We are all French, now.

Simon Reynolds explains the ominous parallels at the blissblog:

We Are All French Today. The Strokes new single: It was on the tip of my tongue and the wife pipped me to the post–“this sounds like if Daft Punk made a rock record”. Marital telepathy or objective truth? It’s no secret that France has a bit of a chequered history with la musique roque. There tends to be this twice-removed, distanced aura to that nation’s guitarband output. It can be enjoyable for precisely that quality: Plastic Bertrand “Ca Plane Pour Moi” (he was Belgian though right? apparently he didn’t even sing on his own records, sez Malcolm McLaren, admiringly), Les Ritas Mitsoukos (not sure ‘bout the spelling) on their one great track whose title escapes me (sounded very T.Rexy though), even things like Metal Urbain (check their great new reissue Anarchy In Paris!, Acute’s best yet) and Les Thugs. And of course Daft Punk took that nonreal vibe and turned it into a positive aesthetic strength. The new Strokes has that artificiel quality–not as in fake, inauthentic, bogus, so much as made out of some ersatz substance that resembles but isn’t real-deal rock. There’s a plasticized glazed gloss to the record, a deep unrocking stiltedness. It’s particular the case with that track which more than any Strokes tune seems plotted out on graph paper, and is delivered in unusually desultory and remote-control mode. But maybe that degree of twice-removed and hyper-selfconsciousness is our common condition today, maybe it’s impossible for anyone anywhere to rock in that basic pure from-the-gut unreflecting scare-quote-free way that was available to James Gang or AC/DC or whoever. (Look at the Darkness or Andrew W.K., where for all their intent to rock, their straight faces… well, let’s just say I’m not convinced). Maybe we are all French today.

Bang, Bang!

Another selection from the always-enlightening Hitherby Dragons:

Wolves have fur. This makes wolves furries. Since they’re already wolves, they don’t pretend to be wolves. They pretend to be humans. A small excerpt from wolf furry-play follows.

The alpha male struts in. He puts down his briefcase. He says, “Hello, honey, I am home! Since you do not need estrus to stimulate your sexual interest, perhaps you would be up for a rousing bout of Church-endorsed missionary position sex?”

“Oh, no, honey, not now! I am too busy shooting my gun at the wolf who culled the weakest members of our herd of cows! Bang!”

“That sounds like fun. Shooting wolves improves the strength of their gene pool! But surely we could have sex and shoot wolves at the same time?”

“That is very kinky. I admire your dirty mind!”



Together: “Bang!”

That is how wolves imagine human intercourse must be.

Aslan Shrugged

The strangely brilliant Hitherby Dragons reconciles Objectivism and Christianity:

The lion lays himself down on the table. “Peter,” he says. “Have you a sword?”

Though only 13, Peter is a general in the military of three separate countries, and so he answers, “A dress sword.”

“Then draw it,” says Aslan, “and cut open my heart.”

“I can’t,” says Peter.

The lion is silent.

Peter’s face contorts with a terrible grief and shame. “You cannot ask this. It is too much.”

“Do you know,” asks the lion, “how spring comes to Narnia?”

Peter looks at Susan, who is the closest to a natural scientist amongst the Pevensie children.

“It’s usually fairly standardized,” Susan says.

“When it is a winter such as this,” says Aslan, “brought by sin compounded upon sin, incompetence compounding inefficiency, the king must give his life to break the winter cold. This is the thing that the witch could never do.”

“But how can you sacrifice your life?” weeps Peter.

The lion’s words are terrible, and they lash at Peter like the winter cold. “Have I not told you, Son of Adam? Have you no ears? I do not make sacrifices.”

“I’m sorry,” whispers Peter.

“I am not sacrificing my life,” says Aslan. “I am exchanging it for a thing of greater value. I do this for the animals, that they may know another spring; for the centaurs, and the women of the wood and well, and the fauns, and the unicorns; and for Edmund, who was tasted the Turkish Delight and cannot otherwise be redeemed.”

“Din’t taste it,” says Edmund. “Just touched it. Maybe with my tongue. Just a little. But not really tasting.”

