Wealth Bondage

WB Drag Show

"M"

Liz Lawley: One of the things about drag shows is how they make you really think about what constitutes femininity. There was a drag queen on the dance floor—but not in the show—who was one of the most stunning creatures I’ve ever seen. S/he was graceful, elegant, captivating. It’s a little depressing to look at someone and think to yourself “that man is a more beautiful woman than I’ll ever be!”  That is a wonderful compliment, Mz. Liz. You didn't think that dress made me look fat? Actually, I thought you were stunning too. Must scoot.

WB Drag Show

"M"

Liz Lawley: One of the things about drag shows is how they make you really think about what constitutes femininity. There was a drag queen on the dance floor—but not in the show—who was one of the most stunning creatures I’ve ever seen. S/he was graceful, elegant, captivating. It’s a little depressing to look at someone and think to yourself “that man is a more beautiful woman than I’ll ever be!”  That is a wonderful compliment, Mz. Liz. You didn't think that dress made me look fat? Actually, I thought you were stunning too. Must scoot.

On the Meaning of the Real Man's Stammer

"Chadwallah"

What means a stammer? In the Text under consideration, proffered by "The Happy Tutor" immediately below, I take it that the Tutor means to suggest or imply that the entity called his Real Self is a Doppelganger of some kind -- something like Conrad's Secret Sharer only more upscale and with no boat involved, unless it is an Allegory and the High Rise represents the Ship of State. I believe that this stammer means madness. It could be that The Tutor has projected his own insanity onto this Doppelganger, and the Real Person is nothing more than Fiction within a Fiction! Surely this is a tasty nut worth cracking, and a subject fit for a Doctoral Thesis.

On the Meaning of the Real Man's Stammer

"Chadwallah"

What means a stammer? In the Text under consideration, proffered by "The Happy Tutor" immediately below, I take it that the Tutor means to suggest or imply that the entity called his Real Self is a Doppelganger of some kind -- something like Conrad's Secret Sharer only more upscale and with no boat involved, unless it is an Allegory and the High Rise represents the Ship of State. I believe that this stammer means madness. It could be that The Tutor has projected his own insanity onto this Doppelganger, and the Real Person is nothing more than Fiction within a Fiction! Surely this is a tasty nut worth cracking, and a subject fit for a Doctoral Thesis.

The Man with a Stammer

Posted by The Happy Tutor

My Real Self - A Fiction's True Confession

His name is on the paycheck with the commas and the zeros. He has a social security number, and a resume that can be validated date by date for 21 years of loyal service. He is employed by a Name Brand Company known for Excellence Worldwide. He has many minions and his minions have minions, who are bucking for minons in their turn. He contributes, per the Chairman's suggestion, 1% of salary to the Company Political Action Committee. He calls his Congressman when the Office of Governmental Affairs tells him to do so, and punches # to endorse the script provided. His voice is modulated by Corporate Compliance, The Senior VP of his Division, and the VP in charge of Public Relations assigned to his Department. You are welcome to call him any time, at home or the office, and he will refer you to PR for his opinion on whatever issue you wish. In fact, having completed the "Working with the Media 3 Day Senior Executive Boot Camp," he can provide you with his own opinions himself after notifying PR of his intention to do so, subject to repercussions from any miscues. As a Senior Officer, he is never off duty for his opinions could be taken as an Indication of the Corporate Position. A Dead Soul Wandering the Earth? No, he is a Real Person and can provide witnesses to prove it. Any allegation to the contary will be referred to Office of General Counsel, Department of Litigation.

He has bank balances, a credit history, a pension plan, an executive deferred compensation plan, a passport, and a tastefully decorated home in a lovely suburb of a major city. He will soon have a digID. His tastes and preferences are those of an Upscale Educated Married Male Hegemon with Two College Age Children, as documented in various marketing databases. He buys his clothes at Brookes Brothers. He drives a Lexus and collects First Edition Self-Help Tracts and wine. A Mexican crew does his lawn and shrubbery. A woman from Guatamala cleans his house. Another Mexican crew cares for the pool. His wife teaches English in a Country Day School on the Live Oak lined edge of the city. His budget for poodle-grooming exceeds his budget for haircuts since he is bald and the dog is not. He is active in the Philanthropic Community, helping Wealth Holder's articulate and achieve their philanthropic objectives, however debased, sentimental, or self-serving. He speaks well of others, and they speak well of him. His affliction is a pronounced stammer.

