In
Out the dirty bin, like Flynn, trippin’
Sin of Johnsin, Jonesin for deregs
Suckin’ the last dregs of capital
From a burst bubble
In, in with them, in it together
With Europe to weather the weather
You choose Trump or Tusk?
In with your kin
Folks in mass who be from working kingdom class
In for the workers rights
In for fair and decent opportunity for all
In for one and one for all in
In good we trust
In over your head with the out gang
In the thick of it and getting thicker by the Wetherspoon full
Think McFly, think quicker
Sicker and licker shot to shoot the big dipper dobber
In, like cucumber in Gin
Like a holiday abroad on a whim
For consumer rights
For human and animal rights
Stay in, come unity
Not separatism
No schism
Ready up for the fight, for the flight, the blindsight roulette zit
In like a hole in one
Like a slam dunk, a corner kick, a prick
Inn like a stable for Jayzeus
In without Tory heist
In without Brexit Party hallucinations
In like Quintin Tarantino movies
In your face Ian Turncoat Austin
In the pool of commerce the largest market
In the mood
In the future of international learning with European cultures
In the market place of market places
In your own skin
In place in positive spin
Shedding Camerons pigskin and Johnson’s sheepskin
Leaving deadley sin, Dudley sin by Ian Busted Austin
In with the strong, in to underpin your rights
In and ready to take it on the chin
Begin trackin’ thin lines that lead to lies and Gove coke puffin’
Boris de Pfeffel huffin’ lies and elitist disregard
For everybody but them, the Bullingdongers
In like the loony bin Boris should be confined within
In like the firing pin
In the cross hairs of hate I relogate to the trash bin
Reason, fairness, openness and up-to date information
In memory of Heathcote Williams
In time
In like Huckleberry Finn.
In like a drawing pin to the shin of Boris Johnsin.
The future prophesy reported to surround the highly weird book, Finnegans Wake (1939) can be evidenced here: Chapter 23, page 337. Sounds a lot like Boris Johnson to me, and my sentiment asking for buds, and order. John Bercow anyone. I am incorrigible too. Boris the LOONER, and Boris Johnson the loner. Spot on jim.
We want Bud. We want Bud Budderly. We want Bud Budderly boddily. There he is in his Borrisalooner. The man that shunned
the rucks on Gereland. The man thut won the bettlle of the bawll. Order, order, order, order!
On hearing the sad news I have rushed this post. More memories will follow. I hope this goes some way to paying my respects. Much love, and my condolences to his closest family and friends.
Paul Krassner and Robert Anton Wilson. Palm Springs, December 2000.
Paul Krassner (11th April 1932–July 21st, 2019) passed the final acid test yesterday. After 87 years inside of his flesh puppet, the Zen Bastard has flown free into the infinite flux of non-beingness. Paul was one of my favourite American authors, activists and human beings, partly due to him publishing my first short story in 2003. I hung out with Paul and his wife Nancy, and Robert Anton Wilson in Palm Springs in 2000, and met him in San Francisco at the launch of “Murder At The Conspiracy Convention” and caught him in NYC at the Knitting Factory.
Paul was a great American, to mean somebody who consistently challenged authority, and themselves in equal measure, and held a high spirited optimistic outlook on life, love, art, war, and peace. In the Realist, 1959, Paul published Robert Anton Wilson’s first piece: Joyce and Taoism.
In December 2000 the DJ flew to Palm Springs to attend the Prophets Conference, and act as Robert Anton Wilson’s volunteer caretaker. Paul and Nancy showed up to see old Bob, who was in a wheelchair at that time. I was invited to join them and treated to an hour or so of a fly on the wall hallucination, it was pure comedy combined with some concerns about G.W Bush and the Butterly ballot. I bought a round of drinks and Bob had a Manhatten, which later, I regret may have led to a few more “fucks” in his presentation than usual. Paul and Nancy sat right at the front for his “Universe Contain’s A Maybe” performance, and I felt that Bob was really performing for Paul, who was roaring with laughter at Bob’s chorus of “Cocksucker” and “Motherfucker,” when describing fundamentalist faith-based organizations and individuals. You can watch the whole thing here: An example of Paul’s kindness and attention to detail is reflected by his effort to find me the following day to give me an article he had read in the New York Times about the emergence of multi-linguistic hip hop, something I had rambled on about the previous day. Paul also handed me “The Final Issue” of the Realist“. Wow, I was cheesing hard, and full of gratitude for the guy. Shortly after moving to San Francisco the writer got an email from Paul saying that he was collecting stories, or tales of altered states, for his book: Magic Mushrooms And Other Highs: From Toad Slime To Ecstacy. Later that year the writer recieved the delightful news that my story “As If True” would be published in 2003! What a beautiful cat. Man. He reminds me, great movements in art and literature are often self-fueled and stem from a voluntary will to push forward, regardless, not always driven by profit. Here’s paragraph from Paul introduction to Magic Mushrooms. Bless up.
