This is the blog counterpart to the webzine found at www.therebellionmagazine.com. Here you will find news and media relating to our current tumultuous times and collapsing democracy. By shining light on a world falling apart and criticizing the jingoist oligarchy that runs the United States of America, we hope to change things for the better. Rise up!
In Wal-Mart - The High Cost of Low Price, Robert Greenwald brings to light what everyone should know about Wal-Mart, the multi-billion dollar corporation bent on destroying America. Purposely shutting down "Mom and Pop" stores, creating ghost towns, wreaking havoc on the environment, refusing reasonably-priced health care, forcing off-the-clock overtime, promoting sexist and racist management, and slave labor standards in China and Indonesia are only a few of the topics brought up in this excellent documentary. To be very clear about the extent to which the Waltons - the billionaire children of Sam Walton, the founder of Wal-Mart - are selfish, corrupt, slave-driving antitheses to American values, compare their yearly charity contributions compared to Bill Gates:
The Waltons: Less than 1% of their yearly earnings (which is estimated to amount to 285.2 billion dollars by the end of 2005) Bill Gates: 58% of his earnings per year
For more information on the ongoing saga of Wal-Mart vs. America unfolding in the news, check out the following links:
The sun, fading to little more than a faint glow, was setting beyond the horizon leaving a backdrop of darkness looming closer with every heavy breath I took. In an act of internal resistance, my throat decided to rebel against me. And with perfect timing. Taking a walk on the wild side, it walked right out on me and that bastard didn’t leave anything in its place. However, emptiness felt to have substance. There existed a feeling there much like numbness; almost like a ball was lodged in its absence. It felt as if I had tried to swallow a half-chewed dog bone, but it had gotten caught on the way down, lodging right below my adam’s apple, jutting out from my neck creating a choking sensation that I could not seem to shake.
The same feeling of alien existence had managed to find its way behind my tired eyes. Big and heavy, my pupils began to dilate in an effort to soak up the dying light. I couldn’t seem to adjust to the blackness that was engulfing me. With only the ability to look about slowly, I moved what still existed of my head through the depths of the ocean-like air. If I moved too fast to one side it would get ahead of me and I would be unable to catch up with it. It was a perpetual chase with my conscious.
Walking in this state was an impossibility. I found that on this planet that I no longer knew to be my own, I weighed about 250 pounds more than normal. For some reason the humidity had profound influences on gravity here. I could taste the stench of sweat in the air and I wanted to reach out and ring out the liquid air like a wet dish rag. I felt as if I were swimming rather than simply moving.
I began to fear the worst. A sense of panic arose in me as I grew tired from the constant kicking and paddling. The air had become water. Or maybe glass. It was too thick to be water. The shear density of it confused me and I began to lose my bearings more than before. Losing all smoothness in my movements, the little reality I had left became jagged and jumpy.
My mouth joined the battle, not wanting to open or function properly. For some reason I liked this strange feeling, but it could have been that I was slowly beginning to welcome the night and its impending doom. All feelings of hunger and thirst had left me even though cottonmouth had set in. My brain began to ooze slowly, languidly into my body through the vacancy in my neck. It was like my entire body fell asleep and from the pilot’s chair that was my fleeting mind, I was making it walk around half awake in this zombie state. Had the darkness fully engulfed me? I could not yet tell.
The insanity reached into my extremities and I began to feel very specific sensations in my fingertips. When I had begun to forget the modern existence that sheltered me from the dark of night just a few hours earlier, my tv began making weird noises in the other room. It seemed to be screaming at me sending its electromagnetic waves across the room further perpetuating the oozing departure of the remainder of the gooey mass within my skull. I couldn’t find the strength to answer its call, nor did I want to face what it wanted to show me. I was terrified of the green that was emanating from the screen. It sporadically interrupted the dead silence with growls and churns. I tried not to grow more afraid but the growling grew louder. Everything had become black and the green eminence of the orb within my television reflected in a sick glow off their wretched surfaces of my furniture.
Back in my head my conscious took on the feeling of existing in someone else's body. I felt so light yet I was so heavy. It was a paradox of feelings bombarding me one after the other, smothering me within its confusion, never letting go to allow me to take a breath. I tried to remain still but every movement was like jello and my mind could not make up for the weirdness. I found my way to the bathroom trying to hide from the pulsating energy. Staring in the mirror took me further into the clutches of insanity, my reflection bringing back no recollection of who I was anymore. I didn’t think I was even looking at myself anymore. Rather I was looking at what used to be my body from the outside.