Then there is me, "The Happy Tutor". I am a Fiction as allowed by Law. All I have is an open File with the Justice Department. I am a Polymorphous Perverse Self-Educated Fetish Action Figure. I do not exist. I am into Bondage -- Wealth Bondage. As Founder and Chief Dungeon Master (DM) of a pro bono Bondage Bordello, I am synomous with excellence in the spanking of rich people worldwide, a profession affected with the public trust. Wealth Bondage is a legal fiction; it does not exist, and never has. On that much Ashcroft and I are in complete agreement, I hope.

He -- the distinguished looking gentleman in the pressed charcoal gray suit and the dark blue Yale University Tie with the Discrete Crests, the gold chain across his waistcoat-clad rotund belly, the gold pocket watch in the fob pocket, and the black $400 calfskin Church's English plain toe dress shoes -- is real. I am not. When they hunt me down, and force me off the net, or when the Company Doctor puts him back on pills, and I flicker out into darkness, only then will my host, the Real Me, be Authentic, Sincere, and Complete, cured of that stammer -- all files in one database, no aberrant thoughts, everything consistent, balanced and positive; sentenced to life in prison, with I hope credit for time served.

As the Charnal House of Authenticity closed around him, I lit out for the Electronic Frontier; I won't be going back -- not alive. If you want Reality, the Truth from a Real Person, call the Distinguished Gentleman at the office, 15 floors up in the Class A Office tower, with the mirror-like one way glass, past the armed guard, behind the receptionist seated in the marble foyer. "And your name is? May I tell him what this is in regard to?" -- Poor stammering bastard. May God never let his soul know a moment of peace -- that I might live forever.

The Man with a Stammer

Posted by The Happy Tutor

My Real Self - A Fiction's True Confession

His name is on the paycheck with the commas and the zeros. He has a social security number, and a resume that can be validated date by date for 21 years of loyal service. He is employed by a Name Brand Company known for Excellence Worldwide. He has many minions and his minions have minions, who are bucking for minons in their turn. He contributes, per the Chairman's suggestion, 1% of salary to the Company Political Action Committee. He calls his Congressman when the Office of Governmental Affairs tells him to do so, and punches # to endorse the script provided. His voice is modulated by Corporate Compliance, The Senior VP of his Division, and the VP in charge of Public Relations assigned to his Department. You are welcome to call him any time, at home or the office, and he will refer you to PR for his opinion on whatever issue you wish. In fact, having completed the "Working with the Media 3 Day Senior Executive Boot Camp," he can provide you with his own opinions himself after notifying PR of his intention to do so, subject to repercussions from any miscues. As a Senior Officer, he is never off duty for his opinions could be taken as an Indication of the Corporate Position. A Dead Soul Wandering the Earth? No, he is a Real Person and can provide witnesses to prove it. Any allegation to the contary will be referred to Office of General Counsel, Department of Litigation.

He has bank balances, a credit history, a pension plan, an executive deferred compensation plan, a passport, and a tastefully decorated home in a lovely suburb of a major city. He will soon have a digID. His tastes and preferences are those of an Upscale Educated Married Male Hegemon with Two College Age Children, as documented in various marketing databases. He buys his clothes at Brookes Brothers. He drives a Lexus and collects First Edition Self-Help Tracts and wine. A Mexican crew does his lawn and shrubbery. A woman from Guatamala cleans his house. Another Mexican crew cares for the pool. His wife teaches English in a Country Day School on the Live Oak lined edge of the city. His budget for poodle-grooming exceeds his budget for haircuts since he is bald and the dog is not. He is active in the Philanthropic Community, helping Wealth Holder's articulate and achieve their philanthropic objectives, however debased, sentimental, or self-serving. He speaks well of others, and they speak well of him. His affliction is a pronounced stammer.

