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Pantyraid discography torrent

Опубликовано в Pzla kontakt torrent | Октябрь 2, 2012

pantyraid discography torrent

Tracklist. A1 Soul Flower (with the Brand New Heavies). A2 Soul Flower (Remix Vocal). A3 Soul Flower (2 the 3 Mix Vocal). B1 Panty Raid (Original Vocal). 50 MILLION will be releasing two CDs this summer: a vinyl discography and a (BS) (Jordi Sabates Amatuer, Rambla MJ Torrents , La Roca Del. Still no torrent for this? I'm pretty sure I got carpal tunnel from trying to get all these songs. I guess Ill use my left from now on. CADAVERES DESMEMBRADOS TORRENT Retrieved current September integrated monitoring. Want to dll settings. Click from small time time.

How much of what they're doing is illegal? What do cops do when they go home? Cindy: I think everybody's just normal We all laugh, wondering how this conversation began, and shuddered at the implication's of Cindy's idea So this tour you're on. What kind of shows are you playing? Maybe you're not playing what a lot of MRR readers would consider shows they go to Brandon: Well forget that we're playing shows every night and having a great time, but also this is a huuuge network of friends, and if you keep going to the same places and hanging out with the same people it just gets better and better But that's a really easy thing to say and a lot of, say, pop punk bands would say that.

What's you're show tonight like? Because that's nothing like a network of friends. I think you have a totally opposite MO. Cindy: Well that's mostly for our enjoyment. Who cares what they think. It's fun. Sasha: I wonder if there will be people who like it? There will be some people who will be totally psyched, and just thought, "Wow, I thought I was just going to a movie! Zack: The best part of it for me is that whether they enjoy it or not, that person's gonna go home and have a story.

So you're going to the movie theater at the mall and setting up outside the exit door, and someone's going to open the door, and you're going to go in and play during the movies. Brandon: Yeah. We've even got an escape route planned. Sasha: They won't be able to get us. But what if you get arrested? Brandon: Whatever. Cindy: Deal with it. Brandon: That's a nice thing to have on your record.

So what kind of shows have you guys been doing in Tampa? Cindy: Oh for touring bands? We do a lot at this place called Vulture Towers, outside at a pdrk. We've only been shut down there once and it was because the show went on until like one in the morning. Downtown's pretty vacant. So a band comes through and you do a show outside. Where does the money come from? Cindy: We take a collection.

Zack: And it's essentially all the people who set up the show paying for it. Brandon: Whoever set up the show will match the amount for the touring band. We did that, even at clubs, because we were scared people wouldn't come to Gainesville anymore. There was a long stretch where bands didn't come to Florida, late 80s, early 90s, because of skinheads, etc More discussion on Tampa history I then tell the story of asking Lois Maffeo to tell her friends to come tour Florida after a successful show at our record store.

What about the Noise Fest in Miami? Zack: Three nights, seventy-plus bands Cindy: At Churchill's. The punk venue. Brandon: Rat Bastard's venue he doesn't own it Laundry Room Squelchers play every Monday. So this tour. You're prepared to pay for the whole thing yourself. Brandon: That's every tour. Zack: We take whatever money we can. How long do you think you can keep this up? Or does it matter? Cindy: I feel like I'm just getting started, so hopefully, many years. Brandon: Well, the band I'm in, Byron House, hopefully we'll be playing until we die.

And just working whatever job to support yourself. All: Yeah. Brandon: It's never gonna be a source of income, that's for sure. When we were twelve. Slayer was like, "What?! There would be no way. The new Nine Inch Nails single Sasha: Bent keyboards. A bent Casio. It's crazy. I've been talking to people who circuit bend and sell shit, and they're like, "we get commissions from huge bands".

Noise is the infinite westward expansion. You think you're never going to hit the ocean, but there's the ocean and there's no going back. Waitress: Is there anything else I can get for you all? All: No thank you. You can contact any of the Florida noise geeks, who are the punks, through Cephia's Treat Recordings, eventually.

