Ode to Capitalism

Hope

First off, any hint of a violent revolution happening in the near future is virtually undetectable by any of the six or seven basic senses—depending how lucid on acid you are. And although explosions, blood and scars are probably not the most alluring remedies for the defective hierarchical class system we’re effectively pinned beneath, they would undoubtedly help to revitalize the pulse of our flaccid culture. Think about it. 

Reverse

Really though, I love the sensation of having my nuts in a capitalist vice while pin-dick fascists crank on the bar. I’m certainly not a communist if that’s what you’re thinking. The altruistic sentiment of communist philosophy is, in essence, the political equivalent to a vegan diet and dry sex, neither of which I subscribe to. Lets burn this place to the ground and stoke the flames with absolute consumption. The irony of receiving an Adbusters magazine on Christmas morning reflects a truly functional economy: hardcore leftist ideals are more hilarious than a Tickle-Me-Elmo any day.

Crisis

How uncomfortable can we really be with the corporate establishments that have befallen us? After all, I drink every night of the week and buy cheap dope from illegitimate drug dealers. And if I’m really in a jam, I just drive down to the Cecil and watch the talented ladies with silicone boobs and hair-extensions shake their junk all over my face and lap for five dollars or less. Who needs Mcdonald’s drive-thru to satisfy impulsive desires? Alas, it feels good to lament this perverse love affair I have with substance abuse, hookers and cheeseburgers.

Pain

Perhaps it’s unresolved esteem issues which drive me to say such disparaging things about the inherent benefits of inequality and exploitation. Or perhaps I’m just not getting enough of that elusive capitalist ass I’ve heard so much about on the T.V and Internet.

Retribution

A team of researchers from the University of Victoria is suggesting that the B.C Government jack-up liquor prices in order to curb rampant alcoholism in Vancouver. It’s notions like this that drive the already unbalanced population of middle-class piss-tanks to hit the bottle even harder. We shouldn’t even dignify the idea with a response—unless of course it involves dynamite and gatling guns. So all I’m going to say is “fuck that shit!” Those half-baked university students should be strung up by their nose-hairs and beaten like Teletubby piñatas at a Mexican birthday party.

Truth

It seems as if there’s a tinge of discontent in the collective mind over the way this over-populated planet's being run: we should cultivate it. Fact is, we never had a choice. And even if we did, I’d still pick C. So as we hide away like cultural refugees, brooding in capitalist fall-out and target marketing, take solace in knowing that you’re not the only one who’s profoundly confused. Don’t cry: it’s not your fault—psyche. It’s totally your fault. Drop the iPhone, buy a gun, loot a Wal-Mart and raise some chickens.

With that, we should all join hands and sing Kumbaya as the lunatics with power and money pick our pockets and adjust their comb-overs. Fuck!

Good Riddance

Blackout

What just happened? Four months of rag-tag essays and trivial seduction, gone but not forgotten. The swings are worse than the temper of a wasted Samoan drug dealer at a roulette table in Vegas on New Years. The only grip is to stay in the green, pull off a threesome and avoid getting pistol-whipped by an angry pimp named Drexel.

It’s not even close to midnight. The hookers are out, but you’re not sure who they are. You trust your friends, but they’ll disappear at the sight of a stripper in pursuit of oral sex or a good story. Then you’ll be on your own to stumble amongst the fluorescent lights, mountains of blow and fake tits that lure you in every shadow. We have no idea.

It all seemed like a good idea at first. An experience. A right of passage into the broken realm of art and self-annihilation. Twisting the thoughts in your head, escape becomes reality. You have no idea where you are or what you're doing. In a world of modern love and static desire, intrigue and lies roll over us like clouds.

Entrails and Daffodils

Systematic Obliteration

I don’t feel like saying anything. Beat up a bouncer, run from the police, shoot heroine and sell drugs to Asians. Get drunk and call your ex-girlfriend at three in the morning. Fall asleep at the wheel and crash your car into a lamppost.

I’m in a restless stupor right now and can’t come to grips with the notion of inspiration. What is art? How does art fit into the system that we staunchly reject? I read that, “all art is subject to the same evolutionary cycle. It is created, absorbed into collective consciousness and then coveted.”[1] The point is that art cannot simply exist—it must be owned—and that the value of art is most clearly recognized when it belongs to an idea, image or cause.

A + B = A New Generation

Essentially, without ownership, a piece of art is just a fuck you to the exploitative forces of capitalism. In the absence of personal identity or human desire, the purpose of rogue art (art without ownership) is to disrupt the status quo. However, creating a piece of art in the vanity of anonymity seems equally as blasphemous as displaying it in an overtly flamboyant attempt to get laid or make a dollar.

At this point, the message is vague. How art translates in our culture should be for the rejects and misfits to decide—not the bogus losers who run elitist galleries and franchise coffee shops. The only two things that make sense to me right now are Molotov cocktails and binge drinking.

Streets of Fury

If you graffiti or corrupt a piece of public property, is it art? If it’s for a cause, you are a revolutionary. If not: you are a rebel. If you carve freedom into a park bench, you’re a vandal. The distinction between revolution and rebellion has been skewed by institutionalized propaganda and queer Olympic mascots. In other words, Quatchi, Sumi, Miga and Muk Mu are going to be taking rounds out of each other on a bed of money for the next three months while you masturbate and cry.

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[1] Nardi, Sarah. ADBUSTERS 77