OT: Obama is dumber than a box of rocks

[NotCranky]

He leído Marquez, La Hoja rasca, Cien anos de soledad y Amor en los Tiempos de Cólera, en Español. Vargas LLosa es considerado traicionero por muchos pobres latino-americanos. La verdad es que no conozco sus obras. Me han dicho que es un gran escritor.

[Casca]

“The sheer poetic irony of your butt cancer aside, I do have a few questions based on your post.”

I’ve never had ass cancer you idiot. You were born of hemorrhoid cells.

“Do you really think that any manipulation of the market is synonymous with a command economy?”

When the government does it, yes.

“Does that include when private parties manipulate it or just when government does?”

Your attempt to put me in a reductio ad absurdum box is childish. Of course there is a part for government in creating structure, but not in determining who should get subsidies for not planting what, or how many lesbian dwarfs you must have on your payroll. Government’s role is too great, and has been for decades. Those who can’t see this are part of the problem.

“On that topic, do you consider any redistribution of wealth to be equivalent to systems like communism? EG: Are income taxes or food stamps the same as, say, government as the only employer?”

Obviously not the same, but of the same ilk.

“Do you really think that public schools do not teach the history or traditions of the US? My wife who teaches US history to (predominantly immigrant) students would perhaps disagree. Again, its a question.”

Does she have a history degree, or an education degree? Considering the vast sums expended, our public schools are a disgrace. We pay for filet mignon, and get hot dogs.

“Is it your contention that his mother’s perceived lack of patriotism should disqualify him from running? Is it your contention that his foreign schooling should disqualify him from running?”

People vote for those with whom they believe they share values, thus the 92% black vote he’ll reap. Although to the dismay of MLK, most we’ll be voting based on the color of his skin, and not the content of his character. A lot more Americans will look at his foreign childhood in the Indonesian Madrassas, and conclude that he isn’t PLU. I have nothing in common with the man, except that I too have spent years in the political gutter that is Chicago, and know what one finds there… raw opportunism, but that has been his trajectory since his arrival in Hawaii as a teenager, and entry into the halls of privilege.

[Casca]

“The sheer poetic irony of your butt cancer aside, I do have a few questions based on your post.”

I’ve never had ass cancer you idiot. You were born of hemorrhoid cells.

“Do you really think that any manipulation of the market is synonymous with a command economy?”

When the government does it, yes.

“Does that include when private parties manipulate it or just when government does?”

Your attempt to put me in a reductio ad absurdum box is childish. Of course there is a part for government in creating structure, but not in determining who should get subsidies for not planting what, or how many lesbian dwarfs you must have on your payroll. Government’s role is too great, and has been for decades. Those who can’t see this are part of the problem.

“On that topic, do you consider any redistribution of wealth to be equivalent to systems like communism? EG: Are income taxes or food stamps the same as, say, government as the only employer?”

Obviously not the same, but of the same ilk.

“Do you really think that public schools do not teach the history or traditions of the US? My wife who teaches US history to (predominantly immigrant) students would perhaps disagree. Again, its a question.”

Does she have a history degree, or an education degree? Considering the vast sums expended, our public schools are a disgrace. We pay for filet mignon, and get hot dogs.

“Is it your contention that his mother’s perceived lack of patriotism should disqualify him from running? Is it your contention that his foreign schooling should disqualify him from running?”

People vote for those with whom they believe they share values, thus the 92% black vote he’ll reap. Although to the dismay of MLK, most we’ll be voting based on the color of his skin, and not the content of his character. A lot more Americans will look at his foreign childhood in the Indonesian Madrassas, and conclude that he isn’t PLU. I have nothing in common with the man, except that I too have spent years in the political gutter that is Chicago, and know what one finds there… raw opportunism, but that has been his trajectory since his arrival in Hawaii as a teenager, and entry into the halls of privilege.

[Casca]

“The sheer poetic irony of your butt cancer aside, I do have a few questions based on your post.”

I’ve never had ass cancer you idiot. You were born of hemorrhoid cells.

“Do you really think that any manipulation of the market is synonymous with a command economy?”

When the government does it, yes.

“Does that include when private parties manipulate it or just when government does?”

