Corduroy Panzer

“Magic Man wasn’t about Hitler!” Krieg shouted, as he shouted everything when he was on one of his meth’ d out Taxi-man binges, one of his more successful multitasking schemes.

“I thought everything was about Hitler, you made music a video to “Magic Man” which prominently displayed Nazi imagery, black and white photos and newsreel photos of Hitler and swastikas melting into Chrysanthemum patterns  and Ying Yang symbols” I said, wishing this was one of Gorta’s days behind the wheel, and my commitment to Esoteric Hitlerism, though the ancient vellum originals of the Vedic traditions, which resided in a lockbox within a safety deposit box  in the family bank had demanded investigation, was temporarily questioned.

“It’s a metaphor! Also the use of form constants is meant to illicit a palpable senses of awe and wonder, the particulars are immaterial” he said as his eyes alternatively bulged and the veins about his face and neck throbbed to a silent beat.

“A metaphor for what! Missing my stop?” I said, exhausted only an hour and a half into my day.

“ The nature of a Buddha, the wisdom of violence, contemplation of the middle path and the ley lines of our lives and how great men cause them to converge in intricate yet predictable patterns”  he explained as he jerked the wheel passionately to the right pulling a 360 and blasting diagonally into a back alley and throwing me my consignment, which I stuffed into my messengers bag as I exited the Taxi as he tore away into a narrow warren, thinking we had had the same conversation a week earlier about “Behind Blue Eyes.” Then again isn’t everything about Hitler.

Whether your pro-Hitler, anti-Hitler, Hitler positive, Hitler negative, receptive to your Hitler side, or ashamed of it, that man put a funny mustache and some strange ideas in all of us, his post-modernist side, a room filled to the ceiling with eyeglasses, that is an installation, meth fueled  barb wired blitzkrieg, that’s metal. When he sits down with Buddha, Moses, Aristotle and the rest of histories teachers he is the asshole teacher that fails you till you rise to spite him, what were the Jews doing before him besides playing the world’s smallest violin, expertly mind you, but still, if you are going to call yourself G-d’s chosen you can’t take shit from no one, and he crafted an Eichmann just for them, their very own rage piñata. The Slavs, their name means slave but like the Mongols before him he taught them the price of subservience, hell a rifle for every two soldiers, you have to want your people to survive to fight like that.

Harlem schools, monuments, half rotting hulk, carved of juvenile belligerence, Ms. Kathy waiting at the door, first name before the last, bottom rail on top, brown children everywhere.

“No, donuts today?” Ms. Kathy asked.

I do try and pull a Dexter once and a while, good first season stuff, reveling in the masks we all wear, Huck Finn shit, but Donuts aren’t cheap, nothing is, according to the laws of relativity, that’s right, they have even figured out how to Jew reality.

Sign in. Get called a bad teacher, mention Rome, eat lunch, explain basic economics to a dead eyed retard. Puff. Puff. Go home…Unless, you want sniff out weakness, the Public School system is rife with it, broken families, abusive alcoholics, rape, violence etc.,etc. These people need drugs, a drug, some methylated amphetamine, better grades, awake with the will to fight, like putting a straight razor to the neck of the anthropomorphized “Fuck You!”  Wrong for all the right reasons.

Psychobilly Massacre Part III

   I continued " Well, you know that fellow, Gabe was his name, the fellow who was all 'constitution this' and 'this is morally wrong, that'  when you came into town, the one you dragged to death as a sign of dominance, very effective mind you, sure got an eye for the dramatic, well dontcha know, he was the neighborhoods loveable drug dealer, mostly weeds and mushrooms and the like, but he stashed a bit of cocaine for special occasions, and, well what better occasion is there then making friends with the new masters of your destiny, so whadda ya say, wanna go get some of the good stuff? share a little of your one pot meth, move past those little pesky differences which make us appear as prey in your eyes?"


One of the piercing encrusted tattooed maniacs began grunting, smacking his chest and leaping about me as the others began to hoot and holler in support until, lighting fast, Casey Jones shovel flashed in front of him, nicking his neck and stopping what was sure to end in ritual dismemberment, which included the ancestral clamps, chains, hooks and the sacred Youtube video upload, no sane man knows the darkness that lies between adorable kittens misjudging their playful jumps and Sponge Bob clips, and no good man would want to.


