Meridian, Bloody Meridian.

On Blood Meridian or The Evening Redness in the West:

Much is made of this novel and with good reason. At only 335 pages BM is a sweeping epic that, much like its iconic Judge Holden, identifies and catalogs many discreet human phenomena, with the most extended and fascinating being that of the mythology surrounding the Western idea of the “Devil”. This investigation and subsequent characterization alone is enough to enlighten and inspire the intellectually curious among us, but ultimately what embronzes this book into the hallowed halls of classical art is the masterful writing of Cormac McCarthy. It is my opinion that McCarthy is author to the bravest and, because of that reeking and lewd courage, greatest American literary achievement.

I fancy myself a man of above average intellect with a happy talent for both composition and reading comprehension and yet I found myself drowning in the deep and hazardous waters of the first few chapters’, as if I was reading Chaucer or Beowulf. I knew that what I was reading was English, thine eyes recognized and put meaning to the characters, words and sentences on the page, but I might as well have been trying to translate some dirty relic of Anglo-Saxon antiquity unearthed and then set to the American Southwest. Dense doesn’t being to describe this Red Dwarf and, I think, a lot of the early struggle was in trying to get in rhythm in the choppy and unfamiliar waters of a novel that is unique in that it is written with with supremacy of confidence. McCarthy clears a path by allowing his prose to burn forward, raging with the oxygen of risk in his ability and it’s my stance and appreciation that it takes a true artist to be able to cast off the comfortable shackles of preassembled speech patterns and description and create something original, to “utter a new word”.

Further, BM is methodically and expertly researched (from historical accounts to relevant, archaic words and dialogue) which serves to validate the work, from the investigation of ‘The Devil” to lending the extreme and often graphical violence a legitimate voice. It is to this end that I cannot understand those who say things read in BM count as some of the most disturbing things they’ve read because to be disturbed is to be uncomfortable due to an incongruity and inappropriateness. Severe violence, like in War and Religion (pardon the redundancy, Your Honor) in BM not only has a responsibility to exist but is exhibited in such harmony that McCarthy shows himself to be more poet than warrior.

Once having gained my sea legs, I found myself in awe that McCarthy was able to create dynamic combustion with the seemingly static and sterile ingredients of 19th century jargon and esoteric descriptors. For my experience, reading BM was like taking a hard, psychoactive drug; you’ve heard these wondrous and ecstatic things and are anxious to feel them yourself. You flip the first page, swallow hard and off you go on this cerebral journey. The aforementioned struggle to inhale the first thirty pages, over-thinking and staunchly garrisoned in your own brain, leaves you with the creeping doubt that “Maybe I got a bad copy" and questioning "Is this book ever going to get me high?” Eventually, however, your brain adapts to the new normal and equilibrium that McCarthy so deftly creates and before long you aren’t just reading the story, you are experiencing the journey and it is taxing, it is physical, it is work. You are dancing. Perhaps you too will never sleep; perhaps you too will never die.

And like most hard drugs, if BM were submitted as a manuscript today, I fear it would not be street legal. BM might still have found a demand in the boutique and niche publishing houses or broken up into shorts in some cavalier magazine, but, I fear, in today’s era of cheap and easy conflict and “tension on every page” we have devolved into a culture more interested in the easy digestion and quick, frequent highs than of the long, slow burn that a great writer can stir. We’d rather smoke the equivalent of literary crack over and over, in a volume play, than involve ourselves, engaging as an audience to commit to art, getting our hands dirty with rubber tubing and hypodermic needles.
Ultimately, however, the story moves me because I was once young, violent and drunken -a modern marauder- in a past recent enough that, late at night when the kids are safe and soundly sleeping my thoughts wander to the wanton days of fatalistic and wild adventures. I can still recollect the highs and lows of a vandal life and BM, at its core, is an epic journey- a frontier Odyssey combined with a more brutal Paradise Lost and, as a native of Texas whose unique history is one, not of peaceful and political annexation, but of conquest and revolution, the premise resonates wholly within me.

Lastly, McCarthy paints a clear picture that Judge Holden is in fact “The Devil”. But that’s a conversation for another day.

Happy Juneteenth 2012!

So, I decide to go to Joppa (pronounced Joppy) and pick up a friend to go experience this whole Juneteenth thing at the deepest root we have available.

