Zombie Marxist Checklist

#ZMarxist = a revisionist, whose intention is to "re-evaluate" the Balkan Wars so that his presumption of Serbs as the Victims is justified.
— Matti Paasio (@mspaaz) July 7, 2013

Holiday Inn Büchner cont'd

CARL BILDT reads aloud.

Alarmingly, liberal interventionists have also begun talking up military action.

Alarming my ass. It’s a time machine! Twenty years, vanished. What we might have learned from Bosnia has been wiped clean. Gone, pushed aside by the nonsense that has occupied our minds ever since. The eternal youth. The drowning puppies. The monetary crisis. The spies. Terrorists. Internet. They all add up to one thing: Tabula rasa, born into the everlasting  present, everlasting amnesia, amen.

This isn’t how history should work. You are supposed to learn from history. Unless, of course, you are among the Living Dead.

The Zombie Marxists are drooling themselves cockeyed over this. This is the nearest to the Paradise their tiny minds can possibly conceive of: to be able to fuck with your memory loss forever. And, believe me, they are doing it all over the place, every chance they get. Listen to this:

Fortunately, the American people, tired of wasting lives and resources on misadventures abroad, oppose even arming the Syrian rebels. That mirrors public opinion among our European allies and in the Arab world, which has seen quite enough of the freedom delivered by American bombs and missiles.

Opinion among our European allies? Who the fuck is that? Whose opinion exactly are you talking about here, you Stalinist bitch? I’m your European ally, and nobody from The Nation has asked my opinion on anything. So, thanks a bunch for speaking on my behalf, and speaking dirt.

Of course, you are right.

Let Them Die.

Who cares? We have more important stories to cover.

Like my upcoming indictment.

One more thing about the Zombie Marxist, though, lest I forget.

You’ve heard so much about them. How do you spot them?

“Beware the Zombie Marxists” is easy to say, but how do you do it, if you don’t know who they are?

A very good point. An excellent point, if I may say so. I’ll hereby present you with a short checklist.

Could somebody please come onstage and tweet about what’s being said here? This is important. Come here. Sit with me. I’m too busy teaching. Can’t type at the same time. All right. Fine.

The first and foremost characteristic of a Zombie Marxist is an irrational opposition to everything and anything that comes with the label “made in the US.” Be it an idea, a policy, or a sandwich.

Got it? Good.

The second thing about a Zombie Marxist, he always sides up with people who are up to their elbows in blood. Find the Monsters, and, hiding behind their backs, you’ll find the Zombies. They must think it's original, somehow.

Third, the Zombies are obsessed with the former Yugoslavia. So am I. That’s how I found them. We have absolutely nothing in common between us, save for this sad little playground which we share.

Let me tell you what they think. They think that enough time has passed. That what exactly happened has been forgotten, and they can replace it with their version of bullshit propaganda.

Then again, it's possible that nobody cared who killed whom in the first place. All the better for the Zombie Marxists.

It was a Civil War. That's what they're clinging to like a bunch of rabid pit bulls. And ancient hatreds. Always remember the ancient hatreds. Plus, of course, the bias of the western media. The US is the boogieman, always.

Guess who stopped the war in Bosnia, and how? Let's take a poll.

Scroll down until you find a question and four alternatives. Please answer. It is extremely important for me personally that you answer, personally. Thank you.

Holiday Inn Büchner

Act 

II

CARL BILDT is back.

Let's move on. Let's move to the Serbian Republic of Krajina, which hasn't collapsed, just moved geographically, in the opposite direction than the Soviet Union did. 

I've been watching the tapes. What disturbs me the most is the crickets. Or cicadas, whatever they are. You can't see them, you just hear them. The day begins to dawn, the shells keep on raining, and the crickets never miss a beat during the battering of the town. You could make a tourist attraction out of it. Come to Croatia. Here the atmosphere is invincible. Nothing can break us. The Serbs tried. They took Knin. We waited a couple of years, then took it back. Here, want to see? The crickets sang the glory of our return. Of our offense. Which was a defense, if you remember any of your history. At least you remember the article in Helsingin Sanomat. Like in the good old days, when world was all red and gold, and United States was the boogeyman. Always. Ante Gotovina, Operation Storm. Ring a bell, anybody?

