Know It All

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After he became immersed in the intellectual life of the University of Chicago, Richard Posner started to apply insights from economics to a broad range of subjects. In his book “Sex and Reason”, written in 1990, he used economics to explain a part of life that specialist lawyers and economists had tended to think was beyond their reach. To take a simple example, the AIDS epidemic made gay sex unavoidably more costly, either because of the risk of disease or of switching to safe sex. It therefore reduced the amount of gay sex—and, by the same mechanism, cut the number of illegitimate births and inc reased the number of legitimate ones.

The book was a success because Posner had the field pretty much to himself. “Sometimes one goes into a new area and there hasn’t been much done in it and then you are a little ahead of the curve,” he says. Even then, the monomaths were in hot pursuit. “After a while there is so much in it that you don’t know what you’re going to do. Since 1990 the field has become extremely crowded because of specialisation and not very attractive.” Time to move on.

The monomaths do not only swarm over a specialism, they also play dirty. In each new area that Posner picks—policy or science—the experts start to erect barricades. “Even in relatively soft fields, specialists tend to develop a specialised vocabulary which creates barriers to entry,” Posner says with his economic hat pulled down over his head. “Specialists want to fend off the generalists. They may also want to convince themselves that what they are doing is really very difficult and challenging. One of the ways they do that is to develop what they regard a rigorous methodology—often mathematical.

“The specialist will always be able to nail the generalists by pointing out that they don’t use the vocabulary quite right and they make mistakes that an insider would never make. It’s a defence mechanism. They don’t like people invading their turf, especially outsiders criticising insiders. So if I make mistakes about this economic situation, it doesn’t really bother me tremendously. It’s not my field. I can make mistakes. On the other hand for me to be criticising someone whose whole career is committed to a particular outlook and method and so on, that is very painful.”

For a polymath, the charge of dabbling never lies far below the surface. That is why modern institutions tend to exclude polymaths, he says. “It’s very hard to show yourself as a polymath in the current academic climate. If you’ve got someone interested in going across departments, spending part of the time in physics and part of the time elsewhere, their colleagues are going to kick them out. They’re not contributing fully to any single department. OK, every so often you’re going to get a huge benefit, but from day to day, where the universities are making appointments, they want the focus in one field.”

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(The Last Days of the Polymath | Continue)

Tennis

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I can't ever get enough.

By way of illustration, let’s slow things way down. Imagine that you, a tennis player, are standing just behind your deuce corner’s baseline. A ball is served to your forehand — you pivot (or rotate) so that your side is to the ball’s incoming path and start to take your racket back for the forehand return. Keep visualizing up to where you’re about halfway into the stroke’s forward motion; the incoming ball is now just off your front hip, maybe six inches from point of impact. Consider some of the variables involved here. On the vertical plane, angling your racket face just a couple degrees forward or back will create topspin or slice, respectively; keeping it perpendicular will produce a flat, spinless drive. Horizontally, adjusting the racket face ever so slightly to the left or right, and hitting the ball maybe a millisecond early or late, will result in a cross-court versus down-the-line return. Further slight changes in the curves of your groundstroke’s motion and follow-through will help determine how high your return passes over the net, which, together with the speed at which you’re swinging (along with certain characteristics of the spin you impart), will affect how deep or shallow in the opponent’s court your return lands, how high it bounces, etc. These are just the broadest distinctions, of course — like, there’s heavy topspin vs. light topspin, or sharply cross-court vs. only slightly cross-court, etc. There are also the issues of how close you’re allowing the ball to get to your body, what grip you’re using, the extent to which your knees are bent and/or weight’s moving forward, and whether you’re able simultaneously to watch the ball and to see what your opponent’s doing after he serves. These all matter, too. Plus there’s the fact that you’re not putting a static object into motion here but rather reversing the flight and (to a varying extent) spin of a projectile coming toward you — coming, in the case of pro tennis, at speeds that make conscious thought impossible. Mario Ancic’s first serve, for instance, often comes in around 130 m.p.h. Since it’s 78 feet from Ancic’s baseline to yours, that means it takes 0.41 seconds for his serve to reach you. This is less than the time it takes to blink quickly, twice.

-David Foster Wallace (Roger Federer As Religous Experience | Continue)

Jaws

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Nobody's safe.

