Date: Thu, 4 Mar 1999 19:41:45 -0800 (PST)
Subject: MB: THE DEATH OF POSTMODERNISM: THE JOLLY ROGER


                      www.jollyroger.com
                        THE JOLLY ROGER
          FLAGSHIP OF THE WORLD'S CLASSICAL COMMUNITY
         SCIENCE, RELIGION, AND FREEDOM: HUMILITY'S GIFTS
   The World's Largest Literary Cafe: http://killdevilhill.com
                             Avast!         	        THE JOLLY ROGER 
               Flagship of The Renaissance Generation
           http://jollyroger.com/beaconway/jollyroger.html
   Three tall masts emerging from the postmodern fog to pick ye up.
           www.jollyroger.com(TM) PRESENTS: THE GOOD SHIP 
             BATTLING THE WATERLOGGED POSTMODERN VESSELS,
 SAVING AMERICA (AND THUS THE WORLD) FROM THE DARK AGES OR SOMETHING
                PRINTED WITH 100% RECYCLED ELECTRONS, 
                WRITTEN WITH WORDS THAT MEAN THINGS.
                     The Most Perfect Silence	      
	     I know where the most perfect silence is,
             Seen it in the wild blue off Hatteras,
             A mile out, rainbowed sails in silent bliss,
             Looked like they'd collide, but they safely passed.
             I know when the most perfect silence is,
             Down a dusty Ohio road, high noon,
             No shirt on, being burned by the sun's kiss,
             Sixteen, takin' my time-- it was still June.
             I know what the most perfect silence is,
             It's what we say when falling out of love,
             It roars and thunders right through the kiss,
             Says all that no words can ever speak of.
             I know why the most perfect silence is,
             It is there for the whisper to be born,
             The whisper in her ear became the kiss,
             Just a dream in DC early one morn.
             I know who the perfect silence is for,
             It is for the ones whom we love the best,
             It is there to protect them from our core,
             By the silent trust we all seek to rest.
             And I know how rare that silence can be,
             With everyone talkin', it's hard to hear,
             But I know I felt it, on the streets of DC,
             The sound in her eyes-- it was crystal clear.
             And it brought back to mind the rainbowed sails,
             And the way it looked like they would collide,
             Like two souls set upon fate's iron rails,
             But the most perfect silence never died.
       THE LARGEST, MOST-FEARED LITERARY FRIGATE ON THE WWW
                   ARMED WITH THE WESTERN CANON
          FLAGSHIP OF THE CONSERVATIVE LITERARY REVOLUTION
        copyright 1996-1999 jollyroger.com & Elliot McGucken
Anyone attempting to deconstruct anything on the good ship will be
keelhauled.  Anyone pirating anything without proper reference will have
their throat slit.             THE FREQUENCY, KENNETH, is
www.jollyroger.com 
   to sign aboard THE JOLLY ROGER, send the message, join jollyroger
                     to jollyroger-AT-jollyroger.com
  The World's Largest Literary Cafe: http://killdevilhill.com
Because we can't, we won't, and we don't stop writing great literature.
Upon this immaculate deck smoking dope isn't cool.  Sober thought is.
If ye don't like it, get off my Ship and go watch the Real World-- Ahab
                                                    THE JOLLY ROGER
                          A One Canon Ship.
              Technology cannot change what words mean,
              there's yet us, the  phantoms in the machine.
              THE JOLLY ROGER'S PRIMARY CARGO: THE TRUTH
                  by Captain Drake "Red Avenger" Raft
	Ahoy mate!  Welcome aboard The Jolly Roger, the fastest-sailing 
literary movement on the seven cyber-seas!  Hold on to your hat and 
prepare to ship under full sail, as we let the canvas stretch taut in
the 
truth's ragin' wind.  We're navigating the world, setting in stone the 
deeper reality of the common American consciousness, and embroidering 
terror into the tenured elite/editor/professor/media-mogul heart.  They 
read our poems, find themselves thinking, and start getting nervous.  
This we understand, because they know what we've come for.  We've come 
for what is ours.  We're pirating academia and pop-culture and
returning 
them to the common man.  And what really gets 'em is that we're having 
fun doin' it.  We shiver their timbers.
	We aboard The Good Ship can't come close to expressing how 
fortunate we are for the presence of the WWW, and we're keeping busy 
rising to the occasion.  This is a historical moment, folks, for no 
longer does one have to submit one's literature to liberal journals
that 
nobody reads to start a literary revolution.  Instead, one can submit 
their thoughts directly to the intellects of the people.
