Profane Exegesis: Friendly Neighborhood Fascists Inc.

Gang Stalking

So I’ll work and I’ll push the paintings and paint some more and write
more and edit this. And what with reading and email and the net and TV,
that’s enough for anyone. That and some women friends and a sex-wife.
Just kidding. And exercising.

….Just kidding. No, while tidying I came across an old Sunday

Review mag from ’99, from The Independent on Sunday. The main article,
along with the great photo on the cover, was on Bruce Lee. A piece from
the biography by Davis Miller. I kept it aside and pulled it out as soon as I
noticed Enter The Dragon was showing on ITV 4. Okay, I’m getting bored.
I don’t want to summarize it. It’s very good, but I had other things on my
mind. What was interesting was how much Lee inspired him, and others of
course. Feeling restive again. And he describes Lee’s physical limitations
compared to other fighters, though he had good long arms. He was pretty
short-sighted apparently; just like me. I’m 5’ 10” so I assume he was
slightly shorter than me. I say that not because I think I’m a giant of a man
towering over the likes of The Little Dragon, but that I’m sure I read years
back he was anything from 5 7 to 5 9. But that’s not important right now.
So yeah, Lee inspired him to work on his body and he transforms himself
from the proverbial 90lb weakling to a rippling wall of steely flesh and goes
on to pick up some prizes in kickboxing bouts. I think for most of my life
my mind has drifted back to the thought of getting myself in lustrous shape,
not just for my vanity and the thought of the ladies over the years, but to
take up martial arts again and be good at it; a peripheral ambition as I used
to think on it. Of how good it would be to reach the grade of 3rd Degree
black belt say, or better still, 5th. :Preferably in Karate, though it would be
great to also be a skilled Judo and Aikido practitioner, knowing all those
holds and locks. And after hours of watching the UFC championships on
Bravo on cable, one sees that these are as important as stand up skills. So
of course, over the past few months, or is it years, I’ve been a bit peeved, a
bit miffed with the odd incidents, the inexplicable hostile episodes that
come seemingly out of the blue. You never know when some shithead is
going to block your path or walk right in front of you – by which I mean
divert suddenly from their path to be right in front of me. This when going
along by The High School on the way to town or the library or whatever. I
moved. I was by the railings on the road side. One assumes the bloke had a
reason. A well dressed chap as I vaguely recall. I assumed he had his
reasons; that he was in hurry to get across the road, say. But I turned and
looked as I will, and I couldn’t see any reason for urgency; no indication he
was trying to beat the lights. It seemed completely gratuitous. There’s a lot
of it about in Edinburgh and has been for years. I’ve surely mentioned it.
Yer locals are very territorial. They like their space, yours included
sometimes. My natural impulse is to give way. I prefer to be amicable
unless it's unavoidable. Not to be. Those almost imperceptibly subtle
signals and messages and cues we pick up on as another person approaches
us in the distance. And they’re weighing you up, literally, like the Predator
of the movie; asking themselves “Can I take him?” or if push comes to
shove can I get him into trouble with the cops in that as I’m the probably
the most respectable they’re far more likely to take my side? Oh yes, I’ve
come to realize this is how some of these bozos, these torags think. They
have it all figured out. Male and female alike. Inside and out. Worse, they
may already have affiliations with the police and the community and all the
rest of it, and any collisions, potential and actual are not accidental.

This came home to me quite recently in a charity shop as I mentioned

when some fucked up middle-aged bint slammed into me while my back
was turned. Not that I was stuck for an answer. “…You trying to tell me
something?” would have sufficed. But at the forefront of my mind was the
awareness it was no accident. It was blatantly intentional. It was intended
to impact emotionally, psychologically and provoke a response; which is
very likely why she wasn’t alone. Her buddy in hatred would be the
witness to anything that might develop, complete with choice distortion and
obfuscation as necessary. What lovely people. Morningside brownshirts
and jewbaiters. Happy days are here again. There’s a lot of it about.
Another time, I’m in the charity shop across the street. There was a
biography of Henry Rollins – Turned On – by James Parker, along with
another paperback by Rollins himself, Black Coffee Blues (‘An intelligent
and perceptive man’ Guardian). I was only going to get the book by our
'Enry, but asked to see the biog. In the meantime I’d been looking at one of
those children's style books with the thick cardboard pages, only it was
South Park. I’d enjoy putting it up on my bedroom window to piss off the
straights, meaning the brownshirts and brown-nosers across the street. The
horror. In The Meantime (Helmet), I decide I’ll get both the Rollins books,
only I’d put the South Park on the counter as the assistant, an older bloke,
was serving someone. Having decided on the Rollins, I put the Cartman
and Co back on the shelf and waited behind the guy – bloke – being served.
In the meantime... deja vu... this other bloke sidles in from the side. He
seems to be deeply interested in something or other on the wall behind the
counter. This dipstick is using it as a pretext to stand by the counter to
make out he’s there before me. Clearly obvious to the assistant too. But
what if he serves him? The assistant finishes with the customer and the
bloke hands over his book with a pleasant smile – don’t they always? – the
smiling killers. I don’t have any great speech or clever rejoinder or any
wild sense of outrage I want to get across. I hadn’t thought about it. “Do
you mind,” I simply say, and hand over the Rollins books. The assistant
smiles cordially and says I think this gentleman was first... thankfully me.
Perhaps he said bugger all, but whatever the case, he accepts them. At some
point he’d asked if I was still getting the South Park book – I was standing
away from the counter as I recall, so it was after I’d put it back having
chosen the Rollins. ‘I only have £10 on me,” I explain needlessly to this
self-inflated fartknocker; this hologram in tweed and carpet slippers. This
selfless volunteer for the good of the community and benefit of the poor –
'me'. It’s not as if he’s spending his own money, he’s taking it. And
wouldn’t have the least interest in any of my choices of course. Those and
my black chords and jacket and longish locks have already marked me out.
And the choice of reading matter of course. They're happy to sell it and
take the cash but they'll discriminate as a matter of course. He takes the
money and instead of handing it back, puts it on the counter. Librarians
here are adept at that too; especially there.