(Two Sharks Found In The Tennessee River | Continue reading)

Love

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I submit that tennis is the most beautiful sport there is and also the most demanding. It requires body control, hand-eye coordination, quickness, flat-out speed, endurance, and that weird mix of caution and abandon we call courage. It also requires smarts. Just one single shot in one exchange in one point of a high-level match is a nightmare of mechanical variables. Given a net that’s three feet high (at the center) and two players in (unrealistically) fixed positions, the efficacy of one single shot is determined by its angle, depth, pace, and spin. And each of these determinants is itself determined by still other variables -- i.e., a shot’s depth is determined by the height at which the ball passes over the net combined with some integrated function of pace and spin, with the ball’s height over the net itself determined by the player’s body position, grip on the racket, height of backswing and angle of racket face, as well as the 3-D coordinates through which the racket face moves during that interval in which the ball is actually on the strings. The tree of variables and determinants branches out and out, on and on, and then on much further when the opponent’s own position and predilections and the ballistic features of the ball he’s sent you to hit are factored in. No silicon-based RAM yet existent could compute the expansion of variables for even a single exchange; smoke would come out of the mainframe. The sort of thinking involved is the sort that can be done only by a living and highly conscious entity, and then it can really be done only unconsciously, i.e., by fusing talent with repetition to such an extent that the variables are combined and controlled without conscious thought. In other words, serious tennis is a kind of art.

-David Foster Wallace

Nah

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Immerse your soul in love

-Radiohead

Given the happenings in Washington this week, its hard to even find a place to begin talking about the fuckery that political happenings have slowly become. Washington attracts some of the smartest, well schooled gents in the nation to its marble hallows, with the promise and influence of power and do gooding. Yet watching the political meddlings unfold in Washington this week and the reactions of everyone across the nation has revealed a host of ugly truths about human nature and the futility of today's political spectrum. I can't even stretch out in the sun between classes without catching a facefull of hot air from some good ole boy walking past, talking his stout and blonde girlfriend's ear off about  "fascism and the goddam healthcare disaster" like it personally walked up to him, pulled his pants down, and bit him on the arm only moments ago. She can hardly keep stride, much less understand anything about Obama, fascism, or legislation. At most, in keeping the pace, she can feign attention like girls like always do when boys (this one's since middle school, true love) get all riled up from rolling on a tear like politics. To the dumpy blonde, politics is like bridge, a game played by old people. To her man in Deere with the white shades on, bless his heart, politics is simply a chance to get off by getting on other people, which not only speaks true of the farm class heros here in Bowling Green but also the gentlemen in Washington as well. Strange, but true and unfortunate. No matter the degree of academic merit achieved, all hints of diplomacy, manners, and class get shot all to pieces when guns are draw in formal discussion and mutuality of proper debate fades into a big mangle of emotionally tasteless flamethrowing. I played in a dodgeball tournament a few weekends ago and in between games, I watched an exchange where a guy threw a ball that missed another guy just barely, yet the thrower was dead sure it hit him and wasn't hearing otherwise. They duked it out while throwing and dodging, which was a pretty remarkable exchange to witness. "Yer out!" Dodge, duck, chase, throw, all while hollering "No way dude I'm not out that didn't hit me." "Yeah it hit your FUCKING shirt!" "Nah man, it didn't hit my shirt" "YEAH well, FUCK YOU BRO YOU WANNA TAKE THIS OUTSIDE". It was like reading the comments under videos on Youtube, arguments that go from "I just don't like this" to "Go die now FAG" in no time at all. 

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What can be gained? Education obviously does not lead to transformation. Some of the most stubborn people I know are almost too educated. Knowledge doesn't simply bless one with the wisdom of contemplation and the ability to see different perspectives but rather gives people better reasons to justify dualistic rationality, as seem clearly in Washington's blowhards. But what's even more evident in the seeing both the right wing's mean spirited finger pointing and the liberal snootiness at work is evidence of human nature's biggest delusion; the need for control. Human nature will always have the need to play the victim or create one, because control hates change. And just because healthcare gets passed doesn't grant Tea Partiers a green light for bigotry or for liberals, a chance to fan the flames of discontentment. 

No Doubt

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"Would you be happier if you spent more time discussing the state of the world and the meaning of life — and less time talking about the weather?

