Father Knows Best

“Texans invent their own metaphors and similes, often of a scatological nature, which is kind of fun. As a group, they tell good stories well. The reason they’re good at stories is because this is what anthropologists call an oral culture. That means people here don’t read or write much. Neither would you if all you had to read was the Dallas Morning News.” Molly Ivins
“The Clinton campaign has struggled to win support among young voters of every description, including traditional Democratic Party voters: women, African-Americans, people of Latinamerican or Hispanic origin, etc. … The AOL Email login-screen ad bought by her campaign is either an act of monumental cluelessness about how to reach those young voters, or (more likely), it’s an indication that the campaign feels the need to double-down on the older voters who constitute the bulk of Hillary Clinton supporters.” Cory Doctrow
“Advice, as it always gives a temporary appearance of superiority, can never be very grateful, even when it is most necessary or most judicious. But for the same reason everyone is eager to instruct his neighbors. To be wise or to be virtuous is to buy dignity and importance at a high price; but when nothing is necessary to elevation but detection of the follies or faults of others, no man is so insensible to the voice of fame as to linger on the ground.” Dr. Johnson

Going around the dial last weekend I came upon an episode of the old George Reeves Superman show. It opened with the local crime boss busily occupying himself with a yo-yo. The phone rings and he hands the yo-yo to an underling and says, “Keep that going for me, will ya?”
That when I realized I needed to pick the loose bits and pieces from last week’s post.
Originally the second part of last week’s missive was to make the point that those born on the front end of the Baby Boom have no idea that those of us born on the back half have no interest in listening to their tales of protest.
When I started high school the Paris Accord was signed and Saigon fell just as we were being fitted for caps and gowns. Between those two points – and certainly thereafter – we had nothing to protest. There was no war, no draft, and cultural mores had been loosened sufficiently that whatever we did could not be seen as rebellion. I used to joke that the only protest Boomers like Mom ’n me knew about was Disco Demolition Night.

To clarify – the owner of the team’s last name rhymes with “wreck.”
But you knew that.
The closest I ever came to real protest involved our ongoing efforts in what The POTUS would call “dishonstism.” As some of you know, now and then I’m called upon to be a photodishonestist. Several years ago it came down to me to take pictures of the Occupy’s port protest. Phase one was to follow the local Peace Grannies who were marching as a group that day to stand in front of a stub of the Port of Seattle which had been designated as Ground Zero by the local Occupy organizers. About half the grannies had shown up by the time I got there. Arriving hot on my heels were the anarchist kids from Black Diamond, WA/ Eugene, OR,/Fort Bragg, CA. (circle all that apply) They immediately started handing out pints of milk, instructions on how to use the milk to get the pepper spray out of your eyes, and skull-face bandanas intended to hide faces from police and media cameras. One produced a Sharpie marker and took the arm of one of the grannies, the kid then shouted, “I’M WRITING THE PHONE NUMBER FOR THE BAIL BONDSMAN ON YOUR LEFT ARM AND THE PHONE NUMBER OF OUR LAWYER ON OUT RIGHT ARM!
One took my arm and I said simply, “Media.”
She lowered my arm and replied, “FUCK YOU!”
Then she spit at me.
I then asked her if anyone thought the police would go ballistic on a group of 80 year-old women.
And that’s where I came in on this movie.
By now the Grannies, Viola, Dottie, Margaret, and Ingrid were huddled up refusing to get anything written on their arms. Out of the corner of my eye I saw more anarchists on bicycles shooting by so I took that as my cue to wander up the street. As I got to the police line you could see the teenager march that was headed for the other side of the port entrance. Kids from high schools al over Seattle marched from downtown to be part of the rally. Looking at the front of the crowd I said to myself, “Gee, there’s a mess of these kids who dress just like my kid.” Pulling out the long telephoto lens it became clear that there was one kid who dressed like my kid because he was my kid.
There front and center was Alaska Wolf Joe.
I walked up to the police captain in charge of the line and said I just needed through for a picture or two. Two officers opened up to let me through. Quickly I took both pictures and my child and got to the other side of the line. I told AWJ there was going to be trouble and we were going upwind – now- to get get away from the pepper spray and tear gas the police brought not to mention awful smelling smoke bombs the anarchists brought to create a cover for their rock throwing.
Fatherly advice comes upon you at the most awkward of times.
A steady breeze out of the south meant the bus shelter to the west of all this was the best place to be. Thanks to the miracle knows as the 150-600mm lens I got what I needed while AWJ got to watch it all unfold.

