Death by Smugness

Since I'm basically still on vacation, guest host Francesca Fiorentini compiles a buffet of the comically self-confident suicidal spite of the Republican electorate that threatens to take us all down by virtue of being in power and garnishes it with a lean paté of eloquent whoop-ass.

What I Wouldn't Give

I am finding "I don't give a fuck" to be a little too much a part of my vocabulary these days.  (As in, I don't give a fuck that ICE is a Federal law enforcement agency.  They're fucking Nazis. ^_^)  I don't want to be stuck in a rut, so I occasionally mix things up with  "I don't give a shit."  But this is hardly an improvement.  In Angela's Ashes, Frank McCourt introduced me to an Irish variation, "I don't give a fiddler's fart."  Are you noticing a pattern?  What I need is both a lot more variety and for the sake of the children, some restraint in the subject matter.  As I also happen to need to pad out my postings for the month, I'm sure you wouldn't mind if I tried out a few alternatives here, would you?  (Go ahead and ask me if I care enough to hold on for your response.)

Without further ado, how about ...

I don't give two toots.  For extra effect, I don't give two toots in a tin can.  As in I don't give two toots in a tin can, Mister.  You are not signing up for interfaith beach volleyball.

I don't give a flying Finnegan what you do in the afternoon when I'm not here as long as you clean it up before I get home.

I don't give a Pringle or an Utz what you do on Election Day as long as it isn't vote.

I don't give the hide off a road-kill sneetch what you think of my sideburns.

I don't give a crawling thingamajig who's going to win American Idol.

I don't give a Vivian Vance who popped my dongle as long as they pop it back.

I couldn't give 2 shakes of a dollar store maraca how much I could be making if I purchased tax liens.

I don't give a wit or a whistle what the square root of 59,814,756 is.

I couldn't give an interplanetary plotz that there's another dumpling left.  

I don't give a puckered penguin what you have behind your back.

I couldn't give a belch in a windstorm who's on Fallon.  I'm going to bed. 

I wouldn't give the eye off a french fry to cure my social anxiety.

I don't give a pan fried cricket what you say,  It's cold in here!

I wouldn't give a twice read copy of last week's TV Guide to find out what happened on Happy's Place last night.

I don't give a Gen Z Conservative Fashion Victim who you think I think I am.

I don't give a gibbering id! *

I don't give a thimbleful of quinoa!

I don't give a continuous nibble! 

I don't give a good beef jerky!

I don't give a steaming bowl of bibimbap!

I don't give a frizzy whisker what Elon Musk's IQ is!

I don't give the shadow of a she-goat how you get here.  Hurry!

I don't give a hamster with a herniated hamstring what Florin said behind my back!

No Buffalo Bob, I don't give a flipped flapjack what time it is.

I don't give a yak wool thong what you do with your half of the money!

(The next four are from actual phrases encountered on the internet involving the "It's giving..." meme.)

   I couldn't give major Persona vibes.

   I couldn't give Lindsey Lohan Y2k.

   I couldn't give Zimbabweans.

   I couldn't give Ohio.