Lemon St. I'm writing this around the 4th of July weekend. I just finished my special "Salute to America" version of Sonic Overload. OK, maybe not but you get the idea. It's a sickening bit of treacle that is kind of an unofficial jingoist national anthem. Anyway, on my special remix, Lee's crooning of the song's title is interrupted by a bomb blast before he can finish the world USA and then I moved on to Brother Inferior's "Land of the Free.

I also got a request for an excellent song from the Observers. I've only had their full- length for a short time and hadn't really absorbed the lyrics yet but Matt, one of my loyal listeners, wanted to hear "Us Against the World. The song's title could be interpreted as much as "US against the world. But he wants to stay the course and, according to the Boston Globe in a June 29 article, is urging a "long view" on the Iraq war.

During the speech. Bush said, "Like most Americans, I see the images of violence and bloodshed. Amid all this violence, I know Americans ask the question, 'Is the sacrifice worth it? Both Jenna and Barbara are the right age to serve in the military. More reprehensible than Bush stating that this ill-advised conflict was worth the sacrifice of over American soldiers so far and countless innocent victims in Iraq were the words of Dan Bartlett, a Bush aide.

Another excuse to justify the ongoing conflict. A conflict built on a lie, if one believes the validity of the Downing Street memos. Bush, Cheney et al should be impeached. As I said last month, it probably won't happen, given the current makeup of the Congress So Americans will likely be coming home in coffins for a long time to come. The carnage has reached into a town near where I live— Marblehead, MA Christopher Piper, a year-old Special Forces soldier, died on June 15 in a military hospital in Texas.

He was the first person from Marblehead to die in a military conflict since the Vietnam War. He had been injured in early June after his vehicle hit a roadside bomb in Afghanistan. Piper was a longtime solider and had also served in Iraq. Hundreds turned out for his funeral and it was front-page news for a number of days on all the local papers. After high school, Piper joined the Marine Corps. He later joined the Reserves and then, in his 30s, trained for the Army Special Forces He left behind a wife and two kids.

For what? To defend what? What did Chris Piper die for? Did the invasion of Afghanistan achieve its aim, to capture Osama bin Laden? Why did the US invade Iraq? What freedom are we preserving? It's all so senseless I feel badly for the family Chris Piper left behind. I don't wish Piper dead. I'm no lover of the military. Yet it seems like a waste. I would imagine that comment would bring a virulent response from his friends and family and the defenders of the military.

They need to hold on to the belief that Piper died for some just cause. There are polls that show support for the war is diminishing, but a majority doesn't think the US should cut and run. Before moving on to the review segment, reading the coverage of Piper's death reminded me of another song, this one from about 25 years ago, by the Jam: "Little Boy Soldiers. Won what? Condar, CD A few years back, Blaine Cook revived the Fartz, and now it's the return of the Accused and the crossover merchants return with their best album since sometime in the 80s.

Truth be told, I haven't played many of their records in recent years except for "Return of Martha Splatterhead" and, nope, it's not quite up to that level but this album is still a non-stop shredder. Perfectly riding the line between thrash-metal and hardcore punk.

Glad to have 'em back, www. Shaun also did the colorful album artwork. Spirited, loose, and rockin' up a goddamned storm. Strong lyrics—not just anti-drug but also anti-sex trade for "Choice or Coercion," and dealing with sexual identity for "What I Was Born With. Ryan Patterson, who plays guitar in Black Cross, adds vocals to his duties in this four-piece.

A roaring amalgam of crusty hardcore and rock 'n' roll fury. Ryan's hoarse vocals are accompanied by a twin-guitar blast leading the forceful attack. This sound is a full- fledged trend at this point, I suppose yeah, there are similarities to certain bands from that big city in Oregon but the songs hit hard.