So what became of all that? What’s going on now since most of those protester/anarchists are creeping every closer to the age of 40?
Since Alaska Wolf Joe subscribes to all the FB groups for card-carriers, dupes, pinkos, fellow travelers, and useful idiots I asked him what the average protester looks like today. He says the kids these days are all about th’ Mao.
He writes:

Here’s all I can say about what I know about Trotskyites: you probably smell like patchouli, have “white person dreads”, and are handing out a newspaper at a rally which no one will read. This is the stereotype as I have garnered it from mediocre young radicals, who are no doubt soured Alinski-ites hell bent on destroying the Christian fabric of this nation with their cold hands covered in the residuum of sin.
Also, with an emphasis on recent thoughts regarding intersectionality and decolonization (which are not exclusively Marxist, more re: bell hooks and Frantz Fanon, among no doubt countless others, though no one is really cited), the dirty word “imperialism” creeps in. Any Western narrative against movements esp. in East Asia or the third world is construed as an imperialist narrative, so most people revise Mao to be a sanitary theoretician fighting the imperialist West as opposed to an absurd dictator trying to destroy culture for his own means. I’d say this stems largely from a focus currently towards PoC or WoC led movements, where to look for figures who went for radically Marxist approaches and had success on a widespread culture means looking generally outside of the West. Also the kids really love materialism now because it isn’t that stuffy thing that ivory tower elitist liberals shove down your throat with the list of Great Books.

Everybody on the same page now?
As far a future protests go I’ll probably only go those that require me to throw a saddle on ol’ Nikon and ride off.
Moving along –
Good news came along this week.
Somebody wants Mom ’n me to run out a PPT on the current state of the media!
OK it’s for a senior center enrichment group, but it’s the first time anybody wanted to hear what we have to say in a long, long time. Never mind that the only time these folks experienced fake news it was Orson Welles going on and on about martians in New Jersey.
To recap – for several years the Internet’s young hip good looking set always wanted to meet with us. The scuttlebutt said Mom was a regular digital spitfire while I was the Bloggitysphere’s answer to that daring 19th Century man-of-action, Russian Count Vladimir Klappon-Klappov. Then we’d catch up with them and they’d see we were these perpetually rumpled people with wrinkles and gray hair who were about as sexy as the average IKEA showroom. Once that shock wore off they backed away from us, but not before treating us like some old gray muzzled mutt who does little more than sleep and fart all day. They’d smile and they always said the same thing, “Gee Pops, you’re not a puppy anymore are you? Nozzums not, Nozzums not! Who’s a good boy? Who’s a good boy?
Then they’d scratch me behind the ears.
God, how I always hated that.
Oh – before I go and in case you were wondering – The Peace Grannies lived to see another day. In fact, a few years later they managed to shut down an entire Port meeting using what Joe Bob Briggs would call sit-in/hootenanny-fu using little more than the Pete Seeger songbook.
As always we end with music. What follows is what Alaska Wolf Joe said has “All the artistic panache of someone cosplaying as Karl Marx at an anime convention.” while Mom ’n me say it more as a death-by-a-thousand-cuts moment as we had to sit through a three-minute AARP ad before it would roll.

