It was a wild gathering indeed last night with the Palestinian comrades to usher in the new year! I couldn’t resist capturing it all for the close friends who were not present in New York City to engage in the debauchery. No one can deny that 140th st. has established itself as among the chief dwellings of decadence in this fine city of ours.
Dear 9th cousin:
Indeed you missed a fine spectacle on the eve of 2012. I fear not even centuries of cleansing and flushing could begin to undo an iota worth of the decadence that prevailed last night on Brooklynites and Bronxites alike! It was a fairy-tale like evening that our 12th grandfather from Helsinki and our 26th great uncle from Belfast would have thoroughly enjoyed. I felt their judgmental presence looking over me at every turn as though they were Yoda and Obi One Kenobi and I was a young Skywalker — half-witted and half-hearted — won over to the dark side.
There was no lack of upright men in midnight-flight mode, fleeing the wrath of certain offspring of slain civil rights martyrs. Not even the hallways were safe from a woman who would multiply and bestow upon many a unsuspecting martyr the most righteous of family names. Proud we would have been to join her legacy, had she not mixed sloppy spirits with the sharpest of all spirits.
Our hostess—known popularly as the conductor of uptowns’ underground railway—was in fine form. Never one to shy away from a squabble, she threw down with what was purported to be a divine influence at 3 a.m., only to be escorted back into reality by her companion. As he smoked his 17th blunt, 9th joint and 2nd spliff of the evening, all that was intelligible under his virtuous breath was “Clowns all up in my shit tonight.” Fearful of being associated with said cast of inauspicious holy characters knocking on heaven’s door, I contemplated joining him in his 167th inhalation of the night to avoid suspicion.
Having seemingly blended in with the after-hours indulgence, I headed east in search of the holy land of nourishment. There was a self-proclaimed anti-Zionist fat man who patrolled the hummus scene as if it were national sovereignty itself that was at stake. One had to lay their convictions out on the table, just to take an inglorious cuuk to the hummm. He shouted at me with a rage inconsistent with the evening’s glee: “What to do with these miserable white settlers of far-off origins who have now resided in the promise land for several generations on top of the bones and land of the native peoples?” Caught off guard, I mustered the only response that came to me in that moment: “Ah are you going to eat those grape leaves you’re presiding over? Apparently this was not the answer he was looking for. 6 polemics later I was still addicted to the Sabra brand of revival, but ever-more desirous of redemption for our people.
I fear to tell you that there were allegations against the Irish that interrupted the very flow of happiness and good cheer that had commenced. The assertion that they themselves had colonized Jamaica and influenced the very foundations of Patua persisted well into the night. That there were individual Irishmen of blood-sucking and parasitic origins is not in question here. Every nation has its sellers of souls and homelands. But how a nation could colonize others, when they themselves had yet to decolonize their own shores, continues to bewilder me.
And there were words brethren! Words that have no place in a dignified dwelling nor in a gentleman’s vocabulary. “Cunt, fart, queef, cougar, milf”… What are the origins of such mischievous utterances? Where do we place such filthy expressions? Do they deserve a place in the spectrum of human expression? To censor them would only guarantee their place in martyrdom. Alas, it is true, if they are the zenith of vulgarity, where then do we assign the F-16 jets, the white phosphorus, the nuclear hypocrisy, & the murderous occupations? Surely this is a realm of vulgarity that the liberal apologists for recolonization are content to overlook as they sip their tea of antipathy and dip their hypocrisy into their dilettantish babaganoush.
No. No brother. The dawn was not without its folly. Some quality Jordanian and South African cadre and countrywomen fell and they fell hard. Citizens and comrades among them, they took to the hard wood, seemingly in protest of the scourge of alcohol and the iron clenched grip it has on our community’s soul.
Yes brethren yes. I hear your objections. Yes there was kombucha and there was kale. I made sure they were present. However, they were but a seagull’s tears in the vast oceans of booze that had flooded the popular consciousness. It was as if destarchifyer’s very presence and example had been drowned out in the feverish, lumpen pitch of the night.
I fear our PSL mentees did not escape unscathed either. For he who entered a lad of naïveté, left a veteran of the 21st century. The mighty Red Guard troops had their righteous hands full, proselytizing the word of George Habash, Ho Chi Minh and Leila Khaled to a crowd who class instincts were dulled by licentiousness.
By sun up, proletarian discipline itself had given up hope in this feeble generation and set out onto Broadway in search of a new mission. Countrymen—not content with the company of one female relation—nestled in between vallys of sensuality, causing rifts in our class that promise to reverberate far into the daylight. I fear for the future of our class brother. We request your return from self-exile in Mooseland as soon as it is humanly possible. Surely Putin will foot the bill. You can return to moose-hunting, commiserating with Gus Hall and hiding from the sun when 140th St. and Amsterdam are again under working-class control.
With urgency,
Your 9th cousin