Your attempt to put me in a reductio ad absurdum box is childish. Of course there is a part for government in creating structure, but not in determining who should get subsidies for not planting what, or how many lesbian dwarfs you must have on your payroll. Government’s role is too great, and has been for decades. Those who can’t see this are part of the problem.

“On that topic, do you consider any redistribution of wealth to be equivalent to systems like communism? EG: Are income taxes or food stamps the same as, say, government as the only employer?”

Obviously not the same, but of the same ilk.

“Do you really think that public schools do not teach the history or traditions of the US? My wife who teaches US history to (predominantly immigrant) students would perhaps disagree. Again, its a question.”

Does she have a history degree, or an education degree? Considering the vast sums expended, our public schools are a disgrace. We pay for filet mignon, and get hot dogs.

“Is it your contention that his mother’s perceived lack of patriotism should disqualify him from running? Is it your contention that his foreign schooling should disqualify him from running?”

People vote for those with whom they believe they share values, thus the 92% black vote he’ll reap. Although to the dismay of MLK, most we’ll be voting based on the color of his skin, and not the content of his character. A lot more Americans will look at his foreign childhood in the Indonesian Madrassas, and conclude that he isn’t PLU. I have nothing in common with the man, except that I too have spent years in the political gutter that is Chicago, and know what one finds there… raw opportunism, but that has been his trajectory since his arrival in Hawaii as a teenager, and entry into the halls of privilege.

[Casca]

“The sheer poetic irony of your butt cancer aside, I do have a few questions based on your post.”

I’ve never had ass cancer you idiot. You were born of hemorrhoid cells.

“Do you really think that any manipulation of the market is synonymous with a command economy?”

When the government does it, yes.

“Does that include when private parties manipulate it or just when government does?”

Your attempt to put me in a reductio ad absurdum box is childish. Of course there is a part for government in creating structure, but not in determining who should get subsidies for not planting what, or how many lesbian dwarfs you must have on your payroll. Government’s role is too great, and has been for decades. Those who can’t see this are part of the problem.

“On that topic, do you consider any redistribution of wealth to be equivalent to systems like communism? EG: Are income taxes or food stamps the same as, say, government as the only employer?”

Obviously not the same, but of the same ilk.

“Do you really think that public schools do not teach the history or traditions of the US? My wife who teaches US history to (predominantly immigrant) students would perhaps disagree. Again, its a question.”

Does she have a history degree, or an education degree? Considering the vast sums expended, our public schools are a disgrace. We pay for filet mignon, and get hot dogs.

“Is it your contention that his mother’s perceived lack of patriotism should disqualify him from running? Is it your contention that his foreign schooling should disqualify him from running?”

People vote for those with whom they believe they share values, thus the 92% black vote he’ll reap. Although to the dismay of MLK, most we’ll be voting based on the color of his skin, and not the content of his character. A lot more Americans will look at his foreign childhood in the Indonesian Madrassas, and conclude that he isn’t PLU. I have nothing in common with the man, except that I too have spent years in the political gutter that is Chicago, and know what one finds there… raw opportunism, but that has been his trajectory since his arrival in Hawaii as a teenager, and entry into the halls of privilege.

[Casca]

“The sheer poetic irony of your butt cancer aside, I do have a few questions based on your post.”

I’ve never had ass cancer you idiot. You were born of hemorrhoid cells.

“Do you really think that any manipulation of the market is synonymous with a command economy?”

When the government does it, yes.

“Does that include when private parties manipulate it or just when government does?”

Your attempt to put me in a reductio ad absurdum box is childish. Of course there is a part for government in creating structure, but not in determining who should get subsidies for not planting what, or how many lesbian dwarfs you must have on your payroll. Government’s role is too great, and has been for decades. Those who can’t see this are part of the problem.

“On that topic, do you consider any redistribution of wealth to be equivalent to systems like communism? EG: Are income taxes or food stamps the same as, say, government as the only employer?”

Obviously not the same, but of the same ilk.

“Do you really think that public schools do not teach the history or traditions of the US? My wife who teaches US history to (predominantly immigrant) students would perhaps disagree. Again, its a question.”

Does she have a history degree, or an education degree? Considering the vast sums expended, our public schools are a disgrace. We pay for filet mignon, and get hot dogs.

