(A short story about how and what we commute. A recurring influence while working on this piece came from Gauguin, from a letter written to an old friend: "Work freely and madly; you will make progress and sooner or later people will learn to recognize your worth - if you have any." Not just the quote itself, which is pretty good, but that he wrote as much the very year he left a wife and four children with inlaws in Copenhagen, taking a fifth child back with him to Paris, only to be dumped later at boarding school so that Monsieur Paulio could go paint the tummies of underage Tahitians with his Gallic goo...)
The Ride Home
(I)
19 December 2006
Approx 1700 hrs
AlaskaAir Flt 229 to Seattle
Taxiing down the runway at Nazi Blowjob (or Lindbergh) Field, I’m about to leave San Diego for a visit up north five months and eleven days after packing up my son, two cats and several guitars the day I turned 40, the impetus to emigrate sufficiently strong, and not unlike that which landed me in Seattle’s U-District the day I turned 30. This holiday-of-sorts arrives just after torrential winds and rain have thrashed the Pacific Northwest, an ominous sign for winter’s soon to be beginnings. Nancy will meet me around eight this evening, and there’s every likelihood that we will saunter off into the nocturnal world of bars and bullshit meandering that one sometimes resigns oneself to placate existence and thinking. At least that’s how I’ve come to look at it, and certainly not meant to negate the fact that I’m going to shtup the Korean out of her at the first opportunity and revel in it (in another time we wouldn’t even have made it out of the airport parking structure); no, it ’s just that dinner will be lovely, our previous problems given the hall pass they deserve until and when (not if) we cross that threshold into the world I dragged her through repeatedly for years simply by living with a bartender. I’m so antisocial that copious amounts of alcohol are almost de rigueur if any sort of parity is to be achieved with other organisms in nightclub or barstool scenarios; Nancy, on the other hand, is naturally quite social, and can derive some actual sense of worth in vodka-laden exchanges framed and fueled by noise, cigarettes, cocaine, etc. I suppose it’s preferable, if illusory, to the cop out of letting booze or any other medication wash over the pursuit of non-pursuit, those goals not achieved in lieu of debts satisfied, as if it’s really dry ice in that glass, assisting thoughtfully in the vaporization of an aspirant soul (okay; enough...)
Let’s think happy thoughts, shall we?
Late April, 2002
Disengaging from the quay at Bainbridge is serene and tranquil enough, and moreso in the evening. The receding postcard that is Eagle Harbour melds into pockmarks of luminescence just off the port bow, the ferry running parallel to the inlet’s northern shore and the nestled homes that flank it. Each residence appears almost at arm’s length, and by the time one imagines how days would be spent there, amongst those trees and with that slice of waterfront, a replacement presents itself, allowing for brief and vicarious intrusion, and then another, all equally if just momentarily near and seductive, and with the rustic port no longer officially called the City of Winslow beginning to diminish in candle power. Trees were felled and nature disturbed for this human conquest, yes, but the fenestration applied here to the surface of the earth seems anything but offensive, at least tonight. My eyes follow along as my transport home hugs the water’s edge: Wing Point Drive becomes the peninsular Wing Point Road, which halves the brief and jutting extension of terra firma for which both road and street are named (a larger thoroughfare, the two-lane Wing Point Way, is closer to town). This sublime little land mass, with its select inhabitants and their dwellings, keeps me company for a few minutes more. The boat turns again by degrees in concert with the topography, and Seattle, now visibly acquired, is about a half hour distant as night goes to work on Bainbridge Island, mini-peninsula and all. A blanket of darkness completes and consecrates a temporary ménage for the senses, with the din of elderly Washington State Ferry engines and steady blasts of salt air playing respective roles.
It is cold and crisp this April evening as I enter through the aft doors of the passenger deck. I’m not yet chilly, though, the hours at the job site having sufficiently warmed my blood as well as sullied my jeans. And no, real construction workers do not utter the word “sully,” but that’s okay: I am an impostor, having recently capitalized on the opportunity to generate a third revenue stream by working for a BC cabinetry concern. Compound words such as “toolbox” and “drillbit” now infiltrate my vocabulary, and it is quite literally day and night from helping manage a fancy pants bar inside the Westin downtown, and then working into the early morning at a raucous Pioneer Square nightclub, though all three are equal in keeping the cold at bay long after work.
Cruising altitude acquired and the sun drops into the ocean with the most beautiful slow-burst of oranges and yellows, reds and purples. A disproportionate number of children are on this flight - infants and toddlers everywhere - and, surprisingly, only the one up and over one seat seems to have suffered (audibly) from eardrums being pushed outward. Across the aisle, an eager-to-ambulate little blue-eyed bundle has launched into her tenth round of glottal-tinged BUH-boo, BUH-boo, BUH-boo, sprung from some endless well hidden within her two foot frame and replete with shrieks and squeals of delight. Cute factor 6 rapidly morphing into annoyance level 27...
The Puget Sound sloshes away as seagull escorts run their sweeps; there are clouds but no rain right now, and with a moon up there somewhere I fold my dusty corporeality into a WSF bucket seat that harkens back to an era when lunar transport required “One of these days” and “Alice” to be someplace in the equation. My feeble brain shuffles through myriad thoughts as my feebler brawn happily lies dormant - how odd a life of jeans, boots, 7-11 coffee, etc., that is construction. Does one truly enjoy lusting after larger pickup trucks in accordance with career ascendancy and midsection girth? And why doesn’t someone hand down an edict from on high proclaiming that polo shirts tucked in is now considered a sign of mild retardation, not desired veneration? (And if tucked into shorts we proceed directly to forced sterilization.) Extra precious are those donning the cleanest polos and driving the shiniest trucks, a creature called “fore-man.” This apparent strain of male hominid leads an operation, and is firmly committed to his shaded eye wear. Like fore-skin, but taller and with some UV protection. No doubt different from job to job (and skin to skin), but the crew at my site today, from el jefe, his adjutant and the rest of the hierarchy, aside from providing us grunts with such lovely eye candy, almost to a man strictly adhere to that which I can only assume they regard as some sacred rite: Be invisible by three p.m. This, in turn, is all but pure munificence sent unbeknownst my way, as an empty job site allows for true proletariat serenity. Perhaps the end result is roughly the same with regard to quality of work and wages garnered, but the experience could hardly be improved upon. So...good-bye Skynyrd, hello Mahler! Or, at least, a little NPR or (if late enough) BBC World in place of the monosyllabic twaddle being spread like some sort of toolbelt-hosted typhus from room to room during the day. Left alone, save for the occasional ruminations of a security guard finally concluding he should venture past the confines of his vehicle’s front passenger seat, the physical labour becomes quite peaceful.
Today was about half and half, population-wise, at the jobsite. Increasingly alone as the day wore on, this Yid with power tools was free to practice his monotheism unfettered (all hail His Holiness Makita the Redeemer). There is one guy, though, I’ve noticed that’s almost always there, regardless of the time, and when it’s late he has actually popped back in to see how things are going. Reflexively, he’s like some sort of gal Friday (“my man Friday” might be too homoerotic out here in the provinces - but “gal Friday” somehow works), and is always busy with a task of relative importance. A nice guy, but in a too-many-fish-caught-downstream-from-the-tannery kind of way. I refer to him now simply as Asbestos Dude, because this morning he made a proclamation in the basement level hallway about working “with asbestos now in case anyone is interested.” I was lining up floor cabinets across the hall from the to-be-asbestos-christened room, and was privy to the history lesson that followed when Asbestos Dude was queried on how safe it was working around asbestos. “Well, you’re probably thinking about that asbestos,” he began, “and there’s no one still alive who has ever worked with that asbestos...” and so on, with that representing whatever kind of asbestos he actually said that I’ve already forgotten. I believe World War II era fireproofing was mentioned in relation to dead asbestos workers at one point. A-Dude’s little PSA ended with a closing assurance, and everyone in both directions nonetheless scurried to an upper floor. I went back to work.
(II)
Children scream, laugh, fall, scream, squirm, shut down, start back up, scream and get shuttled to the restroom. A flight attendant has taken ill, so much so that a row of seats has been cleared and a call gone out for any medical personnel aboard to please inform the flight crew. Were my sister present, she would no doubt switch to EMT mode before unclasping her seatbelt; alas, her elder brother is of little use unless the stricken AlaskaAir rep would find discussing the decline of Western civilisation therapeutic or a perfectly constructed martini helpful.
Into Oregonian airspace now - the woman suffers, the kids yelp, I scribble...
Stationary now, inside the lighted cabin and with mildly exhausted limbs sending volleys of info upstream, the message familiar and redundant: Don’t get too comfortable, as we are shutting down for the night. I surrender anyway, and glance about my surroundings as bones and flesh, feeling somehow equally gelatinous, begin to set. Up a few rows and over to the right a fairly young woman has set up her cello in the middle of a walkway. The sound fills this part of the cabin beautifully, if slowly - her minor key excursions suggest what playing a Paganini caprice might be like while stuffed full of Xanax - and extra points are given for the flower dress and Doc Martens ensemble. Not exactly Yo-Yo Ma, and probably not your Ma-Ma either, unless your mother happens to resemble P J Harvey. Soothing and most welcome as I reach for an abandoned newspaper.
Layne Staley was found today - he didn’t die today, but was discovered today in his University District condominium. It was estimated that his 80lb shell of a body had been lying there for two weeks, traces of speedball apparatus among the debris describing his solitude. I read on, but my brain is already off doing what I’m sure others have done today, in Seattle and elsewhere, when confronted with the question of self-extermination: measuring the current quality (or absurdity) of one’s life, if only for a moment.
I’d never met him, or any of the Alice in Chains guys. I saw them perform years ago, and briefly played one of their tunes in a band in Vegas, also years ago; and, the last time I considered myself a musician, I, too, lived in Seattle’s U-District. But my reflections only linger over physical comparisons and other such trite indulgence - that he was a year younger than I and less than half my bodyweight, that I was sitting there lightly coated in a drywall/sawdust rub with hands that didn’t spend one minute of their day wrapped around a guitar, etc. - no; within nanoseconds I can only fixate my attention on those I knew who adopted varying degrees of a similar posture thanks to heroin. There was the French ex-pat who showed me how to play Beatles songs in the early 1980’s - he never went back to being a junkie after leaving Europe with wife and young son in tow, but he did opt to paint the walls of his Vegas flat with synaptic fluid early one morning after an all-night binge. Or the gent who successfully quit after more than a decade of use followed by a bid in a federal penitentiary - he, too, never went back, and instead became my father. Even those remembrances, fond though they may seem, become marginalized as I concentrate on a former friend and bandmate, a one time powerhouse of a rock frontman whose current utility consists of foraging around Seattle for whatever will help assemble his next speedball. Unlike the unfortunate Mr. Staley, this guy just looks dead. From another journal entry, the introduction to our frienship’s epitaph:
"Alvin was of average-broad stature the first day we met. I had responded to a classified ad request for a guitarist, and we introduced ourselves as I entered his immobile mobile home just off Nellis Boulevard in Las Vegas. Slightly taller than myself, perhaps 6’2”, he possessed that rarest of qualities found in a rock outfit’s frontman, sole lyricist and only singer: a rather pronounced stutter whenever he spoke. Very similar to Mel Tillis, if Mel Tillis approached a microphone with the feral nature of Maynard James Keenan’s vision and screaming. Alongside his calm demeanor and primitive artwork, Alvin was an exorcism set to music, one in which I was only too happy to help consecrate repeatedly. We wrote a few tunes together and became friends in the process.
"Alvin was of markedly diminished stature the last day we met. I had responded to my sister and her boyfriend’s request to act as liaison to resolve matters of unfinished work, monies owed and materials returned between their cabinet company and Alvin. My sister could no longer countenance his inveterate heroin-based decision making, so much so that she was no longer willing to face him. So here I was, in a pizza joint on NE 45th Street in Seattle and long, long after I had personally stopped giving Alvin repeated second chances, interacting with the broken creature before me. Oily hair unkempt to the point of visible flakes, weathered eyes kept active only with the sense of opportunity; the probability of walking out of this pizzeria with enough cash to go cop something. Downtrodden, unshaven and with graying jowls that added at least a decade to his 37 year old face, the remnants of my friend included some spittle that had found its way out of the right side of his mouth sometime before I arrived, and remained there for the duration of our meeting."
-----------
30 minutes ago the city was growing ever so perceptibly in the distance, a ferry-ride still-life where the salt water below could just as easily have been yellow bricks for me and my Toto/Toyota. Now the increasing magnification is so unabated as to seem unchecked while simultaneously unfolding in slow motion. Blossoming from Elliot Bay at various heights, x-axis beginnings fostering y-axis altitudes - an elegant graph soon to be pierced by a disembarking and special-needs ‘91 Camry.
It is particularly majestic at night, this marriage of architecture and light, water and movement. To drink it all in, here, now, and suspend everything else, however briefly, in the presence of such beauty; well, I would be remiss not to label the experience glorious, but I cannot. Ever since reading that Bukowski reflection on some poetry groupie lucky enough to have the back of her tonsils frosted, after a reading at said groupie’s college (“...it was glorious”), that descriptive term now seems both insufficient and inappropriate. Gifted wordsmith and insouciant bastard could’ve picked another word.
(III)
40 minutes to SeaTac, and there is this sense of goodwill in the pressurized air. Noisy goodwill, but goodwill nonetheless. Maybe because we’re closer to the moon, and this is a “good” gravity & tides evening? Who knows?
I do know that I left Seattle with an almost immeasurable need to re-calibrate. When occasions start popping up where turning around becomes irrelevant - the default/binary thinking that everyone has done at least once when out drinking - when that becomes a lifestyle, a suit of armor the consistency of chilled “fuck it” with which to ignore the reality that things aren’t happening; well, extraction seems obvious. Everything I worked for since moving to Seattle felt raped, or at least trampled upon by a couple seasons of wildebeest migration, long before I left it behind (how does one self-rape, anyway?) But lifeforce by nature doesn’t wished to be extinguished, and is remarkably resilient. The process of letting go is not abandonment or detachment; it’s self-preservation. Obviously one is not afforded the luxury of “letting go” of a responsible place within a household five minutes after it’s less than palatable (a supreme act of cowardice), but years of slogging through muck, increasingly self-inflicted and with decreasing patches of daylight, provides some rather stark end-game scenarios if one is paying attention.
Toward the end I became haunted, continuously, by the glaring fact that those inside our home would continue marching on in dysfunctional formation, and when I expired there would be a pause, coupled with shock or a psyche scar or two, but little in-depth comprehension as to why things imploded within those walls. Too dangerous, of course, that level of self-assessment, and certainly not a requirement for earthly existence. The guilt I felt and feel is considerable, having insisted on independent thought as necessary, but somehow not stressing the importance of putting self-discipline at a premium - of acting out of principle instead of reacting with petty characteristics more in line with daytime talk show contestants - and then leading by despondent example for a time once I knew the towel was thrown in, and all that was left was which month to schedule the Budget truck rental.
Toddlers squawk as SeaTac approacheth...descent in altitude matched with increasing SPLs...
