Night Letters
9
Your world was blown right apart on a night of sickening death. You went running for your
life and never went home again. I spend sleepless nights as my head swims worrying about
PROPAGANDHI
Supporting Caste
you. You work the night shift so you won’t be alone. I am adept at cold. You have travelled
so far from home. Sorrow has followed every step of the way. You’re caught between this
life and the one left behind. I see it’s burning you inside like some exploding sun. Your mind
constantly returns to a place that’s not so fucking cold, but on fire with war. You’re starting
over from scratch, sending your money home. You’re working as hard as you can while life
hangs in the air. I see distant lights up ahead but I’m worrying about you. It’s all taking its
toll and you can’t concentrate. You are being crushed by the world. I have gotten lucky so far.
We sit at the end of this night dialing. An answer finally reached through a long distance line.
News of threatening night letters. Stones tossed over the fence. Your loved ones taunted by
murderers. Tell them it’s three years that they'll have to wait as their whole world implodes.
Supporting Caste
Tertium Non Datur
When the credits finally roll for this, the worst story ever told, don’t bother sifting through
All the sucked thumbs and held skirts and blankets so secure that they block out the
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the names for yours or anyone you know. Unless they were by chance a shepherd king, a
sweep of the floodlights that could free them from the darkness that surrounds them.
virgin birth, a resurrection, a messianic prince or some such childish thing. You can storm
From the demons that keep hounding them and gouge their eyes until all they can see are
the edit suite or move to block its theatrical release, but I think we can safely guarantee
rigid dichotomies of the sacred and the profane. Of salvation or shame with fuck all in
that there will be no revisions to the script made on behalf of a supporting cast(e). Because
between. The human impulse to explain hijacked: a controlled flight into terrain to ensure
history exalts only the pornography of force–that of murderers and psychopaths (the rest of
no passenger ever makes any connection between the proscription of mystery and their
us, of course, stricken from the narrative wholesale: a back drop to the tale)–as we, the two-
malaise. Tidy pairings of inverse binaries. We all seek meaning in our lives, but when every
bits, are ushered on and swiftly off this stage with the jawbones of asses. No stirring curtain
shadow of doubt is denied the sanctification of hatred thrives on every sucked thumb and
call for the masses. No floral bouquet. No breaking of legs. No recurring role. No artistic
held skirt and blanket so secure that they block out the sweep of the floodlights that could
control. And so in these days, in this terminal phase, it’s all left to chance. A piece of advice:
free us from the darkness that surrounds us. The demons that keep hounding us. We put out
if you’re cast on thin ice, you may as well dance. Do what you feel you must, but as for me
our own eyes and reproach the blind.
I was not put upon this earth to subjugate or serve.
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I Don’t Believe In Atheists by Chris Hedges
The God Delusion by Richard Dawkins
Losing Moses on the Freeway by Chris Hedges
God Is Not Great by Christopher Hitchens
American Fascists by Chris Hedges
Dear Coach’s Corner
“Patriotism ... is a superstition artificially created and maintained through a network of lies and
falsehoods; a superstition that robs man of his self-respect and dignity, and increases his arrogance
and conceit.”
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Dear Ron MacLean. Dear Coach’s Corner. I’m writing in order for someone to explain to
my niece the distinction between these mandatory pre-game group rites of submission and
the rallies at Nuremburg. Specifically the function the ritual serves in conjunction with what
–Emma Goldman
everybody knows is in the end a kid’s game. I’m just appealing to your sense of fair play when
I say she’s puzzled by the incessant pressure for her to not defy the collective will, and yellow
“The notion that a radical is one who hates his country is naïve and usually idiotic. He is, more likely,
ribboned lapels, as the soldiers inexplicably rappel down from the arena rafters (which, if not
one who likes his country more than the rest of us, and is thus more disturbed than the rest of us when
so insane, would be grounds for screaming laughter). Dear Ron MacLean, I wouldn’t bother
he sees it debauched. He is not a bad citizen turning to crime; he is a good citizen driven to despair.”
