Majority rule.

Here’s a big surprise: the latest National Intelligence Estimate (NIE) surmises that the war in Iraq has led to an increased threat of terrorism, both in terms of the volume of potential attacks and the global spread of extremist groups. Who woulda’ thunk it? Once again, those initial arguments against invading Iraq are finding vindication years into the conflict, and — once again — its appears to make no difference. I feel like standing in the middle of Pennsylvania Avenue and shouting, Hey, fuckers! Those antiwar freaks were right about everything. Think there’s a chance they may be right about pulling the troops out, too? But let’s face it, these are very cynical times. People seem to have neither the energy nor the inclination to join a political fight they sense is pointless — that of convincing a bi-partisan Washington pro-war consensus that it’s time to abandon the Iraq project, shut down the permanent bases, pack up the gear, and pull out…. maybe even pay reparations for the mess we’ve made of the place. Most people think the war is stupid, not worth the cost, etc., but there’s no fire in the belly, because they’re not being compelled to a.) fight the war, or b.) pay for it. “Not my problem” seems to be the operative phrase.

Of course, this latest NIE demonstrates that, yes, it is our problem, including those of us who have had nothing to do with the military and who have enjoyed Bush’s tax cuts over the past five years of war. Like our ludicrous policies in Afghanistan during the 1980s, we are banking on a new generation of jihadist attacks. The (borrowed) money we spend in Iraq is an investment in future violence… meaning we can look forward to another wave of 9/11 type attacks just as the bills come due from this seemingly endless war. Why isn’t this treated as the scandal it truly is? Well, the press won’t stick their neck out on any story that doesn’t reflect some major center of power. If the leadership of neither party is willing to talk about an issue, the corporate media will avoid it as well. And because this is at least formally a democracy, neither party will move on something like bringing the troops home until we the people make it a political necessity for them to do so.

Maybe I’m wrong. (Has happened.) Maybe people will vote on the war this November and send the Republican congress packing out of sheer frustration. I know I intend to work towards that end, knowing that it is a minimalist approach to making a difference. (I live in a key congressional district that’s up for grabs this fall — more on that later.) Interestingly enough, the sentiments of the Iraqi people — those upon whom we have bestowed the toxic blessings of Bush-league democracy — seem to count for very little. Recent polling shows a solid majority of them want us out, while more than sixty percent support attacks on U.S. troops. (Not sure what those two statistics reflect, but they could mean that some Iraqis want us to stay so that they can shoot at us.) Seems to me that, at the very least, we should take these people at their word. But, of course, Bush is sticking to his line, now apparently relying on a fraudulent ABC television docudrama (or melomentary) to substantiate his suggestion that 9/11 was, basically, Clinton’s fault.

So much for vox populi.

luv u,

jp

Blog in a bottle.

Day six. Lifted my head, shook the sand out of my hair, and looked around. Picked up notebook and pencil. Started scratching out some notes. Starfish attacked me from behind — not good. Dropped off to sleep. Day seven

Hi, kids. Thought I’d treat you to an excerpt from my journal as a castaway on this remote tropical island we’ve been calling Ben-Lostawhile. Kind of has a biblical ring to it, no? (No? Guess not.) I’ve just gotten started on this narrative, and hope to parlay it into some kind of publication — a novel, perhaps. Use a little creative license, what the hell. Just me instead of bunch of re-entry-burned bandmates. Nothing for sustenance but coconuts and coconut milk and… and coconut sorbet. A humble but loveable native islander assistant named Marvin (my personal robot assistant). Sounds about right. But I need a more literary sounding name. Like … DeFoe, perhaps. Or Pope. How about DePope? How’s that sound, Marvin?

Aside from the journal, things have been pretty quiet here on Ben-Lostawhile — quiet as a grave since we made landfall last week. Once the fires in and around the ship went out and Matt, John, Mitch Macaphee, Trevor James, the two Lincolns, and I were finished hopping up and down on the sand, clasping our smoking feet recently pan-seared on the super-hot hull of our space vehicle, we took a few moments to inspect the damage, looking for tell-tale signs of irreparability, like… well, like major navigational components missing or large breaches in the hull. We found nothing like that, but as you may remember, our engine was blown to atoms by Posi-Lincoln (whose master’s license was revoked more than a century ago, after he got tanked up and drove the monitor into a giant starfish — a lost chapter of history, to be sure), so we weren’t going anywhere fast. Or slow, for that matter.

