Recently discovered . . .

A recently discovered preface to the Communist Manifesto (as there are currently five) helped shed some light on the relationship between Karl Marx and Frederich Engels. I found it interesting and decided to post it here. Check it out:

PREFACE TO THE LONDON EDITION OF 1896

Remembering back to the preface that I, alone, scribed for the German Edition of 1883 sans Marx makes the preface to this edition's introduction all the more ironic considering that my death, as of this writing, happened one year and five months ago. It is testament to the power of the Manifesto. On the other hand it has effectively stopped me from all lifely functions such as breathing, eating, and outrageous facial hair growth. Oh, how Karl and I used to enjoy comparing our somewhat facetious proliferation of whiskers. But I'm dead now, so what's the point? His magnificent just-out of-bed bushel and my fastidiously down-groomed full beard. Sometimes, he'd use his Garibaldi styled bristles to hold the pencils he'd passionately scribbled down to their nibs rather than place them in a tin cup I had designated as the pen/pencil/change cup. He wrote notes upon notes outlining this very platform for the working man and during rare moments of repose, he would chew on his stale bread and cheese sandwiches- the motion of which caused the pencil stubs to rain down from his face like large chunks of darkened dandruff. Come to think of it, cleanliness was on the bottom of his list of things-to-do. Do you know how often I'd ask him to open a window in that small Brussels flat we shared. And he'd splash water on his face and neck to try and trick me into thinking he'd washed properly. A man should not reek of hoagies and sweated backsides, yet it did not bother Marx one bit. 1848 was very difficult year indeed.

When the European working class was struggling to achieve strength in numbers for the revolutions we were promoting, Marx was busy . . . oh, y'know. I just remembered this one time he had scarfed down the leftover meal I had made the night previous (a simple Raclette I had adorned with slices of various meats). As he sat in the dark in nothing more than his trousers and undershirt, he took pause of his Manifesto notes to tell me, in all seriousness, of an affliction he had which drove him to become an equalizing force between the classes. He told me he had been borne with a third nipple and then proceeded to show me. At first, I was in shock then immediately afterwards felt a great pity on his poor soul. Perhaps this deformity had, indeed, shaped his strong feelings against the bourgeoisie. I put my hand on his shoulder to comfort him, and his breathing had quickened. A touching moment. He seemed to be holding back his tears as he sniffled in silence with his head down.

"There there, Brother Marx. Cry all you need in here," I said pointing to our narrow room, "because no one can mock you in here." I said this as I placed my hand on his chest in the darkness of our quarters. What I had mistaken for a man holding back a deluge of tears was that of a one actually chortling.

"Just fuckin' with ya, Freddie!" At that he pulled the piece of pepperoni off his chest and ate it. Such slobbery! It was as if I were forced to live in a house of animals. Karl "Blutarsky" Marx, good riddance. And don't even get me started on his penmanship.

Oh yeah, working men of the world, blah blah blah, unite!

FREDERICH ENGELS
London, 3 March, 1896.

Works in theory . . .

Let me start by saying I saw the two most amazing movies this weekend. One was "Pan's Labyrinth." I don't think I've ever had such an overwhelming reaction to a movie before. Maybe I came away from some films thinking, "Damn that was enjoyable," or "I really identified with that," or even "That was the most beautiful film I've ever seen." The long and the short of it is, "Pan's Labyrinth" was all these things and more. Go out and see it as soon as you can.

The other film is a Dvd I've been trying to watch since a wee-bit before Christmas and only last night (after having an ill-timed late night coffee) was I finally able to watch it from A to Zed. "The Double Life of Veronique." Pure beauty. Although the story didn't make a load of sense, I don't think that was the point. It's a film that works best on a reactionary level. One feels "Double Life" as opposed to watching it. The dual/parallel lives of Weronika in Poland and Veronica in Paris really grabbed me. It has since mesmerized and haunted me.

Anyway, the good doctor (Mummer's parade fun day doctor) let me know that I am stuck in the "friend zone" yet again. I don't mind that because she's una mujer buena but getting stuck in that dreaded zone, let alone getting stuck in anything, is pretty frustrating. Why is it that the women I've met say they are looking for relationships, dates, and/or dating rather than simply state that they're looking for friends from the onset (and if it leads to something more, great). A friedn just said it's becasue these women are liars.

I've only dealt with about two or three people who were pretty honest with me from the get go, not several dates into it. Doesn't make one feel all that great when two or three dates later you get informed that the previous "dates" weren't really dates to begin with. I wish I had some insightful yet funny comment to close with, but I don't. So here's a joke:

I shoulda known she was trouble from the start. As I paid the check for dinner, I asked her what types of books she was into. She said "checkbooks."

waa-waa-waa-waaaaaaaaaa

Olga Volga doesn't dig the sweet potatoes . . .

Sunday morning consisted of waking up too late to go to the museum; dropping my bag of groceries, thus causing a 2lb container of vanilla yogurt to break open on the bottom (I heard the plastic crack but plead to the gods dairy that everything was fine. Oh dairy-gods, why do you taunt me so); and when I got home, after a more-than-hour wait to check out, I overcooked the chicken I made for lunch. But, on a much more positive note, the sweet potato I made was just the low-fat, high-fiber, stress-reducing side dish the doctor ordered. My doctor of preference ignored me (for the most part) at the surprisingly warm-weathered Mummers parade on Saturday. But how does one go about having good ol' fashioned one-on-one conversations amid a blaring string-band soundtrack mixed with consistent chanting of the Eagles Fight Song (as rendered by Drunky McDrunky and his Lush Chorus of Roaring Rabble-rousers)? Please tell me then give me the keys to your DeLorean and I thank you ever-so-greatly.

When I got home from the parade, I finished reading "Perfume: The Story of a Murderer" then saw the film a mere three hours later. Is nice. The following night I saw "Children of Men." Great dystopian fun for the whole family. By " fun" I mean "harrowing fear." After all that, I started reading (or picking up where I left off) Salman Rushdies's "Shalimar the Clown," even though I know how it ends.

I meant to post all of this this past weekend but didn't since I got caught up in reading (been doing a lot of that lately), filmgoing, and whatnot. Catching up on all things cultured, I guess. And although I've known about the "whatnot," or "Art After 5" for those of us in the know, for a while I decided that the idea of seeing the Slavic Soul Party perform their blend of the East European and Mexican musics while partaking in cocktails seemed too hard to resist. And for all my cultured being, and hip know-how, why is it I can never travel from point A to point B without spilling a little of my dirty martini (served up)? Please answer me this or are the dairy gods branching out into the wonderous world of spirits?