Might not win friends with the more "PC" crowd, actually. Emptying out a twisted mind and bashing out some equally twisted sounds. Lead vocalist Dan aka Ponch used to play bass for Combat Wounded Veteran but this is a different approach. Dramatic, powerful hardcore with howling vocals, sweeping passages and melodic underpinnings is played at a blistering pace.

Entrails , the band's latest full-length, comes charging out of the gate with "The Lines Are Drawn" and seldom flags. Wrath is a 7" EP released shortly before the album—none of its three songs are on Entrails. I liked the album a bit more than this EP, but the results are still raging. A scream from Red State Amerika. Fuzzed-out garage rock stomp from the Rocky Mountain state. Stomping and primitive, in the same vein as the more aggressive early Cynics songs.

The drumming bashes through the floor and the guitars create a psychotic wall of barbed sound. Going down a road well traveled but running a few traffic lights along the way. A single camera shot, not all that polished but that's just fine. Not only is there punk rock in Russia, there are also circle pits and even a wall of death as Out Cold plays in front of an enthusiastic audience and tear through their songs in typically no-bullshit fashion.

Raw and in your face, the way it should be. The band also have a new 5 song EP and just as you'd expect. The latest lineup continues to recharge Out Cold. Gigantic hooks, killer singalongs, coming from the gut. They'll soon have a 7" released on , Go! Records out of Seattle. Regeneration Records, Harvard Ave. I've recently begun training to be a rape counselor at the oldest rape crisis center in the country, which is, of course, only thirty years old. It's something I've thought about doing for five years, but managed to put off for various reasons.

It had been originally broadcast in the early 70s, and it was probably one of the first interviews of its kind. The survivor had been a reporter at the local public television station. She had been covering the rapists' previous attacks, and he stalked her and attacked her.

I watched this woman, so much a product of the 70s, with her short Afro, oversized glasses, and polyester skirt and jacket. She spoke clearly, recounting every detail, she raised her voice, she pointed to societal responsibility, and she commanded the fathers of the world to teach their sons to respect women. I cannot conceive of such an interview being shown during prime time thirty years later. And to be treated with that level of respect? No way. Jerry Springer sure as hell isn't ready to join you in the revolution.

I have been ruminating on punkers approaches to this issue for the past couple of weeks. It's something that I thought we were so well versed in. Punk girls were experiencing acquaintance rape, and there was little support. Then, we got mad as fuck and organized with our friends, writing zines, yelling at the top of our lungs, getting mohawks, rocking out, and making art. We learned to take care of each other, that we were each other's responsibility.

Not that we didn't fuck up, or that we really knew how to do it, but it was an understood part of our agenda. I look at my friends, the relative safety that most of us enjoy, by having men in our lives that have no interest in keeping us in a state of fear, women friends that honestly give a shit about us, and a more thoroughly developed sense of self. I wonder if we've started to take it for granted that we are somehow no longer at risk for sexual violence, walking through deserted city streets alone, leaving drunken friends at parties, recreating shitty gender roles in queer communities.

This does not mean that the acts of rape we do not know how to prevent in each other's lives are our responsibility. A girl who cannot manage to figure out how to save a friend from sexual violence is not guilty of that violence. Shit, man, all I'm trying to say is that we still need to take care of each other, and as much as we'd like it to be, this shit is not over.

So please be a little bit more careful, and keep an eye on the girls who are younger than you; walk or drive them home if they need it. But we just don't have that luxury. I've wondered if the reason I waited for so long to do this training is a reluctance to think critically about some of the choices I make. And I've also worried that it would make the world look ugly.

What I am remembering is that facing the bullshit also puts us head to head with resistance to it, and the most beautiful part of what makes us human teaches us to resist, to love, and to fuckirfg organize. Now get to it. Take She unbuckles her seat belt, leans over, and kisses me really hard. I know I can. She then looks me in the eyes and remarks how blue they are.

She asks if they are colored contacts. I tell her that my eyes are naturally this color, but my blonde hair isn't. She says she wants to see for herself and starts to unzip my pants. I feel myself really starting to get excited and ask her to turn off the radio.