–H. L. Mencken
with these questions if I didn’t sense some spiritual connection. We may not be the same
but it’s not like we’re from different planets: we both love this game so much we can hardly
fucking stand it. Alberta-born and prairie-raised. Seems like there ain’t a sheet of ice north
“Naturally, the common people don’t want war ... that is understood. But, after all, it is the leaders of
of Fargo I ain’t played. From Penhold to the Gatineau, every fond memory of childhood that
the country who determine policy, and it is always a simple matter to drag the people along, whether it
I know is somehow connected to the culture of this game. I can’t just let it go. But I guess
is a democracy, or a fascist dictatorship, or a parliament, or a communist dictatorship. Voice or no voice,
it comes down to what kind of world you want to live in, and if diversity is disagreement,
the people can always be brought to the bidding of the leaders. That is easy. All you have to do is to tell
and disagreement is treason, well don’t be surprised if we find ourselves reaping a strange
them they are being attacked, and denounce the pacifists for lack of patriotism and exposing the country
and bitter fruit that sad old man beside you keeps feeding to young minds as virtue. It takes
to danger. It works the same in any country.”
a village to raise a child but just a flag to raze the children until they’re nothing more than
–Hermann Goering,
Nazi War Criminal, Hitler’s 2nd-in-command
ballast for fulfilling a madman’s dream of a paradise where complexity is reduced to black
and white. How do I protect her from this cult of death?
This Is Your Life
Humane
× Meat (The Flensing of Sandor Katz)
You’re not really mad at Iran or Afghanistan. You’re mad at the fact that your wife can’t
“I swear I did my best to ensure that his final moments were swift and free from fear. But
stand you anymore. You don’t know where she is. You’re going crazy in your basement hole.
consideration should be made for the fact that Sandor Katz was my first kill, so I trust
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Clicking your remote control. Spitting insults at the screen because tomorrow you’re back
the reader will understand that while his screams may well have seemed like conscious
at work, where you can’t stand being the little man. Despite your groveling you can’t get
objections they were in reality simply a request to honour his strength and speed! With
ahead. No one really laughs at your stories anymore. You’re too cynical and mean so they’ve
gratitude and tenderness I singed every single hair from his body, gently placed his
fucked off bored. Your kids are at the mall. They just sit and stare at the walls. You think
decapitated head in a stock pot, boiled off his flesh and made a spread-able head cheese!
you tell it like it is. You say you can’t stand bleeding hearts but every single day you just sit
Because I believe that one can only relate with another living creature by completely
there bleeding for yourself. You whine and cry in your manly voice. This is your life. You do
destroying it! I’m sure Sandor’s friends and family will appreciate this!”
it to yourself. Take the load off your mind. Go out into the world. You’ll see you’ll probably
survive. This is your life.
(ahem)
A rationale so moronic it defies belief. Post-vegetarian I must submit to you–respectfully–be
careful what kind of world you wish for. Someday it may come knocking on your door.
“Lemme in! LEMME THE FUCK IN! I just wanna ‘fully relate.’ I swear I’ll do my best to
ensure that your final moments are swift and free from fear!”
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“On this matter I'm inclined to agree with the French, who gaze upon any personal
dietary prohibition as bad manners.”
–Michael Pollan, author/next “dinner guest” on my list
Intermission
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Effective Advocacy 101 by Jesus H. Chris
Everyone knows that the first rule of effective
advocacy is to not insult people. This rule is
especially important in terms of advocating on
behalf of animals, mostly due to the fact that
meat-eaters tend to cry and whine like a bunch
of fuckin’ shitty babies when you pull down the
diapers of their revolting lifestyle. Haha, just
kidding. Calm down babies.