“Meanwhile, psilocybin has made its way into mythology. Dr. Ian Edwards, head of education at the Royal Botanic Gardens in Edinburgh, claims not only that the bright color of magic mushrooms may have inspired the traditional red coat worn by Santa Claus, but they may also help Santa Claus to fly. He told the Daily Telegraph about a story originating in Lapland, where the people used to feed the hallucinogenic fungi to their herd of reindeer. They used to feed red and white fly-agaric mushrooms to their raindeer, then drink the animals¹ urine. Drinking the urine would give them a high similar to taking LSD. One of the results was that they thought they and their reindeer were flying through space, looking down on the world. speaking of which, you might want to lick the bottom right-hand corner of page 23. Go ahead, it¹s all right. No one will ever know. And you won¹t be indirectly providing any drug money for weapons to the terrorists, either. ”
When interviewing Bob at his home, I asked him about the Zen Bastard dedication to Paul at the beginning of the book: TSOG The Thing That Ate The Constitution. Bob replied.
RAW:… Paul Krassner – he dedicated the book to me, he sent me an e-mail along with the dedication long before the book was published and asked me if I found it satisfactory and wanted to change anything to make sure I’d be pleased by it. I was so delighted I dedicated my next book to him which is due out any day now, it’s called TSOG: The thing that ate the constitution and its dedicated to Paul Krassner – Zen Bastard. I originally wrote “Paul Krassner – “Zen bastard and all-around good guy” or something like that, and sent it to Paul, and Paul said “Zen Bastard is just what I want,” so some people might think I’m insulting him but that’s what he wants that’s his sense of humour so I let it stand, the book says – “To Paul Krassner – Zen Bastard.”
Paul featured in the documentary Maybe Logic: The Lives And Ideas Of Robert Anton Wilson. With his full interview on Bob included in the DVD extras. I caught up with him in San Francisco, at the top of Haight street, at a bookshop I forget the name of, which hosted his book release performance and readings from “Murder At The Conspiracy Convention” the book dedicated to Bob. After the rather poorly attended show I stepped up for a book signing, and he signed it “To fly agaric 23, from Paul Krassner, whose body was found washed up on a beach”. Alas, I lost this book on my travels, somebody has it somewhere. I inspired a laugh from Paul with my signing request.
The last time I saw Paul Krassner was at the Knitting Factory in New York, where he was not promoting a book but doing a straight-up, or to the left, stand-up set, once again to a rather small crowd. I caught Paul on his way to the toilet to tell him about my world piss project, he laughed again but not so hard, probably as he really needed to go and this weird Brit was in his way. I was alone at the gig, and so I was bowled over when this dude in a hat came over and asked me how I was doing, made polite conversation as he saw that I was surely from out of town. This turned out to be the late great Steve Ben Israel, of the legendary Living Theater and hundreds of other art, poetry, activism and Krassner-like, and inspired activities. I mentioned I was a DJ and Steve told me about his son, beatboxer and lyricist Baba Ben Isreal, who I crisscrossed pathways with in Amsterdam, years later. I kept in touch with Paul by email on and off, and he always responded in the positive. He gave me permission to republish his interview with Terence McKenna, for example, in our Maybe Logic Quarterly Magazine. Cheers Paul.
I cannot comment on his health condition, but I am sure he lost the ability to type at some point which he more recently gained back. 2 years ago he sent me a very moving article, that I think reflected his own situation, or feelings. “Bringing The Invisible To Life” May 3rd, 2017. http://nowiknow.com/bringing-the-invisible-to-life/ I wrote back:
“may the ink flow plenty and pages scroll on… to infinity and the pen swerve as you tease it keep up the good work’ love and love”
Another recent article sent from Paul, dated March 29th, was about Sara Silverman, and her “Last Laugh” podcast interview. And here’s one of his last published pieces, from Variety, 2018:
“The current FBI has swung a pendulum from 50 years ago, when the FBI was an enemy of progressive activists. An agent’s poison-pen memo attempted to smear Tom Hayden with the worst possible label they could invoke with fliers: Yep, an FBI informer. Others distributed a caricature depicting Black Panther leader Huey Newton “as a homosexual,” and ran a fake “Pick the Fag” contest, referring to Dave McReynolds as “Chief White Fag of the lily-white War Resisters League” and “the usual Queer Cats — like Sweet Dave Dellinger and Fruity Rennie Davis.” I was described as “a raving, unconfined nut.” I thanked the FBI for that title of my autobiography.