I’d been about to add I only need to nip up the street to get more cash,
though I’d been in two minds about it, but as I like to please people along
with pleasing myself I’d likely have done it. The change on the counter is
the decider. Just another loser. And perhaps his way of equalizing the
situation as he saw it for being obliged to not serve the respectable looking
liberty-taker earlier. As I said, there’s a lot of it about, and this is the tip of
the iceberg. I could fill a book with this crap. And will. In terms of
seriousness it’s nothing compared to what goes on I know. Or don’t know.
But I do know some history. and the business on the other side of the street
seemed more ominous and methodically vicious to me, but hey, it’s all
vicious. It’s all murder. It’s all psychopathology. These everyday, common
garden variety sociopaths. These homely, smiling assassins. Signs of the
times. It’s all a set-up. Every interaction. They’re forever looking for ways
to trip you up, to get you in the shit. Because they believe anyone and
anything they see as digressing from the norm is little better than shit, if
that. The underlying thought (system) is they don’t really believe you
deserve to live. At best, your quality of life should be shit. For then shit
you are. This is my elders and betters. The educated and civilized. The
pillars of the community from lowly to highly thought of. This is your
future as they would have it. They would prefer you had none and that you
were in jail or dead. Preferably in that order. Or strung from the nearest
lamppost. Lucky for them it wasn’t Henry himself buying some books. I’d
like to have seen that. He’s too busy writing them, among other projects.
I’ve never had much interest in his music but I’m glad he exists. I’m
certainly interested in what he has to say (he’ll be thrilled to hear).

Talking of standup, and I did mention it earlier, that wold be the

perfect opportunity to ask “Any gangstalkers here?” Come on down. Up.
Or if you were a rock star it would be the perfect lifestyle to make it
impossible for them to practice their shit. But then there are other means to
bring rock stars down, to set them up. There’s Lennon, and Marley, and Jim
Morrison and a whole lot of others I’ve to read about in Alex Constantine’s
The Covert War Against Rock. That, when they’re not obsessed with the
thought of death and killing themselves over an unconscious attraction to
death and the nagging conviction of their own worthlessness, a la Curt
Cobain. As long as he wasn’t shot in the head or drugged by someone else.
No different from the rest of us then. And there’s Lenny Bruce, and John
Belushi, and Andy Kaufman, who seems to have been practicing his own
form of mass “gaslighting” for comedic purposes – winding everyone up. A
wild and possibly crazy guy, but an interesting way to live, if a potentially
(and actually) dangerous one. And Jim Carey was perfect for that gig I
think, playing him in the movie biog, with Cobain’s ex – Courtney Love –
as his wife and partner. It’s a small world, and you can quote me on that.
Gangstalkers then, are the cowardly and crap comedians of sorts, who hide
overtly in the shadows; the anonymous nobodies basking in the reflected
glory of other nobodies like themselves, who have no choice but to blend
into the foreground in all mediocrity as their pathology wouldn’t stand up to
scrutiny. Sane individuals wouldn’t really see the joke, as the underlying
and often overt murderousness of attitude that underlies it would be
unmistakable. Time for PKD’s We Can Remember It For You Wholesale…
on BBC 7. The story on which the film Total Recall is based. But you
probably knew that.