“Is it your contention that his mother’s perceived lack of patriotism should disqualify him from running? Is it your contention that his foreign schooling should disqualify him from running?”

People vote for those with whom they believe they share values, thus the 92% black vote he’ll reap. Although to the dismay of MLK, most we’ll be voting based on the color of his skin, and not the content of his character. A lot more Americans will look at his foreign childhood in the Indonesian Madrassas, and conclude that he isn’t PLU. I have nothing in common with the man, except that I too have spent years in the political gutter that is Chicago, and know what one finds there… raw opportunism, but that has been his trajectory since his arrival in Hawaii as a teenager, and entry into the halls of privilege.

[NotCranky]

Allan,

On the topic of revolution, I cam across this link when you and a few others were discussing Orwell. I thought to add it then. It makes and impression.

from
Homage to Catalonia, by George Orwell.

This was in late December 1936, less than seven months ago as I write, and yet it is a period that has already receded into enormous distance. Later events have obliterated it much more completely than they have obliterated 1935, or 1905, for that matter. I had come to Spain with some notion of writing newspaper articles, but I had joined the militia almost immediately, because at that time and in that atmosphere it seemed the only conceivable thing to do. The Anarchists were still in virtual control of Catalonia and the revolution was still in full swing. To anyone who had been there since the beginning it probably seemed even in December or January that the revolutionary period was ending; but when one came straight from England the aspect of Barcelona was something startling and overwhelming. It was the first time that I had ever been in a town where the working class was in the saddle. Practically every building of any size had been seized by the workers and was draped with red flags or with the red and black flag of the Anarchists; every wall was scrawled with the hammer and sickle and with the initials of the revolutionary parties; almost every church had been gutted and its images burnt. Churches here and there were being systematically demolished by gangs of workman. Every shop and cafe had an inscription saying that it had been collectivised;
even the bootblacks had been collectivized and their boxes painted red and black. Waiters and shop-walkers looked you in the
face and treated you as an equal. Servile and even ceremonial forms of speech had temporarily disappeared. Nobody said
‘Sen~or’ or ‘Don’ ort even ‘Usted’; everyone called everyone else ‘Comrade’ or ‘Thou’, and said ‘Salud!’ instead of ‘Buenos
dias’. Tipping had been forbidden by law since the time of Primo de Rivera; almost my first experience was receiving a lecture
from a hotel manager for trying to tip a lift-boy. There were no private motor-cars, they had all been commandeered, and the
trams and taxis and much of the other transport were painted red and black. The revolutionary posters were everywhere,
flaming from the walls in clean reds and blues that made the few remaining advertisements look like daubs of mud. Down the
Ramblas, the wide central artery of the town where crowds of people streamed constantly to and fro, the loud-speakers were
bellowing revolutionary songs all day and far into the night. And it was the aspect of the crowds that was the queerest thing of
all. In outward appearance it was a town in which the wealthy classes had practically ceased to exist. Except for a small
number of women and foreigners there were no ‘well-dressed’ people at all. Practically everyone wore rough working-class
clothes, or blue overalls or some variant of militia uniform. All this was queer and moving. There was much in this that I did not
understand, in some ways I did not not even like it, but I recognized it immediately as a state of affairs worth fighting for. Also, I
believed that things were as they appeared, that this was really a workers’ State and that the entire bourgeoisie had either fled,
been killed or voluntarily come over to the workers’ side; I did not realise that great numbers of well-to-do bourgeois were
simply lying low and disguising themselves as proletarians for the time being.

Together with all this there was something of the evil atmosphere of war. The town had a gaunt untidy look, roads and buildings
were in poor repair, the streets at night were dimly lit for fear of air-raids, the shops were mostly shabby and half-empty. Meat
was scarce and milk practically unobtainable, there was a shortage of coal, sugar and petrol, and a really serious shortage of
bread. Even at this period the bread-queues were often hundreds of yards long. Yet so far as one could judge the people were
contented and hopeful. There was no unemployment, and the price of living was still extremely low; you saw very few
conspicuously destitute people, and no beggars except the gypsies. #Above all, there was a belief in the revolution and the
future, a feeling of having suddenly emerged into an era of equality and freedom. Human beings were trying to behave as human
beings and not as cogs in the capitalist machine. In the barbers’ shops were Anarchist notices (the barbers were mostly
Anarchists) solemnly explaining that barbers were no longer slaves. In the streets were coloured posters appealing to prostitutes to stop being prostitutes. To anyone from the hard-boiled, sneering civilization of the English-speaking races there was something rather pathetic in the literalness with which these idealistic Spaniards took the hackneyed phrase of revolution. At that time revolutionary ballads of the naivest kind, all about the proletarian brotherhood and the wickedness of Mussolini, were being sold on the streets for a few centimes each. I have often seen an illiterate militiaman buy one of these ballads, laboriously spell out the words, and then, when he had got the hang of it, begin singing it to an appropriate tune.