Sorry Robert Reich, I don't give a vintage pledge week tote bag what happens to the husk of what’s barely left of PBS.

~~~~~

* This and the next four entries were inspired by random purple passages from Benjamin Lorr's  The Secret Life of Groceries.

Getting Tenth Up In Here

Can it be 10 years?  Apparently it can.  I had an empty blog for more than 5 years before something got into me and made me use it to share a video of a Hungarian group I had discovered in the course of wading into that language.  I practically had to cover my eyes to hit the Publish button so terrified was I of you, dear Reader.  Look at me now.  Where have the years gone?  Part of the answer lies below, not a best of but sort of a compilation of some of the moods we've shared for the past decade.   To another ten. 

2015 -  BIN JIP's Dinner With A Demon - The first and still the best.

2016 - I want to blame Trump - Prove me wrong.

2017 - Bobbing for Decimals - Synchronized Swimming Hungarian Style.

2018 - Happy?  - Pretty much sums it up.

2019 - It's a Jungle Out There - A little contemporary urban angst.

2020 - Ludic Freedom - What makes a mosquito tick? 

2021 - The Forest for the Trees - An American family

2022 - Confessions of a Philistine - And a proposal for a different word for it.

2023 - An elegant solution - Considering abolition.

2024 - A good life - Can't we have one?

Quantum Relations

When I got my first iPhone -- the iPhone 4 circa 2010-- one of the ways I devised to increase my time with it was reading iBooks.   My Motorola Razr had died just as I was being courted by a new firm at the lowest ebb of my time at the old one, and somehow I managed to snag the new job without the use of any mobile device just through the clever use of my personal voice mail which I was able to access from my work phone.   The new job was a welcome change after 20 years of slow decay into depressing nothingness at my old firm.  I had gone from sharing an interior closet with 3 others in a flavorless block downtown to my own office with a door and a window in what was formerly a TV station situated in a pleasant neighborhood on a hill overlooking the city across the street from my favorite deli.  I had gone from looking forward to nothing but retirement if I didn't die first to a brand new beginning full of hope and opportunities to engage my intelligence and creativity for gainful employment.  The iPhone was a treat to myself in keeping with the new era of possibility.

I was in the habit of carrying around books for my daily commute at the time, so being able to carry them in my pocket was a revelation and a revolution in my habits.  iBook "pages" turned much more like the pages of a book at the time adding to the delight.  It was somehow appropriate that the first books I tried on the phone were the works of Bertrand Russell whom I'd never read before, but whose very name evoked my first encounters with the giants of the Twentieth Century on the spines of books in my oldest brothers' burgeoning collection of college texts when I was undergoing puberty around the time of Richard Nixon's curtailed second term.  I picked Russell because his titles were in free editions, but it didn't hurt that he was an engaging writer with a surprising sense of humor and a style and outlook as fresh as a spring morning 100 years later.  Reading Russell was like a communion with my younger self, with the state of the world before Reagan and Thatcher got their vampiric fangs on the life of it just as I was entering adulthood, an adulthood that has been oxygen deprived ever since (along with the rest of us-- even those of us too young or too braindead from the encounter with neoliberalism to know what we were missing).

Recently, I've been re-experiencing that sense of revival with another eBook.  This one is by the Italian theoretical physicist and science writer Carlo Rovelli and it's his short 2020 book for non-physicists on the question of how to conceive of quantum dynamics, Helgoland, so named for the Danish/German archipelago in the North Sea where Werner Heisenberg on a working visit had the brainstorm that led to the development of Quantum Mechanics.   Rovelli is a notable scientist himself as the co-developer with Lee Smolin and Abhay Ashketar of the theory of loop quantum gravity.  He's also a gifted writer; and Helgoland is full of lively gossip about Heisenberg and the contemporaries and influencers who charted the way for scientists, philosophers, political figures, artists like Niels Bohr,  Albert Einstein, Wolfgang Pauli, Erwin Schrödinger, Max Born, Paul Dirac, Alexander Bogdanov,  Carl Jung,  Pablo Picasso-- and others into the strange, often paradoxical mysteries of a reality based on quantum science apart from the safety of materialism and classical physics.

Chronicling his own experience building a foundation of understanding of quantum mechanics which he has characterized as Relational, Rovelli discusses such unexpected byways along the way as the writings of 2nd century Buddhist Abbott, Nagarjuna, author of the Mūlamadhyamakakārikā (Fundamental Verses of the Middle Way), and the political dispute between Vladimir Lenin and Alexander Bogdanov over whether quantum mechanics was revolutionary enough.  Bogdanov argued that Comrade Lenin's impulse to purge science of uncertainty that did not fit with a materialist understanding of history was itself counterrevolutionary if it denied how the cosmos worked.   On the contrary, the new understanding of physics, dependent as it was on acknowledging the equality of all perspectives in understanding Nature was itself supportive of the upheaval of classical structures that Lenin's revolution represented.  

In the end, Lenin's adherence to classical materialism won (and maybe contributed to the finitude of the era of actually existing socialism).  But Bogdanov is featured prominently in Rovelli’s Acknowledgements, with a photograph, right next to Heisenberg whose anecdote is the basis for the title of the book. In the course of explaining his belief that subjective reality is actually not “a problem” for a scientific understanding of consciousness, but rather an indicative example of what quantum mechanics teaches us about the fundamental importance of the relations of objects to each other in the scheme of how the cosmos works—as in crucial and wholly in keeping with quantum mechanics’ discovery of how matter comes about and behaves  (think Schrodinger’s cat and Uncertainty and Entanglement and the importance of the observation to the measurement and for that matter General Relativity—the connecting tissue being that nothing is “real” except in relation to every other thing), Rovelli tosses out a brutally to the point quote from Bogdanov:  

The individual is a bourgeois fetish.

Rovelli himself puts it this way:  

Everything we have been able to accomplish over the centuries has been achieved in a network of exchanges, collaborating.  This is why the politics of collaboration is so much more sensible and effective than the politics of competition . . . [ellipses Rovelli’s]

Reading Helgoland was for me a deep and beautiful experience.

A Hole in One

Last summer, after Joe Biden's stupendous pratfall of the first debate, after Trump's weird iconic brush with death in Pennsylvania and with Biden's hard-won ejection from the race and the substitution of his Vice President at the top of the Democratic Ticket freshly transpired,  I saw one of the most frightening videos I think I had ever seen.    It was a digest of a golf game played for charity -- eighteen holes. Trump played with a golf pro I don't recall the name of at one of his clubs, I believe in New Jersey.   The pro was a clean cut bro with obvious barely contained admiration for his partner.  (They referred to each other as "Partner" so frequently between the two of them that I wanted to call in a gay marriage priest for them after a while.)

The video I learned later was taped within days of the debate-- one of the strangest moments of which involved Biden caught in a fib about his handicap and both candidates talking trash about the others' game-- but before Trump's momentous Pennsylvania rally and Biden's exit from the race.  In the video, Trump did not take advantage of Biden's absence or his sensational weakness to rub his face in his embarrassing self-exposure as a genuine dotard.  The subject of politics-- or of Biden's golf chops-- in fact never came up.  Instead the content of the video was a friendly and lively game of golf with Trump appearing to be in complete control.   He joked amiably, talking only golf as he drove the cart, arm draped over the steering wheel, speeding along the narrow path like he knew what he was doing. On the links he solicited and followed the sage, Caribbean-lilted advice of his wizened caddy, Neville, an oracle on the approach to take on each hole given current conditions and wind speeds and directions.  

I'm no golfer, but to my mind, Trump's game looked top notch.  I thought if Biden had stayed in the race, and this video had gone viral, it would have been over for the Democrats, and probably should have been. It was still a bit early to have formed an opinion about Kamala's chances, but the Trump of the golf video was immensely charismatic and dare I say, likable.  The decency of Trump keeping Biden's name out of his mouth when he could reasonably have been expected to lord his capacities over the dubious shell of a candidate-- of a human, and no doubt of a golfer-- that Biden had exposed himself to be was especially appealing.*

But there was a reason Trump had never seemed so likable to me: he was happily occupied with something other than absconding with the American treasury and imposing fascist rule on the rest of us.  The contrast with how Trump had been at the reins of American power made the point for itself: instead of making himself and the rest of us miserable with the nastiness of a return to political office, why did he not just retire to a life of unmitigated golf for the rest of his days?  What did he need with the headache of some dumb office he had already held that he was frankly lucky to escape with his life from?  Wouldn't it be better for him to happily engage in an activity that I admired his skill at rather than one at which his pathological incompetence kept me in a state of unrelenting pissed-off-ness.  Wasn't it better to have my admiration?  How could I convince him?

Maybe he'll read this and reconsider this fascism thing.

From https://trumpgolftrack.com/ June 30, 2025.  Woodrow Wilson (another presidential dickwad) reportedly played over 1000 rounds of golf in his 2 terms but he had only a 100 handicap. Wilson's green time makes Trump (on track to match his previous term's achievement of over 300 rounds for a total of more than 600 rounds in his two terms) look like a piker but in spite of a reputed tendency to take liberties with the game, Trump has an estimated handicap of 2-- a presidential best.  His habit has cost taxpayers an estimated $52M since January.  Come on, Partner.  It's time to retire and hit the green like you mean it.