So for those who aren't familiar, a little background. Joppa is a little settlement on 45(S) past the trinity river bottom and flanked by a huge railyard depot and buttressed by wilderness to the South. There is no local law presence (DPD has to be about 20 minutes away from call to contact) and, if you've ever seen Training Day it is exactly like that; there is one way in, across the tracks and over a bridge, and one way out. Joppa is one of the oldest left freedmen settlements from the old policy "40 acres and a mule" days.

Generally speaking, these tracts of land given as a sort of "reparation" have long since evolved into thriving communities, assimiliated and later incorporated into normal cities of today. Well, for whatever reason (my theory is geography) Joppa is the last, isolated settlement that is almost 100% African-American and has remained largely insulated to the point that residents dont have basic necessities like A/C and the government subsidizes almost everything there. At any rate, me and a friend decide it would be fun and fitting to drive over there, walk around and maybe crash a yard party or drink a 32oz. beer out of a paper bag, see if there is a place to eat lunch, general tomfoolery.

We get there and I don't leave my car.

Prostitutes, crazy vagrants and drunks roaming the street, evil glares. I've had a gun pulled on a group of us at 5am on Canal St. in New Orleans and this rivals that incident on my psychological state of fear and safety. The best way to describe it is there is a general sense of doom once you enter, like being in a haunted house. Anyways, some pics attached, which include a prostitute with a cane, a horse in a house and a shotgun house that, ostensibly burned down, but the charred embers still remain. I didnt take pics of some of the more flagrant things because I was fearful of what would happen if they saw me taking pics. It amazes me that a place like this still exists, in Dallas at that, and that 98% of my peer group has never heard of it.

Also in this link a professional European photag did there is a picture of a guy with the words 'Dog Life' tattooed on his face, that alone should have told me not to go.

http://www.panos.co.uk/stories/2-13-...What-is-Joppa/

So, after that whole rigamarole I go to Sweet Georgia Brown in Oak Cliff- much safer way to celebrate my black heritage.

In Defense of Lil' Boosie (Bad Azz)

I think it is pretty obvious that I am a Lil Boosie so take what I have to say with that in mind. This is going to sound blasphemous, but bear with me:

Tupac really wasn't a great rapper. I said it.

But, when I say that I mean, he wasn't a great rapper from a place of raw, innate talent or from a technical standpoint, as you can name ten better rappers that meet that criteria. But I argue that for 'Pac you can't just look at his music in a vaccuum (if one did, one would find a vast majority of his catalog of music doesn't really age well and he had a bunch of corny songs) but instead you must look at the bigger picture.

When it came to 'Pac, as Derka stated above, nobody had more heart. I would further expound on that (as I have on threads before) and exert that nobody had more integrity, as a rapper, than 'Pac because what he lacked in craftsmanship, he more than made up for in pure, unadulterated passion. Further, at some point in his career he made the conscentious effort to literally trade his life for his music which because of his 100% buy-in to his creation- his philosophy of "Thug Life"- became bigger than himself and something that rap fans could never deny as his glory. The man was the definition of real and, in my opinion is heralded as one of the greats because he gave up his life for a higher calling, that of his music. Rapper Jesus, if you will.

"Great analysis, Monster,Man, that is very true and profound, but how does Lil Boosie's retarded, high pitched ass even fit into the conversation?"

Great question, let me give you my position and opinion on the matter. Lil Boosie is the modern day Tupac. Lil Boosie, again not the best rapper of his times (or even his peer group), is one of the most (again, my opinion) honest rappers of the last 5 years. He, like Tupac, raps about the things that a large group of real people- people who feel left behind or forgotten about in our society- can relate to, agree with, and which ultimately serves to validate their existence. Boosie, to me, is like 'Pac in that they both used their music as a bully pulpit and rap for "their people", as 'Pac did in his day, consquences be damned, and I find that to be a noble undertaking and one in which I can identify and support.

I ]think you will find that if you do a quick mental inventory of your poorest, thuggiest, most ignorant, most aggressive with the least amount of opportunity friends, to a man they will be a Lil Boosie fan because he is giving them a voice (poetically enough, through mixtapes made in prison) and true artistic representation, and I for one think that should be celebrated.

Lastly, I think at the end of the day, an individual who doesn't like boosie (or any rapper for that matter) should probably just understand that perhaps that particular musician isn't making music for that individual's consumption and that is okay. Music, like Literature, or Art is not meant to be a one size fits all experience but a personal journey or story borne from unique perspectives and experiences.

