Late July 2021
Abridged Too Far - Shakespeare Abridged
This morning I was out and about, running errands, or I should say, driving them. On the freeway of I-80, Interstate 80, I took notice of a new billboard. This one might have replaced the ubiquitous State of California Billboard Karen and her crow’s feet. That Fall/Winter 2020 Gavin Nag-Alert was to wear a mask, after the Nag Order to Stay-Indoors.
The entire citizenry of the State of California had been mandated and edicted to stay indoors, yet again, during those post-Election and holiday weeks of 2020, while the hypocrite idiots of non-governance were partying and racking up a 5-figure wine tab at a weirdly-named restaurant for weirdly-named people. Most of those weirdos are believed by too many Californians to be “running the State.”
Running is the operative word here. The Official Corporate Shills are either running for office or running away from the duties of being in office; or, during Re-Election, perpetrating high-as-a-kite fibs and flights on several fronts.
The corruption racket in California has been going on since the Gold Rush. The cover-up that got covered up was flim-flam finessed by the hippie-dippie-trippie-do-gooder veneer of the 1970s community college board member, a real Daddy’s boy who hates Daddy:
Edmund Gerald Brown, Jr., affectionately known as “Jerry”.
When I first moved to the Golden State, Jerry was commonly known as a joke, a snooty, sniveling condescending phony. Why the citizens kept wanting to elect him, even as Mayor of Oakland, is a matter I no longer ponder; but many of them probably did contemplate their foolishness — from states outside of the Eureka State.
Way back then, in 1979, Governor Medfly Moonbeam was jet-setting through his second term of his first 8-year guzzle at the public-service aqueduct. For his second two-term swill at the till, Jerry ran on the Nativist Sentiment. By the time he was done with his purist brand of payola, there were tens of thousands of fewer natives in this state!
The second troughing of the rested-and-ready egghead retread, Greedy Geezer Gerald, was done to further stuff his bulging pockets — while Californians lost their pocketbooks during the Great Recession. Jerry is one of those childless barren buzzards that the globalist banksters prefer to boss around behind-the-scenes. This closet-narcissist was back on the LA-boob-tube just today, advising the State he helped to bankrupt (twice) on how to deal with fiscal stress that’s coming — through control and discipline.
Yup, lean, mean, green Jerry would love another shot at the State House, or maybe he’ll get that White House gig he was deprived of by Slick Willie in 1992. I mean, Edmund Jr. is only 83 years old. So what if he’s addled?! That’s the Swamp Template to “run” America! The abridged edition that has been abridged too far.
Mercifully, Jerry the Stiff-necked Vulture has finally been term-limited; he can’t suck any more off the state taxpayer teat. I’m sure his retirement package is well-padded. Moonbeam’s a holier-than-thou tightwad who’s always getting into a tizzy over not being able to spend more of your money to save Mother Earth. He’s a true believer, whereas Gavin is a verifiable addict —of so many things, he likely can’t keep track of them. He lets the lobbyists do it for him.
Jerry’s a skinflint zealot; Gavin’s just a junkie. Central Casting posits Jerry as Misanthrope Scrooge. Gavin is Spendthrift Le Fou.
These political idiots live in a clueless crooked world of their own wherein they are the avengers and victims at the same time.
During the 1990s, the voters in California passed, through ballot initiative, a whole slew of term limits to deal with the entrenched tax-guzzlers. All that electoral limiting did was to periodically and systematically rotate the rogues, like recycling those plastics that are now outlawed in this state. I guess the plastics industry didn’t pony up enough money for the latest crop of “public” servants. The freedoms of the citizens keep getting abridged as the political lifetimes of these two-faced clowns seem to go on forever.
By the gubernatorial election of 2018, this state was in a complete state of chaos, filth, dung, fire and crumbling. Sodom and Gomorrah, aka San Francisco and Los Angeles, were joined by that packed-in crescent population to sweep the latest uppity twit into the State House. The Camp Fire of 8-25 November 2018 was emblematic of the entire botched job of this young Guv-punk drunk on his own power.
Methinks Jerry set up Gavin for a fall, not a windfall. There’s no love lost between the Brown and the Newsom families. Such dynasties they built out here in the West! The public works payoffs and the Sonoma-cheesy gimmicks for federal funding of disastrous mandates underwrite the entire moronic mess.
Looking out for the little guy just keeps making Gavin look smaller and smaller and smaller. Gavin le Petit put out a wowza book in 2013 entitled Citizenville. That literary work is currently being abridged. His 2020 bridge to the White House became a bridge to nowhere. And Gavin is evidently owned by more lobbyists than he could possibly have time and money to repay!
Oh, the stress that came his way! That’s coming his way! It’s enough to drive a boy to drink, even as he lectures We the Citizens to get sober.
Since his election, the theme song of California has been the David Frizzell one-hit wonder of the summer of 1982:
I’m Gonna Hire a Wino to Decorate our Home.