~~~~~

* Which, granted, could have been edited out by the channel it appeared on.  It's not like he wasn't capable of it.

Midsummer Intra-Traumatic Dance Disorder

Ladaniva - Shakar

Celia Cruz & Johnny Pacheco - Quimbara

Fcukers - UMPA

Gang of Four - I Found That Essence Rare

Jun Miyake - Lilies of the Valley

Atarashii Gakko! - Candy

Hayk (apricota) & Arni Rock ft. Sone Silver - Taran Taran

Mike Kelley - Tijuana Hayride (from Day is Done - ft Tricia Ridgway)

Jermaine Stewart - We Don't Have To Take Our Clothes Off

Pascuala Ilabaca y Fauna - El Baile del Kkoyaruna (Dance of the Miner)

Oliver Tree - Swing and a Miss

Angela Autumn - Dancer

Pochonbo Electronic Ensemble - Chollima on the Wing

Cloth - Polaroid

Imani Coppola - Legend of a Cowgirl

Suburban Lawns - Flavor Crystals

The Yardbirds - Over Under Sideways Down

Ian Dury and the Blockheads - Wake Up and Make Love with Me (Live)

Mahala Rai Banda - Mahalageasca (Live)

Strategery

Before:

After: 

They knew what they did.*

~~~~~~~

* See here for an instance of the pot calling the kettle black: 

[Eric] Voegelin defines stupidity as a “loss of reality.” The loss of reality means a “stupid” person cannot “rightly orient his action in the world, in which he lives.” ... Limited in intellectual ability, lacking any moral compass, grossly incompetent and filled with rage at established elites who they see as having slighted and rejected them, they remake the world into a playground for grifters, con artists and megalomaniacs.