by Paul Ottaviano

Drop Dead Party

The ILO, a UN agency that advances social justice and promotes decent work, has reported that 2.6 million people die from work related injuries and diseases every year. They also estimate that an additional 395 million workers worldwide sustained non-fatal work injuries.

Corporate media’s under-reporting of this, aids the global war on working people and the poor.

Here in the States, I’ve taken to nicknaming our two major political factions the, “Toil and Drop Dead Party”. Democrats offer a slightly softer landing, while being a bit nicer to drop outs and never-ins. The GOP is simply toil and drop dead and then you get your literal retirement heaven.

It’s not much better with small parties or “independents”.

Too many faux libertarians are mediocre sociopaths who use liberty as cover, and while they’re good on warnings of government centrality, they forget that lesson when it comes to corporate centrality. Greens and their ilk offer nice perks on the surface… but only if you toil and don’t mind “expert” social engineering. Socialists – the real left, not middle class lawn sign liberals – offer the most to labor, but again it comes with toil and utopian prophecy, and quite frankly, a cringe worthy propaganda style.

We suffer for not having a viable labor party in the States. But then again, if their message would be, “toil and be saved” then it’s stale milquetoast neoliberalism, rebranded. I suppose a labor party might give you a free beer with that, but then shame you on the digestif cigarette if any bumper sticker liberals migrated to the new party.

If we’re being philosophical and “rational”, even “scientific”, we’d look at these disastrous and inhumane numbers and think that maybe “jobs” aren’t the be all, end all. Then we can discuss what the value of work really is… for profit or not, volunteer, homemaker, caretaker, employed, unemployed or self-employed. Questions of class or “status” would naturally follow. If we had our collective and individualist guts, we’d want freedom from work and advocate for its various offspring of sabbaticals, shorter work weeks and hours, and more leisure time (real leisure, not a corporate retreat). We’d reject quantification of the worker for the evil it is. We’d certainly, at least, question policies that institute master-servant (slave) dynamics and rational self-interest as the guiding principle to economic governance.

by Paul Ottaviano

Real Iceland

“Up yours and thank you very much.” Icelandic Punk Rock Museum.

What is Real Iceland?

Tourist hordes. Incoherent yet sympathetic protests against globalism, while welcoming refugees who live rent free for two years. 40,000 Polish immigrants, who are exhausted serving millions of visitors, to profit Iceland’s oligarchs. Silent owners of related business assets, who deal quietly in backrooms of the capitol city. Stopover travelers, soaking at Blue Lagoon before flying off to Europe proper, shrugging at it all because it’s nice. Affable Icelanders working as taxi drivers, all too happy to earn $35 on a 10-minute drive, telling you about their free health care and discounted airline tickets… and oh yes, Polish service workers, on whose collective back it depends.

or

Visions of “old Iceland” from 100+ years ago, when Icelandic folks lived quietly in the countryside. Something that doesn’t much exist, anymore, and is now a guilt projection of semi-conscious tourists, who venture into the north or east to bike down canyons. The sort who “get away” from “fake Reykjavik” by spending the night on a sheep farm, before returning to Phoenix where they can safely bullshit about “authenticity”.

or

A complex, historical land of beautiful undisturbed landscapes, clean water, and geothermal energy where you’re as likely to see images of Bjork as you are Loki, while eating expensive mediocre food as scooters zip down Rainbow Street.

Is it all of these things, that make up Real Iceland now?

Yes. No. Maybe. I don’t know.

But a country with the worlds largest phallological museum, where you can eat penis shaped waffles, and a museum that uses a retired public loo to honor its punk rock, hasn’t lost its sense of humor. If you can get in, it’s probably worth a visit. Bring your wallet.

by Paul Ottaviano

Explicit

Be Specific

Nothing in the U.S. Constitution explicitly gives SCOTUS the power of “judicial review”. There is literally zero mention of anything, that gives the court this odd refereeing power.

Congress has the power to make laws. That is written. Explicitly.

There is brief and vague mention of “common law”, as it pertains to civil cases. But legal precedent is something that apparently is being tossed aside, in favor of ideological witch hunts and hanging straw men.

This is true from faux libertarian “right wing” to an opaque metaphysical blob we call “the left”.

Gore Vidal wrote perhaps the best essay on this problem, titled “The Second American Revolution”. He went beyond the standard textbook explanation of Marbury v. Madison and carves out nuance for a delicious skewer. Maybe old Gore was right back in the 1980s, and a Constitutional Convention is long overdue.

“Judicial review”, as the smart kids call it, is simply an accidental convention with a spurious origin. Yes, it’s a bastard.

Chase Court c. 1868 image by Matthew Brady from Wikimedia, Public domain. Emphasis mine.

by Paul Ottaviano

Bully Stix for “Job Creators”

homeless person street photography portland oregon
Portland, OR. Where “doing something about homeless” means annexation of farmland for big tech.

“Job creation” is an excuse to do seemingly anything now. Especially when used in a “state of emergency”, relevancy be damned. Existing law and social contract are simply traffic cones, for house broken Jezebel and John Partisans to dance around.

Hyped-up itinerant “mobility”, comes at the price of local dignity.

by Paul Ottaviano

Vapor over Mt. Royal

Montreal, October 2015. I did a week long walkabout, camera in tow. In hindsight, it was an idlers holiday… a flaneur gallivant in a different neighborhood, each day.

Montreal is a fine city for a brief sojourn. Metro public transportation, modeled on Paris’, is amenable to leisure, if not actively encouraging it. Nonetheless, most residents or workday occupants briskly walk to their next destination. Few ramble.

Among those who do take their time, vaping was common. A familiar sight it was, to see plumes floating overhead a horde of pedestrians. Unfortunately, I did not see many idlers. Sad is the thought that Montreal, like most cities, has gone in for laws against “loitering”, or mastery of your own time. Perhaps the local puff-giver is simply another commuter who longs for a daydream, and vaping slows down time, at least perceptibly, or offers soothing relief, if only temporary, from the anxieties of urban toil.

Anyway, it was common, and so “while in Rome”, I partook. There was a reassuring essence in it, but nerve prickly, too, as if the rebellious act of a single exhale was paradoxically street survival tool and risked unwanted attention. Benefits of the former must outweigh the cons of the latter, or I doubt it would’ve caught on. To me, it was a means to be idle, while in motion.

I miss smoking. Not tobacco, which would be an unwise choice for me now. And not vape, as I did not care for it. But cannabis, yes, I do miss it. Particularly during its underground days, when etiquette mattered. Social circles, interacting with social purpose, was its underlying culture. Civil disobedience and petty outlaws, was the romance.

Mostly, I miss the art of the smoke. Rolling my own, usually poorly, to choosing an artisan pipe and then toking my time. Being with friends old and new, having a good laugh, and watching smoke drift into unpredictable patterns. Music, food. Art. Conversation. No wonder industrial-capitalists and their agents disapprove, unless taxed, of course, and “productive”.