Source

[NotCranky]

Allan,

On the topic of revolution, I cam across this link when you and a few others were discussing Orwell. I thought to add it then. It makes and impression.

from
Homage to Catalonia, by George Orwell.

This was in late December 1936, less than seven months ago as I write, and yet it is a period that has already receded into enormous distance. Later events have obliterated it much more completely than they have obliterated 1935, or 1905, for that matter. I had come to Spain with some notion of writing newspaper articles, but I had joined the militia almost immediately, because at that time and in that atmosphere it seemed the only conceivable thing to do. The Anarchists were still in virtual control of Catalonia and the revolution was still in full swing. To anyone who had been there since the beginning it probably seemed even in December or January that the revolutionary period was ending; but when one came straight from England the aspect of Barcelona was something startling and overwhelming. It was the first time that I had ever been in a town where the working class was in the saddle. Practically every building of any size had been seized by the workers and was draped with red flags or with the red and black flag of the Anarchists; every wall was scrawled with the hammer and sickle and with the initials of the revolutionary parties; almost every church had been gutted and its images burnt. Churches here and there were being systematically demolished by gangs of workman. Every shop and cafe had an inscription saying that it had been collectivised;
even the bootblacks had been collectivized and their boxes painted red and black. Waiters and shop-walkers looked you in the
face and treated you as an equal. Servile and even ceremonial forms of speech had temporarily disappeared. Nobody said
‘Sen~or’ or ‘Don’ ort even ‘Usted’; everyone called everyone else ‘Comrade’ or ‘Thou’, and said ‘Salud!’ instead of ‘Buenos
dias’. Tipping had been forbidden by law since the time of Primo de Rivera; almost my first experience was receiving a lecture
from a hotel manager for trying to tip a lift-boy. There were no private motor-cars, they had all been commandeered, and the
trams and taxis and much of the other transport were painted red and black. The revolutionary posters were everywhere,
flaming from the walls in clean reds and blues that made the few remaining advertisements look like daubs of mud. Down the
Ramblas, the wide central artery of the town where crowds of people streamed constantly to and fro, the loud-speakers were
bellowing revolutionary songs all day and far into the night. And it was the aspect of the crowds that was the queerest thing of
all. In outward appearance it was a town in which the wealthy classes had practically ceased to exist. Except for a small
number of women and foreigners there were no ‘well-dressed’ people at all. Practically everyone wore rough working-class
clothes, or blue overalls or some variant of militia uniform. All this was queer and moving. There was much in this that I did not
understand, in some ways I did not not even like it, but I recognized it immediately as a state of affairs worth fighting for. Also, I
believed that things were as they appeared, that this was really a workers’ State and that the entire bourgeoisie had either fled,
been killed or voluntarily come over to the workers’ side; I did not realise that great numbers of well-to-do bourgeois were
simply lying low and disguising themselves as proletarians for the time being.

Together with all this there was something of the evil atmosphere of war. The town had a gaunt untidy look, roads and buildings
were in poor repair, the streets at night were dimly lit for fear of air-raids, the shops were mostly shabby and half-empty. Meat
was scarce and milk practically unobtainable, there was a shortage of coal, sugar and petrol, and a really serious shortage of
bread. Even at this period the bread-queues were often hundreds of yards long. Yet so far as one could judge the people were
contented and hopeful. There was no unemployment, and the price of living was still extremely low; you saw very few
conspicuously destitute people, and no beggars except the gypsies. #Above all, there was a belief in the revolution and the
future, a feeling of having suddenly emerged into an era of equality and freedom. Human beings were trying to behave as human
beings and not as cogs in the capitalist machine. In the barbers’ shops were Anarchist notices (the barbers were mostly
Anarchists) solemnly explaining that barbers were no longer slaves. In the streets were coloured posters appealing to prostitutes to stop being prostitutes. To anyone from the hard-boiled, sneering civilization of the English-speaking races there was something rather pathetic in the literalness with which these idealistic Spaniards took the hackneyed phrase of revolution. At that time revolutionary ballads of the naivest kind, all about the proletarian brotherhood and the wickedness of Mussolini, were being sold on the streets for a few centimes each. I have often seen an illiterate militiaman buy one of these ballads, laboriously spell out the words, and then, when he had got the hang of it, begin singing it to an appropriate tune.