It may sound counterintuitive, but people who spend more of their day having deep discussions and less time engaging in small talk seem to be happier, said Matthias Mehl, a psychologist at the University of Arizona who published a study on the subject.

“We found this so interesting, because it could have gone the other way — it could have been, ‘Don’t worry, be happy’ — as long as you surf on the shallow level of life you’re happy, and if you go into the existential depths you’ll be unhappy,” Dr. Mehl said.

But, he proposed, substantive conversation seemed to hold the key to happiness for two main reasons: both because human beings are driven to find and create meaning in their lives, and because we are social animals who want and need to connect with other people."

(New York Times | Continue reading)

Beauty

1925 Rolls Royce Phantom

Rover

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The search is over. This is what I want.

Yamrocks

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I'm fixing up something new for the looks around here, so pardon the lack of substance. Several topics have been boucing around for the past few days and one or two need to float to the surface. I watched the SEC tournament the past few days and John Wall continues to dumbfound. Here at Western, there's more blue than red walking around, which makes as much sense as it is shameful. Folks don't even like the sports being played for the most part, they just bleed and breathe Kentucky. Even with Western's team being equally as competitive (just not as good), not to mention playing games across the road, students here can't compute anything beyond....Kentucky. Blue. John Wall and I can't stand that. Granted, I love Tennessee football and some of my happiness moments to date have happened watching Vandy play in Memorial. But its taken beyond the point of ridiculous here and I've been nagging on Kentucky all year because of it. John Calipari is low character and Kentucky isn't as good as people say they are. They beat a struggling North Carolina team by ten early in the year at Rupp. A win is a win is a win but North Carolina has gotten beat up all year along in the ACC thanks to being undersized and that's Kentucky's strongest asset. They are the tallest team in the NCAA this year, super physical, and should have rocked the cute off UNC's baby faces. Demarcus Cousins, 6'11 and 290, holy fuck. But the opportunity cost is that when your team lives and dies by big, strong basketball, chances are you don't play too smart. Kentucky got soundly drummed by a strong South Carolina team earlier in the year that was rolling on six wins. They barely beat Miss State this weekend, a team that has had their number twice this season. The brightest spot for Kentucky is obviously John Wall. His speed with the ball and overall athleticism has folks drooling. His jumper has gotten light years better from the start of the year, which could round him out to be a huge impact, change the game player in the NBA. Besides Great Oden-sized post men, the greatest investment a team can make is a point guard because its the ultimate functioning position. The Suns wouldn't be half as good as they are without Steve Nash, not just because of his talent individually, but in his ability to yoke the best out of the other players out there, specifically Amare Stoudemire. How will Kentucky fare this month against smarter teams? They're good, but not that good. But who knows? This year's draft is going to be madness anyways, honestly a tossup.

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For now until soon, I've got two reasons why Marqus Blakely from lowly Vermont (Go Catamounts) is the best player in the American East as well as the best dunker in the NCAA. Poor guy is stuck up in Vermont with pale, neurotic folks from the North who press bugs and make snowshoe a verb.

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But that's not even the best dunk of recent weeks. Truly, the best things come from where you least expect it. Gerald Anderson from Cal State at Fullerton as case in point here, finishing a fast break in fantastic style high above the rim. Holy smokes, rise above.

Black Flag+Rise Above

Bros

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Jefffff The Brotherhood+Screaming Banshee

Acres of Shade

 

Spring Break 2010:

Tumbled and Stoned

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The sun didn't burn down, but a week at the beach was still a blessing. Having a day's worth of space to wobble round, as well as the occasional flash of sun from the clouds winding past was well worth the trip down. I read 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea and thought lots about Jules Verne. Science fiction had a different idea and meaning in late 19th century France than it does today. The house in Seagrove had blue shutters and was tucked away from the main road, with a little wilderness feel to it thanks to being surrounded by the swamp and sand of a few empty lots. Wasn't more than a minute from the beach either. Margaret was the middle aged woman with glasses that lived upstairs and drove a red jeep to the main drag by the beach every day, where she worked the limonade stand in the old Airstream. No more questions asked. I tried to stay busy since I hadn't done a whole much to deserve time off. Mango orange juice helped ease the day along. This song helped slow the rolling feel of being excited and focusing on at least  finishing the page before going to hit tennis balls against the wall. I'm not the the biggest fan of the UK's two step, but this is West Coast dub that will make you wobble along under acres of shade. 