I recall Paul once landing on Facebook briefly, and leaving again pretty quick, he posted the same sentence over and over again if I remember correctly. A genius, who will be missed. Read him.
Um, now that I see so many English Eton educated critters lying so obviously in public, I thought to myself, man, maybe the Duke Of Hamilton was lying all along, and in 1936, at the Nazi Olympic Games in Berlin, he did meet with Rudolf Hess, as Hamilton dined with most the other top Nazi brassholes.
“In Berlin, he attended numerous functions, including a grand dinner for the British contingent hosted by Joachim von Ribbentrop, the German ambassador to Britain and later foreign minister, where he was introduced to Hitler and other leading members of the National Socialist government. Hamilton had previously met Ribbentrop in London as the Ambassador to the Court of St. James’s. Hamilton was invited by Hermann Göring to inspect the newly reinstated Luftwaffe, for his professional interest in aviation. It has been suggested that Hamilton either through his own initiative or under instruction indulged in some minor espionage during these occasions. He claimed not to have met the deputy Führer Rudolf Hess while in Germany, although did attend a dinner party in Berlin also attended by the deputy Führer.” https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Douglas_Douglas-Hamilton,_14th_Duke_of_Hamilton#World_War_II.2C_the_Hess_Affair.2C_and_after
Watch and listen to Cory, he brings the low down facts, and with the no-shit delivery. Bravo, and cheers
I picked up his latest book of fiction in hardback, Radicalized – highly recommended contemporary hair-shaving fiction.
While thinking about this thing that’s been bugging me lately, I reached for Lenny Bruce. This thing is a question concerning the “P.C agenda” and a part of the surge of people saying whatever comes into their heads, without thinking twice, that’s not alright babe. Backed up by political celebrities. To those who like Boris, and who like his species of unfiltered commentary on contemporary life, you should get hip to Lenny Bruce, a comedic philosopher who kinda’ invented the genre of offensive performance art by daring to tell the truth. On the back cover, there’s a blurb that for me, gets at the root of the difference between good funny intelligent comedy, and idiotic, cheap, political coercion.
“Lenny Bruce has in effect composed a social document…He searches for truth with pick-axe and rapier, saying the unsayable, sparing nothing and no one, including himself”–Library Journal.
There, right at the end. “Sparing nothing and no one, Including himself”. That’s the difference with Boris, and most other politicians, leaders, royals, CEO’s, they rarely turn their wit on themselves. Self-deprecating humour, there’s a thing that not many well known public figures can do. It’s all one way, e.g comparing Muslim women to letter-boxes. To mean, the day Boris comes out and calls himself a fool and a clown, and any other politician for that matter, although he kind of takes the biscuit within UK politics in 2019, is the day I could consider defending his right to speak about things he does not like or understand.
I’d go further, and propose that a sense of self-deprecating humour, along with other kinds of sense of humour, are suspiciously absent the further you head out toward the edge of any political party. See Nigel Farage, who’s about as funny as an improvised roadside bomb. Listen and read Lenny Bruce and get your own house in order first. Note to self 😉
I almost forgot to finish my story, while thinking of all this, I opened the Lenny Bruce autobiography somewhat randomly and found this quote:
“When I talk on the stage, people often have the impression that I make things up as I go along. This isn’t true. I know a lot of things I want to say; I’m just not sure exactly when I will say them. This process of allowing one subject spontaneously to associate itself with another is equivalent to James Joyce’s stream of consciousness.”–Lenny Bruce, How To Talk Dirty And Influence People, CHapter 10, pg. 92.
This blog has been pretty formal and usually my posting of something readymade, or linked to some media or other. Here I’ll simply describe my day so far, and two events that gave me, and with luck will give you, some hope. (or extra courage of hopelessness, however you prefer?)
