Speaking Truth to Power

Since our initial posting, a number of our "friends" have come forward to offer their "friendly" (undoubtedly! undoubtedly!) advice concerning the future direction which this site ought to take. I am obliged to announce that the advice of some of these "friends" has hit rather wide of the mark. A few have told me that the language employed here is not derived from the lexicon of the people; that the people are therefore unlikely to read it; and that those who do read it may--indeed!--form a rather inaccurate understanding of the requirements and desires of the people (!). One fatuous gasbag went so far as to suggest that, in tone and content, the initial posting evinced an "alarming degree of narcissism." (And in case you are still wondering, Dr. Klein, yes, that will be our last session!) Can we treat these suggestions otherwise than as the impotent bleatings of a small faction of time-serving, thimble-rigging, deviationist wreckers? In just one word: it would be inadvisable for us to do so.

This site will continue to do the work of the people. It will employ the language of the people and address the concerns of the people. To demonstrate the firmness with which our finger presses itself upon the pulse of the people, we will now speak to the issue which is at this very moment roiling the waves of public opinion. I speak of the question of whether The Rockford Files (seasons 1-3) are a realistic representation of the life of a private investigator in the 1970s.

Perhaps you wonder why our inquiry must be limited to the first three seasons of the show; any fool could tell you that the show ran for six seasons, from 1974 to 1980. Yes, my friend, but from the very nature of the question you reveal precisely the sort of bourgeois parasite that you are. Cruel Spartans such as yourself can well afford the $180 it would cost to purchase the entire series on DVD. The Helots of this world--and we are 99.999% of it--must trudge four miles to our public library in order to view this program, via a public computer terminal, on Hulu. And Hulu only has the first three seasons available. This is my reality. Deal with it.

Thus we have spoken to the vital question of why we have limited our considerations to the first three seasons of the Rockford Files. We now speak to the question of the show's realism. After repeated viewings of each episode we are prepared to offer some preliminary thoughts. First of all, everyone must agree that if the show is to be viewed in the light of "the real," then we must conclude that Jim Rockford is the best private investigator in the world. How else could he have survived all of those adventures? And yet he lives in a trailer. Is this realistic? Yes, we reply; in the world that our corporate masters have created, competence is punished. How else can my horrific job interview at S---- (see the above post) be explained?

Now for the crux of the matter. We agree that Jim Rockford must be the best private investigator in the world. As such, he must be an expert at spotting "tails" (I have no time to explain the technical jargon to those who are scratching their heads at this moment). And yet Rockford's methodology--upon observing a car in his review mirror, he announces "We are being tailed"--is highly suspect. As you can well imagine, I am no stranger to the problem of unwanted surveillance. Hated by corporations, governments, and world religions, I have spent my entire life dodging those who would learn my secrets. I was once pursued around a Denny's parking lot for four hours. So I speak with monumental authority when I say that not every car in your rearview mirror is following you. Some of them--some of them--just happen to be on the road at the same time.

And if Rockford's "tail" methodology is less than realistic, what can be said of his relationship with his Lawyer, Beth Davenport? Rockford lives in a trailer, he's getting a bit jowly, and--lets face it--he's not getting any younger. And yet he refuses to marry Beth Davenport, who is beautiful and successful. Is this realistic? No, because I would jump at the chance to fuck her every night. Now this is important: note the irrationality of your response. I have employed the language of the people to express an opinion of the people--and you are offended. And yet, if I had offered to hire Beth Davenport for $7.00 an hour without benefits, you would say, "Indeed, what a respectable thing to say, Mr. Madoff." Acknowledge the panopticon, bitches.

The librarian-stooge is beginning to importune me, so we will have to return to this topic at a later time. I will be commenting next on the upcoming G-20 farce, and then I will hopefully have time to delve into the weightier questions of Rockford's relationship with his father, and the prevalence--or lack thereof--of land scams, oil scams and water scams in 1970s California. And, if all goes well, I might even be able to post some first-rate fan fiction that I'm working on as a sidelight, in case my upcoming rebellion fizzles. In just one word: I really think it's turning out well, and there's a very hot sex scene featuring Beth Davenport.

What is our view?

The headlines of the bourgeois press thunder "Panic! Fear! Uncertainty!"; and from the boardrooms of Wall Street the cry rings forth "Save us! Help us! Give us Succor!" But these nattering windbags know not what they are about, and so the question echoes from every tongue, "What do the people think? What is their opinion of the 'Unemployment Problem?'" At every lecture which I deliver, whether it be from atop the steps of the Trade Winds Motel, or from the very corner of Yacht Club Blvd. and N.E. 26th Street, the question eternally recurs: "What is your view on the 'Unemployment Issue?'"

I will answer this question in just one word: Yes, I am unemployed, but so are a lot of other people, and it's really not my fault.

And what, in this era of bourgeois parliamentarianism, do our rulers mean to convey with the word "unemployment?" They mean just this, that, while I certainly am employed at various tasks, I am not employed at at task from which I will receive the remuneration of starvation wages. I am employed, and I starve. They wish me to be "employed," and starving.

But it would take the cold genius of a Malthus--the cruel ingenuity of a Ricardo--to conclude from what I have just said that I have not sought "employment." Because I totally have sought employment.

Can you imagine the scene? I walked into the "human resources" office of a large retailer. I will not divulge which one, but this particular corporation's name begins with an "S" and ends with an "ears." I applied for the position of salesman. Jim, the labour aristocrat who performed to perfection the obnoxious duties assigned to him by the Bosses, wondered if I had qualifications. I replied that I held a doctorate from the University of Heidelberg, and that my dissertation had been on none other than Democritus. It quickly transpired that Jim was unable to conceive of the advantages which my background would bring to the "bottom line." Adopting the pseudo-avuncularism which modern wage relationships enforce upon even the most unpretentious of men, I informed Jim that without Democritus, his customers might very well be uncertain as to whether the items which they contemplated purchasing might not be hazy phantasms. Jim appeared to be staring past my left ear.

"Also," I added, "I am an excellent salesman."

He smiled and handed me a plastic pen. "Are you? Sell me my pen." My stern features rigidly concealed the fact that I was experiencing a brief moment of near-psychotic rage. My mind screamed: "Sell you your 'own' pen, eh? And someday soon you will learn that it is not your own pen--that it doesn't 'belong' to you at all! Yes--and sooner than you think!" I said: "This pen has many excellent features, as well as a few major drawbacks. Which would you like to hear about first?"

Jim took back "his" pen, and informed me that they would keep my application on file. I knew this to be the "lingo" of the corporate bosses, and that this labour aristocrat stooge was going to throw my application in the rubbish bin. "I must tell you something, my friend," I said as I was ushered to the door. "I will say it in just one word: You may not care about Democritus, but, I assure you, Democritus cares about you." I need not dwell on the mortifying denouement of this music-hall farce. Suffice it to say that Jim, after inquiring whether Democritus was "slim" and "normal," agreed to pass his cell number along to that gentleman.

You have demanded to know our view of the unemployment problem, and we have answered boldly. Can the people find employment while those who would hire them are the most reactionary and lumpen of the entire reactionary and lumpen labour aristocracy? The people answer in just one word: "Possibly, but you really need to be qualified for the job you are applying for, and you can't really fake the interview like you could in the 90s."