	We're proud to be using this new medium to pay homage to the 
deeper souls of our generation.  MTV isn't set up to do it, the bastion 
of tenured-liberal-elite professors are too busy filling out grant 
proposals to fund the journals that nobody reads, and the pot-heads on 
alt.society.generation-x think that words were invented to brown-nose
feminist instructors or something.  It's up to us to do the job that
the 
Universities profess to do, but for the most part are failing to 
accomplish.  The aging liberal bureaucracies can't afford to let words 
mingle with the truth, as the truth would exalt the peoples' souls, and 
the shallowness and insipidness of the watered-down multi-cultural 
(victimology) curriculums and Trent Reznor would become apparent.  
	While the elite are doing their best to keep us in the dark, 
we're going to inspire a generation to read Great Literature by
rewarding 
them with the truth for their efforts.  And while we're performing the 
noble task, we're also going to do MTV's job.  We might as well.  We're 
going to express our souls in an artistic manner.  And we're going to
do 
it with words, even if it means that David Geffen can't make a buck off 
of it.  There's a literary renaissance underway, and it's leaving port 
today.  We're not waiting for the New York-based editors to acquire an 
appreciation for the Great Books and develop respect for the common
sense 
and intellect of the people of this country-- we could be dead white 
males by then.
	We would like to extend a special warm welcome to our peers-- the 
members of generation-x.  We didn't coin the term, and we're not trying 
to get you to drink Pepsi or anything, so like listen up a sec.  We're 
proud to be the voice of the contemplating generation x-er's, inspired
by 
truths higher than heroin, preferring thinking to drinking, and mowing 
the grass to smoking it.  We're cultural mutineers, guardian angels of 
common sense, defenders of the subtle, known and feared in creative 
writing workshops across the land.  We're the most dangerous poets
alive, 
and should be watched, according to a few feminists we've encountered
on 
the net.  They're pretty desperate, with their tax-funded power-base 
fading and all, so like they have to stoop to trying to tie us in with 
every bomb that some deranged psycho sets off.  But really we're just 
your clean-cut Boy Scout types who don't mind havin' fun, now and then, 
with an attitude.  
	What really freaks the fringe feminists out is that we believe in 
romance, and our poetry is written in such an oppressive context.  We 
like women, and that upsets them.  We like Beavis, Butthead, and Rush, 
and we fear no administrators armed with degrees in education-- we've
got 
a Canon on this frigate, and it's a big one.  We're the writing on the 
wall, the whispering wind, the unseen crack, and MTV doesn't have a 
half-hour show on us, 'cause Kurt Loder doesn't know what the hell we 
are.  We're invisible to the whole mass-market media industry,
filtering 
into the consciousness of our peers on the glorious WWW, undetected by 
the elites' out-dated radar.  There's no way that they can use us to
get 
our peers to join Columbia House, so like what we think doesn't
matter.  
We just have one question for the record industry-- alternative to what?
        And the New York corporate conglomerate publishers think we're 
nuts.  You'd think they'd be our friends, with the way we're both 
fundamentally in the same business of trying to create things that
people 
want to read, but we freak 'em out.  To them we're off our rockers,
we've 
got bats in the belfry, we're over the rainbow, playing without a full 
deck, gone fishin'.  Our oboes are out of tune.  We've never been
funded 
by the NEA, nor have we won any creative writing awards, and we're not
on 
heroin, nor are we in rehab, and we haven't been shot nor abused by our 
step-parents, nor have we cheated on our wives or murdered them or 
anything, so like our credibility is a bit lacking.  And our work
doesn't 
divulge any new sexual positions either.  And get this-- some of it
even 
rhymes.  Don't we know that they need literature to level the playing 
field and poetry to compensate for the history of Western Culture's 
oppressive concepts, like the Parthenon, Hamlet, and Science?  The 
literary intellectual arenas they control, like the major publishing 
houses, newspapers, magazines, and English and Womens' Studies (liberal 
bureaucracy) departments, are far too valuable to be wasted on concepts 
like the Truth.  Why can't we be useful and go off and make higher 
resolution TV's, or something, with our linear minds, so we can augment 
the world's Pulp Fiction viewing experience now that it's at corner 
Blockbuster?  Why can't we smoke something, or drop something, or shoot 
something, and sing something so that we can create something MTV could 
include in their arsenal?  What the bejeezus-- didn't we learn anything 
in college? Didn't we learn that words don't mean things?
