Oleaginous Persuasions

The Spirit of Uncle Auntie

The Hefty bag makeshift shotgun window flaps madly at 95dB as Uncle Auntie smirks from the ceiling of the rusty VW.

The freaky krewe toodles in Leisurely Industrial style along I-10 towards the Vieux Carré.

Arm in arm on Rue Dauphine, sung to the tune of “Nanny Nanny BooBoo,” the mantra is quantised:

“Nous sommes crannie de mamie”

Res Op Mandate training minutes 121107

Clever Phrases, Realpolitik and the Spin of a Coin

In their impotent rage, sophomore activists, hoary gender warriors, armchair academics and other political dilettantes froth at the mouth at images of presidents, media bloviators, “The Man,” and other icons in the mould of Emmanuel Goldstein.

One pretense of speaking out against the undue oppression in the West is the mantra, “The enemy of my enemy is my friend.” Sounds heavy, but unfortunately, this “Protest Logic” makes about as much sense as persuasion by puppetry. In effect, it makes one “friends” with barbarians. Is that the intent? Rebellious nihilism? Or maybe some people just don't think their clichés all the way through.

Perhaps they should heed the notable policies of the Mendez Dynasty. Beset by hostile neighbours, an environmental cataclysm and a population badly in need of gene therapy, the House of Mendez practise a unique form of realpolitik. In the words of Ongaro, High Counselor to Mendez XXVI, “We don’t kill our enemies. We get our enemies to kill each other.”
Indeed, an admirable tactic in the psionic arts (much like pungeoning itself), but the greater import is to see this not as just a tactic, but as a broader strategic Weltanschauung. Machiavellian perhaps, but a strategery that is more likely to ensure self-preservation than would street puppetry and sit-downs with terrorists. In the end, the Mendez Dynasty ultimately seeks Godhead while our protesters merely invoke fatuous moral palaver and stale clichés. What could they possibly learn? One’s mantra clashes with the other’s tantra.
So it’s probably a good thing Johnny Protester ignores history, whether past, present or future.
One final caveat must be made: As Keepers of the Divine Bomb, the House of Mendez is essentially practising a de facto programme of Mutually Assured Destruction (MAD).
Are we simply seeing both sides of that old cold coin of nihilism?

Gaijin Condiment: Camouflage Ranch

Of late, diners have been raving about the delicious deals found at Inaka Express, especially the supposedly delectable condiment known as “Yellow Sauce,” said to enhance the culinary experience to no end.
Food critic Johnny Gutts was finally convinced by associates to brave this eatery and all it had to offer, particularly this renowned “Yellow Sauce.”
Mister Gutts was not impressed.
First of all, the name. Calling it “Yellow Sauce” conjures up images of cafeteria sculleries with 200-litre drums of foodstuffs lorded over by heavy-set, middle-aged women with turf issues wielding stainless steel ladles. You’d think they would’ve come up with a more appealing moniker, like “Essence of Dragon’s Breath,” or “Minamoto Mayo,” or even just “Ninja Sauce” (even the kids would dig that one).
Then, there was the flavour. Weak. Like thinned-out Ranch dressing. That’s been sitting around for two days. With Yellow Dye No.5 added.
Johnny Gutts grimaced as he swirled the sauce around in his mouth. The gears began turning in the back of his brain.
“Come to think of it, why didn’t they just call it ‘Ranch?’ Classic City does lie in the ‘Ranch Belt’ — that region of the country where Ranch dressing is a Mandatory Condiment... [one of the original Ten Condiments manifested on stone tablets brought down from Witch Mountain by Uncle Beignet...] But I digress...”
Gutts does have a point though. He offers sage culinary and marketing advice:
“Mister Inaka-san, do yourself and your patrons a favour. Ditch the yellow dye routine and just call a spade a spade. Put this on your menu...”

THIS IS RANCH DRESSING.
WE OFFER COPIOUS AMOUNTS.
DUMP IT ON EVERYTHING.
DIG IN.

Kudos to Mister Gutts for developing a brand repositioning solution that is deferential to the regional demographic.

Of Dogs and Divas

DATELINE: Classic City, 1963 — It was still just a town, but it may as well have been Metropolis when compared to the one-traffic-light podunk burgs three counties away. The couple came in their Chrysler from the east as the sun was setting from the west. Big night on the town, yeah. After dining, a flick. Walking arm in arm under the lamplights of Clayton Street, Carl and Helen could see the marquee of State Theatre shimmering ahead. Carl froze, gazing up at the blazing sign.
“No.”
“What is it, Carl?” Helen asked.
He pointed up at the synchronized bulbs framing the red plastic letters: Laddadog.
“We didn’t come this far to sit through a damn dog movie.”
“Laddadog?”
“Yes. A movie about a dog. Lad. A dog. Laddadog. We’re leaving.”

– – – – –

Flash-forward: Classic City 1991

Martha leads George by the arm under the lamplights of contemporary Clayton Street.
“C’mon, we gotta get good seats.”
“Alright, alright,” George muttered half-heartedly.
“You’re gonna love it. You’ll like her more after you’ve seen the movie.”
George shrugged and looked up at the marquee: “In Bed With Maria -- The Hit Documentary of Diva Maria Mauvaise”
“Let’s get this over with,” he said as they got their tickets and entered.

One-hundred and fourteen minutes later, George and Martha walked out of State Theatre. Though George wasn’t the slightest bit impressed, he did offer up some lukewarm, neutral commentary vis-à-vis Martha’s cloying praises: “It was interesting.”
The movie itself was indeed a documentary about a self-proclaimed diva. Complete with de rigueur forced outrageousness and artistic proclamations, it had descended unsurprisingly into unintentional self-parody. It was the kind of movie that appealed to people who confuse spectacle for empowerment and mistake controversy for content. Empty calories. Low value.

It made George think of the story about Laddadog.

Standing under the marquee in ‘63, Carl and Helen must have known that that particular film wasn’t going to be their cuppa joe. A probable tale, one could guess, of a canine and his ragamuffin child companion, beset by the challenges of man and nature, told in a typically treacly way. Value there, perhaps, but not of the couple’s choosing.
But George had stood before the same marquee, suspended prejudgment, and came out worse for the wear.

Damn, he wanted a hot shower.

Who would have thought that cornpone cinema of 1963 could morally, if not aesthetically, trump the vapid, narcissistic cinema of 1991?
George shook his head. Ever the optimist, he hoped that some things would change for the better come fifteen or twenty years.

Haiku C-130

Twenty-five-seven
hours: daily, two or three
Hercules pass by

Over, through the sky
the bearing is ESE
A slow, steady hum

Behind them arise
dull ember al-Dabarān,
glint of al-Mirrikh