That is a lot of words to say that you can say Lil Boosie is a shitty rapper, but to lump him with fabricated and shallow rap movements and to deny him his importance and respect in the game is misguided.     

Resolution

It is my position we are simply too immature, young, and intellectually disabled, as an organism, to know and that is one of my personal great regrets; I will never know, witness or comprehend the wondrous and fascinating truths about humans and our universe as we are still centuries, epochs, milleniums of evolution away. So, to that end, my resolution:

Resolved, Kill yourself because the world holds no knowable meaning.
Resolved, if you don't kill yourself, accept there is no inherent meaning and create and personalize meaning for your unique individual.
Resolved, CutTheCrackJack's meaning is to procreate, doing his part to furthering the human experiment.
Resolved, CutTheCrackJack's meaning is to investigate life with an eye for observation, in an effort to advance human understanding, through business.
Resolved, CutTheCrackJack's meaning is to to participate and add (hopefully, meaningfully) to the human conversation with original creations of art, music, literature, or otherwise.

The Apology of a Litterer

A man told me the other day a story of how he yelled at a guy and almost got in a fight because the stranger threw a cigarette butt out of his car onto the earth.

Firstly, I think it is weird that someone would want to beat someone up for littering, but I guess it happens. Do you want to beat people up for speeding and cheating on their taxes too?

Secondly, I am reminded of why when I litter, as I am wont to do, I look around and try to engage people in eye contact while I do it. I've noticed that you pussies who bark the loudest rarely return the gaze of a wild animal throwing Dr. Pepper cans and loose papers/receipts out of a moving or stationary vehicle.

Further, I look at it like this: Yes. It is against the law. If I get caught by a policeman I will quietly and quickly take my lumps and my ticket. Otherwise, like any other law, if a citizen wants to step in, they have to learn that a) they have no authority (leave your moral authority bullshit in your Good News Bible study group) and b) they should be prepared, if they are going to escalate matters, for whatever may happen when fucking with someone who obviously doesn't give a shit about social mores and environmental sensitivities.

Lastly, I am a little man. Like Wolfe's protagonist in Bonfire of the Vanities, I fancy I am the master of my universe and am delusional and of small intellect. These faults render me disabled to the point where I am always in a hurry to get somewhere for some obligation or purpose. I inappropriately value my time and resources (in my world, they are scarce) and I try to give to myself and my immediate family the most of what I have and what I am. In doing all these things, I sacrifice your "greater good" and utilitarianism by sometimes littering, most of the time texting/emailing/talking while driving, and all the time speeding.

Because I am a little man, it is the burden of you men of ideals and ability (at least, to hear you tell it) that you should pity, not hate, us litterers.

Tea Party in Absurd Sharp.

I spent a listless afternoon in Downtown Dallas the other weekend. After a few hours of roaming the streets I happened upon a charmingly dilapidated Greyhound station and seeked out the cleanest, dirty bench which happened to sit next to a wall of metal lockers, not much unlike those nostalgic fortifications one thinks of when recalling Grand Central Station. As I sat, quiet and lost in myself, a man approached me and whispered in my ear,

"Why do you hate the Tea Party?"

"Why, I don't like them for the same reason I don't like roaches and rats and spiders. The Tea Party is full of dirty, poor and not very intelligent people and, while I am singularly bigger than any one of them, in large numbers (and with a modicum of power) they scare the shit out of me because left alone in their environment I would be eaten alive."

To which a black man interjected, as he ran across the room to entreat with scorn, "And that's very liberal of you, isn't it?"

"But", I replied, "I meant that in the metaphorical sense. You see, I have nothing against grimy people from the gutter, as I can and have had to wear that hat, but I find only the ignorant masses banding together in numbers scary."

A hooker took a long draw from a bent up Black & Mild, blew the sour smoke out of two crusty nostrils and said, incredulously, "I cannot believe you are serious."

"Of course, harlot. I mean, the question is why I, specifically, hate the Tea Party. While I concede it to be an emotional answer, it remains one that is personal and unique to me and what drives me to "hate" them."

The black men, stymied by my answer pulled up on his gait, reared back his head and, in an effort to save face, brayed, "So you just hate poor people, no matter the political background? I can respect that."