With muffler all the rattle and dripping petroleum like telltale breadcrumbs, my bloody but unbowed Toyota ambles onto Colman Dock. A vibrant city welcomes the weathered pedicab and its tethered captain, inspiring and encouraging the trace amounts of adrenaline now en route for eye sockets and metacarpals. Accelerating north along Western Avenue, both car and driver fold into purpose-driven focus like white blood cells heading for a puncture wound - if white blood cells could sputter. In what I assume must be motorized gliding, we hit the onramp that joins SR 99 just before the Viaduct tunnel, gutting the breadth of Belltown and emerging just north of Denny Way, with lights along concrete seams having provided unnecessary guidance, as hold the turn, then accelerate, then pierce the aperture with maximum thrust already preprogrammed data. I blast through the opening in full afterburner at Mach 1/20th, and remember to breathe as the Camry, seething now with all the ferocity of an uphill trolley, begins to level out at a cross between retarded trot and Tourette gallop. No matter; the last leg of the relay home has reanimated flaccid tissue quicker than a Teri Garr Laboratory Reserve ‘74. Presently I shall be en casa. Cool.
The tunnel recedes in the rear view with the rest of downtown as four cylinders of hobbled, Japanese ponies gallantly imitate bushido-sworn thoroughbreds, obeying their gaijin master’s every futile command for increased velocity. On Donder, on Britzen, etc.; metal and mettle are pressed with confidence, “soon” being the operative word and figurative fuel. Fellow northbound travelers this cool spring eve could be forgiven for seeing only a dusty, symbolically dusky, guy piloting a vehicle that is actually sweating in the light rain. The whore in church pushing 40 mph, if you will, with the Aurora Bridge an ecclesiastic, overseeing the hand of God that is Lake Union and granting safe passage to the congregation between Queen Anne and districts northern. Successfully darting across the water, the whore and I now slip off into Wallingford: more darting, down narrow streets on long hills, all leading to the water’s edge, all making my piety more filial as I crosshatch the earth a little farther east. Necessary yielding at tiny cross streets, an occasional stop sign at a tiny four-way; two or three stoplights, depending on the route chosen (taking two tonight), and my flat near Gasworks Park comes into view.
The architecture of the city, seen now from the side opposite Elliot Bay and the Puget Sound, stands every bit as tall and strong across the darkness of Lake Union, framed elegantly between the lights of Capitol Hill and Queen Anne.
A future senior center in Poulsbo, Washington, has some new cabinetry. A current, if lesser-known, Jewish carpenter has made it home.
-----------
My girlfriend greets me at the front door, and our simple two-bedroom, one-bath with kitchenita waits behind her lithe and supple body. Eyes and lips meet, and silent accents of understanding run just below the communion of contact, then mesh with informal pleasantries voiced at the surface. Two eleven-year-old boys have been primed for a quick Hello & Goodnight, and scamper off the three and a half feet to respective bedrooms (Girlfriend and I are presently of the Lower Futon tribe, the front room being our natural habitat). I disrobe and shower.
And shower and shower. Layers of grime are sandblasted off just like that which is brought home after closing a bar, with the difference perhaps being more particle dust clinging to pores and less unidentifiable viscousness assaulting lower extremities. The body’s mechanical nature, however, is remarkably consistent: to get clean, topically, while purifying the spirit a little too, releasing the day’s memories from their inner orbit. In a more dramatic moment I might have lifted my hands straight up in the Tai Chi 101 pose, palms open toward the face and suds running off the elbows, and let Trent Reznor croon “What have I become?” a couple of times from the on-call jukebox between my ears; but no, no such selfish, nihilistic refuse this evening. For tonight I have only room for that base mixture of physical need and sentimental yearning, a pre-sapiens train of thought that unites all day laborers worldwide by lopping off at least four-fifths of Maslow’s hierarchy of needs with a less than poetic “I want some food, and I’d love some pussy” running through the central nervous system. I’m simplifying here, of course, as I do not personally think in such unrefined tones. At least not before tucking my shirt into my shorts.
The truth is that one can, every now and again, taste the true essence of having survived into adulthood - of paths not taken, both good and bad; of some dreams realized while others languor, their brilliance fading ever so slightly with each sunrise - an honest day’s work allows these insights to present themselves with striking and sobering clarity.
Things are quite clear tonight, and from our ground floor living room bedroom, with windows that look out over a few feet of concrete courtyard before hitting a three story wall, yet in a beautiful city with healthy kids going to decent schools; there is no dichotomy, no poverty by first-world standards nor even an impoverished mindset, only unity and cohesion. Girlfriend is wearing the red silk robe I’ve been disrobing since the mid-1990’s, and happiness unfolds in the form of turkey burgers shared on our couch-bed. My plate arrives with a little corazón outline of ketchup, a Cupid’s Arrow of dijon running through it.
(IV)
25 December 2006
Approx 1700 hrs
AlaskaAir Flt 576 to San Diego
Feeling frazzled as a Muppet drummer, I negotiate the gangway to my seat just past the wings of the aircraft. I pass by a High School basketball team from one of the schools in South Seattle, en route to a conference; all are wearing the exact same Adidas windbreaker, black with three white stripes down the sleeves, the exact same one I am wearing. Cute. I sit and fidget a bit, knowing full well it’s not going to be any more comfortable than the unceremonial good-byes with Nancy a short time ago. It just is, and they just were. An airline flight mag peers out over the flap in front of my knees, smirking. Gloating, even, at the knowledge that a forest was consumed for this alleged publication. Teenagers full of life and health and volume play with electronic gadgetry. Inside, I am folding myself up like a tray table; on the outside, I pretend I can still read and write.
The week came and went, passing mostly as an exercise in devolution with wisps of or wishes for bouts of amnesia. The first night lovely; the last, not so much. Some of it amusing, some of it quite tragic and all of it to be expected I guess. I’m one that believes change is good, but the fact is that change is not always good. Necessary, yes, but not always good. In this instance, and for this week, the good parts were good, and that’s that. It was good to see Nancy.
I ask a stewardette for an extra bag of peanuts and a second cup of coffee - it’s a birthday party, after all - and continue staring at my notepad. Nothing happens. I celebrate quietly, looking out the window and acknowledging that He might very well be rethinking that trip home...
-----------
We set up and feed each other mini-compositions, my girl and I, as is our custom. Usually this most natural of acts consists of assembling hot and cold combinations from a palette of rice and vegetables, chicken or fish, salsa or gochujang, in public or private and not always bite-size. But setting up a yummy bite by shaping the contours of a sandwich with one’s own chompers is itself an act of communion, and perhaps not for everyone. For us, it would only seem unnatural were it to someday cease. We chomp away, in love. Two bellies become warm and sated, with four ventricles busily pumping peace spiked with joy.
The imagery from the day - the remembrances, spanning backward through hours and years and cities and people - dissolves. The concentration required that keeps power tools from removing digits, the same concentration that absorbs life through salt air and contemplates the fate of junkies; the appraisal of fatherhood and parenting through manual labor when the only appraisal necessary is a simple, “Those That Can, Do,” and so forth; all the internal dialogue reduces like bubbling soup stock in the face of my girl’s beauty as her skin fills my mouth and limbs wrap and bend in pornographic sculpture. We’re alive, now, living this moment, and that’s all that matters, all that has ever mattered. Kierkegaard and Nietzsche look in through the window, scribbling away as I thrust fire into a 105lbs of Asian hottie, with canons of White People Philosophy regarding some raison d’etre distilled to a one-line synopsis of a popular Seventies novel: “If the shark stops moving, it sinks and dies.” Not racing toward nor away from death; just mocking it by loving lust, by pouring a tall glass of Camus’ “meaningless pantomime” and setting it out on the ledge next to the chatty Europeans. Girlfriend and I shake and sweat and laugh, and share in a ceremony far more religiose and substantive than any cathedral ceiling or pious circle jerk could ever hope to achieve. It’s the half-tenet referred to in Shawshankian theology as “Get Busy Living,” and, tonight, I live inside my girlfriend.
Camus was right, of course - will revolt more against absurdity tomorrow, promise - but this most insignificant sound and fury rep is calling it a night.
Copyright 2007 Jexican Publishing. All Rights Reserved.
Monday, December 31, 2007
Friday, December 28, 2007
Operation I'm a Dinner Jacket
Been away for a spell...let's open with a joke:
Iranian president Mahmoud Ahmadinejad calls President Bush and tells him, "George, I had a wonderful dream last night. I could see America, the whole beautiful country, and on each house I saw a banner."
"What did it say on the banners?" Bush asks. Mahmoud replies, "UNITED STATES OF IRAN."
Bush says, "You know, Mahmoud, I am really happy you called, because believe it or not, last night I had a similar dream. I could see all of Tehran, and it was more beautiful than ever, and on each house flew an enormous banner."
"What did it say on the banners?" Mahmud asks.
Bush replies, "I don't know. I can't read Hebrew."
Every now and again I send a little something, referencing Iran, to those with a sizable audience. It is primarily therapeutic for me, perhaps entertaining for them and generally ignored by all. Referencing Maureen Dowd's piece on the visit to Columbia University by the president of Iran, I sent her a letter directly. Still not eating, lest my mouth be full and chewing when she calls...her Op-Ed is available here:
September 26, 2007
Dear Ms. Dowd:
Really enjoyed today's piece - your writing is always an insightful treat to read.
The speeches at Columbia were both very interesting; the heartfelt, long-winded and wholly inappropriate one by Bollinger as well as the follow-up by that little Persimian fella (a fruity sort of hybrid, the half-Persian, half-simian; and full of rhetoric poised to inflame...though not to be confused with anything else flaming or fruity in Iran, which doesn't exist anyway...), and (yes, it's a tad offensive, but only in the sense that it may unfairly paint other simians with too broad a brush...and our own Darwinian testimonial is hardly helping: unlike Bush, "Dinner Jacket" appears to have actually paid attention in class...), having watched the whole thing from Holocaust comprehension being likened to the study of physics to the entirely accurate recounting of how the U.S. supported Hussein in the Iran / Iraq war, at least one relevant two-part question never made it to the index cards we heard:
a) Would you, Mr President, allow ongoing studies to certify that the Iran / Iraq war did in fact occur with the levels of lost and wounded lives you are stating as fact here today, and would you consider it acceptable scientific conduct if there was an Iran / Iraq War Denial Symposium held in the West?
b) If the previous question strikes you as a waste of both time and academic resources since you lived through the Iran / Iraq war, do you see how denying the Holocaust while there are still people alive that lived through it therefore makes you look retarded, and that we couldn't possibly allow two retarded presidents to play with nuclear material at the same time?
Peter Galbraith is quite right in his assessment of Iran, as he is about partitioning Iraq, even if the latter is unrealistic sans a fourth nation-state be carved out around Basra (United Exxon Emirates?). It doesn't appear that we will be departing from the region for a generation, perhaps two.
Please do keep up the good work, as your approach is very much appreciated and your humor necessary. Your lacerating observations on the ineptitude and malfeasance of this administration are a quick shot of sustenance in the morning, and helpful even when it appears certain that we're all topside watching that iceberg rapidly increase in girth while lucrative contracts to build inefficient deck chairs are doled out left and right...and the captain off somewhere red-lining his neural pathways on whether the day feels more Cool Ranch or Spicy Nacho...
At times it seems so clear that it is we who are a nation of dimwitted fruitbats, our biggest renewable energy source being chronic myopia year after year. Yet we still possess a paper, your paper, whose Op-Eds one day contain the shameful piece of fiction by Paul Bremer regarding the dissolution of the Baath party and the Iraqi army, and another furnish us with Charles Ferguson's excellent rebuttal. Not yet possible in Iranian media, that much diversity. Though when compared with the turnout for this summer's Pride Parade in Tehran...
Sincerely,
PT
Seattle, Washington
Copyright 2007 Jexican Publishing. All Rights Reserved.
Iranian president Mahmoud Ahmadinejad calls President Bush and tells him, "George, I had a wonderful dream last night. I could see America, the whole beautiful country, and on each house I saw a banner."
"What did it say on the banners?" Bush asks. Mahmoud replies, "UNITED STATES OF IRAN."
Bush says, "You know, Mahmoud, I am really happy you called, because believe it or not, last night I had a similar dream. I could see all of Tehran, and it was more beautiful than ever, and on each house flew an enormous banner."
"What did it say on the banners?" Mahmud asks.
Bush replies, "I don't know. I can't read Hebrew."
Every now and again I send a little something, referencing Iran, to those with a sizable audience. It is primarily therapeutic for me, perhaps entertaining for them and generally ignored by all. Referencing Maureen Dowd's piece on the visit to Columbia University by the president of Iran, I sent her a letter directly. Still not eating, lest my mouth be full and chewing when she calls...her Op-Ed is available here:
September 26, 2007
Dear Ms. Dowd:
Really enjoyed today's piece - your writing is always an insightful treat to read.
The speeches at Columbia were both very interesting; the heartfelt, long-winded and wholly inappropriate one by Bollinger as well as the follow-up by that little Persimian fella (a fruity sort of hybrid, the half-Persian, half-simian; and full of rhetoric poised to inflame...though not to be confused with anything else flaming or fruity in Iran, which doesn't exist anyway...), and (yes, it's a tad offensive, but only in the sense that it may unfairly paint other simians with too broad a brush...and our own Darwinian testimonial is hardly helping: unlike Bush, "Dinner Jacket" appears to have actually paid attention in class...), having watched the whole thing from Holocaust comprehension being likened to the study of physics to the entirely accurate recounting of how the U.S. supported Hussein in the Iran / Iraq war, at least one relevant two-part question never made it to the index cards we heard:
a) Would you, Mr President, allow ongoing studies to certify that the Iran / Iraq war did in fact occur with the levels of lost and wounded lives you are stating as fact here today, and would you consider it acceptable scientific conduct if there was an Iran / Iraq War Denial Symposium held in the West?
b) If the previous question strikes you as a waste of both time and academic resources since you lived through the Iran / Iraq war, do you see how denying the Holocaust while there are still people alive that lived through it therefore makes you look retarded, and that we couldn't possibly allow two retarded presidents to play with nuclear material at the same time?
Peter Galbraith is quite right in his assessment of Iran, as he is about partitioning Iraq, even if the latter is unrealistic sans a fourth nation-state be carved out around Basra (United Exxon Emirates?). It doesn't appear that we will be departing from the region for a generation, perhaps two.
Please do keep up the good work, as your approach is very much appreciated and your humor necessary. Your lacerating observations on the ineptitude and malfeasance of this administration are a quick shot of sustenance in the morning, and helpful even when it appears certain that we're all topside watching that iceberg rapidly increase in girth while lucrative contracts to build inefficient deck chairs are doled out left and right...and the captain off somewhere red-lining his neural pathways on whether the day feels more Cool Ranch or Spicy Nacho...
At times it seems so clear that it is we who are a nation of dimwitted fruitbats, our biggest renewable energy source being chronic myopia year after year. Yet we still possess a paper, your paper, whose Op-Eds one day contain the shameful piece of fiction by Paul Bremer regarding the dissolution of the Baath party and the Iraqi army, and another furnish us with Charles Ferguson's excellent rebuttal. Not yet possible in Iranian media, that much diversity. Though when compared with the turnout for this summer's Pride Parade in Tehran...
Sincerely,
PT
Seattle, Washington
Copyright 2007 Jexican Publishing. All Rights Reserved.
Tuesday, December 25, 2007
Nighttime
About a goyle...(what else?)...
Nighttime
When Night takes you away from us
And I'm alone, all to myself
I sometimes allow little whimsical journeys
To envelop my skin
Your sublime and statuesque lips
-a gift you could not possibly recognize-
They smile back at my heart
Sculpted nose and eyes
The beauty of ten thousand generations
How I've worshiped you!
Every inch belongs in my mouth
Sleeping, all is pure
How could that delicate, childlike face
So innocent in slumber
Be the same?