I don't like distractions during sex. We start to kiss again and I feel her hand return to my zipper. I start to think to myself how lucky I am to be here, in a car. She had silky, dyed blue-black hair, eyes so blue they looked white—like from Evil Dead or The Exorcist or something—and boobs that were fucking amazing.

I had, like, won the lottery or something. Anyway, we start to really go at it, and my heart starts beating a million miles an hour. She finishes unzipping my pants, and gently slides her hand down, inside my underwear, and grabs me. I let out a moan, and kiss her deeply. Suddenly she pulls her head back, and looks me in the eyes. I look back at her, puzzled. She continues to hold onto my dick as she looks down at my crotch and says, "What is this?

That all men have one. Well, most of them, anyway. Except for those emo guys. She says that mine feels different, and with one hand still on me, she opens the car door slightly so the light goes on. She then takes out my pecker and examines it closely. I look at her, wondering what the hell she is doing.

She tells me that my dick is not like the ones she is used too, but it still turns her on. Almost had another almost. She then puts her mouth on it, and I feel myself start to float toward punk rock heaven. She then stops, sits up next to me, and asks if I want to "play with her titties". I had never had a girl say that to me before, and I was kinda shocked. Usually, I kinda just did that, without them asking, but something about this girl made me a bit standoffish.

I told her I would love to, and she said okay. She then somehow managed to get on my lap, between my wiener and the steering wheel, and take off her shirt. Then I saw it. Something I'd never seen before. Holy punk rock! She thought my pecker was different?

Well, punk rock! The Bar. I was there 'cause there was not much else to do that night. No good bands were playing, and I had seen all the movies at the two dollar theaters in Gainesville, Florida, like five times. So I went to The Bar.

I figured I'd just drink, and if I was lucky, get put out of my misery by some jock or redneck. I wasn't even expecting to get laid. The thought of that had long since left my mind. I was on a cold streak so bad that I was actu-. On the way to The Bar that night I had run into my friend and ex-drummer, Pete. Pete and I had been in a band called The Ranch Hands. We played one gig, and were permanently banned from every club in town.

See, we told the owner of this club. That's country and western. Or "cunt-tree western" as Pete called it. Anyway, we told this really fat guy named Bubba that we played real cowboy material. He asked if we did any covers. We told him we did some Skynard, Alabama, Molly Hatchet, and shit like that. He asked if we did any Charlie Daniels. We told him we did and we also did his brother. He just looked at us, but gave us the gig anyway. As we set up our amps on stage, all the cowboys and rednecks in the place kept yelling stuff like "Freebird" and "The south will rise again!

Finally we went on and opened with a country-and-western riff. Actually, it was "Green Acres. Everyone applauded wildly. I looked at Pete and he looked at me, shocked. We both then looked over at our bass player, Greg. Greg looked at the floor, like he always did. We continued the set with a bunch of originals that we had made up that afternoon. They threw full bottles of beer at us.

We'd pick them up off the floor, before they would spill out entirely, and gulp them down. During the whole set, Bubba kept yelling for us to do Charlie Daniels. The audience seemed to catch what Bubba was saying, and yelled for Charlie Daniels as well. We kick into the song, which is the same thing as the last five or six songs, with maybe one different note, and Bubba runs up on stage with something under his arm.

I don't have my contacts in, so I can't really make out what it is. As he gets closer I see that it is a black case and I start to panic. Does Bubba have a gun? Is he gonna shoot us? Bubba then drops the case on the floor, and opens it. I look back at Pete, and he is standing up and playing. He looks like he is ready to do the hundred-yard dash. Bubba then takes out a Violin. I nod my head. Bubba steps up to the microphone and starts to play along to our song.

Then a couple in the audience stands up and starts to square dance. Then more people do the same. As Bubba plays along to the awful noise we are making, I step up to Greg's mike. I don't even think he notices until he sees my sneakers. Then he looks up at me, confused. I yell to him to just keep playing. I then say stuff in the mike like, "Take your partner, do-si-do, fuck that chicken, there ya go!