Then there is me, "The Happy Tutor". I am a Fiction as allowed by Law. All I have is an open File with the Justice Department. I am a Polymorphous Perverse Self-Educated Fetish Action Figure. I do not exist. I am into Bondage -- Wealth Bondage. As Founder and Chief Dungeon Master (DM) of a pro bono Bondage Bordello, I am synomous with excellence in the spanking of rich people worldwide, a profession affected with the public trust. Wealth Bondage is a legal fiction; it does not exist, and never has. On that much Ashcroft and I are in complete agreement, I hope.

He -- the distinguished looking gentleman in the pressed charcoal gray suit and the dark blue Yale University Tie with the Discrete Crests, the gold chain across his waistcoat-clad rotund belly, the gold pocket watch in the fob pocket, and the black $400 calfskin Church's English plain toe dress shoes -- is real. I am not. When they hunt me down, and force me off the net, or when the Company Doctor puts him back on pills, and I flicker out into darkness, only then will my host, the Real Me, be Authentic, Sincere, and Complete, cured of that stammer -- all files in one database, no aberrant thoughts, everything consistent, balanced and positive; sentenced to life in prison, with I hope credit for time served.

As the Charnal House of Authenticity closed around him, I lit out for the Electronic Frontier; I won't be going back -- not alive. If you want Reality, the Truth from a Real Person, call the Distinguished Gentleman at the office, 15 floors up in the Class A Office tower, with the mirror-like one way glass, past the armed guard, behind the receptionist seated in the marble foyer. "And your name is? May I tell him what this is in regard to?" -- Poor stammering bastard. May God never let his soul know a moment of peace -- that I might live forever.

The Art of Satire

Posted by The Happy Tutor

The discussion of an earlier piece, Can Blogging Approach the Condition of Art?, seems to continue every day. Skimble today suggests -- ultimately, I think wrongly -- that satire can and will be co-opted. Style... can be imitated and co-opted without regard to content. In the last comment I almost made a joke about Louis Rukeyser's new 2004 TV show "Wealth Bondage and Wall Street Whip."

Let me answer with unwonted directness. I didn't always run a bordello, and I didn't begin writing satire on the internet. I worked for a Global Colossus and in fits of moral insanity, things would occur to me -- images, fables, taglines -- I would laugh so hard I had to write them down, and then found them so funny, I had to share them with top management -- the victims. At 5:00 pm, I would stuff their inboxes, one after another, in the mailroom, like a man planting landmines. Afterward, I would lie awake all night dreading the dawn. The next morning the memo would pass from hand to hand, up and down and around. People would avoid me. No one would meet my eyes. Groups would watch me as you would watch a man about to leap from a ledge -- or still falling in midair. Did the higher ups ever mention these memos? No. Did they ever retaliate? No. Did they ever forgive? Perhaps. Who knows. I know that years later my colleagues remember the memos word for word. A prior boss kept them in a safe off premises -- as if to protect himself in some way.

Satire, real satire, comes from a deeper stratum than humor, wit, jokes, travesty, irony, sarcasm, lampoon, or comedy. Satire is soul murder. It says it aims to heal. But so does Chemo. Satire does to the soul what Chemo does to flesh. It kills you from the inside out -- all in a good cause, of course, to cure the cancer before it spreads.

You can fake the manner, but not the death blow. Read Pope, and he will say that you should never mention the butt of satire by name, much less hyperlink. Yet he and Swift could not resist. There is a divine madness in dealing death. It comes from the great god Pan or Dionysus. Sadists enjoy torturing the body; the satirist, the soul.

In ages past, the malefactor was literally bound, broken, and branded by a public hangman who was a good man, with a good job, who loved his work. He did the deed up high so the howling mob could enjoy the show. The criminal, if spared death, would carry that brand on his hand or forehead forever -- a pariah. Satire is a form, my friends, of marketing. It creates The Brand of You.