I couldn’t feel a single thing. No heart beat from my cold chest, my feeble eyes no longer blinked, and if I was still breathing, then it was to light for me to notice. I began to feel like the orb was inside my skull pulsating, growing, sending waves of energy throughout my head. I could feel them as they tickled the hard edges of the inside of my head. Once. Twice. Three times. They kept growing in size and speed with every turn.
I began to notice my existence was one of mundane reaction and no longer of cognitive thought. I began to sink into the floor and collapse intangibly into myself. It was so dark. My head was sinking further into my neck and my arms became useless, hanging lifeless at my sides. My eyes, although weak, seemed to be the only stable thing left to rely on. I pictured myself as just two bloodshot eyeballs floating in mid-air. The rest of me was quite unresponsive. It wasn’t a feeling of sloth as before, but more of the pulsating. Everything was moving. I could only focus on an angle. If I cocked my stance just right I was able to manage to pay attention to the little light that still existed. Unfortunately I had completely lost control. My right eye wanted to come down to be level with the left eye and it was fighting my crooked glance. The right side of my body seemed to weigh two or three times as much as the left. When I regained the ability to blink, it was like I was turning channels on a silent television. Even though it was the same thing on every channel, I couldn’t handle all of the stimuli and I felt the sensory overload take its toll over my body. There seemed to be so much time in between the strained blinks. I realized that it was not me that was stuck, locked in that cocked angle. My whole world was tilted about 30 degrees.
As I began to move about again, I saw my head as a giant sparkler. When I moved it about quickly, I could see a heat trail follow it along. My eyes could no longer keep up with me either. Something else must have taken over inside of me. I felt alone and came to the realization that I was only an electromagnetic wave.
"I am a citizen observing what is going on around him. People get inspired by visiting galleries, reading books... I mainly get inspired by walking in the street."
After seeing the heavenly presence of Emily Haines join the likes of Broken Social Scene in Toronto a few years ago, I decided to purchase everything she has been a part of musically speaking. Two full-length albums (one of which has been discontinued), an EP, and a set of bootlegs later, and I'm still fiending another dose of Emily's healing breath. Luckily as I write this, Metric's newest album is circulating the radio waves pretty heavily. With the semblance of sounds crowding our ears these days, it's a blessing to know there's still room for bands like Metric - the rarity that doesn't bank off of one catchy radio hit and proceed to produce crap until they, in the words of Mike Tyson, "fade away into Bolivian".
Unfortunately in today's music scene, terms such as "emo" and "indie" rock seem to have no specific meaning in defining a band's sound. Putting all genre-defining-bullshit aside, there exist a few bands that defy even the emo kids sense of definition. The Postal Service, composed of Death Cab For Cutie's Ben Gibbard and Dntel's Jimmy Tamborello, are a prime example of one of these bands. Pairing up these two masterminds has produced a sound simultaneously eerie and soothing, their serenading cemetary sounds peacefully putting you to sleep while you continue to jam away in dreamland.
"The Soviet dictator Josef Stalin ordered the creation of Planet of the Apes-style warriors by crossing humans with apes, according to recently uncovered secret documents.":
"After five years of George W. Bush's presidency and eleven years of GOP rule in Congress, Republicans have permanently altered Washington's culture and character. To the average visitor, D.C. can be a confusing place--one where it's difficult to understand the difference between Viveca Novak and Bob Novak, between a Choctaw and a Coushatta, between Official A and Representative #1. The New Republic's Rough Guide to GOP D.C. seeks to demystify for visitors our scandal-plagued capital. Find tips only the insiders know: when to go, where to stay, and what to do if you're indicted. With this guide, you won't just visit slabs of marble and imbibe the spirit of democracy; you'll eat and drink in the skyboxes and hotel rooms where democracy is actually subverted (ahem, we mean practiced)."
President George W Bush has admitted he authorised secret monitoring of communications within the United States in the wake of the 2001 terror attacks: Big Brother Run Amok
Bush says U.S. spy program Is legal and essential: Shameful Acts
"Is it possible to put an end to a form of human behavior which has existed throughout history by means of photography? The proportions of that notion seem ridiculously out of balance. Yet, that very idea has motivated me."
(Photo: Rwanda, 1994 - Genocide of 800,000+ Tutsis and Hutus by Hutu extremists)
"For me, the strength of photography lies in its ability to evoke a sense of humanity. If war is an attempt to negate humanity, then photography can be perceived as the opposite of war and if it is used well it can be a powerful ingredient in the antidote to war."