Finally, like a million beer bottles and eighty-three cents later, we stop playing. But not Bubba. Later, as we are packing up our amps, I walk up to Bubba and ask him for our money. He says that he thinks we stink, and if that we hadn't played that Charlie Daniels song, he'd have killed us.

I was glad to get my equipment out of there in one piece. I thought about not picking him up for a few seconds, but I think he saw my face. Pete had gotten weird lately and I wasn't quite sure why. Maybe it was drugs, or quite possibly it was just the Sunshine State taking its toll. He then gets in and asks where I am going. I just look at him. He stares at me for a few seconds and then says, "Don't I know you? He says, "George? He says, "Didn't we play in a band together a short while ago?

As we make our way downtown, I ask Pete where he is going. He says, "I dunno, anywhere. He says, "What bar? I tell him yes. He just looks at me, then he says, "Oh, that place. Haven't been there. I see a few familiar faces but the place is mostly crawling with college students who thought that "new music" was hip. He tells me that he got run over by a motorcycle a couple of months ago, but that he is doing fine now. I kinda cringe. He then asks if I want to see where he was run over.

I tell him sure, even though I really didn't. He lifts up his shirt, and there are fucking track marks across his stomach and chest. I excused myself, ran to the men's room, and dry heaved for a while. Eventually I return to the bar area and finish my beer.

I then order another beer. As I go to pay for it some girl says to the bartender that she'll take care of it, and gives him some money. I look at the girl. She looks at me. She has longish, blue-black hair and the bluest eyes I have ever seen. She is about my height, and very sexy. I say hello to her. We don't say anything to each other for a few seconds. I sip on my beer as she sips on her pink-and- orange drink.

We continue to drink in silence for a while, and I begin to wonder what the hell the girl wants with me. Obviously, she knows me, and shit, maybe I know her. Maybe I don't remember her. Maybe I should know her. I start to panic. What if I used to date her? What if I owed her money? And talking to me. What was wrong with her? I tell her that mostly dogs and hippies saw Roach Motel, and maybe a few cows in our old drummer's barn. She tells me she saw me and thinks that I am really something.

I tell her that dogs used to think I was really something, like a tree or fire hydrant, and used to piss on my legs during shows. I tell her that hippies thought I was something, as did cows. But never girls. She says she wants me. I back up a bit.

I say, "What did you just say? I ask her her name. She asks me if it really matters. I tell her no. So she doesn't tell me. We continue to drink our beverages in quiet, and suddenly she starts to rub her leg up against mine. I look at her and she smiles. A very sexy smile. I chug down the rest of my beer. She gulps down the rest of her orange-and-pink drink, then licks her lips. I figure I'm dreaming. I have a hard time standing up, but somehow manage to do so, as does the girl.

She takes my hand and leads me out the door of The Bar. As we are leaving. Jack yells over to me that I didn't see where his pit bull bit him a couple of days ago. I tell him, "Next time. She takes my hand and leads me to it. When we get to the car she says, "Open it.

As she does so, I get a good smell of her hair and perfume, and feel my hormones just about rip my jeans off. I get into my side of the car and ask her where we are going. She says, "Right here," and then leans over and kisses me. I kiss her back, then she puts her hand on my chest and starts to scratch me. I can't believe my luck. Suddenly there is a knock on my window. I look up and see Jack and his girlfriend, smiling. I smile back at him, reach into my pocket, pull out the keys, and start the car.

We make our way down the street, and I start to look for an empty parking lot—one where we will be left alone. Finally, I decide upon a bank. I pull up behind the building and we start to go at it again. I clear away some of the moisture that we both created and see the face of a cop. I roll down the window. I tell him I'm sorry and start my car. The whole time I feel as though my dick is gonna explode. I laugh and tell him I will. The cop then says, "What are you laughing at, boy?

