A vampire chops garlic in a Creole kitchen. The masked Michael Myers checks his email: no new messages. Such are the subtle antagonisms of our daily dread.
Yet without this banality of conflict we lose the plot. Fancy-freedom is the life of a coward.
It has been nearly three years since the false dawn of the student occupations. Meantime we have kept abreast of political happenings. None has merited our input. Just before we insinuated ourselves into the affairs of the Middle East, their groundhog saw its own shadow, ushering in a longer Arab Winter than previously expected.
We were pleased to see that the first project of the Libyan Transitional Council, for example, was to set up a national bank, but, honestly, we prefer our revolutionaries with a little more stink. A respectable nose-bone ratio. Gamey taste.
Elsewhere, American politicians have been learning to play musical instruments at astronomical rates, Anarchists have insisted on debating whether a hermaphrodite who becomes intoxicated before an episode of self-intimacy is operating by consensus, and Jim Miller has continued to have more hang-ups than a mute telemarketer.
Like our mortal enemies of the vortex left, we disagree with Comrade Miller in his latest piece in the New York Times: “Will Extremists Hijack Occupy Wall Street?” Three years ago we defended the tract on which the New School in Exilers publically defecated. Democracy is not in the latrine.
The famous 99% that have been occupying Wall Street and other abstractions need to keep rule-by-consensus. It is the best way to ensure they are fettered by their own ideology. Fingers wiggling all the way to the cell block.
Rule-by-party or a herd of progressive non-profits would be equally desirable from our end, but that is not the beast we are encountering, by and large. The present creature has a billion heads and a black hole for an anus. We enjoy seeing all those heads up its ass, fingers wiggling.
In fact, we saw them coming a mile away. Allowed them a box to soap, a twitter to feed, a stream to live. It makes no difference to us. Every crisis at their doorstep only makes them weaker. Their self-appointed managers are as good as ours. Their police are better.
“Can we join a working group? Can we voice our frustration?” they ask themselves.
No need to infiltrate what is already ours.
“I’d like a tofu and arugula sandwich, please. Spread the democracy evenly. Hold the arugula. See you at the Assembly tonight? Nah, I have to do my econ homework. Don’t worry, the minutes will be online. Alright, tweet me later. Wait, what? Can you update the Facebook page? We got some wingnuts posting comments about you-know-who again. You got it. And make sure to record Tom Morello’s acoustic piece tonight. He’s so down.”
Our hopes are not high for a good old-fashioned melee, though for the record we would like to collaborate on some motherfuckers. Colder weather will soon hush the uproar, and our lives will return to the minute creativities of small business ideas, like hangOVER, an intravenous saline slurpee that heals even the most vulnerable morning after.
30 bucks a pop. Enya’s Greatest Hits on the speakers. Storefront in a hip neighborhood. Eggshell white interior. Enya. You want B Vitamins in that? 50 cents extra. Smoothies and shots of wheatgrass at the counter. Brochures for the new co-op that’s opening up around the corner. The Resident Nurse? She’s a person of color. Are “you” in?