Friday, October 8, 2010

In Concert...

An author was recommended to me recently. Her books are very popular and I have yet to read one of them. Shame really. I'm hobbled. I can't read the works of those I disagree with politically or morally(is there a difference?).

The author is Margaret Atwood. I have read enough excerpts from her books to realize that she is no slouch when it comes to putting one word after another. A true wordsmith. But just before ordering one of her novels I did a little research on her. This tidbit came up:

"Despite calls for a boycott by Gazan students, and a request to boycott from PACBI, Atwood visited Israel and accepted the $1,000,000 Dan David Prize from Tel Aviv University in May 2010. Atwood commented that "we don't do cultural boycotts"


Perhaps Ms. Atwood misunderstands the Palestinian struggle. Perhaps she isn't that great of a thinker/writer. Or perhaps she just doesn't give a shit.

Whatever.

If she prefers to accept her "prize" of a cool million, in lieu of making a statement to the world about the vermin that pay her off, by boycotting them...I can boycott her.


I have missed a lot in life by sticking to these "principles" that nag me...probably. Maybe that's a good thing. Maybe not. I guess it would be almost pointless for one to choose not to use a zionist mechanic to work on one's car...but when it comes to things of a bit more social and political import....maybe we should give more thought to whom we give our business. Or our attention. I dunno.
As I have stated many times here, I don't give jews the time of day. Nor will I give the time of day to anyone that can flippantly turn a blind eye to the ravages that judaism has ushered into our world.
As the old Buffalo Springfield song implied we are mostly all saying the same thing out here. Hooray for our side. Some people don't want to get involved. Some can remain detached. I don't know how...but they do. Some don't see "sides". I wish I didn't. Facets. Dynamics. Making simple things complicated. Making complicated things simple.

A lot of artists have refused the "30 pieces of silver" from the zionists in israhell. The list is long. Recently it includes: Jean-Luc Godard, Bjork, Chris Cornell, Siouxie Sioux, Snoop Dog, Elvis Costello, The Pixies, Carlos Santana, Roger Waters...etc
And these are just some of the musical artists. Some folks make a point of their refusal. Some do it quietly. As long as they do it. We are trying to make a concerted statement. I can and do give money. That's not enough. I have this blog. Even that isn't enough while Palestinian children are shot in their own streets and homes. The least someone that has their celebrity to give to the cause can do...is to show the world that they will not be on the wrong side of history...for a few shekels. But there are whores.



4 comments:

veritas6464 said...

Hey Timster,...Fuck atwood, what a whore. For a time from 15 back to 20 years ago, between marriages; I used to attend a lot of literary and arty functions when I was a photojournalist based in Melbourne, I was for a time a member of the ‘Obliterati’, a now defunct collection of eclectic and erudite artists, writers, painters and photographers: many nights of great wine and cheap food and cheap wine and great food (what fans of Thompson and O’Rourke would refer to as ‘Gonzo’); we would swarm an event (on a good night there might be 18-20 of us) and either take the piss in the case of 'PC' launches of anything, or 'gay & lesbian' art exhibition openings, that sort of jew backed social engineering device, where we would mill about asking asinine questions, like; “So, what’s it supposed to be?”. “Is it a portrait or a landscape?” “Oh, dear is this what they mean by modern art?” “It’s applied rather thick isn’t it, is it poo or paint?” "Oh, darling quick look, I think it's my mother-in-law"

Our rule was that if you made a comment loud enough to be heard you were not to be facetious or blatantly sarcastic; we preferred the style of amusing cynicism of Wilde. We tried not to be overtly offensive just subtly annoying. Most of the time (grin).

We would wear bow-ties and scarfs, all manner of contrived eccentricity; in fact we were hard tell apart from the 'real' artists (grin).

We had a great deal of fun and drank ourselves silly at the expense of the organisers, these rorts always had excellent 'horse's doovrees' and bottle wine, yeehaa! We were always greeted with sighs and sneers yet never turned away, some of our membership were among the wealthiest bohemian layabouts and influential art-scene reporters and writers holding down a job at the time - they hated us and had no choice but to put up with us; our presence might mean the difference between an embarrassingly low attendance and a full room. THE POWER aaarghh, the power, I wish I had a dollar for every ‘B’ grade government funded flic that I almost sat through. If I were to write a book on Art it would be an A to Z guide of the most pretentious captions ever placed next to a piece of ‘Artwork’.

Featured prominently would be the caption for “Brass tap on wall’, yep a brass faucet purchased from a hardware store without any affectation by the ‘artist’ and then glued to the wall of the gallery; the caption was two A4 pages of the most verbose pretentious horseshit I have ever read, here’s a small part of the tome as I remember it: “.....and so, with this stark exposition I confront my sexuality where the oppressive patriarchal dominance of my clitoral dynamic godhead soulful being is caged...” Etc, etc, etc.

If you and I and Penny and AP, Les and the others lived in the same City we could do worse to thwart the yiddish plans for global dominance through social corruption than turning up to all their shows and there ‘take the piss', while quaffing their booze.

One particularly successful ‘intervention’ saw a mate of mine dress as a Monopoly Game style tramp with crushed topper & tails and then position himself in a such a place behind the dais that it was impossible not to have him appear in camera; there positioned he began fondling himself and pretending to pick at his nose whenever a speaker began their pretentious waffle, he was almost ejected until the organisers realised he was the son of one the our country’s wealthiest Art collectors and benefactors, cooooeee! Very old money. I had the honour of being introduced to his mum AT HIS 60TH BIRTHDAY PARTY! Fuck me; what is the average life expectancy of the filthy rich?

Passive aggressive resistance at its most sublime; great fun to.

"Vivé la Revolutiôn"

veritas

Steve bayley said...

Timster,
Here here

Steve b

Timster said...

Veritas - there's a book in that! I'm serious. You could be the next guy to blow his head off in the garage while his family didn't hear anything in the house!...hahaha. Great stuff. Brings new meaning to fear and loathing.

Timster said...

Steve - thanks thanks.