No, for example though, you wouldn’t want
to use terms like “moronic”, “self-absorbed”,
“chickenshit” or “disgusting slob” when describing
self-professed “radicals” who insist on killing
defenseless animals for food while a perfectly
good supply of pimps, stockbrokers, crooked
cops, politicians and Habs fans–among other
sociopathic sources of protein–range freely
throughout our communities on a daily basis.
No, you wouldn’t want to say something like that.
That would be considered counter-productive.
You also wouldn’t want to walk up and down the
back lanes of your Kentucky Fried City slicing the
throats of your neighbors’ pets only to dismiss
the community’s subsequent outrage as “childish
sentimentality”, “infantile anthropomorphism” or
“cultural imperialism”. That would be considered
anti-social.
And you really, really, really, reeeaaaallllly wouldn’t
want to set fire to a slaughterhouse or a fur store
or a whaling-vessel or an under-construction
hog-barn because ... well, I can’t actually think of
a good reason why you shouldn’t do that (besides
life in prison). But you get the point. It’s all about
effective advocacy.
So here I am! At your service! Ready and willing to
ensure that people who already know better aren’t
made to feel guilty about their stupid, selfish,
unimaginably cruel choices! Besides, haven’t you
heard? Vegetarians are classist! At least that’s what
all the white college kids are saying when they fly
home for Thanksgiving dinner! Haha, asswipes.
You’ll be the first ones I eat when I finally snap,
you fuckin posers. Whoops! Where was I?
Oh yeah, effective advocacy...
But seriously folks, every social movement has
its peanut gallery. In fact, I believe every serious
social movement needs its’ peanut gallery, and
when it comes to the movement against the
egomaniacal cruelty humans perpetually visit
upon animals, you can sign me up for season
tickets and a very big fuckin’ bag of the blessed
arachis hypogaea to go along with my top-hat
and monocle.
And while it may be true that I take great pleasure
in ridiculing morons rad dudes who eat animal
corpses and their reproductive secretions, it’s
important for me to be clear that veganism
isn’t about purity or superiority. It’s simply
about extending moral consideration to other
inhabitants of a complex planet in a morallyambivalent universe where, despite the statistical
improbability of it all, we earthlings (human and
non-human) appear to be the only instance of
sentient life that is or ever has been.
That’s some heavy shit.
And seriously, if we as a society can’t even bother
to treat a simple, unassuming, stunningly gentle
and demonstrably sentient creature like a cow or a
deer with a modicum of decency, how the fuck do
we ever expect to be able treat each other–
infinitely more complex, wildly divergent and
often exasperating individual human beings–with
anything even remotely resembling civility?
It just ain’t gonna happen.
So with that in mind, and in the spirit of the first
rule of effective advocacy, I leave you with this
short list of potentially transformative resources,
created by better and more effective advocates for
animals than myself. And see? I didn’t even have
to insult you to make my point after all.
Fuck are you ugly.
READ
• Making a Killing: The Political Economy of
Animal Rights by Bob Torres
• Dead Meat by Sue Coe
• Animal Liberation by Peter Singer
• Diet for a New America by John Robbins
• The Sexual Politics of Meat by Carol J. Adams
• The Dreaded Comparison: Human and Animal
Slavery by Marjorie Spiegel
• Mad Cowboy: Plain Truth from the Cattle Rancher
Who Won't Eat Meat by Howard Lyman
• Dominion : The Power of Men, the Suffering of
Animals, and the Call to Mercy by Matthew Scully
WATCH
Earthlings: earthlings.com
LISTEN
compassionatecooks.com/podcast.htm
veganfreakradio.com
ACT
veganoutreach.org
seashepherd.org
abolitionistapproach.com
farmsanctuary.org
Potemkin City Limits
The Funeral Procession
Francis didn’t give a fuck about the rollbacks, the overproduction, the reduced demand.