If you want to imitate, begin by strangling cats, clipping the wings of living birds. Driving a penknife through the back of your adversary's hand when he reaches for the cards. Until you can kill a soul without flinching, kill it in delight, watching the eyes go dark, knowing that the wound will never heal, you are not a master of our Noble Trade. Dryden knew. This is not a matter of opinion. To have tasted this pleasure is never to forget it, nor to mistake it for any other. To feel the blow connect, in a single phrase, to see the arrogant eyes go from surprise to darkness, is sweeter than any pleasure I have ever known. Mayakofsky called it, "the bliss of the knife."

To satirize those weaker than yourself is -- for me as a Catholic -- a mortal sin. A soul for a soul. But to take down those who are Tyrants  -- that is a high and noble calling, an act of justice pro bono publico. He who does that is Jack Ketch, the famous hooded hangman, a public hero, toasted in every tavern, with fans who delight in his technique, and who look forward to the next performance. "To delight and instruct" was the Roman's justification for poetry -- as for judicial torture.

The smile of the satirist is that of the wolf or the hyena. And in laughing, even in reading this, you are complicit. Around the satirist forms the pack, the mob, the vigilantes. Satire is rough justice. When it comes to the Teevee studio it will be on the day they televise their own lynching. On the Scaffold will be the Owner of the Media Corp, followed by the advertisers for that show, followed by the Moderator. Now, if the Networks like the ratings, and  clone that and do it up right, and do it again and again, fair enough. I will be happy to demonstrate the art in slow motion. They can take the fear away with jokes and antics. But when their time comes, the eyes go wide then dark.  (All of this without touching a hair of the butt's head, or violating a single rule of law, or even mentioning a name.) After all, it is only a story about a horse, or a whale. A legal fiction. All drawn from the best Latin models.

Yes, do you think I am unaware that I am sick? Why do I wear a mask? Why did I go onto the internet if not to protect myself and those I love -- even to protect the victims -- from this madness? The tension builds and I go onto the internet to relieve it. A day or so passes. Then it builds and builds. It grows stronger with each catharsis.  I see the face before me like a Jack O' Lantern. All I want is to feel the soft rind yield to the decapitation strike.

Others have shared this diseased taste, but none have admitted it since Swift. Satire is a career open to talent. Back after this....

"Disclaimer"

The Art of Satire

Posted by The Happy Tutor

The discussion of an earlier piece, Can Blogging Approach the Condition of Art?, seems to continue every day. Skimble today suggests -- ultimately, I think wrongly -- that satire can and will be co-opted. Style... can be imitated and co-opted without regard to content. In the last comment I almost made a joke about Louis Rukeyser's new 2004 TV show "Wealth Bondage and Wall Street Whip."

Let me answer with unwonted directness. I didn't always run a bordello, and I didn't begin writing satire on the internet. I worked for a Global Colossus and in fits of moral insanity, things would occur to me -- images, fables, taglines -- I would laugh so hard I had to write them down, and then found them so funny, I had to share them with top management -- the victims. At 5:00 pm, I would stuff their inboxes, one after another, in the mailroom, like a man planting landmines. Afterward, I would lie awake all night dreading the dawn. The next morning the memo would pass from hand to hand, up and down and around. People would avoid me. No one would meet my eyes. Groups would watch me as you would watch a man about to leap from a ledge -- or still falling in midair. Did the higher ups ever mention these memos? No. Did they ever retaliate? No. Did they ever forgive? Perhaps. Who knows. I know that years later my colleagues remember the memos word for word. A prior boss kept them in a safe off premises -- as if to protect himself in some way.

Satire, real satire, comes from a deeper stratum than humor, wit, jokes, travesty, irony, sarcasm, lampoon, or comedy. Satire is soul murder. It says it aims to heal. But so does Chemo. Satire does to the soul what Chemo does to flesh. It kills you from the inside out -- all in a good cause, of course, to cure the cancer before it spreads.

You can fake the manner, but not the death blow. Read Pope, and he will say that you should never mention the butt of satire by name, much less hyperlink. Yet he and Swift could not resist. There is a divine madness in dealing death. It comes from the great god Pan or Dionysus. Sadists enjoy torturing the body; the satirist, the soul.