The same face that can scorn
With such abandon
Or hold cigarettes
With such joy
How tragic it is
To breathe near another's breath
To feel the housing of their heart
To want to cover their entire being
With affection, with warmth
And have it all be so fleeting
So sleepy and distant
When Night takes you away
I stare at all the kisses
That belong on your face
The ones I should have planted
The ones I wish you felt
I know you'll feel them someday
Copyright 2007 Jexican Publishing. All Rights Reserved.
Nighttime
When Night takes you away from us
And I'm alone, all to myself
I sometimes allow little whimsical journeys
To envelop my skin
Your sublime and statuesque lips
-a gift you could not possibly recognize-
They smile back at my heart
Sculpted nose and eyes
The beauty of ten thousand generations
How I've worshiped you!
Every inch belongs in my mouth
Sleeping, all is pure
How could that delicate, childlike face
So innocent in slumber
Be the same?
The same face that can scorn
With such abandon
Or hold cigarettes
With such joy
How tragic it is
To breathe near another's breath
To feel the housing of their heart
To want to cover their entire being
With affection, with warmth
And have it all be so fleeting
So sleepy and distant
When Night takes you away
I stare at all the kisses
That belong on your face
The ones I should have planted
The ones I wish you felt
I know you'll feel them someday
Copyright 2007 Jexican Publishing. All Rights Reserved.
Friday, December 21, 2007
Confessions of a Desert Custodian
A little ditty I wrote about paternal custody in 1990's Las Vegas...fun for the whole family, it was...
Confessions of a Desert Custodian
(I)
The mother of my child was once married to the drummer in my band. As they already shared custody of a child, and the band rehearsed at the drummer’s house, she and I would see one another from time to time. For some years, Son's Mother (SM for the remainder of this little vignette), had been in a checkered relationship with some joker and his kids, his drugs, his abuse and so on. We dated during a brief hiatus from this living situation of hers in the late summer of 1989. Drummer friend not particularly enthused as I recall; the band also went on hiatus. And this little lacuna along the axis of SM's life was to profoundly affect mine, altering its course entirely.
The guy with whom she lived, and with whom she would later continue to live, was both a biker and a mechanic, so we'll refer to him as BM - fitting enough initials for someone who proves his masculinity with the occasional shiner gracing his old lady's eye socket. Years later I would learn that it was he, and not my son's mother, who took my son to those doctor's appointments during the first few weeks of his life.
My drummer friend had informed me that SM was pregnant as we pulled into a gas station one November evening. He still had some contact with her, whereas I had none, nor the interest. Now she was back living with BM, and they were expecting a baby together. Upon hearing this news bulletin my heart truly sank - not at the prospect of having a child, but just bringing one into the world with her as the incubator (and yes, I had lost respect for her by now).
I actually did get to see my son once during his infancy, shortly after his birth at a self-serve car wash in North Las Vegas - the agreed upon meeting spot between his mother and myself, as she had to create phony errands in order to venture past the walls of the compound. He arrived with huge brown eyes and the odd gurgle; I showed up in a noisy Camaro with a couple of pink beads at the end of my braids. My son had that hyper-aware look that all newborns seem to possess, the continuous visage that seems to vacillate between what the fuck are you saying? and Oh, I KNOW you didn't just take me out of that womb...
I emphatically requested from SM that we get a test done to determine paternity, and she agreed, but it wasn't meant to be: she withdrew back into the morass of bikerdom decision making, convincing herself that it was BM Faceslapper who fathered that child.
Some time had passed, perhaps six full seasons (though "season" is somewhat of a misnomer in Vegas - if you're prone to napping in October you could miss autumn all together), and SM had resurfaced with a desire to see me. We met after I got off work late one night. Apparently our son looked a bit like his real father, and after a scant 18 months spent on verification she leaped into action to rectify this injustice. Later that week blood was drawn at $250 per pricking, and it was off to some lab in Michigan for DNA testing. Back then, during those frontier days of the masses getting genetic confirmation at the molecular level, all samples went to Michigan, and apparently by Pony Express: five weeks went by before results came back with their conclusiveness.
With family members appraised and live in girlfriend alerted, I grabbed a pushy lawyer (who ended up a disgraced judge) and obtained joint legal and physical custody immediately after the DNA results returned. It was April of 1992, and my son and I were awarded half of each week to get to know one another. He was just about two, and I was a little past uncomfortable. Into the great beyond we went.
(II)
Other than that brief dalliance lasting a couple of weeks, there was never any relationship between my son’s mother and myself or, during her pregnancy and the ensuing 18 months after our child's birth, any relationship between the three of us. No assisting before, during or after; no holding, nurturing, familiarizing with one another; and no trips to the doctor should my son fall ill (as he did). This lack of experience wounded me greatly, but little forays into self-pity were at best only mildly relevant; my hands were quite full with a toddler who greeted me every week with hysterical screaming at being removed from his mother’s clutch. And what became blindingly obvious all too quickly, beyond the nonexistent parental relationship that certainly didn’t improve after daddy took mommy to court, was the amount of neglect SM was imparting upon our son due to the way she conducted her own life. This was a touch beyond which skill sets should be emphasized, or a disagreement over bedtime; I’m referring to picking up your kid with the caked-on snot and diaper rash kind of neglect, that irritability that comes from 7-11 dining and lack of a cohesive living structure. I'd send him away healthy, and he'd always return with something that had to clear up before we could just be "normal" for a few days.
But the worst, the absolute worst, was getting the life back into those horribly dull eyes once my part of the week began, that product of near-zero intellectual stimulation. That was particularly difficult.
The emotional anguish of instant parenthood juxtaposed with meeting the immediate needs of an astonishingly prolific little poop factory became almost topical compared to the concerns mentioned above, and then seasoned with omnipresent guilt knowing that his mother was not above couch surfing as a way of life, with child, in an environment that occasionally included copious amounts of detrimental substances both illegal and store-bought, and just plain old and lethal secondhand smoke by the carton.
And while it's sometimes difficult to recall without photographs, there were countless good moments interspersed throughout all this: the birthdays with his "new" family members, the family pets chasing him around, putting sentences together for the first time, teaching him to swim and walk and locomote a little tricycle - we had all the "stuff" you might expect, right up until the dreaded ending, that transplanting of someone so delicate for a day or two or, sometimes, even three. And then a lot of sadness and confusion would creep in.
To say that all this kept me up nights would imply that I actually slept during this time in my life. My son did nothing to deserve this neglect, so how could I possibly countenance such behavior? What the hell was wrong with me?
Three years would pass in this state of flux.
(III)
I did keep a journal documenting each visit, its length and my son’s state of well-being, or lack thereof, upon return. It seemed necessary at the time. There were only a handful of occasions that his mother and I actually adhered to the exact wording by the court, as he usually spent a week with a me, sometimes two, and she would see him for 24 to 48 hours at a time. This tempered the little slices of agony I felt in my gut, knowing that this can't go on indefinitely yet allowing it to with bullshit rationalizations about a child interacting with its mother and the like.
The gory details surrounding these 150-plus weeks are lengthy and probably best left highly repressed; for every mildly humorous recollection available (such as picking him up once near a mall and, disgusted, just marching into the nearest Boys Department, placing a card near the register and requesting a shirt, pants and underclothes be brought in behind me after I delouse him in the changing room and toss his current linen), there is always some nightmare just waiting to take its place (such as the middle of the night hand off with my son, cold and frightened and crying his eyes out as I take him from mommy because mommy had to leave her residence when she noticed roommates shooting speed into their veins, and having an infant around needles full of methamphetamine struck her as inappropriate).
With a few exceptions, the neglect was generally just under the radar by CPS standards. But this was my entire radar, my only radar, and at times quite harrowing. What I was (and was not) made of had become graphically apparent as the months became years: the continuous feelings of anger and self-loathing, often bonded by a heavy dose of fear; the image of seeing my son see me through a sheet of Plexiglas went from an initially shocking thought to a tired refrain, the product of desperate and selfish thinking over and over. It was an emasculation played out in long form, the occasional assertiveness when I just said "no more" notwithstanding. But the second chances kept coming, and they piled up within me.
(IV)
One simple, pleasant memory from this time was that my son liked to catch things with his head. For some reason I remember this about whenever we played ball. Yes, he was only four, and later on we did notice he needed glasses, but he was nonetheless quite brave. And most durable. To the untrained eye he probably resembled the most phenomenal klutz in public. At times you could even see the gushes of sympathy on people's faces as something hit him, or as he hit the Earth in a variety of ways.
He always got back up, and this was very inspirational for me at the time.
During the summer of 1995 SM rarely saw her son. I had procured an adequate residence in one of Vegas’ countless suburban outcroppings with the word "ranch" somewhere in the title. She had shown little interest in making any effort to contact our child, which was fine - he was about to start kindergarten in a nice, new school, come home to his own room in a nice, new house, etc. Stocked up at this moment in time were the little things that tend to balloon in significance once removed, particularly in the innate way a small child absorbs the world. I was as content as possible, all things considered. And my son was happy, and healthy.
And so this charade went on, each day with no contact a treat, each phone call that wasn't her a tense-and-release joy. I was not being proactive, and certainly not seeking confrontation - merely exhibiting that base and feeble human desire of hoping that something unpleasant would just stay gone.
Of course it was naive.
(V)
When the fingers of my right hand had tightened their grip around her throat it was before I even realized what was happening, and for the briefest of nanoseconds a different reality was present; even her cry to some roommate to call the cops meant nothing. She was moving backward as I moved forward, and only when my eyes lowered toward the yelling coming from her chest did I adjust, and, seeing my son clasped in her arms between us, I immediately ceased and sat down. I was thankful then, as I am today, that whatever snapped in me only sent the message "grab her neck" and not "remove her windpipe." To her credit, my son’s mother never let him go, though this is what initiated the incident in the first place: she contacted me and asked for a visit on the day my son was to fly to Phoenix and visit his grandmother just before the school year commenced, and I agreed to drive across town to let him say hello before proceeding to the airport. After having him close by for a few mi nutes she announced that our child would now be staying with her in this most recent hovel; that welfare, ADC and the like could assist, and that he would be going to a school nearby. I disagreed and grabbed his arm to leave, whereupon she swooped him up against her torso. Then my eyes got cold.
The cops did what cops do: the child was led off into another room with one officer (a female, sympathetic, and I believe brandishing a teddy bear) while the other got the story from the adults. Another squad car arrived. With regret, though hardly apologetic, I told the truth when questioned, and about a half hour later left with my son. He made the plane to Arizona and I juggled dark thoughts while giving silent thanks. In roughly the same amount of time it took to create him some six years prior, I had almost eclipsed his chances completely, and my own, for even a semblance of normality with regard to his upbringing.
I got a new lawyer and denied SM the right to see her child, though possessing no legal authority to do so. I wasn’t invisible, but I was through being considerate. The particulars were to require some time before an official piece of paper stated what I was now already enforcing, so we went on vacation, my son and I, to the Pacific Northwest. The time away was memorable, so much so that we decided to give it a name: it is now known as “First Grade in Seattle.”
(VI)
In February of 1997, I flew into Las Vegas and met my attorney at the Clark County Family Court. I walked out with full custody of my son a short time later.
In November of 2003, my son’s mother resurfaced, repentant and healthy. They see each other on holidays, schedules permitting.
And the trick to fatherhood? Well, that's a question best answered by someone completely delusional. But I can furnish you with this one little clue: just show the fuck up. Resist that primordial urge to pack up the remainder of your sperm and move on. And expect to be frustrated most of the time, with only the briefest morsels of light along the way. That kid doesn't have any extra time in his day to sympathize with the enormity of your problems, or to understand that you finally drank yourself to sleep a couple hours ago because every time you go to work it's Groundhog Day at The Island Of Dr. Moreau...so just drag your hungover butt into the kitchen, find something more nutritious than a Pop Tart and get him to school no later than thirty minutes after the first bell rings. And, on those rarest of occasions when he feels like actually confiding in you, get all the crap out of your own life for a few minutes and pay attention.
Why? Because it's part of the glue that binds us, our ability to listen.
Plus, years later when that same child morphs into Darwin's Missing Link right before your very eyes (extra pimples and hold the manners), you'll be able to pause and reflect on "the good old days."
Copyright 2007 Jexican Publishing. All Rights Reserved.
Confessions of a Desert Custodian
(I)
The mother of my child was once married to the drummer in my band. As they already shared custody of a child, and the band rehearsed at the drummer’s house, she and I would see one another from time to time. For some years, Son's Mother (SM for the remainder of this little vignette), had been in a checkered relationship with some joker and his kids, his drugs, his abuse and so on. We dated during a brief hiatus from this living situation of hers in the late summer of 1989. Drummer friend not particularly enthused as I recall; the band also went on hiatus. And this little lacuna along the axis of SM's life was to profoundly affect mine, altering its course entirely.
The guy with whom she lived, and with whom she would later continue to live, was both a biker and a mechanic, so we'll refer to him as BM - fitting enough initials for someone who proves his masculinity with the occasional shiner gracing his old lady's eye socket. Years later I would learn that it was he, and not my son's mother, who took my son to those doctor's appointments during the first few weeks of his life.
My drummer friend had informed me that SM was pregnant as we pulled into a gas station one November evening. He still had some contact with her, whereas I had none, nor the interest. Now she was back living with BM, and they were expecting a baby together. Upon hearing this news bulletin my heart truly sank - not at the prospect of having a child, but just bringing one into the world with her as the incubator (and yes, I had lost respect for her by now).
I actually did get to see my son once during his infancy, shortly after his birth at a self-serve car wash in North Las Vegas - the agreed upon meeting spot between his mother and myself, as she had to create phony errands in order to venture past the walls of the compound. He arrived with huge brown eyes and the odd gurgle; I showed up in a noisy Camaro with a couple of pink beads at the end of my braids. My son had that hyper-aware look that all newborns seem to possess, the continuous visage that seems to vacillate between what the fuck are you saying? and Oh, I KNOW you didn't just take me out of that womb...
I emphatically requested from SM that we get a test done to determine paternity, and she agreed, but it wasn't meant to be: she withdrew back into the morass of bikerdom decision making, convincing herself that it was BM Faceslapper who fathered that child.
Some time had passed, perhaps six full seasons (though "season" is somewhat of a misnomer in Vegas - if you're prone to napping in October you could miss autumn all together), and SM had resurfaced with a desire to see me. We met after I got off work late one night. Apparently our son looked a bit like his real father, and after a scant 18 months spent on verification she leaped into action to rectify this injustice. Later that week blood was drawn at $250 per pricking, and it was off to some lab in Michigan for DNA testing. Back then, during those frontier days of the masses getting genetic confirmation at the molecular level, all samples went to Michigan, and apparently by Pony Express: five weeks went by before results came back with their conclusiveness.
With family members appraised and live in girlfriend alerted, I grabbed a pushy lawyer (who ended up a disgraced judge) and obtained joint legal and physical custody immediately after the DNA results returned. It was April of 1992, and my son and I were awarded half of each week to get to know one another. He was just about two, and I was a little past uncomfortable. Into the great beyond we went.
(II)
Other than that brief dalliance lasting a couple of weeks, there was never any relationship between my son’s mother and myself or, during her pregnancy and the ensuing 18 months after our child's birth, any relationship between the three of us. No assisting before, during or after; no holding, nurturing, familiarizing with one another; and no trips to the doctor should my son fall ill (as he did). This lack of experience wounded me greatly, but little forays into self-pity were at best only mildly relevant; my hands were quite full with a toddler who greeted me every week with hysterical screaming at being removed from his mother’s clutch. And what became blindingly obvious all too quickly, beyond the nonexistent parental relationship that certainly didn’t improve after daddy took mommy to court, was the amount of neglect SM was imparting upon our son due to the way she conducted her own life. This was a touch beyond which skill sets should be emphasized, or a disagreement over bedtime; I’m referring to picking up your kid with the caked-on snot and diaper rash kind of neglect, that irritability that comes from 7-11 dining and lack of a cohesive living structure. I'd send him away healthy, and he'd always return with something that had to clear up before we could just be "normal" for a few days.