Source

[NotCranky]

Allan,

On the topic of revolution, I cam across this link when you and a few others were discussing Orwell. I thought to add it then. It makes and impression.

from
Homage to Catalonia, by George Orwell.

This was in late December 1936, less than seven months ago as I write, and yet it is a period that has already receded into enormous distance. Later events have obliterated it much more completely than they have obliterated 1935, or 1905, for that matter. I had come to Spain with some notion of writing newspaper articles, but I had joined the militia almost immediately, because at that time and in that atmosphere it seemed the only conceivable thing to do. The Anarchists were still in virtual control of Catalonia and the revolution was still in full swing. To anyone who had been there since the beginning it probably seemed even in December or January that the revolutionary period was ending; but when one came straight from England the aspect of Barcelona was something startling and overwhelming. It was the first time that I had ever been in a town where the working class was in the saddle. Practically every building of any size had been seized by the workers and was draped with red flags or with the red and black flag of the Anarchists; every wall was scrawled with the hammer and sickle and with the initials of the revolutionary parties; almost every church had been gutted and its images burnt. Churches here and there were being systematically demolished by gangs of workman. Every shop and cafe had an inscription saying that it had been collectivised;
even the bootblacks had been collectivized and their boxes painted red and black. Waiters and shop-walkers looked you in the
face and treated you as an equal. Servile and even ceremonial forms of speech had temporarily disappeared. Nobody said
‘Sen~or’ or ‘Don’ ort even ‘Usted’; everyone called everyone else ‘Comrade’ or ‘Thou’, and said ‘Salud!’ instead of ‘Buenos
dias’. Tipping had been forbidden by law since the time of Primo de Rivera; almost my first experience was receiving a lecture
from a hotel manager for trying to tip a lift-boy. There were no private motor-cars, they had all been commandeered, and the
trams and taxis and much of the other transport were painted red and black. The revolutionary posters were everywhere,
flaming from the walls in clean reds and blues that made the few remaining advertisements look like daubs of mud. Down the
Ramblas, the wide central artery of the town where crowds of people streamed constantly to and fro, the loud-speakers were
bellowing revolutionary songs all day and far into the night. And it was the aspect of the crowds that was the queerest thing of
all. In outward appearance it was a town in which the wealthy classes had practically ceased to exist. Except for a small
number of women and foreigners there were no ‘well-dressed’ people at all. Practically everyone wore rough working-class
clothes, or blue overalls or some variant of militia uniform. All this was queer and moving. There was much in this that I did not
understand, in some ways I did not not even like it, but I recognized it immediately as a state of affairs worth fighting for. Also, I
believed that things were as they appeared, that this was really a workers’ State and that the entire bourgeoisie had either fled,
been killed or voluntarily come over to the workers’ side; I did not realise that great numbers of well-to-do bourgeois were
simply lying low and disguising themselves as proletarians for the time being.