The funeral procession passed by here today. Confusion and questions left strewn in its
He never gave much thought to disputed contracts. In his short life he’d only ever known
wake. But I feel like I knew his pain–a mechanical failure while enduring the norm. Some of
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panic, fear, pain, darkness and pandemonium (in the hell that was his home). Fourth quarter
us fracture, others simply deform and lose their elasticity, never to return to the shape they
earning expectations expedited his demise. The panic grew as the humans stalked among
were. I wonder which is worse? I try to keep my composure amidst the insanity, resigned to
them. When the screaming began, Francis shut his eyes and felt the hand of inhumanity
the truth that I will not live to see the dawn of a better day that might wash away the sadness
brush over him. But his would-be killer’s back turned for a moment and a blinding ray of
of this age. I try to keep the voices calling me at bay, desperately clinging to any futile act
light spread across the floor. In a crimson pool he saw his own reflection as he bolted for the
of human decency. The voices love to remind me of my futility. Sitting on my hands hoping
door. Not just some fractured fairy-tale although I wish that that were true. This is a fable
anyone else than me will do what should be done, it’s hard to not succumb as they call my
far too real. Yet we somehow still cling to the story lines that bridge the chasm between
name. You gotta keep on truckin’ anyways.
cognition and belief. Any old implausible denial that might offer some relief from the
dissonance that Francis left screaming in his wake as deep into the heart of the city’s park
lands he made good his escape. And where for 5 months he ran free and replayed his only
fond memory–just a warm and distant dream of his mother’s loving eyes upon him. Francis
made it farther than she did–a quarter mile just short of the city limits they finally captured
him. There’s a statue that the abattoir erected to remind us all of their contributions. To me
it marks Potemkin City Limits, this Francis cast in bronze. Not just some fractured fairytale, although I wish that that were true. This is a fable far too real,
yet we somehow still cling to…
Without Love
Incalculable Effects
All in nature ends in tragedy and I was the first to finally fade away from my grandfather’s
We were all together in the pouring rain. Solvents being passed around to dull the pain. The
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memories. How long ‘til the day my memories of him finally fade away? Dissolving into gray.
air was choked with the dismal smell. The reek of sadness and despair. Minds fucked up
Is breathing just the ticking of an unwinding clock? Just counting down the time it takes for
beyond repair. She said she just turned six. She’s got some good jokes for a kid. She’s working
you to comprehend the sheer magnitude of every single precious breath you’ve ever wasted?
hard to avoid a woman bleeding from her teeth. Her life goes on despite the fact her mom
I did everything I could. I bargained with the universe to take my life instead of hers. But no
sleeps fucked up on the cement. She flashed a look, an image burnt into my mind. I know
amount of money, drugs or tears could keep her here. What purpose did her suffering serve?
that sinking feeling all too fucking well. Shame, frustration setting in. Confusion that burns
Is breathing just the ticking of an unwinding clock? Just counting down the time it takes for
us inside out. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I don’t know why she can’t wake up.” Her
you to comprehend the sheer magnitude of every single precious breath you’ve ever wasted?
life goes on despite the fact. Her mom lays fucked up on the cement.
So much misery. So much indifference to so much suffering that we can become tempted by
It’s an ugly fucking world.
appeals to hatred. But this world ain’t nothing more than what we make of it. Revenge ain’t
no solution to the inevitable pain that every single one of us must face in losing the kindred
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spirits in our lives. Lives so brief, so disappointing, so confusing. As Cronie slipped away I
You can only go so far to escape the life you have until there’s no coming back. The more you try to escape
held her in my arms, reduced to “Please don’t leave me. What will I do?” But this cosmic sadness
the more you’re trapped. Unfortunately, many of us are stuck helplessly watching our family members
is just here to remind you that without Love, breathing is just the ticking of...
waste and destroy a lot of great things about themselves. I hope that you’re lucky enough to be among
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“Of my friend, I can only say this: of all the souls I have encountered in my travels,
his was the most ... human.”