	But hey-- we'd rather be nuts than stupid, which is what they 
think you are.  They think you're incapable of literature-- literature 
that means something, without pictures.  Even some of the younger 
editors, fresh out of their deconstructionist theory courses, won't
admit 
that you exist.  You know, the happy campers who lived down the
hall, who were always putting those 'Save the GALS,' posters on their 
doors.  In college they enjoyed having their minds liberated by the 
"lesbian lover literature" they encountered in their women's-lit
courses, 
and they sanctimoniously went into the literary business to make the 
world a better place-- we wish they'd gone to Cambodia.  'Cause we're
not 
sure if they'd know a piece of literature if it bit 'em in the hiney. 
It 
seems that for the most part these guys feel good about making money
off 
of anything neon that has something to do with sex, drugs, and 
rock'n'roll, with a sprinkle of some PC social engineering, to assuage 
any guilt that a person might feel from making money off of sex, drugs, 
and rock'n roll.  Their baby-boomer bosses all cleaned up on that 
strategy as the Western Heritage was desecrated, and that's who they
have 
to brown-nose to advance, so like they can't afford our intellectual 
irreverence.  Meaning doesn't occur to them, so they conclude it
doesn't 
occur to you either.  After all, you're not in New York.  You're in 
fly-over country, where some parents are so backwards that they still 
hang out with each-other after conception and teach their children to 
tell the Truth.  But the Truth doesn't exist, and that's why they have
to 
resort to trying to 'fool' you into reading, by marketing everything
with 
neon covers and getting their friends at Details to call it, 'The
Catcher 
in the Rye of the Grunge Generation.'  As if.  Then they complain that 
literature doesn't make money.  They blame it on you.  It's your fault 
because you're off listening to Smashing Pumpkins, watching Friends,
and 
sending all your money to Columbia House and your college loan officer, 
instead of buying their neon contemporary classics that look more like 
boxes of Tide than books.  You're too stupid, so they're forced into 
printing more picture histories of Aerosmith.  It's your fault we're
all 
slackers.  You're responsible for the illiteracy in this country, and 
teen pregnancy, drug addicts, and violence on TV, 'cause you're a
flaming 
idiot, incapable of culture.  That is what they think of you. You are 
holding back the literary geniuses of this nation, and as a result, 
America must be content with Rikki Lake.  And Brett Easton Ellis has to 
compromise his Shakespearean tendencies and write books about
mutilating 
women.  Douglas Coupland has to write about shampoo, because of you,
and 
you won't ever let him put plot or memorable characters in his 
contemporary masterpieces.  You consumers suck-- just look what you've 
done to America.  And now France is worried about the effects of our 
culture on them.  You, generation-x, should be ashamed of yourselves,
and 
stuff.  Look what you're doing to the world.  Just thank God that some 
people in congress are willing to give you an opportunity to correct it 
all, by paying more taxes to fund future NEA projects to enhance our 
culture.  You'd better vote for them, or else things will really be
your 
fault.  I read it in Rolling Stone.        No.
        This is America.  If one wants great literature, one doesn't go 
and petition the government for funds to create it.  One picks up a pen 
and writes it.  And while the baby-boomer elite are whining that nobody 
buys the generation-x novels they write for themselves, we're going to 
author the literature that means something to the sober soul of our 
peers.   If you're into novels which detail the adventures of moral 
characters coming of age in the postmodern fog, check out The Drake
Raft 
Field Trip.  A guitar solo couldn't capture the sentiment, but the 
printed word could.
	These days are cool.  We can't emphasize the good luck we've had 
with the WWW.  To start a literary revolution, we didn't have to submit 
our literature to literary magazines that nobody reads.  We didn't have 
to waste our time brown-nosing liberal mediocrity in some creative 
writing workshop somewhere.  The WWW allows us to submit our quality 
product, written with 100% words that mean things, directly to you.  So 
like pull up a deck chair, grab a coke, and watch on as we pirate the 
profound context of the Great Books which has been buried 'neath 
postmodernism, nihilism, modern liberalism, and radical feminism.  And 
before they cross the path of the Good Ship, all the 
obfuscating-there-are-no-truths-venemous-feminists-and-friends should 
know that we're not interested in taking any prisoners.  They'll be 
welcome aboard our fine frigate as sailors if they should choose to
work 
for the Truth, but either way we are intent on sinking their 
waterlogged-tax-and-tuition-funded postmodern vessels with blasts of 
Truth fired from the Western Canon.  They can call us slackers all they 
want, but while they're headed on down to Davey Jones' locker, we're 
going to be sailing into the dawn of a brand new literary era, seeking 
the ungraspable phantom of life.  Avast!  The White Whale yet swims
free!
At Yer Service,Captain Drake Red Avenger Raft,
First Mate Becket Bluebeard Knottingham,Second Mate Elliot Ahab McGucken.
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