Drunk dialing the world....
Drinking Liberally was, for those in the know, on hiatus during the Holiday Season (so much for the War on Christmas), yet people were planning on showing up "for the football game" a odd justification for Minneapolis lawyer-hipsters and Soros-funded propaganda cells (a late answer to the right-wing's Free the Eagle), might do a bit of the Northwoods "Packers vs. Vikings" equivalent of deep south NASCAR populist code-breaking, no one shows.
Tore carries on much of the night about the cod-wars and describes his island near Norway as the base unit of human society throughout time, yet eschewing evolution, denying that human pre-history was dominated by neolithic bands of humans in 30-50 member bands, fit as fuck, discovering language from ravens and abstract ideas from hyperdimensional fungal guides, mistaking concrete visualizations of schematics for time-ending spacecraft for "trippy lightshows" to accompany heartfelt anti-war rock and roll that makes you gyrate your hips out on the barren and sunswept African savannas in the Great Rift of prehistory or the tedious-worklife-history of the Minneapolis planetarium through the 70's, 80's and 90's. We don't need no education, we don't need no thought control. I am half inspired by the escapist fantasy of "exteriorizing the soul and interiorizing the body", half inspired by a weak fantasy of decadent Roman Empire court orgies, but we are a nation of 300 million little Caligulas, and its not so easy getting the party started without any slavegirls or eunuchs and with something that might approximate a real slave's job to return to in the morning. Hungover.
We accost the young male entourages of hottie techno girl-band "Ear Candy" with competing questions. Tore speaks freely for me in the most irritating way... "ImpeccableLiberalCredentials wants to know what is really important to you" and freely repeating to our cat-harboring bartender my joke plan to render catflesh into biodiesel to meet post-peak-oil-energy-demands. He is clearly not trying to help me get laid, or even gently feel out the operant frames of our stunned, new companion before forcing whatever wisdom he imagines is conveyed by the discription of gentleman-hobby-fisherman of Norwegian islands threatened by global warming as much as it is crippled by freeflowing petrodollars and the convenience it engenders vs. dying-cultural practices of a subsistence fishery livelihoods. I apologize and cut to the point:
"Tore has an island in Norway. I have Sumatra. You are probably stuck here. When do you assert your will, your dreams, and not let your economic and political destines be set for you by virtual foreigners, like Me, or Tore, or Paul Wolfowitz?"
I don't bother to explain the efficencies and inefficiences of a cats for biodiesel scheme. THere will be typos. We are drunk, and stunned as much as we have stunned others, with clever language, a non-stop steam of meaningless words evoking imagery of unseen islands, asserting that we know where there is a finite, yet sufficient resource, if you follow Tore, of coalfish, coldfish, and/or cod fish, or following me, cocunuts, piracy, mangos and unbelievably large spiders (they taste like chicken).
Remaining stunned, speechless, and with out a plan, though, you get closer to cars powered, and lamps lit by cat-oil, the Minneapolis siege-economy equivalent, in energy terms, of a Dutch-tulip-bulb-eating-famine strategy of fighting the long war, without rationing or victory gardens, without a withdrawal from Iraq or the privacy of your text messaging and e-mails.
Like some electronic version of a prehistory Andean oilbird-powered enterprise...
The famous German explorer Alexander von Humboldt first described the oilbird colony in 1799. He came upon it in Northern Venezuela. In those days the Indians took the young oilbirds, killed them, and boiled them down, using their fatty oil far fuel and eating the meat. Oilbirds are the only known night feeding, fruit-eating birds in the world. They are found in Colombia, Venezuela, Guyana, Ecuador, Peru, Bolivia, and Trinidad.
The Amerindians called them "guacheros," those who mourn and wail. I think they mourn their young who for so long were stolen from them. Today, happily, all oilbirds are protected by law.
We pave the streets with gold, fill mirror-pools with mercury, and light the paths with oil lamps like electric lights when the rest of London remains a dark ages village, unhip to the fact that we are profitting mightily by killing kittens. There is no law against that... Do as thou wilt.... the law of the specialist political classes, 'late night turbos' in D.C. or Saudi Princes in Ibiza. Fuck Me I'm Famous... we'll stick the sheeple - consumer/taxpayers - with the tab.