[Read this, then cut your wrists.]

I knew it. The only answer coming from the cicadas. It's a ghost town. Everyone is gone.

We need a volunteer. Somebody, anybody who would like to participate in a reconstruction of a work of art. All you have to do is lie in a bathtub.

[Don't cut your wrists. Read this instead.]

Why? When it comes to Art, you don't ask why. You shut up, and do as you're told! You become friends with failure. Failure is the essence of art. You embrace the abyss, or else you'll always try to stay away from it. You become mediocre. You become nothing.

We're going to do a rendition of a famous play here. Julius Caesar by Shakespeare, maybe? No, I don't think there's a bathtub there.

Danton's Death by my boy Georg Büchner? Nobody has ever written anything quite as insane as he did. He predicted everything 120 years in advance! Still, no bathtub there either, as far as I recall.

But we're getting close. I think the fellow I'm looking for is mentioned in Danton, once. His name is Milan.

We are living in the Middle Ages, 3-D. All you need is rewind. Not erase. I'm warning you, do not erase! Heed this advice as if your life depended on it. It does.

Here's the Dentist:

[He starts applauding while the video is still running.]

Ha fucking ha. As in horseshit. A rat. Feeding on horseshit, that's what you are, Babić! You're a rat. You started this craze of copping a plea and ratting your brothers out, and sooner or later, just wait and watch, the whole world is taking part in a joint criminal enterprise, JCE in the Hague lingo, after your ass. You poor thing! Well, of course they are. After what you done to them. Of course they are, I am. How many years off of your sentence did that pretty little speech take? Huh? No answer. Surprise, surprise! And that's the worst part. You're dead, you chickenshit, and no one can come after you and have the pleasure of ripping your balls off and feeding them to you, you spineless dickless skunk, you.

The whole world is a criminal enterprise, if you want to look at it that way. A conspiracy against those who aren't as clever, as cunning or as sexually attractive as you. And we're in it together. Yes, lock us all up! Babić is the only one left to roam freely. Yeah, because he's dead. Hung himself from his leather belt in Scheveningen, the detention center in the Hague, while he was supposed to give testimony against another one of his old buddies, Milan Martić. Oh, no. I did nothing. It was the Martićevci. I didn't know what was going on. You cunt!

Covering up for someone’s crimes makes you an accomplice in said crimes. Right? You become a member of a Joint Criminal Enterprise. The favourite term of Miss Carla of the International Dog and Pony Show in the Hague: the joint criminal enterprise.

Which brings us to Syria. Let’s read the papers. That’s the latest craze in the theater where I come from. These days, all they do is read the paper on the stage. It becomes cheaper, I guess.

He takes the Kindle device from his briefcase again.

There’s no place like the Silicon Valley. Which reminds me, I don’t read the Swedish papers any more. I don’t need to. If I must find out what’s happening at home, what my fellow countrymen are thinking, I just check out the editorial in The Nation.

[Cont'd as Zombie Marxist Checklist.]

Wrong island, Daddy-o!
Hamsun lived here.

On the boat to the first island,
I had tried to work. Bollocks.



There's a text missing
HERE:
about Hamsun, dogs, and women.
Let's blame
the Russians,
once again.

Yes.




#

The Basement Tapes

A telephone conversation between me and Radovan Karadžić, June 22 1995. The massacre of Srebrenica is less than a month away. “C'mere,” he says. “Come to Pale.” I say no. He insists. I say no. I tell him to relieve the supply condition of both Sarajevo and the eastern enclaves, meaning Goražde, Žepa and Srebrenica. Then, I say, I will think about it.