Did the voters of California even bother to think, to consider, to entertain the reality that pot, pills and Napa-drink are the best friends Gavin Newsom ever had? They’ll always be there for him, long after the equally looped lobbyists and his looney snow-queen aunt are long gone with their sacks of cash and bags of laughs at the people who got suckered, once again, at their own expense.
I mean, we The Citizens pay for those silly stupid billboards along the freeways that we also pay for, along with the dopey freeway-overhead digital billboards to tell us what to do, when to do it, what not to do, where to go, where not to go, and how to abide by those stream-of-unconsciousness rules and regulations. I-80 in Placer County was overrun last year by Covid-Karen and her trench-deep crows feet, and by the ginormous LA-based Spanish-language billboards and digital posters, hectoring everyone to wear a mask, save lives; and, then, later, to get your vax. So we can all save those lives all over again.
Where, when you need them, are those roaming gangs that used to artfully grafitti-obliterate the billboards of capitalism? Maybe those angry young males left California when the going-out-of-business businesses headed out of Commifornia. All we have left now for billboards on the super-highways are publicly paid-for PSA directives from the Pulpit of Gavin the Pious, according to the epistle of spite. Newsom has a lifetime of malice to inflict on all those others who did him wrong. And so we, the California Citizens, have been treated to the Billboards of Bile as Gavin vents his spleen and sucks his thumb. There’s an endless bare canvas of grudges, grievances, vengeance, gripes, squawks, whines in petty human form.
This new billboard on the freeway in my county announced the upcoming Shakespeare Festival at Lake Tahoe: The Complete Works of Shakespeare — ABRIDGED.
How does one abridge the Bard, onstage, or anywhere? And how does anyone not know that “Complete Works — Abridged” — is an oxymoron?
In this land of morons, the oxymoron reigns supreme.
Maybe these plays performed in the High Sierra are the PC versions of Bill, the Elizabethan guy with the one earring. There’s one slippery slope for the classics to descend into mediocre modernity!
There are no titles of the performances, but the dates are posted, at the very bottom, in a time-frame. No specifics on this ad-placard, at a location that has historically been reserved for a Reno hotel or casino. The theatre-presenters are not taking many chances with this schlock pantomime known as State Government. Who knows when the toggle-switch will be flipped yet again?!
It’s as if the people providing these downsized dramatic plots are afraid to post specific dates when the play might be the thing. Last year’s theatrical season was completely wiped out, cancelled, COVID-DOA. Keep Tahoe Blue got recycled into Tahoe Blue Vodka.
Maybe even the Festival actors, the quintessential part-time waiters and waitresses, have decided to take that taxpayer-funded unemployment rather than work for the peanuts that amateur thespians typically earn.
I must state here that I’ve never been to the Tahoe Shakespeare Festival, or to any Shakespeare Festival. That outdoor setting amidst the Ponderosa pines was fantastic for the tv-series Bonanza, and for my first novel NORTHSTAR, but it is far too distracting for an audience who needs to focus on live performances of Shakespeare’s poetic techniques and devices. The acoustics must be horrendous, if not non-existent. Loud-speakers must be the auditory delivery system, in the tradition of Gavin the Loudmouth.
Maybe the Shakespearean speakers can multi-task, through some public funding, to cry out, from the boards, the latest PSA command for whatever calamity has struck the government grandstanders! Crowd-funding has never been easier for a political campaign!
I say, in true hockey tradition: Into the boards with all of those masked marauders of the public dole.
Those thespian roles on-stage must compete with the winds, the weather, and the alpine elements of the off-stage Sierra Nevada. It was a stupid idea that never took wing. Bringing the Bard to life on the shores of Lake Tahoe has been a financial flop, necessitating the introduction of “more contemporary works”, and the non-profit 501 C (3) status that assures the politically-correct pabulum whose entertainment value is zilch. The current outreach to children and schools, and the awarding of grants are all ominous signs that Shakespeare is a pretext for politicized dreck masquerading as “art”.
The wine-and-cheese soirées of the highbrow hippies have been replaced by the parvenu tofu-and-vodka elites of social-justice funding.
It shouldn’t happen to a playwright, much less to Shakespeare: Reduced to the ignoble role of angling for government grants! Such a tragedy, a real tragedy, even for the comedies. I can just see “As You Like It” repurposed into “As We Don’t Like It” or, even more cancel-culture-yummy, “As We Wish It Would Be.”
In the real-life histrionics of every-day life in California, and in America, the roles of Professional and Amateur have become completely reversed. It’s a grotesque role reversal of which, I am sure, the Bard of Avon wrote eloquently. Perhaps those poetic lines are the redacted truths in this morality play of The Golden State gone dark, dull, stupid, smoky and gloomy.
The people who pose as Public Professionals are amateurish dolts. They’ve never truly worked a day in their lives, at least not where capitalism and commerce and marketable job skills are concerned. And the people who are the real professionals, they’ve been reduced to plying their trades on part-time, quarter-time, no-time basis — with ever-diminishing profits.