Oh Rover, we hardly knew ye

“Whenever I hear big political news I reflexively reach for my phone to check Twitter. I scroll down in the timeline to whenever the news—Thatcher is dead, an Excel error gave us austerity—first hit, and then scroll back up to watch the gradual emergence of right-thinking opinion among the left-liberal writers who make up my feed. I don’t turn to Twitter to learn about the event, but to see how “we” feel about it. Through a series of tweets and retweets (some sincere endorsements, some meant to display the enemy in all his cravenness), a consensus gradually emerges, and after reaching the top and refreshing I can put my phone back in my pocket, happy to have a ready-made opinion to wield. To get one’s news in such a highly mediated fashion is clearly dangerous. The ersatz dialogue which occurs on Twitter can give the misleading impression that all opposing opinions have been given a fair hearing, and thus that the dominant opinion at the end of the day must be the inherently superior one. No need to weigh the various arguments yourself, Twitter already did the work for you. Touted for its promotion of decentralized and democratic dialogue, Twitter more often enables the rapid formulation and dissemination of orthodox opinion. At the same time, if you maintain a bit of critical distance, watching the construction of conventional wisdom on Twitter can teach you plenty. You can see which arguments trump others, which positions are taken to be unassailable, what affect works best. Taken as a whole, it’s an unprecedented wealth of sociological data.” – Cole Carter
Once again the school’s parents’ night snuck up on us and we were wholly unprepared. You’d think we’d know the routine by now – show up, listen to the principal talk for a few minutes, meet various staff, and then go to see one teacher who had a representative sample of the offspring’s work. In an effort to at least appear organized I asked Alaska Wolf Joe what I would be subjected to this year.
“We had to write a personal essay.” he began, “About a time we were emotionally distraught because we thought our whole world was turned upside down. I wrote about the time the dog got lost and we couldn’t find him for three days.”
But we don’t have a dog.
“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention that.”
Therefore to move the process along I oh-sooooo-convieniently forgot to bring my reading glasses to the conference and relied on the English teacher to walk me through the essay. As a work of putting-one-over-on ’em/gaming-the system teenager fiction it sounded pretty impressive. Rover slipped the leash in a park we never go to and thus began the tale of how a sad lil’ AWJ began his 11th year of life. Overall the teacher seemed impressed, but for the entire time I couldn’t help but think – isn’t dealing with sad emotions so… so.. 1970s?
Where’s the outrage?
As you can see from the quote above, outrage is quite the rage these days. While the article deals with the Left’s outrage it should be pointed out that us lily-livered liberals do not have that market cornered. Outrage is about as easy to find as a Starbucks or McDonalds regardless of where you fall on the political spectrum. Never mind that the most outraged never know how to use their inside voices which makes them all the easier to spot.
Outrage wore me down a few years ago. I finally became numb. Finally I decided to pull the plug on the source which in my case was cable tv. Now I get most of my news from foreigners either on the radio or in print. Therefore by getting information from people who, lost or not – don’t have a dog in this fight you can triangulated through the mess that is my RSS feeds and Twitter cascade.
Sure, I still see the outraged go by and if I had one thing to tell them it would be to slow down a little and experience some of their other emotions. I know that I gained a whole new perspective on my child when I read the very moving passage about how he felt when we went to the animal shelter in a part of town we never go to and was once again reunited with the dog. It moved me so much that I just had to go hug not only Alaska Wolf Joe but the dog as well.
If I could find where he got off to.

The Disco Fever Outbreak of 1938

“The popularity of the television show ‘My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic’ among the Brony community is based on the show’s depth: Well-developed characters, complex plotlines, and numerous allusions to other works. However, My Little Pony is not simply the story of talking, pastel-colored equines living in a place called “Ponyville”; it is also the most detailed allegory of Plato’s Republic ever written. Everything from Plato’s ideas on utopian society and government structure to his Platonic Forms has representation in MLP’s Equestria.” from Overthinkingit.com
Q: How many surrealists does it take to put in a light bulb?
A: Fish.
First of all I want to apologize for opening up a can of French philosophical wheaup asse last time. I meant to start out with something simple like the My Little Pony thing about and then move on. You know, like stretching before you run, but I had failed to take an adequate nap before writing and therefore the content suffered.
Moving along –
Remember what the Internet used to be like?