He says he’ll see what he can do. Then he hangs up. 

Aeroflotin Havannan-koneeseen lähdössä 25-30 toimittajaa. Snowdenista ei havaintoa.
— Jussi Niemelainen (@JNiemelainen) June 24, 2013

In English: 25 - 30 journalists boarding
an Aeroflot plane to Cuba.
No sign of Snowden.


Act III

[of Safe Area for Candy Animals]

[M. is lying in a bathtub.]

Later on, in the belly of the beast, the dungeon where they’d sent me to lie down in, or sit, stand, have some exercise, try walking to the door and back, start again - I could do as I pleased in my basement closet painted black, as long as I didn’t disturb the other prisoners coming clean, the nurse had made herself crystal clear at that point, me just staring ahead (clean my ass, they're dandy, sedated to their eyeballs, it’s me who’s in pain here, waiting for the fucking North Pole to thaw) - I remembered the other time in detention. My third. This time I’d hit the bottom and gone sailing through, like the ball that Iniesta sent flying over the Dutch defense earlier that summer: 1 - 0.

I had cried, sitting by myself at the beer joint, as I'd watched the Spanish team on television, arriving in Madrid. The crowd. The team. They had finally won the big one. And I had lost, in almost as majestic a fashion. This time.

It's all in your head. The dry season that had haunted Fernando Torres lately, or the one that halted the promising literary career of Henry in The Art of Fielding, were matters of spirit, not of skill. If I can psyche myself up, I reasoned, recall a happier time, as it happened, maybe I'll have a chance to get through this.

If I can just make the goddamn commentators shut up.

So I tried to focus. It was a bitch, with three music videos going on at the same time inside of your head, the second you closed your eyes. So you keep 'em open, boy. Open? I want to make you squeal like... No, not that movie. Look at those ugly ass pipes going across the ceiling: Blood Simple. Focus. Now!

Before, it had felt like a party inside. It was at the other place, and I had been in a lot better shape. There had been life in Scheveningen, even joy. I had felt way more isolated outside than I did once I got in. My loneliness evaporated the second time I stepped in that tiny cubicle, the smoking room, they had called it, max three persons at a time. Window giving to the corridor. You didn’t consider the one giving to the street a real window, its blinds drawn for all eternity.

Was it my second cigarette? Could have been the third. In that ballpark anyhow. When I met Katariina.

* * *

Beautiful ladies are often so vain. You can't even look at them. They think all anyone ever wants is to get into their pants. Which is an accurate assessment in most of the cases. Anyhow, Katariina wasn't like that.

I had swallowed my last pill in the bathroom of the waiting area. That’s how I felt so good. A sip of water, anyone? Grab your plastic cups, I’m pouring!

I was ready for the game. Ready to wait until my name was called.

On the bench to my right a fellow did as he was told, leaning his elbows on his thighs. He could have been praying. He seemed quite young. The hood of a sweatshirt shaded his face, so I couldn’t be certain. Anyway, I wasn’t into interfering with his torment too much. Waiting was the worst part. Waiting to get in. Waiting for the first pill, in case your blood alcohol was over point one. Waiting for lunch, for dinner, for the meds. Waiting, praying for sleep.

Later on, as we became roommates, I learned more about his situation.

Man, they don’t call it a welfare state for nothing. They'll try to rehabilitate you a thousand times, if you just let them do it. Money don’t mean dick to us. We’re still trying to cope with the news that the Soviet Union is no longer there.

Suddenly, inside my head, I hear a voice. A calm, articulate speaker with a trace of an accent. Danish, is it?

“A night like any other”, the voice says. “I was making my rounds in Scheveningen.”

Another, nastier voice, bordering on psychotic, cuts in, “The fuck you were there for? Going to see your lover boy?”

“At that moment, I was going to ask him if he’d brushed his teeth.”

Enough, I say, gritting mine. Enough! You can keep that up later on. Now hush, hush... can’t you see I’m busy?