"I don't hate poor people, I hate ignorant people. Unfortunately for them, however, being poor and middle class usually begets ignorance and mediocrity, which I absolutely despise. So yes, I have contempt for the general poor. Although note," and at this, I turned my attentions to the man who first approached me and spoke ever so lightly into my ear, "Exempted are those self-aware and deliberate fools who live a "poor" life due to a personal philosophy, like the rejection of materialism or the rejection of wealth and wealth generating activities, borne after a thorough and healthy inventory of what they value- to be poor is the only condigned, and desired, result."

The black man thought about this for a second. He tilted his curly, gray mane and said with a big grin, "I'm just messin with you Jack! But now that you mention it," and at this he tried to hide his earnest, "so since so many minorities are poor or middle class, you calling them ignorant and mediocre?"

"I think you are kidding, but to be frank, the majority of non-Asian, non-athlete minorities are ignorant and mediocre. That is why they are disproportionally represented in categories like Household income, jobs, employment, schooling, higher Ed, crime, etc., and, as I recall, that is why we have things like affirmative action."

He winced and stood staring at me. Drool crept to the corner of his mouth. Suddenly, his old, ashy ears pricked up at the mention of "John Wiley Price" and he trotted off in that general direction.

I watched him go in admiration. "That honest son of a bitch." I laughed.


"Hey asshole."

The lady, thin from a deficiency of vitamins or food or penis, looked me straight in the eye and her yellow orbs, framed by the smeared oils usually found on a baseball diamond, held my gaze and with it, my attention. She spoke with the weight of self-assumed shame, "I am sorry you hate me without knowing me. I hate no one unless they have specifically wronged me. You are very tolerant. I assume you lean left on a lot of issues. I find it hypocritical the very left wing who prides themselves on being tolerant and accepting of others often are in practice the least tolerant people."

"There are exceptions to every rule, my sexy friend. I once knew a guy who had a pet spider that he kept in a cage and I've even heard of people that like snakes crawling all over them!

But, please don't paint me as tolerant or liberal; I'm neither. Rather, I'm supercilious and ugly. I resent the averageness that I possess and, in addition to my resistance and fear of being Great, I really, really hate the beautiful idiots who are the Tea Party because it is they who hold a mirror to my person and mock me.

But, what do I know? Nobody ever said I was a great thinker of my day and my best friend has been sitting on the bench on the other side of this station and he won't even look over in our direction, much less talk to me."

The man who tickled my ear left.

People always want to besmirch and dismiss Rand because of her simple message and how it appeals to the middle class, the fat part of the 'smart people with an iota of ambition' bell curve.

As people- I'll go ahead and assume everyone I run with, with the exception of those who have probably tapped out their god-given and/or environmentally-given potential (an honorable thing)- As people who are beyond that, as learned men of commerce and trade and men of ability and experience, we can sometimes get defensive. Like a food snob who is offended by the ignorance of the uninitiated, with their shitty palates and ill breeding, we sometimes need to be reminded that we were 19 once, too.

I've been meaning to post in advocacy of Rand and her works, so here is as good a time as any.

On Atlas Shrugged Haters:

Having read the book, I get the hate. I really do. Rand romanticizes certain values (as is her prerogative with AS being a work of literary fiction, mind you) and oversimplifies the benefits of particular behaviors. It has the predatory feel, at times, of being solely written to manipulate the youth of which it targets and purportedly empowers- those with just enough knowledge and understanding of life for it to be dangerously sterile. How so, you ask? With respect that if one was to end life’s investigation with a short sighted and stunted philosophy like Objectivism, one would be castrating their selves of their analytical-right and critical-thinking-left testicle.

However, what the self appointed protectors of economic, literary, and social integrity, like our vociferous business-hipster friends who write belittling and scalding critiques (or pithy, dismissive quips, as Shaggy is want to do), fail to realize is that they are discrediting their position by engaging in tu quoque. Instead of stepping over the shit on the ground they scoop it up, wheeling around with it in their bare hand telling anyone who will listen to beware the shit.

Much like Tim Tebow, the very fact that Rand inspires so much passion and distaste from people who can't help but dolefully bemoan her merit, my position in favor of AS’s right to exist solidifies.

Besides, in the Fall of 2002 I fondly remember thinking I was a pretty tough cookie reading that bad boy between classes in the West Mall and I don't want to revise that!