(Photo: Chechnya, 1996 - Chechen War)
"In a way, if an individual assumes the risk of placing himself in the middle of a war in order to communicate to the rest of the world what is happening, he is trying to negotiate for peace. Perhaps that is the reason why those in charge of perpetuating a war do not like to have photographers around."
(Photo: Romania, 1990 - An orphanage for "incurables".)
"I think the raising of people's consciousness is the first step toward creating public opinion and public opinion creates an impetus for change. It creates pressure on decision makers, the powers that be, who make choices that affect the lives of thousands of people. Helping create the impetus for them to move in the right direction, through public opinion, is something worth doing"
The events that have transpired in Fallujah inspired this writing:
Bones, blood, and teeth. Hair, mud, and more blood. Women and children screaming, crying, moaning, dying. Men naked, torn, and bound. Control. Power. Subversion. Fear. The dark, rank night air knows no more than the strained eyes that can’t see past the flashes of hot light, the ears that can’t distinguish between screams and shouts, panic and terror, the minds that can’t discriminate between the guilty and the innocent. Subjective definitions left to be defined by the ignorant, the absent. Miscommunication and misunderstanding confounded by contrast, negligence, and prejudice. Decisions know no truth when conducted with shady pretenses. Babies, motionless, bleeding, clutched by their broken and tattered mothers. Skulls crushed, flesh strewn about, hair matted with unknown gooey matter. Barbaric lessons in anatomy with flimsy, half-truthed, flawed justification. Life and death – mechanic not organic. Men, dogs, rodents, anything but human, void of substance, absent of reflection, barren of concern. The sympathetic die a thousand deaths. The empathetic face a thousand scorns. The apathetic sit amongst kings.
More of my writings can be found at my lit portfolio:
How are you doing my dear sweet pumpernickel flower? I miss watching the dew trickle down your lovely little leaves oh so sensually. Sometimes I can see those fiery legs of yours stretched out over the horizon. But then, unfortunately, the confusion sets in because what would that imply about the sun, blazing above your ever-flowing legs? There’d be a battle of epic proportions waged over who could, in effect, set the globe ablaze.
So, I suppose the warm and sumptuous meatballs have been rubbed into every inch of you body by now. I hope I am right in this assumption. I suppose you are probably swimming in mostacciollis of ladies… and gentleman perhaps. Those sexy beasts that frequent the northern regions of Italia like the soon to be extinct, Asian grasshopper. How are those carnivorous monstrosities anyways? I bet they are sinking their lovely little fangs into your neck nightly? I envision you, feeble and shaky amongst the sea of alienated clubbers, slowly feeling the beat pulsate through your entire body, until the last possible second, when your weak form just can’t take any more and you are on the edge of ecstasy. I bet there are whole floors dedicated to those beautiful babies. They run rampant through the electric-lit hallways, waiting for their prey. The feast is a sight to see though, wouldn’t you say? The air all thick and gooey, as if every molecule were on the verge of crying a luke-warm tear of condensation. Those crazy eyes among beards of Viking nights, flowing crimson through purple horizons of lashes so long they could penetrate your thoughts like a knife.
I've fallen in love with simple things. Like the letter ‘c’ for example. It really is quite lovely and robust. Almost exquisite one could say. Sometimes I wish I could lie in its welcoming crest like the little boy who sleeps in the loving embrace of the moon. But some days I frighten myself and run away from what once appeared to be a harmless orb in the sky, beckoning me with that pacman-like grin. “C”. Look at her. She is just so damn inviting. It's like a lovely little treat, waiting for you, not judging. But the simplicity scares me to death. I must retreat from technology into the woods of salvation, where only the natives and their sacrificial offerings and hallucinogenic trances can prevent eternal damnation.
Technology has turned on us. Not only has my ridiculously inept contraption of a computer turned on me, it has taken hostages. I woke up this morning sleepy-eyed and crustified with unidentifiable fluids from the night before. Hair gel, beer, and bong water tattooed to my naked body like tribal war symbols. I was quite a sight to see. The image created in your head cannot describe the likes of me in the state I was in that very morning. It was perfect timing for my computer to make its move. And this time, it decided to take into account the harrowing task I had at hand- a mountain of Spanish work to be typed up proper for my lessons. It was minutes from daybreak and I had to fight lance to staff with a very angry piece of high-tech machinery. It wasn’t happy and it was making that very clear. Virii had infected it in more than 165 crucial organs. I could see the pain in her eyes as she fought off the trojan. But in a last effort to forge ahead and be victorious, she disconnected herself from the real world, cutting off all information relating to sustenance, acquaintances and loved ones galore, dates and times of appointments and such, and most importantly- Gaelic music. I could tell she was a force not to be reckoned with. I let her be, lonely as she was, crying myself back to sleep where the only thing left was darkness.