Like hell you do.
TFN there’s always some large media organization that needs to trash the Interwebs now and then. To this end Jaron Lanier is trotted out of his cave like some sage hermit to shake his fist and let people know that if it weren’t for him there’d be no lawn for you damn kids to get off of. The latest stick of kindling on this pile came from The New Yorker. For reasons unknown the article was shot around quite a bit in December despite being published last summer. It gave aid and comfort to those who do not like all things digital and once again reinforced the feeling that this new digital generation would just as well eat their young as spit on them.
Never mind that he does this every couple of years and never mind the fact the first JL backlash came 15 or so years ago. Back in the 90s some people thought of him as little more than a popinjay who needed to go back to inventing musical instruments and leave the rest of us alone. So when he resurced several years ago with his Digital Maoism tract there were very few of us who were surprised. While it is an interesting and vital read it seemed to be more a greater part of the anti-expert zeitgeist in the early 2000’s which was powering large portions of thought about digital culture. Therefore JL did not distance himself from the Colossus, but took his place astride with it with countless others.
Please make no mistake, JL has the bona fides to bitch all he wants, but let’s not forget – as seen by the AOL ad above – he was never alone in creating what is today’s digital culture. If anything JL is part of my ancient contention that the digital culture is a constant struggle between two classes – the anuerotypicals and well-adjusted people. Lanier was in full bloom when the digital culture was populated by the people whose families wondered why they just couldn’t be like other people. We read off books, we listened to unpopular music, and with the invention of the modem we found out there were more people like us out there which only made us worse.
Or so our families would have you believe.
Today we have the great leveler of Facebook where those of us with poorly developed social skills have to deal with the extroverts.They know us, we know them. We consider each other at arm’s length. That said – I don’t have any use for the technophobes who think having a FB page makes them Marc-fucking-Andreessen.
That aside –
I will defend Lanier’s right to bitch with the caveat that no one is in control of any culture he or she is immersed in. Ancient Greek and Roman architects had no idea their work would be used as a backdrop for a motorcycle daredevil stunt. We can only do what we can and then stand back.
Along those lines – I am back on FB for a complicated set of reasons having to do with my job. When not taking care of the business part I am feeding FB a steady stream of non sequiturs. Obviously FB is trying to market all of us, but when you step back the one thing that they fail to realize is that they are wholly dependent on linear thought. (e.g. If you talk about lunch routinely you will be served McDonalds ads.) Therefore I deny them my ability to publish in a manner that suggests linear thinks. Among the things I have pushed out you’ll find test patterns, Yogi Bear cartoons, and some time today – an old Shemp Howard short.
The Greek and Roman architects?
You thought I was going to say Albert Speer didn’t you?
Got ya.

Modern Parenting

“All children alarm their parents, if only because you are forever expecting to encounter yourself.” Gore Vidal
“You don’t know Grand Funk? The shirtless antics of Mark Farner? The competent drumming of Don Brewer? The bong-rattling bass of Mel Schacher?” Homer Simpson

Most children respond to their parents’ requests with a hearty, “THAT’S NOT FAIR!” Alaska Wolf Joe differs in that he accuses us of being “petit bourgeois fascists” whenever we make a demand on his time. Now and then his reply comes in handy because we can locate him by following the bellowing. Such was the case earlier this week when we saw this web site. While knowing who Slavoj Žižek is, we needed some context about the Ke$ha person. Luckily Alaska Wolf Joe knows something of both subjects so he was able to bring us up to speed.
For those of you who know neither, here’s Alan Jones on Slavoj Žižek:

You’ve had your anti-communist fun,” writes Žižek, “and you are pardoned for it – time to get serious once again!”
“Getting serious” means an attitude of contempt for liberal democracy as an anti-human fraud, and an obstacle to “revolution”, “Truth”, “heroism” and “virtue”. It means loathing for the miserable mediocrity and the “stupid pleasures” of the unheroic modern “bourgeois” individual, a figure deemed so obscene that any enormity must be risked – as an ethical obligation, no less – to transcend him. “We in the West are the Last Men,” he writes, “immersed in stupid daily pleasures, while the Muslim radicals are ready to risk everything, engaged in the nihilist struggle up to the point of self-destruction.” For Žižek, “getting serious” also apparently means a commitment to pure will, ruthless dictatorship, “divine terror”, and disciplined organisation as the necessary tools to abolish liberal democracy and impose Communism, or what he breezily calls (as if Stalinism never happened!) “absolute Truth … designating the ethically committed ideal Order of the Good”.

And this is Ke$ha:

The comparison of their respective tropes renders them incredibly retro, don’t you think?
Alaska Wolf Joe, who despite being one of the young people is no fan of the music the young people like, says the general take on Ke$ha is that she is a walking mediocrity. He adds that the only thing more stupid than her music is her fans and both should be avoided at all cost. That lead to some further conversation which lead all parties to conclude that she’s this generation’s answer to Grand Funk.
Also there’s a joke to be made using her lyrics about junk touching and Mr. Žižek’s writings, but I’ have a long ugly week and I’m too tired to do that now. Instead we’ll end with Tame Impala and you can supply a witticism about how long ago one had to be pretty tame to own an Impala.

He's with the Crypto-Facist Now

“All of you will go with me because I’m a solipsist. I’ve just imagined you. When I go, all will be blank.” – Gore Vidal

Here’s a short note on the passing of the last of the post-war literary lions before I return to working on my Jenna Jameson-Mitt Romney fanfic epic, Crate Trained.
Vidal once said that the famous wait so long to write their memoirs there’s no one left alive to be scandalized. Starting with The City and the Pillar in 1946 it was obvious he had no intention of waiting. That wnet on until the last decade of his life when he took up the cause of Timothy McVeigh.By then his provocation had gotten far too long in the tooth.
But that was his role. In the grand division of labor Capote was the courtier, Mailer the brute, while Vidal wasa agent provocateur. Vidal alternative take on the role of the United States, while always intriguing, really was nothing more than a nightmare scenario based on Eisenhower’s farewell speech. I’ve long thought that if the truth of what his statements were proven right, it would only be correct but in an exceedingly boring way.
No bangs, just whimpers.

Capp and Trade

“What’s good for General Bullmoose is good for the USA.” – General Bullmoose
This post fell part before it could ever get started. The problem is that I read too much and far too quickly. Last week there was a column by some pundit whose name escapes me. He was writing about the Occupy Movement and he was very disturbed by it or so it would seem. By the end of the piece it seemed what he was really bothered by was that the OWS folks had no idea who he was and they were making no effort to find out. This was then supposed to fuel my larger speculation that the Dubya years were the Jurassic Period of punditry.
So much for that.
My backup plan was to do a post about how most people see their FB page as a schmoo. But I had to rethink that as I had spent part of the previous week pointing out that the just concluded Dick Tracy daily strip story line made constant references to Fearless Fosdick. However this would seem to leave people with the impression that I was stuck in some sort of content cul-de-sac.
And we can’t have that.
But before I go I will leave you with this one small note on social media – out of the blue Dr. Random started using his Twitter feed this week. When we asked why he said, “I ripped my pants and I can’t say that on my FB page. That would give all those girls who follow me a cheap thrill and then I’d have to go to school the next day and face them.”
Hard to argue with that.

Yeah, whatever…

Wanna know why there’s no post this week?
Because we went for “a drive” this afternoon.
Do I have to paint you a picture?
Write your own damn blog post if you want to read somethin’.


We have no lawn to mow therefore I have let Dr. Random write this post if he wishes to earn his allowance for the week.