To my surprise, the voices fall silent. They obey the pill in my belly, not me.

Instead of hearing voices, I see a desolate dirt road in front of me, drenched in sunlight. Next to it stands an ominous sign.

YOU ARE ENTERING THE REPUBLIC OF SERBIAN KRAJINA,

the sign says, and continues,

“We have more pigs than men,

and more guns than pigs.”

I chuckle. Matias, 20, sitting next to me, is having none of it. No fun at all. No tour of the Babić Land for him. Matias has a sideshow of his own going on at full blast, complete with beetles or roaches of some kind crawling on the floor, the man-sized house plant next to him coming to, trying to eat the bugs or something. Trying to eat him, for all I know. Feed me! I can't quite follow his scenario even afterwards, as he explains it to me. 

There's a book to every person, a work that somehow defines his or her character. Matias has a book as well, he is a book called Pharmaca Fennica, where every drug ever sold in this country is described, dissected, disseminated... you name it. He tells you everything about it.

I’m sitting on a chair in the middle of our room. I feel almost guilty, feeling so good. Matias is lying on his bed. He calls his visions flashbacks. I don't ask what he’s been doing. I find it obvious, and dull. Still, who knows? He volunteers that he’s been drinking beer. He has a girlfriend 500 km away, in Copenhagen, and has been feeling down. I understand.

I am telling why I’m here, babbling away. Then I stop. Above the door, there’s an object, like a small crystal ball gone black, attached to the wall.

“What’s that,” I ask Matias. “Is it a camera?”

“Course it is.”

“You mean they’re watching our every move?”

“If we make a move, yeah.”

Continue reading...

Even God Don't Forgive around Here

An old friend of mine, which I haven't heard from in years, called today, saying I shouldn't be making the kind of videos I do. #Bosnia #LM

He wouldn't elaborate on whom exactly it is that I'm offending. The public, he insisted. I don't know how each individual is going to take it, he said.

I hung up. Had he said the victims of the war in Croatia, for instance, I would have removed the videos from YouTube immediately.

Bad arguing brings worse results.

The credits. I sat for a while, slightly puzzled, and got up. As the audience filed slowly out of the theater, I overheard a woman saying to her spouse – he wasn’t a date, the relationship was permanent, I could tell from her tone – something to the effect of,

“Haven’t seen anything that lousy in a while.”

I got angry. The remark reflected all too well who we were, and where. We were in Finland, and we were safe. A luxury that wasn’t anywhere near the grasp of the characters in the film we had just witnessed, Only God Forgives, or it’s makers.

Making a movie means giving something of yourself, taking a risk, and that kind of behavior is frowned upon around here.

The film had its flaws alright. It was lacking in the energy of the former masterpieces of the director, Nicolas Winding Refn. It was lazy, at times. Too many dream sequences. Too many scenes depicting somebody walking. Too violent. Not violent enough, in the end, in my opinion, but I’m a bit ill in head. Still, as the next day arrived, I started seeing more and more similarities in the Crazy Dane’s latest effort and the most recent book of my literary superhero, Brian Allen Carr (Edie & the Low-Hung Hands). And lo, I became a fanatic for the movie.

Exterminate All the Brutes Who Do Not Believe in Nicolas Winding Refn or Brian Allen Carr!!!

Thus, one non-alcoholic beer only.

[I sent this "sample" to movieboozer.com where movies are rated by how many beers do you need to get through them.]

If Aki Kaurismäki, the only Finnish director known outside of this country, were interested in reality, Only God Forgives might fit in as a fresh start for his ongoing Workers' Saga. The empty posturing at times reminded of him.

Still, Winding Refn had achieved a balance between the posturing and senseless violence. Kaurismäki ought to take a hint.

I want to change my testimony,

NO BEERS AT ALL.