But the worst, the absolute worst, was getting the life back into those horribly dull eyes once my part of the week began, that product of near-zero intellectual stimulation. That was particularly difficult.
The emotional anguish of instant parenthood juxtaposed with meeting the immediate needs of an astonishingly prolific little poop factory became almost topical compared to the concerns mentioned above, and then seasoned with omnipresent guilt knowing that his mother was not above couch surfing as a way of life, with child, in an environment that occasionally included copious amounts of detrimental substances both illegal and store-bought, and just plain old and lethal secondhand smoke by the carton.
And while it's sometimes difficult to recall without photographs, there were countless good moments interspersed throughout all this: the birthdays with his "new" family members, the family pets chasing him around, putting sentences together for the first time, teaching him to swim and walk and locomote a little tricycle - we had all the "stuff" you might expect, right up until the dreaded ending, that transplanting of someone so delicate for a day or two or, sometimes, even three. And then a lot of sadness and confusion would creep in.
To say that all this kept me up nights would imply that I actually slept during this time in my life. My son did nothing to deserve this neglect, so how could I possibly countenance such behavior? What the hell was wrong with me?
Three years would pass in this state of flux.
(III)
I did keep a journal documenting each visit, its length and my son’s state of well-being, or lack thereof, upon return. It seemed necessary at the time. There were only a handful of occasions that his mother and I actually adhered to the exact wording by the court, as he usually spent a week with a me, sometimes two, and she would see him for 24 to 48 hours at a time. This tempered the little slices of agony I felt in my gut, knowing that this can't go on indefinitely yet allowing it to with bullshit rationalizations about a child interacting with its mother and the like.
The gory details surrounding these 150-plus weeks are lengthy and probably best left highly repressed; for every mildly humorous recollection available (such as picking him up once near a mall and, disgusted, just marching into the nearest Boys Department, placing a card near the register and requesting a shirt, pants and underclothes be brought in behind me after I delouse him in the changing room and toss his current linen), there is always some nightmare just waiting to take its place (such as the middle of the night hand off with my son, cold and frightened and crying his eyes out as I take him from mommy because mommy had to leave her residence when she noticed roommates shooting speed into their veins, and having an infant around needles full of methamphetamine struck her as inappropriate).
With a few exceptions, the neglect was generally just under the radar by CPS standards. But this was my entire radar, my only radar, and at times quite harrowing. What I was (and was not) made of had become graphically apparent as the months became years: the continuous feelings of anger and self-loathing, often bonded by a heavy dose of fear; the image of seeing my son see me through a sheet of Plexiglas went from an initially shocking thought to a tired refrain, the product of desperate and selfish thinking over and over. It was an emasculation played out in long form, the occasional assertiveness when I just said "no more" notwithstanding. But the second chances kept coming, and they piled up within me.
(IV)
One simple, pleasant memory from this time was that my son liked to catch things with his head. For some reason I remember this about whenever we played ball. Yes, he was only four, and later on we did notice he needed glasses, but he was nonetheless quite brave. And most durable. To the untrained eye he probably resembled the most phenomenal klutz in public. At times you could even see the gushes of sympathy on people's faces as something hit him, or as he hit the Earth in a variety of ways.
He always got back up, and this was very inspirational for me at the time.
During the summer of 1995 SM rarely saw her son. I had procured an adequate residence in one of Vegas’ countless suburban outcroppings with the word "ranch" somewhere in the title. She had shown little interest in making any effort to contact our child, which was fine - he was about to start kindergarten in a nice, new school, come home to his own room in a nice, new house, etc. Stocked up at this moment in time were the little things that tend to balloon in significance once removed, particularly in the innate way a small child absorbs the world. I was as content as possible, all things considered. And my son was happy, and healthy.
And so this charade went on, each day with no contact a treat, each phone call that wasn't her a tense-and-release joy. I was not being proactive, and certainly not seeking confrontation - merely exhibiting that base and feeble human desire of hoping that something unpleasant would just stay gone.
Of course it was naive.
(V)
When the fingers of my right hand had tightened their grip around her throat it was before I even realized what was happening, and for the briefest of nanoseconds a different reality was present; even her cry to some roommate to call the cops meant nothing. She was moving backward as I moved forward, and only when my eyes lowered toward the yelling coming from her chest did I adjust, and, seeing my son clasped in her arms between us, I immediately ceased and sat down. I was thankful then, as I am today, that whatever snapped in me only sent the message "grab her neck" and not "remove her windpipe." To her credit, my son’s mother never let him go, though this is what initiated the incident in the first place: she contacted me and asked for a visit on the day my son was to fly to Phoenix and visit his grandmother just before the school year commenced, and I agreed to drive across town to let him say hello before proceeding to the airport. After having him close by for a few mi nutes she announced that our child would now be staying with her in this most recent hovel; that welfare, ADC and the like could assist, and that he would be going to a school nearby. I disagreed and grabbed his arm to leave, whereupon she swooped him up against her torso. Then my eyes got cold.
The cops did what cops do: the child was led off into another room with one officer (a female, sympathetic, and I believe brandishing a teddy bear) while the other got the story from the adults. Another squad car arrived. With regret, though hardly apologetic, I told the truth when questioned, and about a half hour later left with my son. He made the plane to Arizona and I juggled dark thoughts while giving silent thanks. In roughly the same amount of time it took to create him some six years prior, I had almost eclipsed his chances completely, and my own, for even a semblance of normality with regard to his upbringing.
I got a new lawyer and denied SM the right to see her child, though possessing no legal authority to do so. I wasn’t invisible, but I was through being considerate. The particulars were to require some time before an official piece of paper stated what I was now already enforcing, so we went on vacation, my son and I, to the Pacific Northwest. The time away was memorable, so much so that we decided to give it a name: it is now known as “First Grade in Seattle.”
(VI)
In February of 1997, I flew into Las Vegas and met my attorney at the Clark County Family Court. I walked out with full custody of my son a short time later.
In November of 2003, my son’s mother resurfaced, repentant and healthy. They see each other on holidays, schedules permitting.
And the trick to fatherhood? Well, that's a question best answered by someone completely delusional. But I can furnish you with this one little clue: just show the fuck up. Resist that primordial urge to pack up the remainder of your sperm and move on. And expect to be frustrated most of the time, with only the briefest morsels of light along the way. That kid doesn't have any extra time in his day to sympathize with the enormity of your problems, or to understand that you finally drank yourself to sleep a couple hours ago because every time you go to work it's Groundhog Day at The Island Of Dr. Moreau...so just drag your hungover butt into the kitchen, find something more nutritious than a Pop Tart and get him to school no later than thirty minutes after the first bell rings. And, on those rarest of occasions when he feels like actually confiding in you, get all the crap out of your own life for a few minutes and pay attention.
Why? Because it's part of the glue that binds us, our ability to listen.
Plus, years later when that same child morphs into Darwin's Missing Link right before your very eyes (extra pimples and hold the manners), you'll be able to pause and reflect on "the good old days."
Copyright 2007 Jexican Publishing. All Rights Reserved.
Friday, December 14, 2007
Spring Break '06: Nose Karate
'Tis a love story...
Spring Break ‘06: Nose Karate
The Pier One / Pottery Barn wannabe coaster sailed downward through the basement stairwell in a trajectory one would expect from a saucer still rotating at max rpms when crossing the bottom stair; that the launch mechanism was more spastic-psycho girlfriend than discus-wielding olympian seemed to matter little. She had flung it by way of punctuation, gracing the end of her last sentence in the desire to provide a more tactile explanation mark for both of us. (Doesn’t screaming already imply explanation marks are to be assumed?) She didn’t know I was about to turn that blind corner below with my “I’m leaving” overnight bag already packed - who can think of such things when hurling invective from the top of a stairwell? - and I was entirely naive to the fact that punctuation had now acquired mass. It had already been a long night, for me, that vibrant spring morning.
Crack! My most prominent Jewish appendage snapped that flying woodchip in two. Another nanosecond and I might have done more than just witness the flight path; instead, I got broken skin and tickled cartilage, and took my moistening face outside as she was about to drive off for work. At the time it made sense to start finger-painting the windshield of our car with the crimson spouting from my nose, looking at her in the driver’s seat and asking the goofy, rhetorical questions that come up in these situations. I’ve no doubt those in our little neighborhood driving by on their way to work also got a charge out of it, one way or another.
I went inside, and she followed, and I giggled as she apologized. I said I was still leaving, for a day or two, and she said she didn’t mean it. (Hijole! Drawing blood was the least of my problems - if only she didn’t mean all that other stuff!). I suggested she go on to work; that if her behind stayed behind much longer I’d just nail her. From behind.
-----------
Funny thing about the personnel at weekly motels: they never much react when you check in. In fact, you wouldn’t know that you look as disheveled as you do if forced to make an assessment by gauging their expressions while your debit card is authorized for the daily rate.
Not at all far from my beautiful Seattle home, I had nonetheless teleported to that twin universe where people get their rent together every seven days: a modest little boarding house with a Highway 99 off ramp underscoring the property line’s western boundary. If turned to liquid, it could have served as my personal moat against heathen onslaughts stemming from the other side of Aurora Avenue (the Ballardian Invasions).
I signed a slip and grabbed my key, and tossed a foam cup with the vile remnants of the coffee one procures in a lobby entered through sliding glass doors, thanking Mr. Toothy Handyman-Desk clerk as I left. Several tries at the door to my room proved futile, and I obtained a second key from Toothy, one that did not say “Room 104” but nonetheless unlocked that room’s door. I glanced about the windows and door jambs, check for carpet stains that appear to resemble chalklines, etc., as I set down my bag and guitar. It was actually very clean, and, silently, I was quite thankful.
-----------
And then that little game commences, the folly of What Do I Want To Do? now that the worst is temporarily over and the little buy-in at the fancy crack house allows fleeting strands of independence, anonymity and selfishness to shine through. A sad take, really, on what one might consider adequate sustenance if mentally beaten down enough, though that analysis really has no place in this moment.
Years spent obsessing over the needs of others, whether in the kitchen, or in the car, or while determined to quit a job that’s killing you only to instead suck it up again for one more night; these are the things that propel you, perhaps with honor, or perhaps with heart disease. Who knows? Perhaps you just morph into some lummox-like creature who is barely smart enough to realize pressing forward yields more returns for your dependents than falling down. One thing, however, is abundantly clear: it matters not at the little motel by the highway that afternoon, only that you know you would have marched to your death upholding a commitment made if it wasn’t so often and flagrantly cast aside by others, and the early morning nonsense by your kooky girlfriend is just a little more icing on a cake repeatedly thrown through the woodchipper.
(Doesn’t Omelette Theory have a Woodchipper Corollary?)
And so you celebrate your self-emancipation by laying back on a bedspread that would normally gross you out, and you open the windows and turn on the TV and you don’t give a fuck if it’s the NewsHour with Jim Lehrer or the retarded hour with Judge Judy, because stress-free air is enveloping the room and you can’t recall the last time any of that entered your lungs while sober, and larger questions about what happened to a life once filled with so much promise are cast aside as you revel in the foolish joy of buying dinner for one for once. Peace through absurdity, you think while smirking.
After awhile, your girlfriend comes over and you share a few beers together, and she receives the spanking she rightly deserves before being sent back to the house. When morning comes, you gather your notebooks and reading material, guitar and toothbrush, and the few other accouterments deemed necessary for short-term, backpack survival, and you head home without ceremony.
You’re still an adult, lummox.
Copyright 2007 Jexican Publishing. All Rights Reserved.
Spring Break ‘06: Nose Karate
The Pier One / Pottery Barn wannabe coaster sailed downward through the basement stairwell in a trajectory one would expect from a saucer still rotating at max rpms when crossing the bottom stair; that the launch mechanism was more spastic-psycho girlfriend than discus-wielding olympian seemed to matter little. She had flung it by way of punctuation, gracing the end of her last sentence in the desire to provide a more tactile explanation mark for both of us. (Doesn’t screaming already imply explanation marks are to be assumed?) She didn’t know I was about to turn that blind corner below with my “I’m leaving” overnight bag already packed - who can think of such things when hurling invective from the top of a stairwell? - and I was entirely naive to the fact that punctuation had now acquired mass. It had already been a long night, for me, that vibrant spring morning.
Crack! My most prominent Jewish appendage snapped that flying woodchip in two. Another nanosecond and I might have done more than just witness the flight path; instead, I got broken skin and tickled cartilage, and took my moistening face outside as she was about to drive off for work. At the time it made sense to start finger-painting the windshield of our car with the crimson spouting from my nose, looking at her in the driver’s seat and asking the goofy, rhetorical questions that come up in these situations. I’ve no doubt those in our little neighborhood driving by on their way to work also got a charge out of it, one way or another.
I went inside, and she followed, and I giggled as she apologized. I said I was still leaving, for a day or two, and she said she didn’t mean it. (Hijole! Drawing blood was the least of my problems - if only she didn’t mean all that other stuff!). I suggested she go on to work; that if her behind stayed behind much longer I’d just nail her. From behind.
-----------
Funny thing about the personnel at weekly motels: they never much react when you check in. In fact, you wouldn’t know that you look as disheveled as you do if forced to make an assessment by gauging their expressions while your debit card is authorized for the daily rate.
Not at all far from my beautiful Seattle home, I had nonetheless teleported to that twin universe where people get their rent together every seven days: a modest little boarding house with a Highway 99 off ramp underscoring the property line’s western boundary. If turned to liquid, it could have served as my personal moat against heathen onslaughts stemming from the other side of Aurora Avenue (the Ballardian Invasions).
I signed a slip and grabbed my key, and tossed a foam cup with the vile remnants of the coffee one procures in a lobby entered through sliding glass doors, thanking Mr. Toothy Handyman-Desk clerk as I left. Several tries at the door to my room proved futile, and I obtained a second key from Toothy, one that did not say “Room 104” but nonetheless unlocked that room’s door. I glanced about the windows and door jambs, check for carpet stains that appear to resemble chalklines, etc., as I set down my bag and guitar. It was actually very clean, and, silently, I was quite thankful.
-----------
And then that little game commences, the folly of What Do I Want To Do? now that the worst is temporarily over and the little buy-in at the fancy crack house allows fleeting strands of independence, anonymity and selfishness to shine through. A sad take, really, on what one might consider adequate sustenance if mentally beaten down enough, though that analysis really has no place in this moment.
Years spent obsessing over the needs of others, whether in the kitchen, or in the car, or while determined to quit a job that’s killing you only to instead suck it up again for one more night; these are the things that propel you, perhaps with honor, or perhaps with heart disease. Who knows? Perhaps you just morph into some lummox-like creature who is barely smart enough to realize pressing forward yields more returns for your dependents than falling down. One thing, however, is abundantly clear: it matters not at the little motel by the highway that afternoon, only that you know you would have marched to your death upholding a commitment made if it wasn’t so often and flagrantly cast aside by others, and the early morning nonsense by your kooky girlfriend is just a little more icing on a cake repeatedly thrown through the woodchipper.
(Doesn’t Omelette Theory have a Woodchipper Corollary?)
