, owing to the fact that she recorded music in a musical genre which, from the 1950s through the 1960’s was hardly hospitable for mixed race white women, she would keep such genetic information under tight wraps.


Even though, to my eye, it’s obvious.
But our old-time Country singers could not spring from the slightest bit of non-Caucasian parentage without risking alienating their fan base.


A simple Google search illuminated the fact that her theoretical black ancestry was not common knowledge, accepted or not.


On, under the not-so-vague suspicion, “Was Patsy Cline Caucasian or Black Singer?” the answer offered was the typical response to such a question about Cline: “She was white (Caucasian non Hispanic). Since people in those days did not admit to such things for fear of non-acceptance, she may not have come forth with that information. It is Unknown whether or not she was part African- American (Black).”


This link was the only Google result that alluded in any manner to Cline’s race in response to my Google query, “was patsy cline part black.”


My mom is convinced I’m crazy.
She won’t buy my theory. She tells me plenty of white women are dark featured and roundly buxomed and soulfully full-figured. Uh yeah, but how many white women contain all of the above?


Patsy had it all, man. Great curvaceous full-figured womanliness. Full cheeks, full nose, she had sexy meat and she had color. I think she was hotter than hell because of this full lexicon of classic black female physical traits against the parchment of porcelain white woman’s skin.


I think I once tried searching for photos of her parents, but I found nothing.
It’s too bad people feel compelled to live such illusions in the face of potential societal scorn. One’s ability to make money is contingent upon cultural illusions.