I forgot to say. I once read about name comedians going oblong...

that's quite good... along... in a group during the Festival to student comedy
shows, reviews, solely for the purpose of heckling them, presumably if they
were no good, as they would expect and was why they went – to harass
them. I suppose it was a bit of lighter relief for them and who can blame
them really, when you’re talking about some students with privileged
backgrounds who think they’re going to be the next Comic Strip or Beyond
The Fringe (Yeah, Jonathon …is a really funny guy. I’ve never much taken
to Alan Bennet either), however well-meaning, taking people’s cash, just to
be shit, when punters – that’s me, could be going to see good shows and
artists, only if the Festival is clogged up with crap it can be confusing for
those not in the know. But it’s gang harassment by any other name. And
then again, I left it too late to see Gerry Sadowitz last year. Not everyone is
going to get to see the best of the comedians, and he’s one of the best of the
best. I’d loved to have seen Emo Philips last time. I think he outgrossed
everyone else, financially at least. Our Gerry takes some beating. And
some would probably like to. He’s a living scream; jawdroppingly,
shockingly funny. And that was years ago. He may well be in a different
dimension of provocation now; not that I think that’s the solely the
intention. He’s the Luke Rinehart of the stand-up circuit. The 'genius'
philosopher and psychologist in the guise of a Jewish Glaswegian
misanthrope. He cuts through the self-righteous hypocrisy and bullshit of
the bullshitting and hypocritically self-righteous. Whether he’s aware the
world is a dream, an illusion made by the mind, I don’t know, but perhaps it
comes close to the same thing when you refuse to take the BS seriously.
Take taking it not seriously, seriously, by all means. It’s the only way to be.
You heard it here first. Perhaps not. I saw Dylan Moran the other week. In
the street I mean. He was smoking a cigarette, or fag as I prefer to call them,
and stubbed it out just before he went into the PO, at the top of Montpelier
Place. That's a £50 fine right there in this big bro town. Masonic Central.
That’s at least the third time I’ve seen him around. One of these days I’m
going to talk to him…Only it puts me in the position of a fan, which I don’t
mind really, only I can be an impossible combination of deep appreciation
bordering on reverence mixed with envy, and opinionated self-assurance,
probably based on no small envy. Very unbecoming in a nobody, I don’t
doubt. When I Grow Up I Want To Be An Astronaut. Yeah, it’s that guy
again. For some reason the title boxes that are usually there on MTV TWO,
aren’t. When I grow up, I want to discover that both space and time are a
projection of the mind, that we never left heaven, and we only think we’re
here. What else is worth achieving beyond this but the constant awareness
this is the case, along with the means to keep it? You know it makes sense.
Not a plonker. I wonder how many comedians and actors and musicians
and others feel that life has truly happened to them. That they believe they
finally found what they were looking for. That it lived up to the hype or
their expectations. Or the fame, the money, and the sex and drugs did.
Until it killed them or they got old and their looks faded and their body lost
its former vigor and youthfulness. At what point did they begin looking for
deeper answers, if such a real possibility ever occurred to them at all. I
think it will come a bit later to the Def Leperd’s and Poison’s and Motley
Crew’s and Guns and Roses’ and Kiss'. And I’ll never come to most of their
output. Or U2, and The Red Hot Chilli Peppers, and Pearl Jam, and… But
there’s always the odd great tune. Which can be as disorienting as it is
refreshing. As when Bowie teamed up with Lulu for a cover of The Man
Who Sold The World. I bought it of course, but would listen to it only out
of curiosity. God only knows what my mother made of it. She liked Lulu.
I well recall playing the album - or elpee – of the same title, and just as she
walked out of the bathroom, Bowie's She Shook Me Cold had just started,
where, after he sings “We met upon a hill, the night was cool and still,” he
goes on to sing “She sucked my dormant will” – the point at which my
mother – mum, to you and me – stepped out of the bathroom, twisting her
face in disgust to cover her embarrassment at what she took to be the overt
sexuality of the lyrics, which was true of course, only not as literal as she
took them to be. That and the music would have no appeal to her at all.
Then there was the classic moment, like some generation gap parody – the
cultural great divide – when we were all having our dinner – tea – on the
coffee table in the sitting-room in time for Top Of The Pops and Bowie
came on, performing Jean Genie along with Mick Ronson, who circled and
pranced around him as he sang, Bowie aloof and unsmiling in that video as
I remember. In a phrase, ultra cool. Man, was the bo outraged. “He’s
outrageous, he sings and he bawls,” Bowie sang. The bo just never picked
up on the irony. The master tape was accidentally wiped long since, at the
BBC, so lucky me.. He – the bo – knew I liked him of course. The idea
was probably to spoil it. My mother likely picked up on that, told him to
shut up and let us hear it. Even she knew he was basically a fool. I was
mesmerized. Franz Mesmerized. He represented a different world from
everything I knew, yet it was a world I recognized as I recognized him; a
true spiritual brother. A cult waiting to happen. It already had. The space
brother had arrived. Another reason to be cheerful and for the world to
never be the same again. Yeah, me too. Perhaps I’m a cult waiting to
happen too. Include me out.