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Babylon System-Get On Up

As an appropriately slow bonus, the life's imaginative majesty slows on Mars.

David Bowie-Life on Mars?

Can't Outgrow the Strokes

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I wish two drinks were always in me and the Chicago Tribune confirms the Strokes are headlining Lollapalooza this summer in Grant Park.

Tennessee

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Davy Crockett was born in Limestone, Tennessee on August 17th, 1786 and served three terms in Congress between 1826 and 1835. This is an exert from a speech he gave in Washington to his fellow constituents.

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"I say, Mr. Speaker; I ve had a speech in soak this six months, and it has swelled me like a drowned horse; if I don’t deliver it I shall burst and smash the windows. The gentleman from Massachusetts [Mr. Everett] talks of summing up the merits of the question, but I’ll sum up my own. In one word I’m a screamer, and have got the roughest racking horse, the prettiest sister, the surest rifle and the ugliest dog in the district. I’m a leetle the savagest crittur you ever did see. My father can whip any man in Kentucky, and I can lick my father. I can outspeak any man on this floor, and give him two hours start. I can run faster, dive deeper, stay longer under, and come out drier, than any chap this side the big Swamp. I can outlook a panther and outstare a flash of lightning, tote a steamboat on my back and play at rough and tumble with a lion, and an occasional kick from a zebra.

"To sum up all in one word I’m a horse. Goliah was a pretty hard colt but I could choke him. I can take the rag off-frighten the old folks-astonish the natives-and beat the Dutch all to smash-make nothing of sleeping under a blanket of snow and don’t mind being frozen more than a rotten apple.

"Congress allows lemonade to the members and has it charged under the head of stationery-I move also that whiskey be allowed under the item of fuel. For bitters I can suck away at a noggin of aquafortis, sweetened with brimstone, stirred with a lightning rod, and skimmed with a hurricane. I’ve soaked my head and shoulders in Salt River, so much that I’m always corned. I can walk like an ox, run like a fox, swim like an eel, yell like an Indian, fight like a devil, spout like an earthquake, make love like a mad bull, and swallow a Mexican whole without choking if you butter his head and pin his ears back."

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I'm been propped up in the sun the past few days, living and thinking at a woozy pace, nursing a heavy heart and listening to these cassettes I grabbed in my travels around Africa. They sound absolutely crazy, all rackety and completely unhinged like a wobbly, colourful dragon float running to and fro down the street during the Chinese New Year. I'm thinking to try and get them on the computer somehow from cassette in order to a mix series about crazy sounds but I don't know. Wishful thinking floats around everywhere here at the beach, where ease is king and the pace is even slower when the sun is burning everyone out and forcing their slow retreat back inside. I'm reading almost five books at a time now. What's catching my mind's eye is this book about the history of America, starting from the early explorer's to the end of WWII. It's absolutely humbling to read about the great men that influenced the upstart of this nation. Some of them were pretty bonkers of the sly. Benjamin Franklin actually was a deist and Thomas Jefferson was an ardent naturalist. At a 1962 dinner for 49 Nobel laureates, President John F. Kennedy quipped that the event was "the most extraordinary collection of talent, of human knowledge, that has ever gathered at the White House, with the possible exception of when Thomas Jefferson dined alone." The precedent that America set was unlike anything the world had ever seen. Science, talent, and courage were suddenly held in higher esteem in the governing bodies than rank and birth, all thanks to the collective conscience of a few extraordinary individuals. The United States of America is the greatest country in the world, seen even here in Florida where America goes to die. Speaking of extraordinary individuals, check out the thought processing of my man over at The Future Looks. He moves and shakes and he's dangerous. Don't hesitate. Also, yall gotta listen to Harlem. These boys hold it together pretty well for bros that probably take too many pills and rage on the beach to the psychedelic sounds of the 13th Floor Elevators or to the deep reverbery surf snafu of the Deltones. 

Okay den. +

Harlem-Gay Human Bones.

Think On Your Feet

"...Boyd's key concept was that of the decision cycle or OODA Loop, the process by which an entity (either an individual or an organization) reacts to an event. According to this idea, the key to victory is to be able to create situations wherein one can make appropriate decisions more quickly than one's opponent. The construct was originally a theory of achieving success in air-to-air combat, developed out of Boyd's Energy-Maneuverability theory and his observations on air combat between MiGs and F-86s in Korea. Harry Hillaker (chief designer of the F-16) said of the OODA theory, "Time is the dominant parameter. The pilot who goes through the OODA cycle in the shortest time prevails because his opponent is caught responding to situations that have already changed."

