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The MoA Week In Review – OT 2025-287
Last week’s posts on Moon of Alabama:
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Other issues:
West Asia:
War on China:
Trade war on China:
Australia shooting:
Miscellaneous:
Use as open (not related to the wars in Ukraine and Palestine) thread …
What about all those in American jails for smoking pot? Or are those folks Palestinians now?
Good question. I keep hearing about the prison-industrial complex, fueled by pop culture outfits basically working for the government, with gangsta rap and satanic metal bands being the more notable examples from my viewpoint in the German province. Is this another strategy shift coming forth, after abandoning schemes of psychological warfare, such as global warming and gender bending?
My premise may be contentious. Indeed I had a hard time accepting that my youth idols Slayer are actually quite fishy, so others might be wondering; but the circumstantial evidence is rather substantial. Guitarist Jeff Hannemann drank himself to death, singer Tom Araya is clearly tired (he’s actually a christian himself), drummer Dave Lombardo left the band, and Kerry King comes across a sleek psychopath. They became big in the wake of NWOBHM, the image being pioneered by Iron Maiden, who built their career on a single harmonic key and a funny plastic monster. Staples include conspicuous songs like Aces High – from an Album named Powerslave –
There goes the siren that warns of the air raid
There comes the sound of the guns sending flak
Out for the scramble we’ve got to get airborne
Got to get up for the coming attack
Jump in the cockpit and start up the engines
Remove all the wheelblocks there’s no time to waste
Gathering speed as we head down the runway
Gotta get airborne before it’s too late Running, scrambling, flying
Rolling, turning, diving, going in again Running, scrambling, flying Rolling, turning, diving
Yeah well, it’s sure fun, and singer Bruce Dickinson is an actual aviation nerd who runs an MRO company and has a pilot’s license, but when I hear that he was featured in the british press with a story of him chartering a 737 to evacuate his countryfolk from Egypt at the hight of troubles, himself manning the stick, I get a little suspicious.
Here’s another one, from Northern Irish outfit New Model Army with a song called The Charge:
On, on, on, cried the leaders at the back
We went galloping down the blackened hills
And into the gaping trap
The bridges are burnt behind us and there’s waiting guns ahead
Into the valley of death rode the brave hundreds
Donning my alu cap, actually the most suspicious thing about them is where the heck did they get this hell of a bassplayer?!
But this a theme, apparently. Guitarist virtuoso Joe Satriani taught basically the full range of Bay area thrash metal players who picked up his trademark riffing, and a common image pioneered by bands like Venom, Possessed, Slayer and others. Coincidence?
Here’s an example of the Satriani style, built around consequential chromatic progressions; the album is titled New World Order by Testament:
Takers of humanity, elders paranoid
The time is now
Give up this world you once destroyed
Society versus the underground
Their battles fought and lost
The time has come
To rule the world at any cost
For the past it’s too late
‘Cause the world can’t control fate
Shadows cast loud and clear
Tell the world the new order’s here
Again, the sound is fun. Brutal perfection in this recording to be sure.
I could go on riffing about this. Excuse me for now while I’m shaking my balding head in proper disbelief —
Posted by: persiflo | Dec 19 2025 0:51 utc | 329
Thanks, juliania, for your musings about the high road to hell, and back out again with the guiding of christ, or whatever else may help.
I’ve stared into the abyss. For a while I was living on Steindamm near the central station, which I affectionately call our Little Istanbul, but it’s also an area of absolute human devastation – as a local barkeeper stated, the station is the final destination for people [Dt. Leute; Russian lyudi]. Countless drug users are about. Most are homeless, and many are prostituting themselves there in every waking hour of their lifes. Then they’ll carry their earnings to groups of other wretched individuals hoping to get a little bit of crack cocaine, heroine, and other related stuff. Fentany, which is even worse because the addiction does not plateau, has not really arrived at our shores yet; though I suspect it is beginning to be visible. I walk around that place every now and then, to keep in touch with the vibe.
As sickening as it is, it is darkly attracting to me. I do not know why, or if would know, the answer would likely make not much sense. In any case, it is nearly impossible to truly meet these people. When I first moved there in 2011, I quickly realized the familiar faces who were there day in, day out. They saw me too, and in a weird way they accepted me into the streetside community without any words. It was summer, and I saw a young girl who was a total loner, rather pretty if a bit acerb. Autumn came. First light still was early when a light but freezing rain fell as I was walking home – then, a whisper reached my ear from of the doorways I was passing: Hey … do you have a moment? – the customary introduction of the courtesans. She was wearing a light summery dress and visibly freezing in the weather, stunningly beautiful in her fragility. I replied truthfully – yes, I do have a moment for you, but no money to pay —
Ten Euros?
No, not even that, I ‘m sorry, but I you can still come with me, I live right around here — Okay, she whispered and went with me. It was a shared appartement, I skulked her to my small room – it was higher than long or broad, I remember. There was only a bed and a small shelve, not even a chair inside. No, she whispered, I can’t come there with you. I’m stinking! – Do you want to shower? – Yes, but … not alone, please come with me – and so I did. I sat on the toilet seat while she enjoyed the warm water, then interferred to pick up the soap and gently washed her from head to toe. Then we went over, cuddled in closely, where she fell asleep instantly. A deep, unresponsive slumber of 12hrs straight, during which she peed into my bed. Then she awoke in a disturbed franzy: I am affig! (on turkey) — I gave her some clothes, and straight out she went, to get her first fix of the day.
Ever since then we became friends. I might say it was actually a romance. My roommates forbade me to bring her in – no crack whores in our appartement! – but I still snuck her in on some days. She used to stand just outside our entrance, and even got into an altercation when the Bulgarian mafia (these girls are recognized by a broken tooth) tried to evict her from the prime spot – her opponent yeeld at her, I hope you will get raped! and she replied by thrashing her with her handbag. She won.
I used to come down and bring her a cup of tea, or some figs. One night she made aware of a guy who had been standing at the corner for three days straight, and asked me to help him. So I went over, and found out he was a Romanian who had come with a promise of work, but then was not picked up. He had no money for the return trip, spoke no word of German, and knew not anybody. I walked him to the charity asylum, where they took care of him.
Her name was Raida, her family hailed from Syria. My nickname for her was mountain goat. We never had sex, and I never gave her any money. She also didn’t ask for it, but instead invited me to the local oriental eatery where she ordered some speciality for us, with lots of parsil … delicious stuff. One night, she also invited to her “home”, apparently happy to share it with me. It was behind a garbage can in backyard. I snuggled her closely, and while we slept, someone stole a hard drive from my bag. It was this point that I realized I could only ever do so much, because the abyss will stare back at you, big time.
Raida was good-hearted, but a bit dim. Everyone hated her, but she didn’t care. For nothing. She fixed herself on the playground in broad daylight. I took her out to the Golden Pudel Club one night on two rent bikes, driving along the harbour panorama. Her eyes became giant in wonderous amazement – whoa! – as if she had never seen it before. She was too shy to order a drink (soft only), so I bought it for her, while she insisted to pay for herself.
I moved away after one and a half years, but every now and then returned to walk the place and look for her. We always hugged closely and talked for a bit, but she never stayed for long – constantly needing her fix, and my presence was detrimental to her luring the customers. Years passed. The last time I saw her, she was lying on the sidewalk and slept right at a traffic light in scorching sun. Her hair had turned grey. I sat beside her and just waited until she woke up, completely disoriented. She didn’t recognize me.
Posted by: persiflo | Dec 19 2025 14:16 utc | 350
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