It was that very same darkness that had infected my poor computer. She was helpless to those microscopic warriors. (I am bringing myself to tears right now just thinking about it.) It in fact, was malignant. The poor thing. We'd been together through thick and thin, good and bad, rough and... not rough. I could see her waning off...slowly but steadily. I know that even with this tremendous loss, I must carry on. I am after all, only one man. And she... is only a figment of my memory now; a memory so clouded with sadness and loss that it seems to be drifting through my skull and blowing away like smoke in the wind. The numbness has set in and it’s hard to say if I’ll be able to love again. I will store her in my mind as she stored my porno stash and my ancient scrolls written in the early hours of a freshly stricken Saturday. So ready to be called Saturday, but still only Friday. Those few minutes where time seems to stand still on the edge of disaster, ready to plummet into the depth of the new day. Dark and divided it is, when night stares day in the face with a hostile bitterness, as if challenging those little hands on the clock to make their next tick.
So I take Bruce Wayne’s ever-fitting advice and I leave the lair secretly planted in the basement of my mansion. Logistics are completely unnecessary at this point. This wouldn’t be the first time I raced against time. I realized there is no reason to stow myself away like a nocturnal bat in the heat of day, waiting for the sun to collapse on another hemisphere. I have so much living to do. The anticipation has gotten to me. The anxiety is like raw energy sizzling through my every pore. I can feel the sweat drip down the bridge of my nose as I concentrate on what to do next. So much passionate love to give. Bruce would be proud of his little Robin-like follower. I get up early enough to catch those greasy little buggers before they can even inch their way into my freshly groomed lawn. But that's simply because they're retarded. Excuse me, mentally handicapped. I can just see what would happen if I were to call them retards to their snarling mugs, they'd have me tarred and feathered. It's not politically correct. One can't take that kinda thing for granted. In fact, I have many times and have been rightly reprimanded.
Do they have such a thing there in Europe? I wouldn't think so. It's a different way of thinking. Like replacing a screw with a jellybean or something. One can't go and mess with creation like that. Mother nature and father time would go haywire. They're kinda creepy anyways. Always getting into other people's business. Close talkers they are. Space bubbles are a cultural thing, I understand that. But they like to fingerprint your quivering lips on their supple chins. Trying to be subtle and all, they don't even realize they're doing it. But you'd never question them. That'd be disrespectful and after all they do it for a reason. They were brought up that way. Like family. It’s a mafia-like relationship amongst those hermaprhoditic inchlings. The competition is so steep these days, one goes at great lengths to secure his place in the business. Thousands of bled night crawlers have been found strewn about the yard in the morning. It’s quite sad really. They live such a pathetic existence. But that’s family for you. They’d do anything for family.
How is your family anyways? Do you live with some hot ladies and gentleman? Some beautiful babies even? Are you busy as a bee with follies and trots through the grape orchards? How is your love life? The romance must be great there in the land where romance was invented. They say that one day Giuseppe was out trimming the personified hedges of the great garden, when his master’s wife invited him in for tea and crumpets. Giuseppe had never delved in the likes of these treats, nor in those of the master’s wife. Heavily drugged by some ancient tea he could not recognize, Giuseppe awoke in the arms of his lady. The passion in the room could be seen for miles and all the land was in awe of the astral display before them. It was as if the sun had stained every cloud in the sky red with lust. Every blood-red cloud appeared to be sighing with pleasure. It was a beautiful orgy in the sky. Great golden copulations. However, no cosmic wonder could do justice to what was going on inside the down and satin jungle gym that was the bedroom. Both man and woman had discovered the essence of true love. History says that when they were finished, they floated breathlessly above the heavens where they sit in those very same clouds aroused with hedonistic life.
I bet the beautiful babies of that romantic land would appreciate a freshly shorn lad like yourself. All blue-eyed and bushy-tailed at the thought of a moonlit drive. Drinking strong piña coladas and sipping on the likes of each other and such, like you only find in tropical paradises such as where you are as we speak through this primitive form of contact. That sort of thing rings my bell and tickles me pink in all the right ways that I can't even put into words the emotions that have been cast upon my fragile little form. You're probably wondering what I've been up to when not directing the stars into cosmic orchestrations. But all in good time you will hear of the horse-ridden tales of pageantry and the wars waged against crazy Irish roommates and wine-drunken mademoiselles calling out the name of Sir Lancelot like it was an all-too familiar Christmas carol. I tell you this in complete curiosity because in reality what I've been up to is of little importance.