–James Tiberius Kirk
those who cannot relate to the lyrics of this tune.
The Banger’s Embrace
Last Will & Testament
The day The Equinox arrived our pilgrimage began: 1200 miles, a cruise missile to our
Here in the few remaining moments we have left, just what do you propose we say in our
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unholy land. We were fucking stoked unlike we’d been since we were pimpled, pubeless
defense? That much was decided before any one of us were born? That we were nothing
teens. From every corner of the world our fellow maniacs arrived to prove the meaning
more than objective observers to the madness and throw up your hands in sadness? “We’re
of the tunes had not been lost through time’s antiquity, but had survived to leave this
powerless to change anything anyways.” So just lay back upon your death bed and gaze idiotically
monumental sign. They say you can’t relive the past, but as the lights went down it all came
back up the chain of command from which we receive our directives. I guess it’s just
rushing back: half a life away, the night, for the first time in a lonely life, a young soul took flight.
common sense to preach what ought to be but ensure it never is in the present tense.
They stormed the stage a thrashing rage, we all screamed, “Terminate!!!” A half-head in a
whale shirt went and breathed it in face. I didn’t care. It could not impair this rhapsodic,
transcendental state. When the music died, two ends of time had been neatly tied.
Descending lights had scorched the plains. Returning kings back to reclaim lost disciples
that remained to tend the flames. We stormed into streets a pack of raging troglodytes! We
waited for our bus then rode it hard into the night! Far beneath the cold, robotic sweep of
the radar operator’s pale green glow. 20,000 leagues below.
To the place where all the best bands go.
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Dedicated to the kings: Rob, Joe, Gus and Scott of the mighty Sacrifice.
End Notes
9
On a planet where the majority of human
lives throughout history have lived and
died in abject servility to a never-ending
line of ruthless opportunists and autocrats,
one can be excused for believing that we
are doomed to a permanent state of
Dark Ages.
When so much insanity–perpetual war,
ecocide, sexism, racism, homophobia,
pandemic superstition, demented
concentrations of wealth and decisionmaking power–is simply normalized while
our private doubts about it all are made to
seem like mental illness, the invitations to
passivity and compliance can be seductive:
life is short and absurd, so what difference
does it make what we do?
Fair enough in a way I suppose. I grapple
with that myself as I whittle away the
hours of my life watching corporate sports,
sucking back the embalming fluid that
the advertisers insist will improve what’s
left of it.
But of course it’s people like me–who
aren’t on the receiving end of a life-long
ass-kicking–who can afford to indulge in
those kind of abstractions.
We have to remember that every single
thing that every one of us does has possible
ramifications for life on earth. We are all
part of a web of events and choices that
ultimately determine the future.
There is no such thing as “apolitical” on a
crowded planet of competing doctrinaires.
People who claim that they are “apolitical”
are simply and pathetically committing
the ultimate political act of deferring to the
interests of the prevailing order (usually
because they benefit from that order).
They are, in effect, quislings. Wieners.
Goofs. Shills. Posers.
The truth is that whatever elementary
freedoms we enjoy and whatever few sane
social policies we’ve inherited have never
End Notes
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been altruistically handed down out of
the blue by the ruling classes of history.
They’ve been struggled for–often at great
cost–by average (and “below” average)
citizens who’ve simply refused to live as
state chattel and have risked their own
safety and access to privilege while trying
to secure a better future.
If you really just want to be the richest
goof in the cemetery, that’s your choice.
But since you can’t take anything with you,
and all that really matters is what you leave
behind, why squander the inheritance?
Live from Leaf Nation,
Jesus H. Chris
democracynow.org | zmag.org | ocap.ca
amnesty.org | mecaforpeace.org | ivaw.org
rawa.org | resisters.ca | davidsuzuki.org
stephenlewisfoundation.org
pointofinquiry.org | seti.org
Nothing has changed my life for the better
as much as working and volunteering with
refugees that have come to Winnipeg
from all over the world. The Canadian
Council For Refugees has launched a
great campaign called Wish You Were Here
(reunification.ca), for families separated
by war and persecution. Also check out
ccrweb.ca and amnesty.ca/Refugee/.