He writes:

Deconstructing Rebecca Black’s Friday: Death of the Author? Possibly, but regardless, the author should be dead.
I can certainly state self-professed hatred for Rebecca Black, however, there’s some certain difference between people taking the traditional apocalyptic biblical naysaying – “It’s the death of music as we know it!” and where anyone who hasn’t posted on youtube comments recently fit in. The difference is mostly that the latter is on the joke: Nobody honestly likes the music, so instead they take it as a guilty pleasure.
I certainly fit in there.
At short, most of the criticism comes down to the epitome of what counts as modern pop: Gratuitous autotune and repetitive lyrics with no real logic behind them. Given there are much worse offenders – see Black Eyed Pea’s “I gotta feeling” as far as lyrical atrocities go – Rebecca Black still counts as a tasteless pop hit. No doubt, we can assume that most of the cheap and sleazy song writers working for their corporate overlords at Ark Music Factory are jaded men in their 40s and 50s who somehow didn’t make the cut as far avant-garde independent music went; doomed to working in some modern music Inferno, fifth or sixth ring.
I am here to hail them as underground geniuses. In the same sense that the Illuminati mock the public with subversive symbolism ranging anywhere from Lady GaGa videos to the one dollar bill, the fine hack job song writers are mocking modern music and decadent culture within their demographic (apparently). There is certain kitsch to attempting to look at Rebecca Black seriously, and again, I can make no mistake there is nothing artistically redeeming about her music other than perhaps in some sense of irony.
But yet, there is something that struck me on the head in some chance of reverse brilliance. When we have mundane reflections of life represented in lyrics, almost as stream of consciousness, how can we be sure that there aren’t subversive elements striking us? And so I looked back.
The song starts in a mundane manner, pointing out again, stream of consciousness comments on what would appear to be regular “life” as high school goes. (Interestingly, Rebecca Black is a middle schooler, but in any interpretation this is of no note as what the text is offering.)
The video starts as a stream of consciousness itself, where she is attempting to rise through her bed and go through aimless movements notioned as routine.
7am, waking up in the morning
Gotta be fresh, gotta go downstairs
Gotta have my bowl, gotta have cereal
Seein’ everything, the time is goin’
Tickin’ on and on, everybody’s rushin’

In The Gulag Archipelago, Solzhenitsyn wrote of the police attempting to rush occupants out to arrest to gulag: “[…]It’s all lies. They keep hurrying you to frighten you.”
On a schedule of dead last minute work, hours of tedium presented to the modern occupant of the American educated system, sleep is a commodity that is rare and often almost a driving factor. We cannot argue this, but in itself it is a weapon of fear as much as it is a tool of failure. Mussolini kept the trains on time as much as the schools keep sleep deprivation a constant. This is almost certainly commentary on this, as well as the routine that has become a brainwashed constant into the minds of youth.
Gotta get down to the bus stop
Gotta catch my bus, I see my friends (My friends)
Kickin’ in the front seat
Sittin’ in the back seat
Gotta make my mind up
Which seat can I take?

Two themes are ever present here, but there is first a simple theme: Education versus Education as a social institution. The bus stop represents the education, or: the anal-retentive, going for the 4.0 GPA. The friends are almost certainly a diversion. We can assume in one sense that metaphorically, Rebecca has always gone to school, but here the jump off point is present as she has only participated in school as social means. College and letter grades mean nothing to her certainly. She is not a drop out, but the system has no place for her. The school bus and where it is headed are an educated future, where the children represent social freedom and expression as well as diversion from knowledge.
The second is one of existentialism. The institution and it’s systems are existential puzzles … they present no real options for students, and almost all options presented for students are the dicerolls behind the scenes, of social classes and backgrounds. There is no expression of humanity, only of intellectuality. Those who trip up when asked to trip up in school and those who learn how to jump over the foot waiting for them divide those who are more social and those who focus on education. Rebecca’s character represents the former, and so she has become dehumanized.
Her friends represent humanity, as certainly they are social rather than treated as flat figures by a statelike school figure. The existential choice presented – even so mundanely as “what seat to take in a car” is showing just how much that even that human expression can show more to Rebecca’s character than a moment furthering her education can to her at this point.
It’s Friday, Friday
Gotta get down on Friday
Everybody’s lookin’ forward to the weekend, weekend
Friday, Friday
Gettin’ down on Friday
Everybody’s lookin’ forward to the weekend
Partyin’, partyin’ (Yeah)
Partyin’, partyin’ (Yeah)
Fun, fun, fun, fun
Lookin’ forward to the weekend