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Buy the book, it rocks.

Wilds

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One of the best things I have seen all week. Can you feel it? This is the definition of the verb to Wild in moving colour, captured in its most grand manner to an almost religious effect. Not your church or mine, but maybe Mt. Absalom Zion Sacred Love of the Slain Lamb Holy Methodist, that stone church that sits quietly six days a week next to Melrose High School in North Memphis Tennessee only to come alive with I SAIDA SAID CAN I GET AN AMEN. High school basketball in Memphis is church, Nate Rucker has found eternal life and Nino Johnson is seeking repentance for having to la la la la lick 'em. Memphis does stand for Making Easy Money Pimpin Hoes Is Serious too, bitch. 

Pick out a new person to watch every time you watch this.

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Okay den. What's South Afrika know for? Apartheid, sharks, and now Zef side. Die Antwoord touched down a few weeks ago and somehow barnstormed the internet running on No Art, Fuck You ballot. And they are for real. Read the Vice interview here. Can Die Antwoord pull a Nirvana and knock America out of its state of indifference? Zef side, play it fokken loud my bru

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Can't expect to have an encounter like this at the beach, but no harm in wanting to. Close encounters with the other kind. Isn't it a bit terrifying how vulnerable humans are in the water? Can't hold our breath for very long, aren't too shapely designed for swimming (Hook 'em horns), and pretty hopeless in the face of something this big, or even dead if it has teeth. We're no longer the apex predators underwater. Makes you kinda take it for granted a little bit. It would be like if the dinosaurs still ruled the Earth. How different would Life be in America if survival was a daily priority? We would have to carry guns and look out for each other. Couldn't play sports outside. Since reptiles would be on top and not mammals, we probably would have evolved with claws or longer legs or something in order to escape predators. Avatar like, no doubt. Despite our being blue and zen, harmony between us and them would be almost impossible. We'd have to work hard to simply live. But like I've heard too many times, you can What If yourself to death. Dinosaurs being alive today are about as likely as horses growing large teeth and becoming land sharks. That would be just as terrifying.

Get Lost

Hey yall, have a great Spring Break

Blissed Out

I am trying to rip open the inconsolable secret in each one of you—the secret which hurts so much that you take your revenge on it by calling it names like Nostalgia and Romanticism and Adolescence; the secret also which pierces with such sweetness that when, in very intimate conversation, the mention of it becomes imminent, we grow awkward and affect to laugh at ourselves; the secret we cannot hide and cannot tell, though we desire to do both. We cannot tell it because it is a desire for something that has never actually appeared in our experience.

-CS. Lewis

I've been listening to Remain in Light all day long. This album's sound and feel is so monstrous, you can disappear inside of it and pop up on the other side of the world. I'm stuck next to the astronomy section, not studying for Western Civ but reading my friend Rachel Goldberg's blog Godlilost! and watching the sunset, thinking I'm living and dying my days away in Southeast Asia near around wherever she is. What's taking me away isn't the French Revolution looming nearby, but the Talking Head's Remain in Light. Blowing my fucking mind. I've never really sat still ever listening to this album, because you honestly can't. Remain In Light will drum you to death. The first four tracks would absolutely plaster me, render me steamrolled if played full blast. But I'm listening to it now, throwing that same energy toward thinking and my imagination has lost myself a few times. It takes me far, even with a little discretion on my part. I'm holding back from going totally berzerk and running away with it, because that could totally happen in one quick flash. There once was no buffer, no speed one at all. I loved it. It was always all or barely something, never nothing. Still as death or the far outer limits. No foot tapping or head nodding. Either sleep or yell and run, nothing in between. I see now that you can't do that in the library. You can, but I can't right now. Deep breaths. There's a whole lot happening, but I'm keeping to Remain In Light and Goldilost. The two of them make for a pretty outrageous coupling, full of sweat and hot sticky weather, jungle temples, muddy cave chases, spice, bird noises, opium smoke, tucked away monasteries with a day's worth of stone steps to climb, iguanas sprawled out on tucked away beaches and the most beautiful sunsets ever. David Byrne's haunting discordant voice simply narrates and doesn't give two hoots how you're lost and just might die. The only thing left to do now is reckon with the facts. On your own, long gone far from home. Wide eyed, enlightened, and aware, wandering through some psychotrophic jungle where long lost tribes still dance endlessly to the perfect beat on the cliffs overlooking the lagoon, hidden by countless acres of shade and exposed by the full moon. The creative process is never boring, it's a grand struggle even on the most simplest terms (word to them who photo edit). Creation, invention, associations, unconscious insight, chance revelations, new ideas all act and react to show us windows into what we don't know but possibly could, if we could simply humble ourselves and vanquish the need to control reality and think well of oneself. The concept of Travel gets us halfway there, rendering us almost helpless the further we get away from out comfort zones and totally vulnerable to whatever direction Life may throw us in. Living life once step away from the edge of all sides nurtures the soul's creative process. But with enlightenment and excitedment so far away and midterms so nearby, Goldilost is worth living vicariously through for the meantime.