Okay, so what did we do next? Ask yourself, “Self? What would you do next?” I think the answer might be… search the island for an affordable dry cleaner — the kind that doesn’t use that deadly chemical stuff. Surprising as this may be to you ultra-urban types, our search turned up nothing. Plantains. We found lots of plantains. But no two-hour shirt services to speak of, at least not within walking distance. Dejected, I sat on an overflowing chest of pirate treasure and tried to work out how we were going to survive on such an un-cosmopolitan outpost in the middle of the … well… I’m not even sure which ocean it is. The only one who seems relatively happy with this miserable exile is the man-sized tuber, who has planted himself a few hundred yards from the beach so that he can hit on this mango tree. (He’s been in space far too long, that boy.)

No, we haven’t given up. (Except for sFshzenKlyrn, who drifted off just moments after our arrival — as only he can do.) Who knows… maybe I can write my way off of this island. Worth a shot. Day seven. Sun burning hot through the palm leaves. A mast appears on the horizon. Nah. Too easy.

In the blood.

This week, the Senate debated whether or not to sanction President Bush’s policy of torturing detainees. Let’s not trifle with words — torture is what we’re talking about here, not some antiseptic “alternative methods of interrogation” cooked up in the laptops of Dubya’s spin-meisters. We’re talking about grabbing people in the middle of the night and dragging them off to some “dark site” (perhaps the basement of a suburban home, who knows?) with no legal recourse. We’re talking about lashing people to boards and holding them under water. We’re talking about beating them senseless and fucking with their minds until they don’t know their own mother’s name. And we’re also talking about shipping them off to third countries where they’ll get even worse — the full spectrum of coercive technologies, modern and medieval. Some of the Republican leadership in the Senate framed this as a battle for American “values,” though they appear to have caved as of this writing. They had also raised a more practical question of leaving our military people at risk of ill-treatment and our leaders and commanders at risk of prosecution for violations of international law.

Personally, I think Bush had the advantage on this one. I think he appeals on a very visceral level to the impulses of revenge and retribution that are fairly common currency in the American body politic. Plenty of Americans — and I have known more than a few — are of the opinion that people in custody are most likely guilty, that foreigners are doubly guilty, and that the guilty deserve whatever they get. In fact, the worse their treatment the better, and if Bush can convince them that ill-treatment somehow makes them more safe, that’s better still. These base instincts are the same ones that inspire snickers at stories of prison rape, a staple of late-night television comedy monologues. Prisoner abuse constitutes the ultimate dehumanization, placing someone in a position of utter powerlessness, then systematically depriving them of dignity, basic physical security, and in some cases, life itself. Ugly as it is, prisoner abuse reflects a strand of our culture that’s as American as apple pie. Think about Abner Louima, the Haitian fellow who was beaten and sodomized with a nightstick by Rudy Giuliani’s NYPD. America’s mayor, wielding America’s nightstick. It’s in the blood, my friends.

On the other side of that same coin are the atrocities we’ve seen committed by some of our troops overseas. Once again, dehumanizing the “other” to the point where life is cheap, disposable, expendable. Back to Giuliani’s New York, remember Amadou Diallo, the unarmed black guy shot 19 times by the NYPD for attempting to pull out his wallet and identify himself; or Patrick Dorismond, another person of color shot by undercover cops when they tried to harass him into buying drugs off of them (he was resisting entrapment, apparently). This is part of the culture we bring with us to Baghdad, playing it out in the streets just as we do at home. Like the brutality of Saddam’s era, this has become part of their social burden. And now, with the Senate compromise legislation, our government will have expanded ability to circumvent common article three of the Geneva Conventions, ignore our own War Crimes Act, and gut what’s left of habeas corpus (which shysters like McCain didn’t even affect to defend). They are also protecting themselves from prosecution at some presumably more civilized point in the future. Saddam must be green with envy.

The tradition continues.

luv u,

jp

Weird ass music since 1986