An Outcast of the Wolf Island: The Silent Opera

The piece Tim Buckley dreamed of

with brand new lines,

courtesy of The Guardian,
The Nation
and other ZM outlets!

With special thanks to

Michael D. Weiss
(check his "Putin's mind"
in Golden Eggs section on the 
right-side
column!)

And a couple of false starts
as bonus material.

#### #### #### ####

A Fat Rat for the Kremlin

His name was the first 

on a list of  "Enemies of Russia,"

 a Hit List, in other words,

 and we're not discussing pop music here. 

 On the list, people loyal to the Kremlin

published home addresses

 and phone numbers of dissidents

for everyone to see. Formerly

 on the list:

 Politkovskaya, Litvinenko.

- after Limonov by Emmanuel Carrère 

Hänen nimensä oli ensimmäisenä "Venäjän vihollisten" listalla, toisin sanoen tappolistalla, jossa valtaapitävien läheiset tahot julkaisevat kyseisten henkilöiden osoitteet ja puhelinnumerot kaiken kansan nähtäviksi.  Muita listan nimiä olivat kiväärillä ammuttu Politkovskaja, entinen FSB:n upseeri Litvinenko, joka myrkytettiin poloniumilla hänen paljastettuaan turvallisuuspalvelun rikollista toimintaa, miljonääri Hodorkovski, joka halusi sekaantua politiikkaan ja kärsii nyt vankilatuomiotaan Siperiassa. Ja seuraavana listalla oli Limonov.

(Suomennos Kristiina Haatajan)

I want to compile a converse list of the rats for the Kremlin. For harassment only, which a call for in abundance. No violence, please! We are not them.

So far, there's only one name on it: the one who published the address of Andrei Nekrasov on her blog post. Nekrasov was a friend of Litvinenko's, and wrote a piece of L's grueling last days for The Guardian. He is also a documentary filmmaker, who resided in Finland until recently. Our target, Lady Anna refuses to remove Nekrasov's address from her blog for no other reason than her determination on sucking on Putin's dick:

Анна Кисличенко

@AnnaKislichenko

#АРКС#Художник #Блогер

PS. If you think this is outrageous, you're wrong. Here in Finland, it's not even considered a piece of news. We're sure that the Big Brother in Moscow knows what he's doing. Our love for, and trust in him cannot be exhausted.

A Message from the Grave

"Sit tight, and keep your knees together. You'll be just fine."

That's what I tell the kids at the bathroom of the day care center

where I work at. I've said so many times, in fact, I've started believing

in it myself.

Nothing, of course, could be further away from the truth.

I found the three volumes of history of Nokia -

the corporation, not the town -

at the garbage shed in Grbavica, Helsinki,

or Kannelmäki, as it was known in the past, yesterday.

This is the third video I've used the book collection in.

It's the story of Finland in 6 minutes,

accompanied by the late, GREAT

Tim Buckley.

Something tells me

the books are outdated - or else, why would

someone have left them in the shed?

What spoke the strongest of the

sadly and abrubtly ended life

of the three-book-

package was, however,

the fact that the volumes,

two out of three at least,

were written in Finnish.

Well, hello, beautiful!

Or so the titles suggested, anyway,

"Sturm und Drang,"

"Fuusio" and

"Globalisaatio,"

the last being the most beautiful word

in our language, if you

asked the opinion of

former President of the country,

Mrs Halonen.

But nobody does. Her days are gone,

and so are ours, and it's for the best.

No one writes a company's history -

or any history, I presume -

in their native tongue any more.

Not much else, either. My dabbling

of late in the field of Literature

is just a tiny drop of proof

in the vast, not-so-

Pacific Ocean.

Once a year just isn't enough.

And Lily knows it. And Tim knew it, too.

One final laugh from the Master:

Wikipedia informed me moments ago that,

'The "Carnival Song" which appears here

is not the song of the same name from Goodbye and Hello,

but an entirely different composition.'

That figures. He was a crazy son of a bitch and he was my brother. 

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