Boy With The Blues

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Give me some time, I just need a little time.

The Strokes- Under Control

Purple Haze

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...One of the implications of the increased interhemispheric interaction in mixed-handers is that it may give such individuals enhanced conscious access to right-hemisphere-based processing. It is well established that the right hemisphere is superior at processing nonverbal environmental sounds. This may help to account for the wide variety of nonverbal environmental sounds that permeate Electric Ladyland, from the sound collages of ‘… And The Gods Made Love’ and ‘Moon, Turn The Tides … Gently Gently Away’, through the use of a home-made comb-and-waxed-paper kazoo to augment the opening guitar of ‘Crosstown Traffic’, and the frequent presence of guitar and microphone feedback in songs like ‘Voodoo Chile’, to the mysterious underwater chime-like sounds during the guitar solo and bird-like sounds at the very end of ‘1983 … (A Merman I Should Be)....

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University of Toledo psychologist Stephen Christman wrote a pretty interesting paper about the creative advantages of ambidexterity. The original article is 16 pages long and free to read here if you read too much nonsense like me. Right here is a pretty smart summery as well. It's pretty interesting thought to turn over though. Sports is the first thing that comes to mind when you think of the two handed advantage. The link between the different sides of the brain probably reaps a more colourful advantage in music though. What the article totally discounts is drugs, which is nuf said in my book. 

Refused Are Fucking Dead

The Shape Of Punk To Come (1998)

The worms of the senses ponder quickly towards destruction. Winning is not everything but in our elitist competitive society it is all that matters. Rice cakes for the people and caviar for the leaders who built our world around machines, money and matter. We were left out of the plan and our destination is set by the used car dealer or the factory boss. Bored we walk home with our heads hanging and our creativity stolen as an effect of capitalist gain. In a dream state there is nothing more than simple abstraction of the mind from the matter and the belief that work will somehow “macht frei”...


Turn the knob and wait for the liberating sound of ecstasy and revolution. Who pays the newsman and who owns the radio stations and who runs the record label? Who benefits from the de-politicizing in art and music and who benefits from the clean sound of the next pop wonder? Who runs the game show and who pays the salaries to the reporters? Here and now we offer you a taste of our liberation frequency, provided by us for your satisfaction and excitement. This is radio clash, 33 Revolutions Per Minute, our haven of thoughts and ideas. It could be yours too, if only you’d let yourself go and turn the knob and listen and love and sing and think.


Stuck by the deadly rhythm of the production line. Stuck by the conditions set by the capitalist market. Stuck by the necessities of living and forced to take part. If we are tired it is because we are supposed to be and if we are hungry it is because we have to be and if we are bored it is because it is expected of us. Bored and chained and stuck and dead. New forms of work camps are arranged and new ways of hiding the monotonous beat of slavery are being presented. The preliminary condition required for propelling the workers to the status of “free” producers and consumers of commodity was the violent expropriation of their own time. The spectacular return of time was made possible only after this dispossession of power. Urbanism is capitalism’s seizure of the natural and human environment; developing logically into absolute domination, capitalism can and must now remake the totality of space into it’s own setting. Time, work, environment and joy all have their norms set by modern ways of production.