"Forgive my savage brothers, they get so excited when they hear about the 'Good stuff', you wouldn't deny them a little excitement at its mention, do lead on, the night is growing dark and the evil of man is filling the shadows. Let us go find 'the stash' and spend the night in artificial stimulation till the sun banishes the cruel demons that haunt us all during our daily apocalypse" he said as he lowered his shovel and the human jackal slumped back in a grunting sigh of relief.


He seemed a little too well spoken, a little to put together, perhaps there was a caste system to these bizarre marauders, some creative leading class which organized themes and dealt with "the fuzz." I didn't dwell on it, things could go sour again at any moment, and then its all clamps, hooks, chains and digital recording equipment. I took them to Gabe's former domicile, the upper levels gutted by fire and it reeked of piss, shit and booze and as we moved past the unhinged front door another sickly sweet scent assaulted my senses. Gabe's torso with its one remaining arm had been placed on a crude shrine made of beer bottles, cinder blocks and the shattered remains of his once magnificent entertainment system. A doll's face had been stretch over his pulverized features and his arm less left side was draped, cape like, in a blue tarp, candles still burned about the shrine attesting to recent traffic to this macabre yet sacred site, though with the sun setting those who had come to pray had vanished.


I came to the basement door, hidden in a hallway closet and defeated it locking system with various permutations of four, two and zero. The comfortable basement chill den was just as I remembered it,  with its assorted jars of plants, fungus, pills,powders and blotters, the walls covered in musically themed posters and tripped out scenes of anthropomorphised suns and animals. I cracked one of the many glow sticks around me to illuminate this festive bounty for guests as they shuffled past me, their chemical hunger almost palpable...

Psychobilly Massacre Part 2

   I approached the band of mo-hawked, tattooed, shot-gun wielding, hollow eyed rustics without fear, like in the old westerns, since to show fear would reveal your malevolent intentions, what does a good man have to fear? Of course that kind of thinking could only apply to those with narrow tribal instincts, unaware of all that could go wrong in communicating oneself, or the shifting caprice of nomadic savages.

    

   The steam punks roving about in their treaded locomotives, led by Casey Jones, driving that train high on cocaine, divining his actions based on a 17^th century brain gurgling in some biological stew of some unknown arcane recipe and meting out rough personal justice with his steam powered pneumatic gauntlet and coal shovel whose edges had been filed razor sharp. They were lounging about the periphery of our once beautiful community, our neighborhood watch Captain tied over its cow-catcher, skin blackish-white and peeling, eye sockets infested with wasps.

  

    I was noticed almost immediately as their double bull fiddle transitioned into a low growling whine as the natural tension of the moment dictated. How they can demand a fearless approach, it doesn't make any sense, everything about them radiates wicked menace, but then I remembered, I was a suburbanite G-d damn it. I adapted my fear into a passive aggressive current, like I have used when dealing with familiar teenagers or minority peers, allowing me to both control through subtle condescending deference and placate with future promises of ice cream, like centuries of our family have done just to get by in this world, like when the first Anglo settled next to a Saxon. They didn't make a big deal about it, even invited them in for some mead once to prove it wasn't a Anglo Saxon thing, but later proving it was after getting drunk at the winter feast and screaming about how Anglos start all the wars in the world and calling their matriarch “sugar bosoms” and then forming an enduring relationship of quietly hate loving each other till their children misogynat, you know, the American way.

“ Well, hi there neighbor! You guys sure look like you are having a bang up ole time her today with your epoxies smelling and mouthwash tasting, but something tells me you fellows might have more fun with, well...Cocaine, maybe, just a thought. Not wearing a wire or anything” I said, feeling stupid, there hadn’t been a transmission from here in weeks and the authorities were complicit, but their flaring nostrils, drooling and manic eyes told me they had liked what they heard.

