Watch the state of the union address? Nah, neither did I. At this stage, I won’t give Bush the satisfaction of irritating me for the better part of an hour. (I understand the word “strong” was employed more than once. How novel.) This has become such a highly ritualized tradition that I feel as though I watched it anyway. I mean, since Reagan (the cardboard commander-in-chief), the state of our union has always been “strong,” regardless of what horrible hell-disaster the president had propelled us into during the previous year.
There is seemingly always some anecdotal tidbit about a soldier or a mother or a small business owner or a virtuous immigrant who just happens to be seated next to the first lady. No real new information is imparted, since the previous week is choked with trial balloons sent off from the White House to preview all new policy proposals. So aside from bad television, there is no meaningful content… though that doesn’t stop the various news organizations from yammering about it for days afterward (when they’re not talking about who is and is not running for president next year).
Not that any of them care what I think, but I think they should be concentrating more on the impending war against Iran, which is seeming more inevitable all the time. I mean, a carrier battle group added to the Gulf fleet, an admiral in charge of middle east operations, attacks against Iranian diplomats and other personnel in Iraq? Sounds like provocation mode to me. Have the major media taken note of the catastrophe in Iraq they report on each day with clinical detachment? I mean, don’t they feel as though they should give us a head’s up when a very similar danger is fast approaching? I presume they would fight to be the first to tell us that another Katrina-scale hurricane was bearing down on us. Well, what the hell — here comes hurricane Iran: another ill-defined, open-ended conflict in the Persian Gulf, only this time it will be against a relatively functional society with a long record of repulsing well-armed invaders. Where is Anderson Cooper on that one?
It’s happening again. Forget all the lofty mea culpas about the press’s failures during the run-up to the Iraq war. They’re once again performing that vital function of amplifying the administration’s bogus claims about the perils we face from a third-rate power — a nation surrounded by hostile armies (and navies!); a nation under existential threat from both the U.S. and Israel (both of which have the capacity to make good on that threat); a nation that shares a long border with the chaotic clusterfuck we’ve created in Iraq. Our major news organizations should put a freaking laugh track under any administration official that accuses Iran of destabilizing Iraq or of having undue influence in a country that invaded them (with our help). Instead, such claims are treated with seriousness and are seldom subjected to the kind of scrutiny that elevates journalism above public relations. One such failure in a single decade is inexcusable; two is simply criminal.
Peace Machine. With a major peace rally in Washington under way this weekend, I wanted to give a call out to Dennis Kyne, veteran, activist, and member of the band Peace Machine, whose song Ain’t Goin’ Back Again has risen to #28 on Neil Young’s Living With War chart. Dennis is a friend and supporter of Lt. Ehren Watada, on trial for refusing to deploy to Iraq. (Learn more about him at www.thankyoult.org ) Incidentally, Big Green’s The President’s Brain is Missing is now up to #154 on that little list.
luv u,
jp
What is this? More bickering? Jesus Christ on a bike. Can’t you guys ever just let it drop? Always putting the boot in, putting the boot in. Leave it, damn you, leave it. Do I have to come back there again? You’re distracting me from my driving!
We went out for a brief ride in the ‘wagon just yesterday, and I had to pull over at least a couple of times specifically to speak to Marvin about those bloody pins he keeps tossing in the air. (He had the best juggling coach, too… some guy named Sven. Go figure.) Not a lot of headroom in that car, as you might well imagine — this isn’t some suburban land-yacht or Mercedes SUV, friends. Anyway, it was my turn to drive and by virtue of our friend sFshzenKlyrn’s generous holiday gift (a small poke of Zenite snuff), the vehicle somehow ended up in a roadside drainage ditch. I’ve been in a number of crashes in my time; most of them involving space vehicles (or at least one space vehicle and a car of some sort), but this was among the more embarrassing incidents of its kind. For one thing, it transpired within eyeshot of the freaking mill. My comrades elected to walk the rest of the way home, singing the ridiculous round with which they had been bludgeoning me while we were still on the road. That left me to beg assistance from a passing donkey cart. I think you can imagine the ride home, station wagon in tow. Not a pretty sight.
pilot a spacecraft, but he’s no taxi driver. And don’t even ask me about the man-sized tuber. Why, his little spindly roots can’t even reach the pedals, poor fucker. Matt and John? They like to hang out the windows with their tongues flapping in the breeze. I suppose the most likely candidate for chauffeur would be Marvin, but hell — we get Marvin to do everything. I mean, that robot is entitled to a little down time, even if he is my personal robot assistant. Besides, if you put a robot in the driver’s seat, it’s like riding with Hitler. Don’t ask me why… some truths are imponderable.
murdered by assassins’ bullets or the electorate’s ballots. The first political campaign I ever worked for was George McGovern’s in 1972 — I was 13 — and I didn’t work directly for another candidate until just last fall. Voted for a lot of losers in-between, I might add. So no, I don’t expect miracles when I pull the little levers every November, and I’m seldom disappointed in that expectation. But I will tell you that it gave me tremendous pleasure to watch Condi Rice and Alberto Gonzales sit so uncomfortably before a relatively hostile group of congresspeople, especially after the free ride they’ve gotten over the past six years. You can see reflected in their dour expressions the petulance of their boss, now so obviously irked at the prospect of having to share a portion of the government’s vast power with people who at least mildly disagree with him. There is also that telltale grimace of accountability… something very unfamiliar indeed. Perhaps it’s finally dawning on them that every dog may well have its day.
All right — it’s more than a shame. It’s compounding the crime. We’ve got to save our own people, and there’s only one way to do it: Get out now. But we’ve also got to help the Iraqis overcome the clusterfuck catastrophe we’ve brought upon them. First step is to get our troops off their streets. We are not wanted there, and the longer we stay, the worse it will get. We do need, however, to provide the Iraqis with assistance — a portion of the cash we were going to spend on blowing the place up for the fifth time — so that they can piece their country back together. Yes, there will be continued violence, but that will happen no matter what we do. And sure, Bush and Cheney keep telling us that failure is not an option, but frankly, their credibility is about zero right now, maybe less. Besides, it’s not a question of failure. The Iraq mess was fairly predictable from the beginning. What we’re seeing now is the successful outcome of a lunatic policy, not the failure of some noble effort that never was. Bush, Cheney, and the rest need to be told what to do in Iraq because they’ve thoroughly demonstrated that they can’t find their ample asses with both hands.