The youngster touches his poster and glances upon the stars and the heavens. The day seems neverending and there is a certain notion of innocence and childhood play. The mantra will be repeated and we will learn to obey and love and cherish the chosen few. Manners inconceivable and then we have to live. Ideals corrupted and echoes from the past about ideas once held true are shining like untouchable constellations. But we are all stars, shining and burning, cruising down the highway looking for the next stop and the next break from capitalised boredom and slavery. Then there is the option of summer holidays vs. punk routine. Then there is greed and money and fallen heroes. “We are all tired of dying”. So why not try and live for a change and turn that glimmering into bright shining creation through the realisation that you know everything and that you are you?


Must I paint you a picture about the way that I feel? This situation of Art vs. Life and the present elitism within the bourgeoisie and upper-class. The critics hold their heads high cause they know about the real suffering and the real work while we get the easy accessible forms of communication and entertainment, pinned down simple for us to comprehend. The lack of stimulants within art, politics and life lowers our standards which is why we settle for talkshows and MTV. We are not stupid, but if we are treated like ingrates we will start to act like children. The lack of challenging forms of expression and thoughts of fire and self-confidence gives us a passive and hollow nature. So reclaim art, take back the fine culture for the people, the working people, the living people and burn down their art galleries and destroy their fancy constructions and buildings. Cause we, unlike the bourgeoisie, have nothing to lose and therefore our expression will be the only honest one, our words will be the only challenging ones and our art will be the one revolutionary expression. We need new noise and new voices and new canvases to become something more than the last poets of a useless generation.


The credentials with which we call upon you are simple linguistics thrown and tossed liked flaming songs of discontent. The Refused party programme screams out not 1, not 2, not 3, not 4, not 5 but 6 opinions and 6 structures of change and 6 levels of liberation. All in all not mystical but direct and attractive and as we shout “Yeah” you’ll feel the same sensation best described by Tomas Paine: “Let them call me rebel and welcome, I feel no concern from it; but I should suffer the misery of devils, were I to make a whore of my soul...”. Here and now and all the time the mythical touch and the obvious message. Behold the wisdom of the party program. 

Pro (in favour) – attest (testify for).
The time is now and still we sit and wait for it to become the now that we think we need. The movement of protest has strong traditions and we are far from the first to recognise and use the power of the song and the words from the young poets. We are trembling from the taste of days gone to waste and there is inspiration and there is clarity. Phil Ochs stated firmly “If I have something to say I’m going to say it now” and still protest song 68 is nothing more than a pastiche, a blueprint of seduction of the echoes that once filled the corridors of dorms and boys/girls rooms in an era where rebellion and revolt was present in art and music. From the first until the last, from the taste of longing freedom to the shackles of oppression, the weapon of the artist has always been used.


Refused are fuckin dead that’s what the answering machine said, looks like this is it!!! They talked one to many shit about the upper-class and the government, did you hear what those faggots said in some fanzine someone else read. I heard they are a bunch of spoiled little rich kids who need to get their asses kicked. Fuckin ingrates! Fuckin pussies!! Refused are fuckin dead guaw huydsas kjhds aowedde (fighting sequence). Refused are fuckin dead by order of the postmaster general just like the panthers only this time for real because SAPO have tapped their telephones and the Umeå police raided their homes and they must have been killed.


Are you ready baby? For the shape of punk to come. Get the equipment together and we’ll meet at the show. It’s gruesome that someone so handsome should care. We all recognise the hint of the programme screaming at the top of his lungs that “We’re all dressed up and we got somewhere to go”. Like the rebellious swing kids of the 40’s or the crazy jazz heads of the 50’s to the stylish mods of the 60’s we all need to recognise that style in contradiction to fashion is necessary to challenge the conservatism of the youth cultures placed upon us. Strict in our style but with a touch of elegance and freedom and individualism. The uniform and the production of constructive challenges comes in the most unexpected of shapes, Ornette Coleman reinvented jazz altogether and we need a new beat to move to so grab your partner and ask: Do you want to go out with me, watch me get on my knees and bleed? This blind date might take you to places unknown and it will be new and scary and vital. But nonetheless there is no danger in exploration and searching. It never tasted this great to scream “yes” and you never had more enticing cavalier to hold hands with. The new teen hysteria of noise and kisses and politics and crazy entertainment and naked fun and beats and books and poetry and travelling and style. It’s never been safe to live in a world that teaches us to respect property and disregard human life. So drop your belongings and get on this soul train, dig the static sound and think that maybe this once there is just us, the kids, playing the day away, it’s just us kicking over statues and smashing windows of houses of parliaments, just to show them who has the real power. This blind date will take us anywhere we want.