The eery remnants of a gulag like state figure within education are much present here. If we take Rebecca’s character as a metaphor for a repressed student, and this student jaunt and escape into a car transgression from her workplace, then certainly we can say no further than Friday is her release from a prison. The same release promised of an amount of labor/time (schoolwork) from the gulag (school). There is not much more to say, but this verse repeats itself in forms. I conclude my thoughts on it here.
7:45, we’re drivin’ on the highway
Cruisin’ so fast, I want time to fly
Fun, fun, think about fun
You know what it is
I got this, you got this
My friend is by my right
I got this, you got this
Now you know it

The last remainder of the verse is somewhat needless, but I will explain where this is going to the next portion. The first is a direct commentary on hedonism, the same that is the “partying” transgression from education – mindless pleasures, distraction. “Cruisin’ so fast, I want time to fly” Like a suicidal note, one does not wish to continue to live oppressedly, and so as a student she is breaking free. A gun, a bottle of whisky, an ecstasy tablet … after awhile, they blur together as the same vice of transgression. She does not want to be in the present. Her own repeated thought of trying to think of “Fun” might be a remnant from the alternate world of her staterun hell of school itself, reminding herself of the release.
Kickin’ in the front seat
Sittin’ in the back seat
Gotta make my mind up
Which seat can I take?

The verse repeats itself here as the existential one, I can only say it must connect to her own transgressive desire to escape from a dehumanizing state system of education, again.
My friend is by my right
I got this, you got this
Now you know it

Yesterday was Thursday, Thursday
Today i-is Friday, Friday (Partyin’)
We-we-we so excited
We so excited
We gonna have a ball today
Tomorrow is Saturday
And Sunday comes after…wards

By this point the images in the video serve no purpose. I do not believe imagery and symbolism come into play, as the writers had no goal in the video itself nor do objects and images reappear in the song again.
However, the point and bridge between the prior lyrics and these comes as this: They are simply commentary on the failures of the system, where heavy repetition of rudimentary concepts has become necessary due to the lack of attention. One could blame this lack due to the system itself, again, an image of the prior gulag … one could certainly ascribe that the transgression is slowly corrupting itself as well, but it also needs to go no deeper than that Rebecca’s character simply is not educated and can find no education. Thusly, she rebels in a form of transgression, escaping education as the bus, and also showing her own failures as they poison herself in life outside school.
I don’t want this weekend to end
The image of suicide and prolonged time, if not eternity, comes back into play. She knows she must return to the prison of school.
[Lyrics are omitted here as finally, I can see they serve no purpose. After the following verse, the song has nothing new to offer.]
Passin’ by is a school bus in front of me
Makes tick tock, tick tock, wanna scream
Check my time, it’s Friday, it’s a weekend
We gonna have fun, c’mon, c’mon, y’all

As represented by the adult generation and possible abuse of slang language, even elders can respect school as a present and the idea of transgression and rebellion from the oppressive system. The slang however, embodies a younger tone, definitely giving way to the idea that the man in the car referenced here is as well a victim of the school system and can acknowledge its failures, vices, and sins. He supports revolution however, showing that the writers have a bias for Rebecca’s character and her compatriots.
I can only conclude here that Rebecca Black’s Friday is a masterwork of satire. I cannot say whether it serves any purpose, but already the creators have lived their biggest joke:
Their intended audience has only looked at it as a tasteless pop song, and not recognized any of its meanings or themes.
Goodnight, and good luck.