Friday night I lost my phone! You know the feeling? For me, in light of the fact that my phone is an unlocked old school Nokia, the paranoia grew as time passed and I could not find it. What if….what if….I let a few people know it was lost. And I could feel my guts tighten.
Yesterday, less than 24 hours after it was lost, my partner received a phone call from a dude who had the phone, and gave me a time and an address to pick it up (Today, about 1 hour ago, in Amsterdam North). I felt my shoulders relax and my head clear. Thank &%6£ for that. Although not in my hand yet, I felt high as a kite knowing I was either getting kidnapped at gunpoint or getting my phone back. My blind faith had been restored.
This morning while on the bus to the pickup point, we stopped and as we paused I saw 2 young girls with trash tweezers, or whatever you call those things you pick up rubbish with. They were laughing and picking up cigarette butts and paper, ejecting the items into the trash can. One girl had 60’s style coloured beads in her hair, and this made me think of the hippie stereotype, and also of extinction rebellion and Greta Thunburg. The younger generation recognizing the only way to make the change is doing it yourself, and then finding the others. I felt my heart warm up a few degrees, and smiled all the way to my stop.
I walked to the apartment and rang the bell,
“Gudder mid dag, yow spreken wit steve…I break into English…I’m here to pick up the phone.”
The dude answered “Yes, hi” and he buzzed in the fly.
I walked up to a flight of steps and was greeted by a smiling young man, with my phone in his hand. I greeted him with smiles back, we shook hands.
“Wow, dude, that’s amazing, thank you so much, danku-vell, man.” I said.
“My aunt found it on the bus, and she brought it back here. I saw a message about returning the phone, so called back.”
“Wow, your aunt, is she here so I can thank her?”
“No, she’s at Church” he said.
And we chatted for a small while, I gave him a free album download card and told him to come visit me at work some time, and to please pass on my sincere thanks to his aunt for picking up the phone.
Man, I was skipping back to the bus, phone in hand, sun shining, and with a inner sensation best described as new hope. This was humanity. Strangers doing good deeds for others, without care for who or what they are. His Church going aunt was my hero, and so I was temporarily and still am in the chicane of religious rapture. Yes, what a good women, and what a good lad.
A new world is possible. We must fight hatred with kindness. Love all the people. Give thanks. Give away free milkshakes. Thanks.
–Steve Fly
p.s In other news, there is great cause for concern across Europe today, as the far right galvanizes support and proposes a new party which will probably have the words freedom and democracy in it. Remain vigilant.
If we were to be honest, really open up and try to comprehend reality We might begin planting trees tonight, naked, sweating in panic. Begin campaigning to end fossil fuel use tomorrow, quick flash Might dump the car / motorbike / and jam all engines of destruction We might pray for forgiveness for all the plastic we ever used and then threw away, pray it does not haunt us tonight Pray that the seeds germinate in time, and nations plant billions worldwide, hurry hurry
If we were to see the reality of climate change, as it actually is, we might scream “NO” We might throw ourselves in front of bulldozers, stop fracking with hunger strikes Suddenly campaign day and night for regulation and strict laws Demanding a curbing to the huge global industrial monsters burning fossil fuels We might plead with the military to scale it back, stop all wars immediately stop wasting energy on killingry. Man. Stop it. Denial? Time to look the facts in the face, we fucked if we don’t plant trees man Time to look abroad, to mean, outer space? (say what) Maybe Bob and Tim were right after all? Maybe they foresaw the trajectory of the humans scrawled on the wall And thought, we gotta’ get off the planet damn it? No, silly, it’s not that they didn’t want to save it, good god, how they tried But perhaps they saw the downward trend into narcissism and ignorance And realized, “we have to look elsewhere, a jail break from prison planet” Okay, far out, but just keep that in mind and Stop burning fucking fossil fuel, please. For your children’s sakes, at least. You might start a band, write songs and make a movie , desperate to speak Tweekin’ at the thought of total environmental collapse
Keep Calm and carry on being a smug self righteous douche’ Take no notice, carry on regardless, project climate fear, fingers in ears, head in beers
Tears may roll down your cheek when you get a peek at the future And you could have spoken out, you could have done more (I damn well could have) Bleak for humanity bleak for the planet to be honest Who is honest these days? We all want to smooth things over with “It’ll be all right bab” well no. I say, It will not be feckin’ all right. Wake the fuck up and smell the glacial melt and methane release
Do whatever it takes, my advice
Plant TREES. (Why not make em’ skunky and hempy)
DEEP SCRATCH 