And so you celebrate your self-emancipation by laying back on a bedspread that would normally gross you out, and you open the windows and turn on the TV and you don’t give a fuck if it’s the NewsHour with Jim Lehrer or the retarded hour with Judge Judy, because stress-free air is enveloping the room and you can’t recall the last time any of that entered your lungs while sober, and larger questions about what happened to a life once filled with so much promise are cast aside as you revel in the foolish joy of buying dinner for one for once. Peace through absurdity, you think while smirking.
After awhile, your girlfriend comes over and you share a few beers together, and she receives the spanking she rightly deserves before being sent back to the house. When morning comes, you gather your notebooks and reading material, guitar and toothbrush, and the few other accouterments deemed necessary for short-term, backpack survival, and you head home without ceremony.
You’re still an adult, lummox.
Copyright 2007 Jexican Publishing. All Rights Reserved.
Saturday, December 8, 2007
A Grim Article
I wasn't the first to say it, but seldom has there been a more perfect marriage of two words slapped together than in the phrase "Distrust Altruism"...
A Grim Article
Re: The New German Nazism by William E Grim
(The article, reprinted here, was published in FrontPage Magazine, and elsewhere.)
Regardless of where the blame goes, whether to those who defeated the Huns during the first World War or (as Hitler used relentlessly in his ascent to power) those that capitulated first by losing the war and/or second by agreeing to treaties that guaranteed economic ruin, or somewhere in between, I suspect that this is more the "racism of convenience" to which the author refers when he comes upon giggling school children...even if he doesn't see it as such. It's something that we all possess to some extent, and that which Mr. Grim ends up displaying himself most judiciously long before the end of the article. Understandably, any trace of anti-Semitism is hyped up with the best intentions, but that doesn't mean it's necessarily helpful. At the risk of making an uninformed assessment myself, perhaps it is because Mr. Grim (who needs to requisition a new surname, by the way) isn't Jewish that he doesn't acknowledge the great swaths of suffering inflicted upon the Jews due to prejudice and bigotry over past millennia (besides the Holocaust). It's something every Jewish person learns pretty early on, regardless of how comfy his or her present surroundings might be: the world is intolerant, and blindly so toward Jews. For some of us there is consolation and fortitude derived from the knowledge that we are, after all, The Chosen...though for what I have no idea...
Too light an assessment? Perhaps; I dare say it pales in comparison with some of the other trends currently circling the globe - and I'll try not to ramble too much with this - such as how we, over here, might leave any moral high ground far in the distance in favor of a campaign of liquidating anything Muslim were the current tables turned and the stage was set so that an intellectually bereft tyrant successfully used his military muscle to kill hundreds of thousands in the continental U.S., primarily civilian. Or how the Japanese will never acknowledge the full extent of what they did in China, Korea, etc., during World War II; in fact, on the whole a revisionist history is actively encouraged by these supposedly progressive PacRimsters. In what has to be one of the craziest of ironies, there is a shrine in Nanking to a Nazi official stationed there during its "Rape of" because he refused to allow the Japanese military access to the Chinese civilians he was harboring on the compound. This party official is hero to some over there, just like Schindler is a disgrace to others over here.
While group-think is inherently malleable, and served the Nazis well in their quest between wars eighty years ago, it requires circumstance and persuasion. The author is quite right in his "fat, sassy" assessment of present-day Germany while missing something seemingly obvious: there are no "November Criminals" to blame or fervent nationalism to promote, because that would require the backs of countless millions of impoverished and malnourished citizenry with which to carry that ideology with success. It's important to note that, Judenfrei or otherwise, Germany had its ass handed to it at the end of World War II - Berlin, Hamburg, Dresden, etc., and were it not for the United States (motives aside) plopping down one million troops, rebuilding infrastructure along with the occasional "surge" (Berlin Airlift), that group of over-privileged Germans grouped together by the author as helplessly racist would have actually had something to bitch about for a few decades (right before being sent to Siberia).
But claims of predisposition in the handling of racial affairs already present at the moment of birth are ridiculous - those little jihadists in training would be just as happy playing Playstation, with Jewish children, if it was an option afforded them by the world at large and their brain-damaged parents in particular. A couple zingers stemming from this type of mindset really stand out in one sentence toward the end of the piece: "Germans are instinctively anti-Semitic in the same way that Americans are instinctively freedom loving. Anti-Semitism has been and unfortunately remains the default ideology of the German people." He needs to be careful with this, as Mein Kamph draws upon similar themes ("...the Jew possesses no culture-creating force of any sort, since the idealism, without which there is no true higher development of man, is not present in him and never was present"). Also - and if I'm allowed one opinion thanks to that Pima County, AZ birth certificate in my possession, it's this - Americans are not an instinctively freedom loving people, though they play one on TV.
The article does veer into extreme naïveté with this paragraph: "The result of all this is that Germans today are able to reap the benefits of Hitler's anti-Semitic policies while paying lip service to the 'need to remember.' Young Fritz doesn't have to be overtly anti-Semitic today because his grandfather's generation did such a bang-up job of the Holocaust. There just aren't that many Jews left to hate any more, and besides, the Germans have their old buddies, the Arabs, to do their hating for them."
There are a few problems with this, and the paragraphs that follow. For one, six decades ago the Jews had neither a country, a nuclear weapon, the most successful intelligence agencies in use, a litany of victorious military campaigns, etc., as well as direct access to the decision making process by the United States, the "decider" of the majority of world affairs. For two, the author, while correct in describing collusion between the Nazis and the Arabs way back when (and acquiescence and mutual support to this day), does not go far enough: the money that travels through the networks of support include tributaries of which Mr. Grim is either woefully ignorant or consciously avoiding. Third, the skinheads who occasionally gang up and terrorize Muslims in Germany (because they can) are not on record as first doing background checks to see if attacker and attackee may have any similar Heinrich Himmler / Grand Mufti trading cards from the old days; any gemeinschaft-themed mutual hatred of you know who. This is just silly.
Finally (almost), some of those that follow Islam may vary well be Barbarians at the Strudel, but I suspect the vast majority of Muslim mothers, their children and the hard-working stiffs providing daily sustenance that just want a better life, will require, by and large, a fair amount of influence to see any logic in manifesting a Third World terrorism mindset after having overcome innumerable obstacles to get to the First World. It's infinitely more complicated, of course - the transmutation of dozens of cultures along migratory routes, current political climate and the power of propaganda in the ethnic neighborhoods of western cities, the enormous power of religion while having to slip off those $200 Air Jordans five times a day...and so forth...but for every college student shouting "Death to Israel" in between classes outside the Munich Starbucks there's at least a hundred (or ten thousand) others reflecting on how such independent thought "back home" would instantly affect one's neckline. Not all, obviously, but I think almost all. Sort of like how not all dagos became mobsters, or, on rare occasions, Jews have been spotted paying retail...
Frankly, I don't see any seemingly altruistic-themed "look, look, anti-Semitism exists" as particularly helpful, though it is easy to see why so many do. Scapegoating worked against the Jews for so long; personally I find it a bit insulting that I should need help in the hyper-vigilant department. I guess I just prefer the IDF/Mossad approach to those that have done, or would do, us harm, the occasional and regrettable Omelette Theory "collaterals" notwithstanding...
And forgive me if I don't seem like a "team player" (and what team might that be? Zoroastrians for Thai Food?), but it's paramount to look at other Barbarian mindsets walking among us - then and now, our team and theirs - and perhaps enlighten those such as Mr. Grim with a short history lesson if they are unfamiliar with the term "blowback."
All Germans, or all 1.2 billion Muslims for that matter, are every bit as susceptible to lemming-like behavior as the rest of us. Granted, we here in the U.S. are a more diverse pot of pozole than most, but pandering to such blanket assumptions that can become internalized racism all too easily only seems as logical as assuming that we "Americans" (technically from up around the ANWR Preserve to down past the Falkland Islands, but let's just say from Coronado to Compton to Coeur d'Alene) are all as easily pigeonholed in our view of the world at large. Wholly inaccurate...though, to be fair, the current administration has made remarkable strides in this regard...just that it's the Muslims who are the scapegoats du jour of our time, not Jews.
In fact...EVERYBODY in this country has an opinion about the Jews. And, generally, they will share it with you if they think you're not Jewish. Or, if they're honest, even after they find out. Every now and then you may even come across someone who remained in school long enough to understand that "Jewish" and "Israel" are two different words altogether in the English language. Often, though, it's exactly congruent with the, "oh, he's all right...for a spade..." mentality.
Or, as Malcolm X once said, eloquently: What do white folks call a black doctor?
-----------
Postscript: I found a couple paragraphs that are outtakes from the original article by Mr. Grim I found published a few years back - there is a paragraph on political structure that is important, and a comparison of German and non-German writers and composers before it beyond asinine...and stating, “...making good-quality cars is not on the same level as sending men to the moon...” only seems to demonstrate that Herr Grim has neither heard of Wernher von Braun nor the Operation Paperclip that brought the German wunderkind to our shores...talk about anti-Semitism! And Grim is from Ohio, home of Wright Patterson AFB, where many of those Nazi scientists ended up...go figure...
Copyright 2007 Jexican Publishing. All Rights Reserved.
A Grim Article
Re: The New German Nazism by William E Grim
(The article, reprinted here, was published in FrontPage Magazine, and elsewhere.)
Regardless of where the blame goes, whether to those who defeated the Huns during the first World War or (as Hitler used relentlessly in his ascent to power) those that capitulated first by losing the war and/or second by agreeing to treaties that guaranteed economic ruin, or somewhere in between, I suspect that this is more the "racism of convenience" to which the author refers when he comes upon giggling school children...even if he doesn't see it as such. It's something that we all possess to some extent, and that which Mr. Grim ends up displaying himself most judiciously long before the end of the article. Understandably, any trace of anti-Semitism is hyped up with the best intentions, but that doesn't mean it's necessarily helpful. At the risk of making an uninformed assessment myself, perhaps it is because Mr. Grim (who needs to requisition a new surname, by the way) isn't Jewish that he doesn't acknowledge the great swaths of suffering inflicted upon the Jews due to prejudice and bigotry over past millennia (besides the Holocaust). It's something every Jewish person learns pretty early on, regardless of how comfy his or her present surroundings might be: the world is intolerant, and blindly so toward Jews. For some of us there is consolation and fortitude derived from the knowledge that we are, after all, The Chosen...though for what I have no idea...
Too light an assessment? Perhaps; I dare say it pales in comparison with some of the other trends currently circling the globe - and I'll try not to ramble too much with this - such as how we, over here, might leave any moral high ground far in the distance in favor of a campaign of liquidating anything Muslim were the current tables turned and the stage was set so that an intellectually bereft tyrant successfully used his military muscle to kill hundreds of thousands in the continental U.S., primarily civilian. Or how the Japanese will never acknowledge the full extent of what they did in China, Korea, etc., during World War II; in fact, on the whole a revisionist history is actively encouraged by these supposedly progressive PacRimsters. In what has to be one of the craziest of ironies, there is a shrine in Nanking to a Nazi official stationed there during its "Rape of" because he refused to allow the Japanese military access to the Chinese civilians he was harboring on the compound. This party official is hero to some over there, just like Schindler is a disgrace to others over here.
While group-think is inherently malleable, and served the Nazis well in their quest between wars eighty years ago, it requires circumstance and persuasion. The author is quite right in his "fat, sassy" assessment of present-day Germany while missing something seemingly obvious: there are no "November Criminals" to blame or fervent nationalism to promote, because that would require the backs of countless millions of impoverished and malnourished citizenry with which to carry that ideology with success. It's important to note that, Judenfrei or otherwise, Germany had its ass handed to it at the end of World War II - Berlin, Hamburg, Dresden, etc., and were it not for the United States (motives aside) plopping down one million troops, rebuilding infrastructure along with the occasional "surge" (Berlin Airlift), that group of over-privileged Germans grouped together by the author as helplessly racist would have actually had something to bitch about for a few decades (right before being sent to Siberia).
But claims of predisposition in the handling of racial affairs already present at the moment of birth are ridiculous - those little jihadists in training would be just as happy playing Playstation, with Jewish children, if it was an option afforded them by the world at large and their brain-damaged parents in particular. A couple zingers stemming from this type of mindset really stand out in one sentence toward the end of the piece: "Germans are instinctively anti-Semitic in the same way that Americans are instinctively freedom loving. Anti-Semitism has been and unfortunately remains the default ideology of the German people." He needs to be careful with this, as Mein Kamph draws upon similar themes ("...the Jew possesses no culture-creating force of any sort, since the idealism, without which there is no true higher development of man, is not present in him and never was present"). Also - and if I'm allowed one opinion thanks to that Pima County, AZ birth certificate in my possession, it's this - Americans are not an instinctively freedom loving people, though they play one on TV.
The article does veer into extreme naïveté with this paragraph: "The result of all this is that Germans today are able to reap the benefits of Hitler's anti-Semitic policies while paying lip service to the 'need to remember.' Young Fritz doesn't have to be overtly anti-Semitic today because his grandfather's generation did such a bang-up job of the Holocaust. There just aren't that many Jews left to hate any more, and besides, the Germans have their old buddies, the Arabs, to do their hating for them."
There are a few problems with this, and the paragraphs that follow. For one, six decades ago the Jews had neither a country, a nuclear weapon, the most successful intelligence agencies in use, a litany of victorious military campaigns, etc., as well as direct access to the decision making process by the United States, the "decider" of the majority of world affairs. For two, the author, while correct in describing collusion between the Nazis and the Arabs way back when (and acquiescence and mutual support to this day), does not go far enough: the money that travels through the networks of support include tributaries of which Mr. Grim is either woefully ignorant or consciously avoiding. Third, the skinheads who occasionally gang up and terrorize Muslims in Germany (because they can) are not on record as first doing background checks to see if attacker and attackee may have any similar Heinrich Himmler / Grand Mufti trading cards from the old days; any gemeinschaft-themed mutual hatred of you know who. This is just silly.
Finally (almost), some of those that follow Islam may vary well be Barbarians at the Strudel, but I suspect the vast majority of Muslim mothers, their children and the hard-working stiffs providing daily sustenance that just want a better life, will require, by and large, a fair amount of influence to see any logic in manifesting a Third World terrorism mindset after having overcome innumerable obstacles to get to the First World. It's infinitely more complicated, of course - the transmutation of dozens of cultures along migratory routes, current political climate and the power of propaganda in the ethnic neighborhoods of western cities, the enormous power of religion while having to slip off those $200 Air Jordans five times a day...and so forth...but for every college student shouting "Death to Israel" in between classes outside the Munich Starbucks there's at least a hundred (or ten thousand) others reflecting on how such independent thought "back home" would instantly affect one's neckline. Not all, obviously, but I think almost all. Sort of like how not all dagos became mobsters, or, on rare occasions, Jews have been spotted paying retail...
Frankly, I don't see any seemingly altruistic-themed "look, look, anti-Semitism exists" as particularly helpful, though it is easy to see why so many do. Scapegoating worked against the Jews for so long; personally I find it a bit insulting that I should need help in the hyper-vigilant department. I guess I just prefer the IDF/Mossad approach to those that have done, or would do, us harm, the occasional and regrettable Omelette Theory "collaterals" notwithstanding...
And forgive me if I don't seem like a "team player" (and what team might that be? Zoroastrians for Thai Food?), but it's paramount to look at other Barbarian mindsets walking among us - then and now, our team and theirs - and perhaps enlighten those such as Mr. Grim with a short history lesson if they are unfamiliar with the term "blowback."