The crackerjack technicians of countless skills are treated by the dullard “ruling” class like that wimpy prize in the box of the first junk food, Cracker Jack. And now Cracker Jack does not even contain that “toy gift”. The consumer gets a QR Code that can be excitingly used to download a baseball-themed game. In our digital faux-cosmos, the Cracker Jack toy can easily take on the form of an installer of malware!
The merciless lamebrains in public office are the real malware.
Some industries and businesses have been so shattered by the shuttering of capitalism in this State that they do not trust going fully back to work. Many business-owners are holding their breath, or are simply fearful of Something Else being done to them, shoved down their throats by fiat to further destroy their financial futures. The past they’ve written off, or sold off as they exited California.
The booming and incessant State of California ads online, paid for by the beleaguered citizens and proffered by the mealy-mouthed Merchant of California bellow: California is roaring back!!!!
California is not roaring back. California is tuckered out. Shakespeare in The Merchant of Venice said it best about Gavin and his gruesome gang of grifters and graft-grabbers:
“You speak an infinite deal of nothing.”
My new chunk of property has been brown-dirt bare for almost a year now. In March, I finally located a professional landscaper who works well with the blank-canvas model, and I was put on the waiting list.
The 5-month wait is now over. This past week, the landscaper arrived at my Larkhaven, with a few creative ideas for me to further develop — from the creative landscape designs that I gave to him in March. But finding materials is increasingly frustrating, on a day-by-day basis. And the price, in accordance with that indestructible law of supply-and-demand, just keeps getting higher!
The real problem, though, for this veteran hard-scaper and gardener is finding enough decent employees to carry out the work. I think he’s better off shedding himself of the slackers who probably wouldn’t think twice about bankrupting him with a lawsuit intended to milk the Workman’s Compensation Insurance that has drained the state coffers nearly dry.
Real malpractice and malfeasance are committed daily, hourly, month-by-month by the hogs at the government gutter. Why the majority of the people of the State of California have not wised up to this reality long before the Covid-Shutdown Farce, I do not know.
I do know that the voter participation rate in this State has been low for many years. That citizen-suppression scheme has been the name of the Uniparty/Globalist game for quite a while, perhaps decades. In the late 1990s, I personally met with Secretary of State Bill Jones, one of the lone Republican holdouts in this State. I asked him what was being done about those dead-voter rolls.
And what about these judges on the ballot? I need to know more than just their names. Voters need pertinent information on these individuals, their educational backgrounds, as well as the records of their rulings that can affect hearth and home, and livelihoods.
Mr. Jones nodded with great solemnity, but he made no statement to me on the subject. His silence spoke volumes to me.
As the last Republican Secretary of State of California, he did establish a first-ever Elections Summit to review the elections laws, and a Voter Fraud Task Force to guarantee a fraud-free voting system. As the state's chief elections officer, Mr, Jones publicly declared his goal of: “100 percent participation but zero tolerance for voter fraud.”
I believe he was sincere in his quest; and I think he honestly believed in the use of that new technology, The Internet, to streamline those pure as the wind-driven chaff elections. He spearheaded the modernization of California voting, announcing, “California citizens should be online, not in-line.”
By 2002, this last GOP statewide officer holder had dug up too much dirt to be kept alive politically in a state where imbecile coastal elites reign supreme over those shrewd hicks in the sticks and resourceful farmers in the big valley. Why, Mr, Jones, an aggie, was born in Coalinga, Fresno County. Can any town be more hayseed?
While the hordes here in California moan and bewail their fates as of late, I shrug with an indifference that is not typical of me. When working-class people continue to think that “taxing the rich” does not come a-calling on their own cash flow, I can only conclude they’ve got the wrong ideas about money, how it is made, how it is invested, how it is squandered, and how it benefits the lying, cheating pilfering cowards called politicians. Eat-the-rich has resulted in the poorer citizens being eaten, nearly alive, by the politicians they invited to their own dinner table.
The so-called and wrongly-called Party of the Working Class is in its final stages of destroying the working class. The nobility of working with your hands, of engaging in labour, was long ago tossed overboard for cheap foreign labor by an oligarchy that despises the rank-and-file American worker, the grass-roots patriotic American, America itself. Most recently, the autocrat-scheme became paying people not to work.
I saw that ploy decades ago. Why did not the working stiffs of the USA perceive they were being stiffed by their own bullies in the bully pulpit?
Jimmeh and his “I’ll never lie to you” morphed into Jimmy Swaggart’s “I have sinned” and then degenerated through progressivism to Gavin’s “I made a bad mistake.”
Did that snot-nosed jerk ever make a good mistake?
The proletariats who counted on their con artists not to con them, they must have gotten a hold of the abridged version of The Wealth of Nations by Adam Smith. That truncated adaptation is more obscene than the abridged Complete Works of Shakespeare.