I live here, in this lowly little city butted up against what at one time they called the 'mirage a la vie'. Whatever that means. I want to be in the rolling hills of glorious Italy. Are there such hills where you are? Or is it more of a concrete playing field of monstrous buildings and little tin-can cars and scrap metal architecture much like the big apple we know all too well? I try to paint a picture in my head of what you must be doing and I can only picture you wearing a black and white pin-striped shirt and of course a beret, riding a little bicycle down a broken brick road. It curves just slightly but it doesn’t put a stop to your confident stride. You're fully prepared to turn the wheel just enough, as if you've been down that path for years. You are sitting at little quaint diners, not like those mass-produced Starbucks-like diners you find here in the united provinces of north capitalistic America, but real authentic European diners where they don't speak English. English is such a beautiful evil is it not? A crutch from the romantics, no?
We hide from those scary beautiful babies because they own us. We're their faithful servants. We are here for them. And heaven forbid we be turned down. So we speak this plain dialect in a seemingly tormentful effort to fight conformity. But not you! No! You are in Italy! You are the king. And for that you must be happy. I try. That is all I can do 30,000 leagues away from you. I miss you my king. With that hard /k/ sound. Not a /ch/. It’s a /k/. Don't let them tell you differently. It's all you have to hold onto in a foreign land. You can't be running around without that /k/. If you let them change it, you'll regret it. Believe me. But I trust you and I know you'll do the right thing.
School must be on the agenda somewhere. It pains me too, but I assume it is only helping the twisting, turning path become a little straighter. Like the little turn in the road you were ready to take on your little Italian bike, you were ready for that little turn when you arrived. That turn that not only stopped your thoughts from churning on that warm summer's day, but also made you a man. No longer a boy, you're ready for bigger turns. I am quite jealous and hope that in due time I will be ready to travel down that rocky brick road on my rickety old bike too. I too want to wear a beret. But only if you designed it. It had better be a beret with my initials sewn into it, etched like the symbols ignited to a beautiful painting.
In closing, I pray for you and your lovely assistants. That you live la vida loca in Italy to the fullest. Every day remembering that we are here for you and thinking about you. There is no use fighting it. The love we all share will continue to grow, like a little geek's comic book collection. For that, we shall tattoo a beautiful work of art on our feeble bodies in the name of friendship. Until then...
Most people who wear clothing with the famous "Che" face on it are completely ignorant of who Ernesto Guevara is. Che's message of rebellion has transformed his political image to one to be whored by the mass media. Biographically speaking, Che was first a doctor and the president of Cuba's national bank, and then a revolutionary. He was seen as controversial not just because of his involvement in Cuba, but because he encouraged revolt in South America and Vietnam. Che openly criticized the Northern hemisphere - both the Soviet Union and the United States - stating that they exploited the Southern hemisphere. Che was ultimately captured and murdered by the CIA after setting up guerrilla forces in the Congo and Bolivia. To this day the story of Ernesto "Che" Guevaro is still skewed historically and socially.
Oklahoman, animal suit wearing, indie artists The Flaming Lips seemlessly meld bubblegum pop, static punk, and hints of Japanese culture in their newest album Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots. No longer hinting at the greats they are often compared to, such as a more "clairvoyant Radiohead" or a less "chaotic Nirvana", The Flaming Lips are sitting upon the "Great" status themselves. While it is true that their live shows have become infamous due to their crazy antics and it is no secret that lead singer Wayne Coyne is the king of noise experimentation, The Flaming Lips seem to remain a secret to most of the music world, save those with extra-sensory perception. It is my humble opinion that these guys will be around for some time due to their innovative yet strange creativity. To get a real glimpse of this creativity, the older, more obscure album Zaireeka is a must-have 4-disc album to be played simultaneously on 4 different systems.
Too often standing in the looming shadows of The White Stripes, The Von Bondies offer a unique twist to the vague genre that is Garage Rock. With their new release Pawn Shoppe Heart, they have achieved a sound rock 'n' roll has been lacking for years. While lead singer Jason Stollsteimer may have had the shit kicked out of him by former mentor Jack White, the music shows no sign of weakness.