All Germans, or all 1.2 billion Muslims for that matter, are every bit as susceptible to lemming-like behavior as the rest of us. Granted, we here in the U.S. are a more diverse pot of pozole than most, but pandering to such blanket assumptions that can become internalized racism all too easily only seems as logical as assuming that we "Americans" (technically from up around the ANWR Preserve to down past the Falkland Islands, but let's just say from Coronado to Compton to Coeur d'Alene) are all as easily pigeonholed in our view of the world at large. Wholly inaccurate...though, to be fair, the current administration has made remarkable strides in this regard...just that it's the Muslims who are the scapegoats du jour of our time, not Jews.
In fact...EVERYBODY in this country has an opinion about the Jews. And, generally, they will share it with you if they think you're not Jewish. Or, if they're honest, even after they find out. Every now and then you may even come across someone who remained in school long enough to understand that "Jewish" and "Israel" are two different words altogether in the English language. Often, though, it's exactly congruent with the, "oh, he's all right...for a spade..." mentality.
Or, as Malcolm X once said, eloquently: What do white folks call a black doctor?
-----------
Postscript: I found a couple paragraphs that are outtakes from the original article by Mr. Grim I found published a few years back - there is a paragraph on political structure that is important, and a comparison of German and non-German writers and composers before it beyond asinine...and stating, “...making good-quality cars is not on the same level as sending men to the moon...” only seems to demonstrate that Herr Grim has neither heard of Wernher von Braun nor the Operation Paperclip that brought the German wunderkind to our shores...talk about anti-Semitism! And Grim is from Ohio, home of Wright Patterson AFB, where many of those Nazi scientists ended up...go figure...
Copyright 2007 Jexican Publishing. All Rights Reserved.
Schmaltz
Ever been in love? I have. Wrote a poem about it once...like to hear it, here it go:
20 March 07
(I)
My heart still beats for a happy ending
An ending that has ended
Yet my heart still beats
And
Most of the time
Time just wounds my healing
(II)
Out of solitary
Ever so seldom
My memories released, running amok...
The heart lives while weeping
But those slivers of joy
Tucked so far away
They really happened!
To me! I was there!
I can walk those paths again
See her eyes alight
See her so happy
It's joy, anchored in sadness, and I continue
The guards will come back, of course
Just doing their job, of course
Absurdity
They've already extracted everything possible
The hour in the yard has ended
But what an hour...
The only reprieve
My sentence allows
Postscript: For those not Jewish, either by birth or, as in the case of the young lady referenced above, by injection, the title of the post, while technically decribing chicken fat, is the Yiddish noun for something that's a little sappy, even maudlin. In this particular case, just alluding to the symptoms of heart disease instead of simply being one...
Copyright 2007 Jexican Publishing. All Rights Reserved.
20 March 07
(I)
My heart still beats for a happy ending
An ending that has ended
Yet my heart still beats
And
Most of the time
Time just wounds my healing
(II)
Out of solitary
Ever so seldom
My memories released, running amok...
The heart lives while weeping
But those slivers of joy
Tucked so far away
They really happened!
To me! I was there!
I can walk those paths again
See her eyes alight
See her so happy
It's joy, anchored in sadness, and I continue
The guards will come back, of course
Just doing their job, of course
Absurdity
They've already extracted everything possible
The hour in the yard has ended
But what an hour...
The only reprieve
My sentence allows
Postscript: For those not Jewish, either by birth or, as in the case of the young lady referenced above, by injection, the title of the post, while technically decribing chicken fat, is the Yiddish noun for something that's a little sappy, even maudlin. In this particular case, just alluding to the symptoms of heart disease instead of simply being one...
Copyright 2007 Jexican Publishing. All Rights Reserved.
Monday, December 3, 2007
Elephant Polo
I've never made time to be much of an activist, but every now and again something comes across my desk that gets the marbles to all line up and focus for a little heartfelt scribbling. The following is one such example.
While not mandatory, the following link will appraise you of the subject matter.
Patently absurd.
December 5, 2006
Ms. Pamela Caillens
Corporate Responsibility Director
Cartier International
Dear Ms. Caillens:
I wish to suggest that the next time those within your organization who dream up and push forward a marketing ploy as entertaining as "elephant polo" merely shackle up the local Indians themselves for our collective amusement. Too drastic, you say? Might infringe upon Cartier's future market share of the sub-continent's exploding prosperity, and the certain appetite for all things glamorous and Western? I d isagree entirely. While these former subjects endured far worse for centuries than the elephants they are currently abusing on your behalf, I've yet to see a pachyderm anywhere properly mix a Gin Rickey. Think about it: all the previously “Untouchables”, are now officially “touchable”, and no doubt quite eager to submit themselves to all sorts of creative diversions for the affluent with only the faint prospect of receiving foodstuffs to guide them along. Plus, those obnoxious PETA cowboys would be off chasing some other windmill with their warped views regarding the "welfare" of animals, and that's a win-win for both parties, is it not?
PETA, being so brashly American, is not generally known for its Gandhi-like levels of patience nor civility. Get them on your side now! Think of the outstanding PR that was generated by being onboard with the Kimberly Process Certification Scheme, instead of foolishly abstaining like some other companies. As your internal auditing no doubt r eflects (and your open auditing, if it existed, would undoubtedly show), consumers generally don't care about the myriad flaws brought to light during the short history of the KPCS, and that's assuming they know anything about how conflicted "conflict diamonds" are with even the most primitive levels of human morality in the first place. Does it feel great knowing that the "No Dirty Gold" types now proudly list you with other industry leaders in adopting the social, environmental and ethical standards as decreed by the so-called Golden Rules? Of course not. It only feels like business, as it should, and I propose that placating PETA i s good f or business. After all, you just sell fur clips; the furs themselves are a "lifestyle decision", not unlike cigarettes or gay bathhouse sex. I truly believe you can spin this in your favor.
In fact, if thought out properly, Cartier could redirect some of the negative energy surrounding the latest Leonardo DiCaprio blockbuster (Blood Di amond), by proudly shining light on what a conscientious global citizen it has recently become - a corporate steward brave enough to not only step forth and help finance animal sanctuaries worldwide, but openly staff them with dark-skinned orphans who will almost certainly cast big, toothy smiles when queried on life now that they've escaped the exploitation and killing fields of their childhood thanks to your social awareness. Two birds with one (4 C's) stone, so to speak. Just refrain from telling PETA about the birds…
Seriously, I must confess that the imagery of elephants being forced to do tricks by violent prodding produces another image from the not too distant past, one that took place far closer to the Swiss headquarters of Compagnie Financiere Richemont AG than Jaipur, India: that of Jews and others being forced to play "horsie" to the delight of Nazis mounted on their backs. Rather sadistic behavior. Of course it's not the same - confiscated elephant art did preci ous little to help sustain Switzerland's post-war economy - yet it is the image of animal cruelty that can do nothing but draw negative publicity your way. The recently deceased Richemont founder, Anton Rupert, is credited with having been a great conservationist. Does the subsidiary Cartier champion this view? Perhaps Mr. Rupert would disagree with the Oxfam/Global Witness statistics that claim for every gold ring produced an average of 20 tons of waste are generated. Perhaps not. Perhaps it's closer to ten tons. Either way, those that choose to adorn themselves with your company's finely crafted works no doubt consider themselves refined as well, and yet there is little culture to be found in abusing other sentient beings for enjoyment.
As for the statement accredited to Ms. Borgoltz, the firm's external relations director ("...the elephants enjoy being together in wide open spaces and being able to stretch their legs..."), I suspect she would adopt a remarkably similar at titude if, like the animals in question, the alternative was confinement in her own filth. Not knowing the woman myself, I can't speak to any proclivities or hesitations she might display personally by adding an ankush to that equation, but I suspect the psychological damage would be the same as that of the elephants' previous experiences, regardless of how "humane" or sanitized this particular stunt was being billed.
Richemont has done very well in recent years. Help sustain that wealth with some added integrity. Leave the sadism to the savages.
Sincerely,
J Exican
Elephant Enthusiast
Copyright 2007 Jexican Publishing. All Rights Reserved.
While not mandatory, the following link will appraise you of the subject matter.
Patently absurd.
December 5, 2006
Ms. Pamela Caillens
Corporate Responsibility Director
Cartier International
Dear Ms. Caillens:
I wish to suggest that the next time those within your organization who dream up and push forward a marketing ploy as entertaining as "elephant polo" merely shackle up the local Indians themselves for our collective amusement. Too drastic, you say? Might infringe upon Cartier's future market share of the sub-continent's exploding prosperity, and the certain appetite for all things glamorous and Western? I d isagree entirely. While these former subjects endured far worse for centuries than the elephants they are currently abusing on your behalf, I've yet to see a pachyderm anywhere properly mix a Gin Rickey. Think about it: all the previously “Untouchables”, are now officially “touchable”, and no doubt quite eager to submit themselves to all sorts of creative diversions for the affluent with only the faint prospect of receiving foodstuffs to guide them along. Plus, those obnoxious PETA cowboys would be off chasing some other windmill with their warped views regarding the "welfare" of animals, and that's a win-win for both parties, is it not?
PETA, being so brashly American, is not generally known for its Gandhi-like levels of patience nor civility. Get them on your side now! Think of the outstanding PR that was generated by being onboard with the Kimberly Process Certification Scheme, instead of foolishly abstaining like some other companies. As your internal auditing no doubt r eflects (and your open auditing, if it existed, would undoubtedly show), consumers generally don't care about the myriad flaws brought to light during the short history of the KPCS, and that's assuming they know anything about how conflicted "conflict diamonds" are with even the most primitive levels of human morality in the first place. Does it feel great knowing that the "No Dirty Gold" types now proudly list you with other industry leaders in adopting the social, environmental and ethical standards as decreed by the so-called Golden Rules? Of course not. It only feels like business, as it should, and I propose that placating PETA i s good f or business. After all, you just sell fur clips; the furs themselves are a "lifestyle decision", not unlike cigarettes or gay bathhouse sex. I truly believe you can spin this in your favor.
In fact, if thought out properly, Cartier could redirect some of the negative energy surrounding the latest Leonardo DiCaprio blockbuster (Blood Di amond), by proudly shining light on what a conscientious global citizen it has recently become - a corporate steward brave enough to not only step forth and help finance animal sanctuaries worldwide, but openly staff them with dark-skinned orphans who will almost certainly cast big, toothy smiles when queried on life now that they've escaped the exploitation and killing fields of their childhood thanks to your social awareness. Two birds with one (4 C's) stone, so to speak. Just refrain from telling PETA about the birds…
Seriously, I must confess that the imagery of elephants being forced to do tricks by violent prodding produces another image from the not too distant past, one that took place far closer to the Swiss headquarters of Compagnie Financiere Richemont AG than Jaipur, India: that of Jews and others being forced to play "horsie" to the delight of Nazis mounted on their backs. Rather sadistic behavior. Of course it's not the same - confiscated elephant art did preci ous little to help sustain Switzerland's post-war economy - yet it is the image of animal cruelty that can do nothing but draw negative publicity your way. The recently deceased Richemont founder, Anton Rupert, is credited with having been a great conservationist. Does the subsidiary Cartier champion this view? Perhaps Mr. Rupert would disagree with the Oxfam/Global Witness statistics that claim for every gold ring produced an average of 20 tons of waste are generated. Perhaps not. Perhaps it's closer to ten tons. Either way, those that choose to adorn themselves with your company's finely crafted works no doubt consider themselves refined as well, and yet there is little culture to be found in abusing other sentient beings for enjoyment.
As for the statement accredited to Ms. Borgoltz, the firm's external relations director ("...the elephants enjoy being together in wide open spaces and being able to stretch their legs..."), I suspect she would adopt a remarkably similar at titude if, like the animals in question, the alternative was confinement in her own filth. Not knowing the woman myself, I can't speak to any proclivities or hesitations she might display personally by adding an ankush to that equation, but I suspect the psychological damage would be the same as that of the elephants' previous experiences, regardless of how "humane" or sanitized this particular stunt was being billed.
Richemont has done very well in recent years. Help sustain that wealth with some added integrity. Leave the sadism to the savages.
Sincerely,
J Exican
Elephant Enthusiast
Copyright 2007 Jexican Publishing. All Rights Reserved.
Sunday, December 2, 2007
Primum Non Nocere II
(part one) (part three) (part four) (part five) (part six) (part seven) (part eight)
(A brief follow up to the last post regarding my sister's health, culled mainly from internal emails between those of a shared surname.)
Update August 1, 2007
As to the very serious fuckup that was poured atop my sister's brain like some sinister marinade: I don't know, and we won't know, exactly what has happened to E---'s brain and body because of that inexcusable transgression. Only that it was Dr. P---, who is her primary physician, but not her neurologist, that did in fact write the prescription for Depakote incorrectly, writing ER when he should have written EC or just left it at Depakote. CVS filled the prescription that all but lobotomized my sister, and probably would have had the family not intervened. I have neither the luxury of throwing all blame one direction (and partially obfuscate the higher principle of getting E--- to assume control, if possible, of her health), nor the tendency to just "wait and see" or "hope for the best" or some sort of like acquiescence. There were plenty of instances with E---'s faculties impaired to the point of her needing assistance just like an infirm small child or elderly Alzheimer's patient in the past; this is but a new wrinkle, and one, I think, she will bounce back from. Am not yet willing to envisage a scenario where E--- and Moms, sans insurance, try in vain to seek recompense for sustaining E---'s present and future daily needs - but it is a real fear nonetheless.
There was a previously scheduled check-up appointment Monday with Dr. P---, her primary and the one who wrote the Depakote prescription incorrectly, and I attended. Lab reports back, and she doesn't have arthritis. She said, "I hurt." He said, "I want to get you to a pain management specialist." I asked, "Given that her neurological condition's extreme symptoms present when you met her in the hospital in mid-May have subsided, replaced instead with increasing joint pain and decreasing lack of mobility, what can we do to determine the cause?" He said "I don't have all the answers" and "I'm referring you to a rheumatologist (should take about three to four weeks)" and "Is the Aleve helping?" and it devolved further from there. A few more I wish I had all the answers and one I'll be on vacation for two weeks after filling out the sought after Oxyscripts. He ask what happened with Dr. H--- on Friday (the neurologist who didn't make a mistake when writing Depakote EC for E--- as she was leaving the hospital - Dr. P--- fucked that up by turning it into Depakote ER - but nonetheless did not check the lab results from the blood work done on June 6 until July 27, though there were several calls to do so, allowing E--- to languish in a state ethically untenable - especially if we had not intervened that second week of June and decreased her dosage ourselves. H--- was the one that said "I would never prescribe Depakote ER" repeatedly when this all came out last Friday). It was mentioned to P--- that the Depakote dosage had been changed after Friday's visit to the neurologist, and he was informed that it was switched from Depakote ER to Depakote. He scribbled away, understandably oblivious, and we left it that way.
My instinctive leanings (for now) are to collate the info gleaned these past few days, put it in context with the brief case history written in my "First, Do No Harm" pseudo-letter, remove all juvenile traces and adopt a professional and impersonal tone to the final draft and - as long as my mother and sister say "go," with the understanding that there is no "wait, now turn around" later - present a formal request for E--- to have new physicians based on the negligent and quality-of-life endangerment action of her current primary doctor when writing that one prescription, and the negligence and malfeasance exhibited by her current neurologist ignoring vital test results for six weeks that he himself ordered. And I realize that far and away the most likely result, aside from CCing it to anyone and everyone and their various replies, will be request denied and insurance dropped.
I will wait to present that letter, and consult with an attorney, for now. If E--- gets her strength together, and feels confident enough to leave these bastards in the rearview where they belong, then perhaps it will be green-lighted.