Together with all this there was something of the evil atmosphere of war. The town had a gaunt untidy look, roads and buildings
were in poor repair, the streets at night were dimly lit for fear of air-raids, the shops were mostly shabby and half-empty. Meat
was scarce and milk practically unobtainable, there was a shortage of coal, sugar and petrol, and a really serious shortage of
bread. Even at this period the bread-queues were often hundreds of yards long. Yet so far as one could judge the people were
contented and hopeful. There was no unemployment, and the price of living was still extremely low; you saw very few
conspicuously destitute people, and no beggars except the gypsies. #Above all, there was a belief in the revolution and the
future, a feeling of having suddenly emerged into an era of equality and freedom. Human beings were trying to behave as human
beings and not as cogs in the capitalist machine. In the barbers’ shops were Anarchist notices (the barbers were mostly
Anarchists) solemnly explaining that barbers were no longer slaves. In the streets were coloured posters appealing to prostitutes to stop being prostitutes. To anyone from the hard-boiled, sneering civilization of the English-speaking races there was something rather pathetic in the literalness with which these idealistic Spaniards took the hackneyed phrase of revolution. At that time revolutionary ballads of the naivest kind, all about the proletarian brotherhood and the wickedness of Mussolini, were being sold on the streets for a few centimes each. I have often seen an illiterate militiaman buy one of these ballads, laboriously spell out the words, and then, when he had got the hang of it, begin singing it to an appropriate tune.

Source

[NotCranky]

Allan,

On the topic of revolution, I cam across this link when you and a few others were discussing Orwell. I thought to add it then. It makes and impression.

from
Homage to Catalonia, by George Orwell.

This was in late December 1936, less than seven months ago as I write, and yet it is a period that has already receded into enormous distance. Later events have obliterated it much more completely than they have obliterated 1935, or 1905, for that matter. I had come to Spain with some notion of writing newspaper articles, but I had joined the militia almost immediately, because at that time and in that atmosphere it seemed the only conceivable thing to do. The Anarchists were still in virtual control of Catalonia and the revolution was still in full swing. To anyone who had been there since the beginning it probably seemed even in December or January that the revolutionary period was ending; but when one came straight from England the aspect of Barcelona was something startling and overwhelming. It was the first time that I had ever been in a town where the working class was in the saddle. Practically every building of any size had been seized by the workers and was draped with red flags or with the red and black flag of the Anarchists; every wall was scrawled with the hammer and sickle and with the initials of the revolutionary parties; almost every church had been gutted and its images burnt. Churches here and there were being systematically demolished by gangs of workman. Every shop and cafe had an inscription saying that it had been collectivised;
even the bootblacks had been collectivized and their boxes painted red and black. Waiters and shop-walkers looked you in the
face and treated you as an equal. Servile and even ceremonial forms of speech had temporarily disappeared. Nobody said
‘Sen~or’ or ‘Don’ ort even ‘Usted’; everyone called everyone else ‘Comrade’ or ‘Thou’, and said ‘Salud!’ instead of ‘Buenos
dias’. Tipping had been forbidden by law since the time of Primo de Rivera; almost my first experience was receiving a lecture
from a hotel manager for trying to tip a lift-boy. There were no private motor-cars, they had all been commandeered, and the
trams and taxis and much of the other transport were painted red and black. The revolutionary posters were everywhere,
flaming from the walls in clean reds and blues that made the few remaining advertisements look like daubs of mud. Down the
Ramblas, the wide central artery of the town where crowds of people streamed constantly to and fro, the loud-speakers were
bellowing revolutionary songs all day and far into the night. And it was the aspect of the crowds that was the queerest thing of
all. In outward appearance it was a town in which the wealthy classes had practically ceased to exist. Except for a small
number of women and foreigners there were no ‘well-dressed’ people at all. Practically everyone wore rough working-class
clothes, or blue overalls or some variant of militia uniform. All this was queer and moving. There was much in this that I did not
understand, in some ways I did not not even like it, but I recognized it immediately as a state of affairs worth fighting for. Also, I
believed that things were as they appeared, that this was really a workers’ State and that the entire bourgeoisie had either fled,
been killed or voluntarily come over to the workers’ side; I did not realise that great numbers of well-to-do bourgeois were
simply lying low and disguising themselves as proletarians for the time being.