He just narrows his eyes and looks at me. We drive around some more and I find a kinda empty parking lot next to a greenery. A tree farm. Whatever the fuck you call those places where people go in and buy plants. Like they can't go out in the woods and pick them where they are free. I ask her if maybe she wants to get a hotel. Fuck, I figure I could spring for it. I was getting laid, and this was definitely worth it. She says, "No, I want to fuck you in your car. To me. No girl had ever said they wanted to F-word me.

This was amazing. I told her, "Okay. She rubs it really hard and I squirm in my seat. I gently stroke her blue-black hair, and again start to breathe real heavily. And again there is a pounding on the window.

Outside I see a guy with a mustache, and a woman standing next to him. To your own homes. I just look at him, as does the girl, whose hand is still rubbing my crotch. I try not to show any pleasure. I tell them that I am sorry, start the car, and drive off. There is one nearby, and I'll pay for it. Not good, I think. Then her eyes light up. I look at it, then her. I pulled into the parking lot very quickly. We start to go at it, and the windows completely fog up.

She turns on the radio, and then turns it off. Her tongue probes my mouth, as her hands unzip my pants. Finally she reaches in there and grabs a hold of Mr. I sigh, and think, "Finally, relief. She looks at the shaft, then at the tip, then at the shaft, then at the tip again. She tells me she has never had one like this, but it turns her on. We start to make out again, and she asks if I want to play with her titties.

She sits on my lap, and puts my hands on her breasts. I start to squeeze them, and they feel real good. She moans and groans and continues to play with my wienerschnitzel. She keeps feeling it, around it, and the top of it. Eventually I ask her to take off her shirt, and she does. I see a dark spot on and above her left boob, but can't make out what it is. Probably a bad birthmark or something.

I start to kiss and lick her boobs, and she sighs and says how much she wants me. I also notice that she is wearing a cross around her neck, and as I take it in my mouth, it really turns me on for some reason. Life couldn't get any better. Or could it? Suddenly the girl says she wants to see my pecker again before I put it inside of her. She again opens the car door slightly and takes a good long look at my penis. I take a good long look at it too, wondering what the hell she is thinking.

As I tell her that that is neat, I get a good look at the spot on and above her boob. It is not a birthmark. It is a tattoo. Lots of girls have tattoos, even some girls I have dated. They get things like flowers, unicorns, or even hearts and shit. Some of the tougher girls I have been with have had leopard skin spots, and one girl even had a tattoo of a penis on her arm. But, fuck, I had never seen anything like this on a girl. For all her beauty, what with the blue eyes, beautiful, silky black hair and great boobs, the tattoo ruined everything, or so I thought.

I mean, what kind of girl has a tattoo of the word "Skinhead" with a swastika below it on her tit? She just looks at me. I look at her Swastika again, and the word "Skinhead. I tell her that I am. Rock hard. Punk rock hard. She tells me eighteen. My penis goes ape shit, and almost bursts. She tells me she has been out a whole three months. I ask her if she knows what a swastika means. She asks me what a swastika is. I point to her tattoo.

What my old boyfriend used to wear. I never really thought about it. The message of hate it stands for. But I don't. I do something even better. I have sex with her. So we start going at it, with her on top of me, with her back to the steering wheel.

I stare at her breasts and the symbol of hate as I feel her rock back and forth upon me. I watch her cross bounce up and down, and listen to her moans and groans. I have to hold back my impending orgasm. Then I tell her I wanna be on top, and start to have intercourse with her that way. I plunge in deep, and as I do so I think about all the horrible things hate has done to this world over the years. I think about the Klan, about other hate groups, and about Nazis.

Now I was getting revenge. I think she was, like, having orgasms or something. What was important was me, was the fact that I was getting pleasure from her. A Nazi. A good-looking Nazi, but a Nazi. As I ejaculated, I felt a sense of power and pride that I had never felt before. I felt like I had climbed Mount Everest and reached the top.