Peter looks at Edmund.

“I do not do this thing,” rumbles Aslan, “because you are unworthy and small. You are not. I do not do this thing to save an evil land. It is not. I do this because Narnia is good. I do this because you are good. I do this because you are worth this to me. Because in a world that seems very dark I will prove to you that you are worthy of my life.”

Mighty River Of Dreams and Revelations

(For Sunny, prophet, seer and revelator of South Salt Lake City, and for Alethea, the Oracle of the University District)

At this time I had another dream that Howard Grant, a seminary teacher in Arizona came rushing up in a black new car. He said, “Bishop, come and I will show you where rich gold is, right up the road in Water Canyon.” So Bishop Koyle, Lewis Wright, Willard Fuller and I got in the car and up the road we went. We were clipping along nicely about half way up the Canyon when suddenly the car stopped and started rolling backwards. I became frightened and said,”Howard, put your foot on that brake or we will all be destroyed.” He paid no heed. Then said Bishop, “Put your foot on that brake or we will all be destroyed;” but he would not budge. Then I parted the front seat and slapped the brake to the floor, but there was no brake, so we plunged off, more than 1,000 feet to the bottom of the canyon, landing right side up. We all got out of the car and looked at each other. I said to Howard, “You had [153] better get your brakes fixed.” He took a brush out of a quart can and began to paint around his hat band. Lewis walked over and put his hand on my shoulder and said, “Jesse, I want to thank you for saving our lives.” I said, “Don’t thank me. I tried but could do no good; thank the Lord.”

The only thing missing from this account was the part where they moved the car and found that they had landed upon Wile E. Coyote.

“Bishop didn’t like the idea of others having dreams about the mine, and when I told him a dream, he angrily turned to me and said, “Who’s dreaming about this mine, you or me?” As well might man put forth his puny arm to stop the Missouri River in its decreed course as to stop the Lord from pouring down revelations upon the heads of the Latter-day Saints.” – Jesse L. Young, quoted in RELIEF MINE II

then lung sleeps on the grass and lung dreams. sometimes lung dreams about a donut. sometimes lung dreams about you. sometimes lung dreams about a lung who dreams about you. do you dream about lung? who is dreaming who? are you dreaming right now?lung

I Hate Paleocons

I leave a typically restrained and thoughtful comment on this

“You should be ashamed to think that someone who is not an individualist in politics is just waiting to bow the knee to some despotism, let alone to say it.”

Why should he be ashamed to say it? It’s only the simple truth. Power is what the paleos worship, not God, although they take care to disguise their worship of power with clouds of incense and sickening, pseudo-pious hypocrisy. But statements like “Perhaps the proper response of society in such confrontations would be that there will be no reason-giving, because it is fruitless, vain, and masturbatory to attempt to reason with the deranged” pretty much give the game away – note how Mr. “Maximos” creams his jeans at the thought of his fantasy-god, “Society”, crushing opposition – and not even bothering to give a reason!

It is my sincerely held hope, Mr.”Maximos” that someone takes your vile rubbish about “And without a contract, there can be no rights” literally, robs you at gunpoint and then proceeds to beat you like a gong. But since – unlike you, Mr. “Maximos”, I am not a complete lying booklicking Franco-sucking swine, I understand that it is very wrong to hope for such a thing.

Still, if I were you, I’d tremble when I reflect that God is just.

A curse upon them all.

Military Replicator Socialism

Log of a replicator repairman, courtesy of Something Awful.

Report: We were boarded by some Romulans at about 3:25, smack dab in the middle of my lunch break. Security details were sent to the locations where the Romulans had beamed aboard and a huge sissy fight erupted with phasers. I used the replicator to make a .45 pistol and I went down and shot them all in the head. A couple of them shot at me but I just casually stepped out of the path of their phaser beams. Somehow, LaForge managed to take the credit claiming he “disabled them with a phase-inversion field by venting the plasma containment units.” Oh, is that why maintenance spent three hours cleaning brain-smeared bullets out of the corridor walls on deck 18? Fucking asshole.