Together with all this there was something of the evil atmosphere of war. The town had a gaunt untidy look, roads and buildings
were in poor repair, the streets at night were dimly lit for fear of air-raids, the shops were mostly shabby and half-empty. Meat
was scarce and milk practically unobtainable, there was a shortage of coal, sugar and petrol, and a really serious shortage of
bread. Even at this period the bread-queues were often hundreds of yards long. Yet so far as one could judge the people were
contented and hopeful. There was no unemployment, and the price of living was still extremely low; you saw very few
conspicuously destitute people, and no beggars except the gypsies. #Above all, there was a belief in the revolution and the
future, a feeling of having suddenly emerged into an era of equality and freedom. Human beings were trying to behave as human
beings and not as cogs in the capitalist machine. In the barbers’ shops were Anarchist notices (the barbers were mostly
Anarchists) solemnly explaining that barbers were no longer slaves. In the streets were coloured posters appealing to prostitutes to stop being prostitutes. To anyone from the hard-boiled, sneering civilization of the English-speaking races there was something rather pathetic in the literalness with which these idealistic Spaniards took the hackneyed phrase of revolution. At that time revolutionary ballads of the naivest kind, all about the proletarian brotherhood and the wickedness of Mussolini, were being sold on the streets for a few centimes each. I have often seen an illiterate militiaman buy one of these ballads, laboriously spell out the words, and then, when he had got the hang of it, begin singing it to an appropriate tune.

Source

[NotCranky]

Allan,

On the topic of revolution, I cam across this link when you and a few others were discussing Orwell. I thought to add it then. It makes and impression.

from
Homage to Catalonia, by George Orwell.

This was in late December 1936, less than seven months ago as I write, and yet it is a period that has already receded into enormous distance. Later events have obliterated it much more completely than they have obliterated 1935, or 1905, for that matter. I had come to Spain with some notion of writing newspaper articles, but I had joined the militia almost immediately, because at that time and in that atmosphere it seemed the only conceivable thing to do. The Anarchists were still in virtual control of Catalonia and the revolution was still in full swing. To anyone who had been there since the beginning it probably seemed even in December or January that the revolutionary period was ending; but when one came straight from England the aspect of Barcelona was something startling and overwhelming. It was the first time that I had ever been in a town where the working class was in the saddle. Practically every building of any size had been seized by the workers and was draped with red flags or with the red and black flag of the Anarchists; every wall was scrawled with the hammer and sickle and with the initials of the revolutionary parties; almost every church had been gutted and its images burnt. Churches here and there were being systematically demolished by gangs of workman. Every shop and cafe had an inscription saying that it had been collectivised;
even the bootblacks had been collectivized and their boxes painted red and black. Waiters and shop-walkers looked you in the
face and treated you as an equal. Servile and even ceremonial forms of speech had temporarily disappeared. Nobody said
‘Sen~or’ or ‘Don’ ort even ‘Usted’; everyone called everyone else ‘Comrade’ or ‘Thou’, and said ‘Salud!’ instead of ‘Buenos
dias’. Tipping had been forbidden by law since the time of Primo de Rivera; almost my first experience was receiving a lecture
from a hotel manager for trying to tip a lift-boy. There were no private motor-cars, they had all been commandeered, and the
trams and taxis and much of the other transport were painted red and black. The revolutionary posters were everywhere,
flaming from the walls in clean reds and blues that made the few remaining advertisements look like daubs of mud. Down the
Ramblas, the wide central artery of the town where crowds of people streamed constantly to and fro, the loud-speakers were
bellowing revolutionary songs all day and far into the night. And it was the aspect of the crowds that was the queerest thing of
all. In outward appearance it was a town in which the wealthy classes had practically ceased to exist. Except for a small
number of women and foreigners there were no ‘well-dressed’ people at all. Practically everyone wore rough working-class
clothes, or blue overalls or some variant of militia uniform. All this was queer and moving. There was much in this that I did not
understand, in some ways I did not not even like it, but I recognized it immediately as a state of affairs worth fighting for. Also, I
believed that things were as they appeared, that this was really a workers’ State and that the entire bourgeoisie had either fled,
been killed or voluntarily come over to the workers’ side; I did not realise that great numbers of well-to-do bourgeois were
simply lying low and disguising themselves as proletarians for the time being.