In ages past, the malefactor was literally bound, broken, and branded by a public hangman who was a good man, with a good job, who loved his work. He did the deed up high so the howling mob could enjoy the show. The criminal, if spared death, would carry that brand on his hand or forehead forever -- a pariah. Satire is a form, my friends, of marketing. It creates The Brand of You.

If you want to imitate, begin by strangling cats, clipping the wings of living birds. Driving a penknife through the back of your adversary's hand when he reaches for the cards. Until you can kill a soul without flinching, kill it in delight, watching the eyes go dark, knowing that the wound will never heal, you are not a master of our Noble Trade. Dryden knew. This is not a matter of opinion. To have tasted this pleasure is never to forget it, nor to mistake it for any other. To feel the blow connect, in a single phrase, to see the arrogant eyes go from surprise to darkness, is sweeter than any pleasure I have ever known. Mayakofsky called it, "the bliss of the knife."

To satirize those weaker than yourself is -- for me as a Catholic -- a mortal sin. A soul for a soul. But to take down those who are Tyrants  -- that is a high and noble calling, an act of justice pro bono publico. He who does that is Jack Ketch, the famous hooded hangman, a public hero, toasted in every tavern, with fans who delight in his technique, and who look forward to the next performance. "To delight and instruct" was the Roman's justification for poetry -- as for judicial torture.

The smile of the satirist is that of the wolf or the hyena. And in laughing, even in reading this, you are complicit. Around the satirist forms the pack, the mob, the vigilantes. Satire is rough justice. When it comes to the Teevee studio it will be on the day they televise their own lynching. On the Scaffold will be the Owner of the Media Corp, followed by the advertisers for that show, followed by the Moderator. Now, if the Networks like the ratings, and  clone that and do it up right, and do it again and again, fair enough. I will be happy to demonstrate the art in slow motion. They can take the fear away with jokes and antics. But when their time comes, the eyes go wide then dark.  (All of this without touching a hair of the butt's head, or violating a single rule of law, or even mentioning a name.) After all, it is only a story about a horse, or a whale. A legal fiction. All drawn from the best Latin models.

Yes, do you think I am unaware that I am sick? Why do I wear a mask? Why did I go onto the internet if not to protect myself and those I love -- even to protect the victims -- from this madness? The tension builds and I go onto the internet to relieve it. A day or so passes. Then it builds and builds. It grows stronger with each catharsis.  I see the face before me like a Jack O' Lantern. All I want is to feel the soft rind yield to the decapitation strike.

Others have shared this diseased taste, but none have admitted it since Swift. Satire is a career open to talent. Back after this....

"Disclaimer"

Salesman of the Year Goes to...

Posted by The Happy Tutor

My Irony: Like Richard Rorty, I'm not convinced that logic and argument are finally persuasive. Rationality is like the foundation and framing of a house. There are as many different rationalities as there are ideological houses--even if personal ideologies in some neighborhoods all look the same. The measure of a good rationality is whether or not it works at holding the house together. As long as it does, you can move on to other considerations: aesthetics, utility, location, price, etc.  This is exactly how I teach our salespeople. If it sells, it is true enough; move on to other considerations, like speed to sale, number of people fooled, cheapness, amount of money made; sales awards garnered, ease of memorizing, legal deniability. At least Rorty's practice is consistent with his theory.

Salesman of the Year Goes to...

Posted by The Happy Tutor

My Irony: Like Richard Rorty, I'm not convinced that logic and argument are finally persuasive. Rationality is like the foundation and framing of a house. There are as many different rationalities as there are ideological houses--even if personal ideologies in some neighborhoods all look the same. The measure of a good rationality is whether or not it works at holding the house together. As long as it does, you can move on to other considerations: aesthetics, utility, location, price, etc.  This is exactly how I teach our salespeople. If it sells, it is true enough; move on to other considerations, like speed to sale, number of people fooled, cheapness, amount of money made; sales awards garnered, ease of memorizing, legal deniability. At least Rorty's practice is consistent with his theory.