Occupy Liberty Plaza

I was there when the Progressives destroyed the movement of Reflective Conscious in the sixties. Trust fund babies temporarily dressed in thrift store rags infiltrated a movement begun by intellectuals while academics, the clarion call for dogmatic conformism in the name of compassion, coopted what had been a genuine reaction to the self-indulgent nihilism of the Beat Generation.

Suddenly, what had been an earnest discussion of women’s rights became the moronic ex cathedra tautology known as Feminism, ontological inquiry into the human condition became drug-induced Zen, and serious scrutiny of engaging communist forces in Vietnam became the vapid slogan, “Hell no, we won’t go!”

My contemporaries celebrated the party at Woodstock as the dawning of a new age. Joni Mitchell and Crosby, Stills and Nash made a fortune from the legacy of the three days of stoned-out hard fucking in the rain. I helped arrange transportation for some folks to get to Woodstock but I did not want to go. I did not want to stand on the ground and watch the age of Reflective Conscious die in giving birth to the age of Who Can Say Because I Don’t Relate To The Plastic People But I Demand A Life Filled With Goodies.

The intellectual rabble drove out the intellectuals with their Progressive politics. But the rabble had no choice. You see, intellectuals are not people who read abstruse tomes of recondite philosophy or pretend that thoughtless expression is art. They are not products of universities because universities abhor and suppress them. An intellectual is a simple thing: a person who seeks the truth in everything.

The universities, the government, political groups, the rabble—all demand conformity with their pronouncements. Progressives demand it the most, and tolerate dissent the least, because they stand on the thinnest ice, remnants of the fashionable leftist fascism of the nineteen twenties.

Now the intellectual rabble have gathered on Wall Street for some drug-induced hard fucking while decrying profits and greed in between texting remorse on the death of uber-rich Steve Jobs on their beloved IPhones.

Give me a break. Make Profit Not Politics. Occupy Reality. Seek Truth. The winter of your discontent is looming and yet you curse the sun as if it appears in the sky just for you. Fill Liberty Plaza with conscious. Wait—first, I need a mocha latte, man.



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