The Cardinal on Student Loan Debt

Sorry to interrupt our serialized “lost footage” documentary series “Psychobilly Massacre” for a public service announcement by “The Cardinal.”
   Student loans, low interest investments in the next generation, not a controversial idea, except that as debt it is strangling us to death and has surpassed credit card debt as our supreme usury based vice. If that were not enough in 2005 legislation made it impossible for bankruptcy to wipe out these youthfully incurred debts. These loans have given generations of lower to middle class students the chance to major in drama, English, psychology etc. While going on mind bending four year journeys of sexual exploration and drug induced adventures all while building up five to six figures worth of debt with no concept or plan on how to pay it off. Of course the government could just award these loans to those pursuing in demand majors, but that would deprive minorities of the chance at squandering a small fortune before they're thirty in the name of their art. We could funnel the loan money to colleges with strict codes of conduct as far student fraternizing and underage drinking go, insuring the money is going towards fomenting usable skills and modes of thinking in young pliable minds, instead of cultivating a healthy campus musk of hash smoke and bodily fluids. Or, we could just continue to allow this tectonic change in funding, demographics and sobering economic realities return higher education to the realm of the rich. None of these options are socially tolerable based on a few loud angry voices which would drown out any honest debate on the subject, shrilly defending some narrow interest or fomenting phantom discontent to justify their position of authority, while the status quo is held in place as no generation wants to be the one to lose the right to a psychedelic threesome without being an artist or billionaire. No, we must save student loans by giving it the ole college try/spirit ( the college spirit is only worshiped in certain collegiate pantheons).

    How about producing and dealing drugs. I say produce and deal since we want to cut out the middle men and you will learn important lessons in entrepreneurship, accounting, horticulture, mycology and chemistry (if you wanna go hardcore).Also when you grow your own you can offer it a few dollars cheaper and thus be the cool dealer, you may need to invest in a large/multiple couches along with couch based activities from a game console to a risk board, in short make your vice den your own and potheads, weed whores and fiends ( since, remember, you have no friends, only customers) will do the rest. While the stresses of an unregulated business might take a tole on your GPA, you will be learning important lessons in life and business, ones that can't be learned in any classroom, even oaksterdam often gets lost in the minutia.

    This approach can be expanded to other vices, though with greater risk for ones investment. The gambler is a timeless classic whether it is as a lone gambler playing at traveling poker games, a gruff booky or an all out, off campus casino. Besides the fun of fleecing others under the guise of chance you can easily build up an unmatchable allure, a devil may care attitude, his cards in the wind, will he take you with him when he has to flee in the dead of night with only a few dollars, the shirt on his back and the promise of adventure? Maybe, maybe not but you better stick with this guy as he is a one way ticket to danger, mystery and teaching daddy a lesson all at once and to unlock his inner beauty and vulnerability from his wild uncaring exterior. Yes, you will know when to hold 'em, know when to fold 'em, Know when to walk away and know when to run. You never count your money when you're sittin' at the table knowing There'll be time enough for countin' when the dealing's done, which is significantly more than the majority of our current college graduates come away with.
 
    Now, while a bordello seems like a natural solution, sliding across floors in tighty whitys and sun glasses, becoming a man and a master of ones fate, but there is a problem. Unregulated, the sex industry is a base and terrifying world full of coercion, violence, humiliation and intimidation. So do the classy thing, and put a camera between yourself and your work and maybe even earn some film credits while you are at it. While a reputation as a pornographer might hold you back in some circles, it wont as much as crushing debt, and as long as you wear a smoking jacket and smoke a pipe you'll be practically classy, hell you'll be 21st century aristocracy, haha! We are a classless generation.

    If the idea of mixing business and education don't appeal to you, probably because you are lazy and unthankful, than go ahead have your fun four years, flounder about for a few more were you try and apply your degree to a trade, but the loan payments become too much and you can't make it. Welcome back grasshopper, but now your in too deep, debt has piled on debt, it is time to disappear, a rose by any other name does not carry a roses debt. This is not going to be easy, and you will probably never see your friends and loved ones again, at least until the law forces them out of society as well. You will want to invest what little liquid cash you can into an RV, solar panels and weapons and prepare yourself for a life of nuance, challenges, bricolage beyond politeness and convention and into the uncomfortably real. Value will be assigned by utility, people and things lacking utility will quickly find there way into the junk to be picked over by bottom rung opportunists. You will live by your hunger, survival will be your passion, all those things that you used to worry about will fade in comparison to keeping warm at night and something to eat in the winter. Who worries about loans when there are wolves and frostbite.

  These are your options when dealing with the sinking ship known as American Higher education: game it or opt out of it, engage with it and you will just get pulled down in its wreckage. Just remember that the night is always darkest before the dawn, but also remember that the night gets continually darker as it progresses, so what you might believe is pre dawn darkness, might just lead to even greater darkness of an arctic night we may never live to see the end of.