This is a version of the poster I had above my bed as a child and teen: though mine was more garish, almost unbelievably so, it did contain the same picture and slogan ("…and what will be left of them?"). See if you can guess why this came to mind today.

don’t get mad, don’t get even, just get out

Doctors, lawyers, courts, police/informants, a bank, the Federal Department of Concentration Camps, an ex-partner with control over my future she definitely does not wish to have, hard-to-shift bloodstains (don’t worry, not my blood), a phone I have managed to have working maybe a tenth of the time, and which has supplied electric shocks at random times, an internet account that has imploded for reasons of its own though it seems to be semi-working now (only four thousand unread e-mails, no joke). (On the plus side police seem to have finally stopped talking about the proposed ‘assault occasioning actual bodily harm on a police officer’ charge from three years ago, and have never turned up with the footage I know exists of me punching out an aggressive shop assistant in an inner city trendy location - unlike me, sure, but ‘these things’ happen or something.)

I’m too urban for run-to-the-hills/save-the-forest/eco-guerrillas-in-the-mist scenarios, which would only exacerbate the continual lowering of my brow and tendential fall in my rate of intelligence, plus country people scare me and I always thinks I’ll end up getting either lynched as a jew-commie-faggot-greenie-horse-thief, or else just sacrificed to the corn.

Still, running.

In 1971 one of my father’s sperms beat out several million others to be the first at my mother’s egg, fertilizing that egg and producing whatever eventually became whatever I am. That was the last time I ever came first in any competitive sporting event. I never ran to anything ever again, only from.

Anyway, those who keep up with events listed at whoisfuckingben.org will know that, as someone who has spent most of their life around goyim, anglo-gentiles in fact, I am now faced with a question other than the usual one concerning their astonishing capacity for denial, the new question being: how did I end up having sex simultaneously with two people demonstrably willing to wear black gloves with the fingers cut off? (OK, one was jewish, it is the aesthetic between homelessness and post-gothy-ness I’m invoking here.) Close to a full ninety seconds of incendiary action, and if necessary I’ll take a polygraph (means ‘many graphs’). If this keeps happening I may start wearing underwear.

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Anyway, I just read an article appearing in theory@berkeley by some guy named Daniel Ross which I recommend highly. I love him like a brother (Jeb Bush). Can’t be bothered finding the link, so go look it up yourselves.

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The Assassination Collective have now launched their ‘Fight,…or Assimilate and Die’ CD at the Tote, a night I missed through being inexcusibly self-absorbed, but anyone reading this should also look up TAC website (the band, not the transport accident people).