These three movies are also great:
• Live and Become (Va, vis et deviens)
Directed by Radu Mihaileanu
• In This World
Directed by Michael Winterbottom
• Soldier Child
Directed by Neil Abramson
Do your best. See you at the Sabbat,
The Rod
End Notes
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“You’re supposed to be fed up by now. Let’s turn
the system upside down. Get up!”
–The Coup with Dead Prez
Unlimited cheers to those “small groups
of thoughtful, committed citizens”
(Margaret Mead) in our neighbourhoods
and communities who advance their
awareness–and activism–with the hope
that we can somehow level the sociopathic
institutions that threaten our survival.
Your thankless work and perseverance
have given me the inspiration to get
involved in Haiti solidarity work. To learn
more about Haiti’s century-old struggle for
independence, consider checking out the
following resources.
Continuity from above necessitates
change from below.
Doubleplus unproud to be a Canadian,
Jordy-bird Johnson
“... but what can we do to help?”
READ
• Damming the Flood: Haiti and the Politics
of Containment by Peter Hallward
• The Uses of Haiti by Paul Farmer
• Canada in Haiti: Waging War on the
Poor Majority by Anthony Fenton
and Yves Engler
• The Black Jacobins: Touissant L’Ouverture
and the San Domingo Revolution
by C.L.R. James
WATCH
• Aristide and the Endless Revolution
Directed by Nicolas Rossier
• Haiti: We Must Kill the Bandits
Directed by Kevin Pina
ACT
canadahaitiaction.ca
haitiaction.net
“You can start by getting your dogs off our backs!”
Caste Members
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The Beave: axe of pain in your right ear
Jesus H. Chris: axe of pain in your left ear, vocals on tracks 2-4, 6-9, 11-12
Jordy-Bird: drums of pain in all of your ears
The Rod: bass of pain in both of your ears, vocals on tracks 1, 5 and 10
Credits
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All songs by us. All lyrics by us. Everything by us. Except stuff that was done by others. That
by them. “Tertium Non Datur,” for example, was co-written by Robbie “the Maltese Falcon”
Richardson and David “Great Balls of Fire” Tkach.
Recorded, mixed, edited and mastered in Fall 2008 at Blasting Room Studios in Fart Colons
Colonrado, and Illegal Combatant Studios in Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada, by Jason
Livermore, Bill Stevenson, Andrew Berlin, Felipe Patino, Jesus H. Chris and The Beave.
Cover painting “The Triumph of Mischief ” by the great Kent Monkman. Go see his stuff
in a gallery. It’ll blow your walnut of a mind. Drawing of us torturing, killing, cooking and
eating body parts of “post-vegetarian” humans by The Rod, inspired by soon-to-be-true
events. You wish I was kidding. Painting on page 21 by Etienne, an artist and Haitian
refugee living in the Dominican Republic.
Laid out by Derek “Penis” Hogue at Amphibian Design. He also did the layout.
Band photo by Mandy Malazdrewich.
Booking and “management” by Jason “Shitballs” Smith: [email protected].
P.O. Box 27006, C-360 Main Street, Winnipeg, MB, R3C 4T3, Canada
[email protected] | propagandhi.com
There are too many people in too many places on this planet to whom we owe a debt of
gratitude to for their help, hospitality, friendly faces, good humor, wisdom and inspiration.
From Finland to Chile, Japan to Panama City, Timiskaming First Nation to the Occupied
Territories, Indonesia to Israel, from the high seas to right here in our own land-locked
urban nightmares, we give thanks and are humbled by your support. Psychopaths run the
world, but there are good people everywhere working to keep total madness at bay.
Keep on truckin’, eh?