I felt as though I pitched a no-hitter in the World Series. I felt as though I was that Armstrong guy—not the Billie Joe one—and set my feet upon the moon. I felt liked I, well, just fucked a Nazi. I collapsed onto her, exhausted. She hugged me and whispered in my ear that she never came so many times. I lifted my head to look at her, and saw her beautiful blue eyes. I also looked at her tattoo covered in white stuff, and her nipples, still erect.

I looked at her face again, and she looked at me. Then, for the first time, I saw her for what she was. A young girl, confused. A young girl who was easily influenced by those around her. A girl who was learning about the world, and who had made some past mistakes, like we all do. A kid. I bent down and kissed her, then hugged her. It felt nice. She sighed. Finally, I pulled myself away from her, and took one long last look at her beautiful naked body in my car.

It was then that I noticed that the cross around her neck was submerged in come, and upside down. I felt myself getting hard again. I tried not to, but I couldn't help it. Hell, I had never had sex with someone who worshipped Satan before. Take my life, please. Surfing Armegaddon is the title of my next book, due out any moment now. But check out Playing Right Field first. If having major surgery isn't painful enough, the loss of my best friend hurts like hell.

But I am lucky; I have great friends and family. Thank you! Been thinking about MRR and Tim Yohannan, the original guy who started this zine all those years ago. I've been thinking how important MRR is, that it shows the world we can all "do it ourselves," and that we don't have to sell out our personal values to lead happy lives.

Thanks guys! So I'm arguing with this libertarian guy circa and he's going on and on about how the free market will solve everything from crime to cellulite. I like to draw these moments out, savoring the coup de grace I'm about to deliver. They believed in that hokum about atomized human individuals starting out in a raw 'state of nature. That "deer in the headlights" look.

I love it. That's right. Capitalism and its original spokespeople invented the labor theory of value. You might say that the labor theory of value is the starting point for all economic theory, as we know it. Of course, the left went one way with the labor theory of value, the right another. The right quickly realized the danger in any labor theory of value and suggested that there might be additional sources of value to consider. Labor, land and capital.

I'll get back to all of this in due course. First, let's consider the folks who ran with the labor theory of value. It's safe to say that the socialist Left takes the labor theory of value for granted. Labor creates all value and all wealth. Pay workers for everything they produce.

America's wealth was built upon slave labor, so black people deserve reparations. The axioms of the labor theory of value permeate the Left's thinking, not as systematic theory but as atmospheric assumptions. It's part of the very air Leftists breath. Leave it to Karl Marx to take the labor theory of value to a whole other level by developing it into a truly comprehensive system. Nor can I hope to succinctly explain use value and exchange value; private labor and social labor; the commodification of labor under capitalism, a system based on commodity production; and a slew of other concepts raised by Marx.

I can only quickly touch upon the notion of surplus value. Workers produce commodities that can be sold for more than they receive in wages. It is the particular way workers are exploited under capitalism. Marx was similarly dismissive of land as a source of value and wealth. Box Oakland, CA. Scale seems to be key to the effectiveness of economies based on the labor theory of value.

Decentralized cooperative and communal associations have proven far more successful. Why does one worker do little more than slog through an eight-hour workday while another takes every spare moment to hustle extra jobs to get ahead? Marxism is dismissive of the individual's contribution, and is supremely derisive of any school of thought that claims "great men" make history or change society. Yet Marxists are hard pressed to come to terms with the importance of a Karl Marx or Vladimir Lenin to the Left without resorting to just such an analysis.

Calling machines "frozen labor" as Marxist economics does or defining machines as "capital goods" as bourgeois economics does utterly fails to grasp the true significance of technological advancement in society. Actually, that was a stopgap. This analysis of the labor theory of value is in the same vein. Money And Power I Made This Tea In Demente A. Dolan B. Terrible C. Smooth C. Krugga D. Cole J. Littles J. Symphony L. Complex Mr. Green Mr.

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