Together with all this there was something of the evil atmosphere of war. The town had a gaunt untidy look, roads and buildings
were in poor repair, the streets at night were dimly lit for fear of air-raids, the shops were mostly shabby and half-empty. Meat
was scarce and milk practically unobtainable, there was a shortage of coal, sugar and petrol, and a really serious shortage of
bread. Even at this period the bread-queues were often hundreds of yards long. Yet so far as one could judge the people were
contented and hopeful. There was no unemployment, and the price of living was still extremely low; you saw very few
conspicuously destitute people, and no beggars except the gypsies. #Above all, there was a belief in the revolution and the
future, a feeling of having suddenly emerged into an era of equality and freedom. Human beings were trying to behave as human
beings and not as cogs in the capitalist machine. In the barbers’ shops were Anarchist notices (the barbers were mostly
Anarchists) solemnly explaining that barbers were no longer slaves. In the streets were coloured posters appealing to prostitutes to stop being prostitutes. To anyone from the hard-boiled, sneering civilization of the English-speaking races there was something rather pathetic in the literalness with which these idealistic Spaniards took the hackneyed phrase of revolution. At that time revolutionary ballads of the naivest kind, all about the proletarian brotherhood and the wickedness of Mussolini, were being sold on the streets for a few centimes each. I have often seen an illiterate militiaman buy one of these ballads, laboriously spell out the words, and then, when he had got the hang of it, begin singing it to an appropriate tune.

Source

[Shadowfax]

[quote=urbanrealtor]The sheer poetic irony of your butt cancer aside, I do have a few questions based on your post.[/quote]

HA–that is too funny!

While I don’t subscribe to the censorship option, I do wish there was an ignore feature. I am checking out of the baiting by Costco. Too much inflammation–I guess they didn’t cut it all out of your ass.

I’d rather discuss things with people who can debate reasonably (even John is more appealing, and he’s a little on the wacko side) but at least he is civil about it! And good for a laugh! I am tired of watching Costco insult people and inflict his bitterness on the group. Buh-bye.

AFF/Rus: What is the implied discussion in Marquez et al. I’ve read translations of 100 Years of Solitude and Love…Cholera (and can read enough Spanish to glean the gist of the posts) but have never been to Latin America. What are your thoughts? “Spasibo!”

[Shadowfax]

[quote=urbanrealtor]The sheer poetic irony of your butt cancer aside, I do have a few questions based on your post.[/quote]

HA–that is too funny!

While I don’t subscribe to the censorship option, I do wish there was an ignore feature. I am checking out of the baiting by Costco. Too much inflammation–I guess they didn’t cut it all out of your ass.

I’d rather discuss things with people who can debate reasonably (even John is more appealing, and he’s a little on the wacko side) but at least he is civil about it! And good for a laugh! I am tired of watching Costco insult people and inflict his bitterness on the group. Buh-bye.

AFF/Rus: What is the implied discussion in Marquez et al. I’ve read translations of 100 Years of Solitude and Love…Cholera (and can read enough Spanish to glean the gist of the posts) but have never been to Latin America. What are your thoughts? “Spasibo!”

[Shadowfax]

[quote=urbanrealtor]The sheer poetic irony of your butt cancer aside, I do have a few questions based on your post.[/quote]

HA–that is too funny!

While I don’t subscribe to the censorship option, I do wish there was an ignore feature. I am checking out of the baiting by Costco. Too much inflammation–I guess they didn’t cut it all out of your ass.

I’d rather discuss things with people who can debate reasonably (even John is more appealing, and he’s a little on the wacko side) but at least he is civil about it! And good for a laugh! I am tired of watching Costco insult people and inflict his bitterness on the group. Buh-bye.

AFF/Rus: What is the implied discussion in Marquez et al. I’ve read translations of 100 Years of Solitude and Love…Cholera (and can read enough Spanish to glean the gist of the posts) but have never been to Latin America. What are your thoughts? “Spasibo!”

[Shadowfax]

[quote=urbanrealtor]The sheer poetic irony of your butt cancer aside, I do have a few questions based on your post.[/quote]

HA–that is too funny!

While I don’t subscribe to the censorship option, I do wish there was an ignore feature. I am checking out of the baiting by Costco. Too much inflammation–I guess they didn’t cut it all out of your ass.

I’d rather discuss things with people who can debate reasonably (even John is more appealing, and he’s a little on the wacko side) but at least he is civil about it! And good for a laugh! I am tired of watching Costco insult people and inflict his bitterness on the group. Buh-bye.

AFF/Rus: What is the implied discussion in Marquez et al. I’ve read translations of 100 Years of Solitude and Love…Cholera (and can read enough Spanish to glean the gist of the posts) but have never been to Latin America. What are your thoughts? “Spasibo!”

[Author]

Posts