Update August 11, 2007
Li'l Sis is going to join my mother in Albuquerque tomorrow. The change in the last 36 hours has been significant. She has walked up and down the stairs today, several times and with relative ease, and that is something. Plus, as I mentioned a few days ago, her brain is (90%) back. Two weeks ago her Depakote level was changed after the visit to the neurologist (home of the "toxic" comment), and last Friday her blood work was done to see what changes had transpired. A couple (polite, but with toxicity) "what the fuck?" calls today inquiring about the lab work results (what, they should call?), and, while I was away this afternoon a call came in with the D-level as of last Friday: 6.5, about one-third the level 18 she was sporting 7 days earlier.
I don't feel bad in the least asking / insisting that E--- only take two, instead of three, of these new doses daily. Obviously, I will feel horrible if it somehow backfires, and I fully concede that doctors falling out of fourth-floor windows will do precious little to allay that guilt. Interesting to note: she was supposed to have been prescribed, upon leaving the hospital May 19, 500mg three times a day of the Depakote. During the two weeks before we pulled back a dose of the wrongly-filled prescription (Depakote ER), she was taking 1500mg a day of that shit, enough for three people, 24/7, for about fourteen days, with steroids countering it. When this blew up in the neurologist's office two weeks ago (July 27), he cut her prescription to half of what it was supposed to be upon leaving the hospital (250mg instead of 500mg thrice daily), even though she had been on triple, and then double, doses of the high octane stuff for five weeks!
So much for cutting down gingerly...this prick panicked at the thought of a brain-dead E--- blemishing his record and had no qualms about drastically reducing her intake - WebMD, Google searches and Depakote's Abbot Lab's own warning label be damned - so no, I'm cool with taking her from 250mg three times a day to just two doses...then one, and so on...no lawsuit tastes as good as getting her the fuck away from all that feels...
E---'s still a bit from acquiring normal, physically, and it will perhaps be Sissyphean in certain psychological respects, but it's better. Today.
Copyright 2007 Jexican Publishing. All Rights Reserved.
(A brief follow up to the last post regarding my sister's health, culled mainly from internal emails between those of a shared surname.)
Update August 1, 2007
As to the very serious fuckup that was poured atop my sister's brain like some sinister marinade: I don't know, and we won't know, exactly what has happened to E---'s brain and body because of that inexcusable transgression. Only that it was Dr. P---, who is her primary physician, but not her neurologist, that did in fact write the prescription for Depakote incorrectly, writing ER when he should have written EC or just left it at Depakote. CVS filled the prescription that all but lobotomized my sister, and probably would have had the family not intervened. I have neither the luxury of throwing all blame one direction (and partially obfuscate the higher principle of getting E--- to assume control, if possible, of her health), nor the tendency to just "wait and see" or "hope for the best" or some sort of like acquiescence. There were plenty of instances with E---'s faculties impaired to the point of her needing assistance just like an infirm small child or elderly Alzheimer's patient in the past; this is but a new wrinkle, and one, I think, she will bounce back from. Am not yet willing to envisage a scenario where E--- and Moms, sans insurance, try in vain to seek recompense for sustaining E---'s present and future daily needs - but it is a real fear nonetheless.
There was a previously scheduled check-up appointment Monday with Dr. P---, her primary and the one who wrote the Depakote prescription incorrectly, and I attended. Lab reports back, and she doesn't have arthritis. She said, "I hurt." He said, "I want to get you to a pain management specialist." I asked, "Given that her neurological condition's extreme symptoms present when you met her in the hospital in mid-May have subsided, replaced instead with increasing joint pain and decreasing lack of mobility, what can we do to determine the cause?" He said "I don't have all the answers" and "I'm referring you to a rheumatologist (should take about three to four weeks)" and "Is the Aleve helping?" and it devolved further from there. A few more I wish I had all the answers and one I'll be on vacation for two weeks after filling out the sought after Oxyscripts. He ask what happened with Dr. H--- on Friday (the neurologist who didn't make a mistake when writing Depakote EC for E--- as she was leaving the hospital - Dr. P--- fucked that up by turning it into Depakote ER - but nonetheless did not check the lab results from the blood work done on June 6 until July 27, though there were several calls to do so, allowing E--- to languish in a state ethically untenable - especially if we had not intervened that second week of June and decreased her dosage ourselves. H--- was the one that said "I would never prescribe Depakote ER" repeatedly when this all came out last Friday). It was mentioned to P--- that the Depakote dosage had been changed after Friday's visit to the neurologist, and he was informed that it was switched from Depakote ER to Depakote. He scribbled away, understandably oblivious, and we left it that way.
My instinctive leanings (for now) are to collate the info gleaned these past few days, put it in context with the brief case history written in my "First, Do No Harm" pseudo-letter, remove all juvenile traces and adopt a professional and impersonal tone to the final draft and - as long as my mother and sister say "go," with the understanding that there is no "wait, now turn around" later - present a formal request for E--- to have new physicians based on the negligent and quality-of-life endangerment action of her current primary doctor when writing that one prescription, and the negligence and malfeasance exhibited by her current neurologist ignoring vital test results for six weeks that he himself ordered. And I realize that far and away the most likely result, aside from CCing it to anyone and everyone and their various replies, will be request denied and insurance dropped.
I will wait to present that letter, and consult with an attorney, for now. If E--- gets her strength together, and feels confident enough to leave these bastards in the rearview where they belong, then perhaps it will be green-lighted.
Update August 11, 2007
Li'l Sis is going to join my mother in Albuquerque tomorrow. The change in the last 36 hours has been significant. She has walked up and down the stairs today, several times and with relative ease, and that is something. Plus, as I mentioned a few days ago, her brain is (90%) back. Two weeks ago her Depakote level was changed after the visit to the neurologist (home of the "toxic" comment), and last Friday her blood work was done to see what changes had transpired. A couple (polite, but with toxicity) "what the fuck?" calls today inquiring about the lab work results (what, they should call?), and, while I was away this afternoon a call came in with the D-level as of last Friday: 6.5, about one-third the level 18 she was sporting 7 days earlier.
I don't feel bad in the least asking / insisting that E--- only take two, instead of three, of these new doses daily. Obviously, I will feel horrible if it somehow backfires, and I fully concede that doctors falling out of fourth-floor windows will do precious little to allay that guilt. Interesting to note: she was supposed to have been prescribed, upon leaving the hospital May 19, 500mg three times a day of the Depakote. During the two weeks before we pulled back a dose of the wrongly-filled prescription (Depakote ER), she was taking 1500mg a day of that shit, enough for three people, 24/7, for about fourteen days, with steroids countering it. When this blew up in the neurologist's office two weeks ago (July 27), he cut her prescription to half of what it was supposed to be upon leaving the hospital (250mg instead of 500mg thrice daily), even though she had been on triple, and then double, doses of the high octane stuff for five weeks!
So much for cutting down gingerly...this prick panicked at the thought of a brain-dead E--- blemishing his record and had no qualms about drastically reducing her intake - WebMD, Google searches and Depakote's Abbot Lab's own warning label be damned - so no, I'm cool with taking her from 250mg three times a day to just two doses...then one, and so on...no lawsuit tastes as good as getting her the fuck away from all that feels...
E---'s still a bit from acquiring normal, physically, and it will perhaps be Sissyphean in certain psychological respects, but it's better. Today.
Copyright 2007 Jexican Publishing. All Rights Reserved.
Primum Non Nocere I
(part two) (part three) (part four) (part five) (part six) (part seven) (part eight)
Much ado has been quite prevalent of late, and of a detracting nature as far as my writing is to be considered. It hasn't been about nothing: my sister's health has been at the mercy of an industry that sucks pharmaceutical cock like an inner-city crack whore...it is beyond disgraceful...
A slightly detailed synopsis is presented here in letter form, from the afternoon that the most recent facts hit me (a rough draft, yes; and obviously penned for ventilation, not litigation):
Xxxxxxx X H---, MD
Axsx. Cxix. Pxoxexsxr, Xoxuxtxrx
Dxpx. ox Nxuxoxcxexcxs, XCXD
Xaxixix Cxnxex fxr Xexoxoxixax Dxsxaxe
X5X2X Pxmxrxdx Rxax, Sxixe xxx
Xxxxx, CA 9xxxx
Xxxxx P---, MD
Dxpxoxaxe, Xmxrxcxn Xoxrx ox Ixtxrxax Mxdxcxnx
Xextxe xox Hxaxtx Cxrx
X5X1X Pxmxrxdx Rxax
Xxxxx, CA 9xxxx
July 28, 2007
Dear Bastards:
Yesterday it was brought to our family's attention that the prescription for Depakote accompanying E--- upon her release from Pomerado Hospital this past May was incorrectly filled. Dangerously so. I believe the the word Dr. H---, her neurologist, chose to describe her current state was "toxic."
The visit to Dr H---'s office yesterday, July 27, brought this reprehensible oversight out in the open when it became apparent that E--- was sent from the hospital with one of her prescriptions being Depakote EC, but filled as Depakote ER.
From the Abbot Laboratories information regarding it's product (Depakote ER) under "Dosage and Administration":
"Depakote ER is an extended-release product intended for once-a-day oral administration."
Under sub-heading "Migraine":
"The recommended starting dose is 500mg once daily for one week, thereafter increasing to 1000 mg once daily."
E--- was directed to take this drug, a t 500mg a dose, three times a day.
The above information posted by Abbot for Depakote ER contrasts with the company's information regarding dosage for their similar product, Depakote, (again, under the same sub-heading "Migraine"):
"The recommended starting dose is 250 mg twice daily. Some patients may benefit from doses up to 1000mg/day. In the clinical trials, there was no evidence that higher doses led to greater efficacy."
In sum, she was directed to overdose on a drug she wasn't supposed to be on at all.
(The company does, however, list the exact same info regarding overdosage for either drug: "Overdosage with valproate may result in somnolence, heart block, and deep coma. Fatalities have been reported; however patients have recovered from valproate levels as high as 2120 micrograms/mL.")
-----------
E--- spent thirteen days at Pomerado in late April / early May and another eight days again in May, with one emergency room visit in between, obtaining treatment for a severe bout of a recurring condition known as hemiplegic migraine. These incidents have occurred roughly once a year for the past three years, and this last instance was her worst episode to date. Her condition was somewhat anomalous, to say the least; in fact, it took several days to have Dr H--- conclude that this is indeed a hemiplegic migraine at all, as it is a rarity in adults, particularly when it does not fall under the criteria described by "Adult Onset Familial Hemiplegic Migraine."
It is difficult to say if anything had been cured; only that the worst has been abated, and that was generally through a mixture of empiricism and deduction. The paralysis, severe and continuous headaches, occasional seizure and overall stroke-like symptoms appeared wholly unique to all but E--- and her family, for the latter had been through this before. The three most significant drugs administered to her through IV were the steroid prednisone, v arious narcotics for pain (primarily Diladud) and Depakote, used for prophylaxis of migraines.
She was released on May 19 with prescriptions for all three (with Oxycontin instead of Diladud), to be administered orally with the intention of tapering off as soon as favorable conditions would permit. She had a full and active life before this most recent event, and was expected to return to that life, though we knew there would be some recovery time involved.
Once the steroids were discontinued (about two weeks, tapered off with Dr. P---'s guidance) an immediate change became apparent. After a brief period of near-constant sleep coinciding with her body's decreased steroid use, E--- started to look and act like a zombie. Almost continuously. Alongside this there was constant aversion to light and sound, and anything sudden or abrupt, often to the point of terror being experienced by E---. This did not subside, and in fact acted against her in tandem with her other recent setbacks due to constant migraines, the side effects of large steroid doses for weeks at a time, and the overall atrophy occurring throughout her body from both the repercussions of her neurological disorder and weeks of near total bedrest. Dr. H--- was notified, whereupon he asked that bloodwork be done to test for liver function and Depakote levels. The bloodwork was carried out on June 6.
At this point the family, unable to condone the continued intake of the Depakote as directed, but with the knowledge that Depakote intake cannot be stopped immediately, decided to have E--- remove one of her three daily doses. The main factor in this decision by the family (aside from the inability to further countenance E--- turning into a vegetable before their eyes) was the knowledge that a like drug, Topamax, was once briefly administered to E--- by another neurologist, with the intention of staving off seizures and preventing migraines. The effects on E--- were almost identical, and she had to cease immediately.
While waiting to be informed of the results of the bloodwork, E--- saw her primary physician, Dr. P---, about once every week. The removal of the steroid and the tapering off of the Oxycontin were under the purview of Dr. P---; and in these respects things were going more or less as well as to be expected - E---'s overall condition was improving, although with considerable "peaks and valleys," and with the effect of the two remaining daily doses of Depakote to be determined. Some days she could leave the house for a couple hours of activity, others were spent indoors, primarily laying down. Overexertion by a physical activity lasting longer or requiring more than running a few errands would result in two to three days time needed for recuperation.
During this time occasional bouts of compromised mental agility came and went. E--- was sometimes foggy in her thoughts, sometimes lucid. A pronounced difference from the post-steroid thrice-daily doses of Depakote ER, but apparent nonetheless that there was something analogous to a governor on her brain now and then. The ability to absorb and process data was not always present; in fact, in the past, and aside from the all the physical discomfort and temporary setbacks, her inability to perform and comprehend normal associations were only present around the before, during or after period of a migraine. And she was seemingly exhibiting every possible side effect from Depakote / Depakote ER.
After a couple calls to Dr. H---'s office, the results were eventually transferred to Dr. P---'s office. A Depakote level of 18 was shown, and Dr. P--- was candid in his admission of not knowing what that meant. In recent weeks her joints and musculature have become extremely sore, the possibility of arthritus introduced, and that is understandably wherein lies the focus of Dr. P--- - that which is not neurological.
A further call was placed to Dr. H---'s on July 26, politely insisting that E--- be seen as soon as possible and not at the next scheduled visit in early September. A slot was found at noon yesterday, July 27.
-----------
Within E---'s discharge papers, both the one from May 2 and the one from May 19, the list of medications to be taken is clearly notated in print and initialed by the RN. The stay ending on May 2 was authorized by Dr. H---, and the stay ending on May 19 by Dr. P---, presumably with Dr. H---'s blessing. Analyzing these two pieces of paper, the possible breakdown in communication becomes apparent:
i) On May 2, Depakote, 500mg every twelve hours, is written out by the RN and is authorized to be filled along with the other prescriptions by Dr. H--- upon E---'s release.
ii) On May 19, Depakote EC, 500mg three times a day, is written out by the RN and is authorized to be filled along with the other prescriptions by Dr. Pre sant upon E---'s release.
iii) Both "Depakote" and "Depakote EC" mean the same thing, the "EC" standing for enteric coated. And it is a notably different medication from Depakote ER, where the "ER" stands for extended release and to be administered only once daily. Further complicating this is that the two drugs are generally listed as "Depakote" and "Depakote ER." The "EC" is often omitted when referencing the former.
iv) It is marketed as such (as Depakote and Depakote ER) by Abbot Laboratories, and the possibility is strong that it resides on the pharmacy shelf labeled as such.
v) Both doctors had to write out E---'s prescriptions personally upon her release, the same medications that were relayed to the RN that wrote them out clearly on the discharge papers. On May 2, the Depakote listed would have been filled as such. On May 19, the Depakote EC, handwritten on the prescription by Dr. P---, allows for the possibility for misinterpretation by adding two letters after the word "Depakote."
vi) This was clearly misread by the pharmacist, who filled the May 19 prescription as Depakote ER, 500mg, to be taken three times a day.