A dream only lasts so long. Imagine the pyramids inhabited by aliens and the dark corridors and the dreams and the longing for a better condition. The sweat pours down your neck and you run and you run, heart beating, head pounding, alive tonight. The streets never sleep, they are glowing, vibrating with the echoes of laughter and joy, screams and curses. We just need to take the time and see what it can offer us and how we can break free from this boredom that the capitalist reign has forced upon us. Tonight we can be as mighty as tannhäuser and we can tumble excited down the labyrinths and the turns knowing that derive` is potent. So where do we go from here?


The Apollo programme was a hoax or so we say. The biggest lie was market economy that blinded us with the glory of prosperity and freedom. The deck was dealt and we all lost, on our knees in the dirt hoping for salvation and then we look and there are golden drops of dawn functioning as oral sagas, keeping us shackled, making glory of the lies that the spectacle provides us with. So as we sit tight and enjoy the soap operas that are designed to keep us bleeding out of our eyes and keeps us nodding and sighing, there is still hope in the petrol bomb and in it, the revolution. For in the destruction and the overthrowing there is a certainty of salvation. We need to destroy the museum and it’s old artefacts, we need to tear down the power structures that enslaves and then in revolution we can live and be alive. Yes, this is our hymn and our praise to the brave and bold stranger in the night, to the fed up worker and the angry wife. Hope, revolution and dedication. Fight fire with fire and everything will burn. Yeah.


This manifesto is very much for real. 

College Man's Guide to Life

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Wake up every morning thinking the day has the potential to be the best day of your life.

Follow your heart and go for it. You’ll only regret what you didn’t do, adventures you didn’t take, lips you didn’t kiss.

Fake it ’til you make it. No one will know the difference.

Try not to be such an asshole.

Always act like a gentleman because your reputation is easy to lose and difficult to regain.

Step up to the plate and swing for the fences.

Find your passion and devote your life to it. You may not be rich, but you’ll always be happy.

She likes you; ask her out.

Criticism comes mostly from people who are jealous of your accomplishments.

Don’t live for the day without thinking about tomorrow.

Take a year off.

Don’t waste your youth growing up. Don’t pen your plans with a Sharpie. Get some dirt under your fingernails.

Don’t waste you money on trends, the classics never go out of style.

Listen to those who are older and wiser. They have already been down the path you are just starting.

Never settle.

Relax and do what you do. Everyone is too busy focusing on their own flaws to notice yours.

You won’t be in love for real until you’re at least 30 years old. Date as many women as you can without being a jerk.

After high school, the dress code you think is a pain in the ass will make you better dressed than 95% of your contemporaries.

Wake up every morning and ask yourself, “What’s the best use of my time?”

Live with purpose. A laissez-faire mentality only goes so far.

Life is a series of bets, only friends act as a hedge. The riskier your life, the deeper the hedging should be.

If it will make a better story, do it.

Be generous, loyal, and proudly carry on the tradition of the great American male.

Firm handshake, eye contact, smile on your face.

When should a man eat the olive in a martini? Whenever the hell he wants. Apply this to all of life’s questions.

Stay calm, it all works out in the end. And pay attention in French class.

To be successful you cannot multi-task. You must concentrate on one thing at a time.

Don’t make plans. You’re bound to be disappointed when life decides to change things up.

Your grandparents know more than you think.

Things get a lot better. Eventually you get to live a fantastic life and no one makes you write a paper on it.

Take care of your problems so I won’t have to.

Listen to your parents because they were right when they lectured you about grades and work ethic.

You will always be your fiercest critic and most formidable rival. Make that be your advantage, not an obstacle.

Life is too short not to take chances. Worry about school loans after you graduate.

These are the best years of your life. Behave accordingly.

Learn to tell a story, cook an omelette, charm a lady, and dress with style.

Tell average-looking girls they’re pretty, and tell pretty girls they’re smart. For every statement you make to a girl, ask at least two questions.

People are as scared of as you are of them, so you can get away with a lot more than you think.

Your “permanent record” is about as everlasting as your hairline.

Get a haircut.

(shamelessly ripped from the fantastic Ivy Style)