E--- took the pills as directed until circumstance prevented her family from allowing that dosage to continue. She took the pills twice daily until the July 27 office visit, whereupon Dr. H--- ceased the dosage immediately and switched her from Depakote ER to Depakote, and to a 250mg dose three times a day with bloodwork to be done on August 3, and an expected reduction in dosage thereafter once the results come back.
-----------
The following questions arise from this unfortunate lack of judgment and oversight, for which E--- has paid the price:
Dr. P--- wrote out the prescriptions upon E---'s May 19 release from Pomerado. The drug most affecting her neurology for the indefinite future, Depakote, was presumably added to list of other medications by Dr. H---. Dr. P--- admitted in the above-notated office visit that he wasn't familiar with certain aspects of Depakote. Given that one's handwriting is sometimes difficult to decipher by another, is he aware of the severity in difference between Depakote EC and Depakote ER?
Why was't the word "Depakote" used alone in this prescription? Or, if necessary, since two doctors were involved and E---'s primary physician was not her neurologist, why not an explicit communication to all concerned that Depakote ER is NOT to be used? If the family was made aware of this fact beforehand, and the potency of the drug in question should someone at the pharmacy make the exact mistake it appears has been made, it would have simply been added to the list of things to be hyper-vigilant about given the severity of E---'s condition.
Surely Dr. H--- would immediately notify E--- of the high Depakote levels after looking at the results of the bloodwork, as he alone would know that something must be gravely wrong with the dosage for her condition to be, quote, "toxic." He was notified expressly of the family's concerns, as that is what initiated the bloodwork done on June 6. Is it reasonable to assume that he wouldn't have seen a level of 18 without taking immediate action? Yesterday he took immediate action, while intimating that normal levels range between 4 and 12. Did he not look at those results until yesterday afternoon?
Finally, what accountability does the CVS pharmacy have for misreading the prescription from Dr. P--- The carelessness exhibited in that one transaction may have caused irrevocable damage to E---'s well-being.
The consequences of such negligence are still unclear: not only have E---'s mental faculties been handicapped by this overdose of medication, it has prevented her body from a reasonable recovery time toward normality by keeping her, and it, in a form of limbo. The long-term effects of this serious oversight remain to be seen.
For now, her family just expects you sorry motherfuckers to start kicking down some answers.
May a Hippo take a Greek oath with your hind quarters.
Sincerely,
Goff ack Ur-selbes
Consiglieri and Claims Adjuster, Esq.
Copyright 2007 Jexican Publishing. All Rights Reserved.
Much ado has been quite prevalent of late, and of a detracting nature as far as my writing is to be considered. It hasn't been about nothing: my sister's health has been at the mercy of an industry that sucks pharmaceutical cock like an inner-city crack whore...it is beyond disgraceful...
A slightly detailed synopsis is presented here in letter form, from the afternoon that the most recent facts hit me (a rough draft, yes; and obviously penned for ventilation, not litigation):
Xxxxxxx X H---, MD
Axsx. Cxix. Pxoxexsxr, Xoxuxtxrx
Dxpx. ox Nxuxoxcxexcxs, XCXD
Xaxixix Cxnxex fxr Xexoxoxixax Dxsxaxe
X5X2X Pxmxrxdx Rxax, Sxixe xxx
Xxxxx, CA 9xxxx
Xxxxx P---, MD
Dxpxoxaxe, Xmxrxcxn Xoxrx ox Ixtxrxax Mxdxcxnx
Xextxe xox Hxaxtx Cxrx
X5X1X Pxmxrxdx Rxax
Xxxxx, CA 9xxxx
July 28, 2007
Dear Bastards:
Yesterday it was brought to our family's attention that the prescription for Depakote accompanying E--- upon her release from Pomerado Hospital this past May was incorrectly filled. Dangerously so. I believe the the word Dr. H---, her neurologist, chose to describe her current state was "toxic."
The visit to Dr H---'s office yesterday, July 27, brought this reprehensible oversight out in the open when it became apparent that E--- was sent from the hospital with one of her prescriptions being Depakote EC, but filled as Depakote ER.
From the Abbot Laboratories information regarding it's product (Depakote ER) under "Dosage and Administration":
"Depakote ER is an extended-release product intended for once-a-day oral administration."
Under sub-heading "Migraine":
"The recommended starting dose is 500mg once daily for one week, thereafter increasing to 1000 mg once daily."
E--- was directed to take this drug, a t 500mg a dose, three times a day.
The above information posted by Abbot for Depakote ER contrasts with the company's information regarding dosage for their similar product, Depakote, (again, under the same sub-heading "Migraine"):
"The recommended starting dose is 250 mg twice daily. Some patients may benefit from doses up to 1000mg/day. In the clinical trials, there was no evidence that higher doses led to greater efficacy."
In sum, she was directed to overdose on a drug she wasn't supposed to be on at all.
(The company does, however, list the exact same info regarding overdosage for either drug: "Overdosage with valproate may result in somnolence, heart block, and deep coma. Fatalities have been reported; however patients have recovered from valproate levels as high as 2120 micrograms/mL.")
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E--- spent thirteen days at Pomerado in late April / early May and another eight days again in May, with one emergency room visit in between, obtaining treatment for a severe bout of a recurring condition known as hemiplegic migraine. These incidents have occurred roughly once a year for the past three years, and this last instance was her worst episode to date. Her condition was somewhat anomalous, to say the least; in fact, it took several days to have Dr H--- conclude that this is indeed a hemiplegic migraine at all, as it is a rarity in adults, particularly when it does not fall under the criteria described by "Adult Onset Familial Hemiplegic Migraine."
It is difficult to say if anything had been cured; only that the worst has been abated, and that was generally through a mixture of empiricism and deduction. The paralysis, severe and continuous headaches, occasional seizure and overall stroke-like symptoms appeared wholly unique to all but E--- and her family, for the latter had been through this before. The three most significant drugs administered to her through IV were the steroid prednisone, v arious narcotics for pain (primarily Diladud) and Depakote, used for prophylaxis of migraines.
She was released on May 19 with prescriptions for all three (with Oxycontin instead of Diladud), to be administered orally with the intention of tapering off as soon as favorable conditions would permit. She had a full and active life before this most recent event, and was expected to return to that life, though we knew there would be some recovery time involved.
Once the steroids were discontinued (about two weeks, tapered off with Dr. P---'s guidance) an immediate change became apparent. After a brief period of near-constant sleep coinciding with her body's decreased steroid use, E--- started to look and act like a zombie. Almost continuously. Alongside this there was constant aversion to light and sound, and anything sudden or abrupt, often to the point of terror being experienced by E---. This did not subside, and in fact acted against her in tandem with her other recent setbacks due to constant migraines, the side effects of large steroid doses for weeks at a time, and the overall atrophy occurring throughout her body from both the repercussions of her neurological disorder and weeks of near total bedrest. Dr. H--- was notified, whereupon he asked that bloodwork be done to test for liver function and Depakote levels. The bloodwork was carried out on June 6.
At this point the family, unable to condone the continued intake of the Depakote as directed, but with the knowledge that Depakote intake cannot be stopped immediately, decided to have E--- remove one of her three daily doses. The main factor in this decision by the family (aside from the inability to further countenance E--- turning into a vegetable before their eyes) was the knowledge that a like drug, Topamax, was once briefly administered to E--- by another neurologist, with the intention of staving off seizures and preventing migraines. The effects on E--- were almost identical, and she had to cease immediately.
While waiting to be informed of the results of the bloodwork, E--- saw her primary physician, Dr. P---, about once every week. The removal of the steroid and the tapering off of the Oxycontin were under the purview of Dr. P---; and in these respects things were going more or less as well as to be expected - E---'s overall condition was improving, although with considerable "peaks and valleys," and with the effect of the two remaining daily doses of Depakote to be determined. Some days she could leave the house for a couple hours of activity, others were spent indoors, primarily laying down. Overexertion by a physical activity lasting longer or requiring more than running a few errands would result in two to three days time needed for recuperation.
During this time occasional bouts of compromised mental agility came and went. E--- was sometimes foggy in her thoughts, sometimes lucid. A pronounced difference from the post-steroid thrice-daily doses of Depakote ER, but apparent nonetheless that there was something analogous to a governor on her brain now and then. The ability to absorb and process data was not always present; in fact, in the past, and aside from the all the physical discomfort and temporary setbacks, her inability to perform and comprehend normal associations were only present around the before, during or after period of a migraine. And she was seemingly exhibiting every possible side effect from Depakote / Depakote ER.
After a couple calls to Dr. H---'s office, the results were eventually transferred to Dr. P---'s office. A Depakote level of 18 was shown, and Dr. P--- was candid in his admission of not knowing what that meant. In recent weeks her joints and musculature have become extremely sore, the possibility of arthritus introduced, and that is understandably wherein lies the focus of Dr. P--- - that which is not neurological.
A further call was placed to Dr. H---'s on July 26, politely insisting that E--- be seen as soon as possible and not at the next scheduled visit in early September. A slot was found at noon yesterday, July 27.
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Within E---'s discharge papers, both the one from May 2 and the one from May 19, the list of medications to be taken is clearly notated in print and initialed by the RN. The stay ending on May 2 was authorized by Dr. H---, and the stay ending on May 19 by Dr. P---, presumably with Dr. H---'s blessing. Analyzing these two pieces of paper, the possible breakdown in communication becomes apparent:
i) On May 2, Depakote, 500mg every twelve hours, is written out by the RN and is authorized to be filled along with the other prescriptions by Dr. H--- upon E---'s release.
ii) On May 19, Depakote EC, 500mg three times a day, is written out by the RN and is authorized to be filled along with the other prescriptions by Dr. Pre sant upon E---'s release.
iii) Both "Depakote" and "Depakote EC" mean the same thing, the "EC" standing for enteric coated. And it is a notably different medication from Depakote ER, where the "ER" stands for extended release and to be administered only once daily. Further complicating this is that the two drugs are generally listed as "Depakote" and "Depakote ER." The "EC" is often omitted when referencing the former.
iv) It is marketed as such (as Depakote and Depakote ER) by Abbot Laboratories, and the possibility is strong that it resides on the pharmacy shelf labeled as such.
v) Both doctors had to write out E---'s prescriptions personally upon her release, the same medications that were relayed to the RN that wrote them out clearly on the discharge papers. On May 2, the Depakote listed would have been filled as such. On May 19, the Depakote EC, handwritten on the prescription by Dr. P---, allows for the possibility for misinterpretation by adding two letters after the word "Depakote."
vi) This was clearly misread by the pharmacist, who filled the May 19 prescription as Depakote ER, 500mg, to be taken three times a day.
E--- took the pills as directed until circumstance prevented her family from allowing that dosage to continue. She took the pills twice daily until the July 27 office visit, whereupon Dr. H--- ceased the dosage immediately and switched her from Depakote ER to Depakote, and to a 250mg dose three times a day with bloodwork to be done on August 3, and an expected reduction in dosage thereafter once the results come back.
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The following questions arise from this unfortunate lack of judgment and oversight, for which E--- has paid the price:
Dr. P--- wrote out the prescriptions upon E---'s May 19 release from Pomerado. The drug most affecting her neurology for the indefinite future, Depakote, was presumably added to list of other medications by Dr. H---. Dr. P--- admitted in the above-notated office visit that he wasn't familiar with certain aspects of Depakote. Given that one's handwriting is sometimes difficult to decipher by another, is he aware of the severity in difference between Depakote EC and Depakote ER?
Why was't the word "Depakote" used alone in this prescription? Or, if necessary, since two doctors were involved and E---'s primary physician was not her neurologist, why not an explicit communication to all concerned that Depakote ER is NOT to be used? If the family was made aware of this fact beforehand, and the potency of the drug in question should someone at the pharmacy make the exact mistake it appears has been made, it would have simply been added to the list of things to be hyper-vigilant about given the severity of E---'s condition.
Surely Dr. H--- would immediately notify E--- of the high Depakote levels after looking at the results of the bloodwork, as he alone would know that something must be gravely wrong with the dosage for her condition to be, quote, "toxic." He was notified expressly of the family's concerns, as that is what initiated the bloodwork done on June 6. Is it reasonable to assume that he wouldn't have seen a level of 18 without taking immediate action? Yesterday he took immediate action, while intimating that normal levels range between 4 and 12. Did he not look at those results until yesterday afternoon?
Finally, what accountability does the CVS pharmacy have for misreading the prescription from Dr. P--- The carelessness exhibited in that one transaction may have caused irrevocable damage to E---'s well-being.
The consequences of such negligence are still unclear: not only have E---'s mental faculties been handicapped by this overdose of medication, it has prevented her body from a reasonable recovery time toward normality by keeping her, and it, in a form of limbo. The long-term effects of this serious oversight remain to be seen.
For now, her family just expects you sorry motherfuckers to start kicking down some answers.
May a Hippo take a Greek oath with your hind quarters.
Sincerely,
Goff ack Ur-selbes
Consiglieri and Claims Adjuster, Esq.
Copyright 2007 Jexican Publishing. All Rights Reserved.
Saturday, December 1, 2007
Things Related and Not
An open letter / essay from Memorial Day, 2006.
Things Related and Not
(I)
Although I view myself as neither particularly well read nor highly educated, it nonetheless stands to reason that spending the better part of one's adult life interacting within the "floating world" - misfits, artisans, troublemakers, etc. - allows for some simple insight into a planet mired in bullshit.
The one recurring thought that seems to keep coming back in recent months (or has it been years?), after the "topical" categories of amassing monstrous debt, modernizing fascism, screwing anyone vulnerable for their resources and carrying on like we own those rapidly depleting resources anyway - the one thought that keeps coming back is the rate of change in all organic systems, and the attention, or lack thereof, given by those organisms in the midst of it all. Granted, I'm speaking as a gringo first (since my tax revenue ends up supporting this country), and then as a cohabitant of the planet.
Started wading through the 700 pages of Steve Coll's Ghost Wars this week, and I'm at the point where, thanks to Zbigniew Brzezinski's overt bending of Carter's ear, then Bill Casey's swashbuckling attitude towards covert anything, we are holding hands with Saudis and Pakistanis and backing freedom fighters in Afghanistan who, initially anyway, aligned themselves with the Khomeni mindset of independence taking place next door - because the communists had the nerve to expect women to read and write in Kabul. You just know this isn't going to have a happy ending...
Of course there was more to it than books and burkas...but...as someone who spends a fair amount of his free time researching the causes and effects - and the human, economic and environmental tolls - of this "benevolent hegemony" (as neo-con turned human-being Francis Fukuyama has put it), I'd posit the following: If it wasn't perpetrated to stave off the evils of communism, well then, that leaves a rather dark alternate explanation, does it not?
Actually, my supposition is that it was always a rather dark alternate explanation. Manipulating ideology can be very profitable.
(II)
Brzezinski’s The Grand Chessboard offers a candid menu of American policy options. Perhaps he, like Kissinger, derives his need to suggest tectonic shifts in the human condition based on fleeing the Nazis as a youth. Or, perhaps, he is merely doing the bidding of his sinister overlords by luring entire countries into the back of his van so he can build a new suit piece by piece…
Seriously - and these quotes have been floating around certain Web sites for some time - reading from The Grand Chessboard is enough to weaken the knees of anyone with a soul (I first came across these excerpts at the excellent fromthewilderness.com Web site before purchasing the book itself):
"...The last decade of the twentieth century has witnessed a tectonic shift in world affairs. For the first time ever, a non-Eurasian power has emerged not only as a key arbiter of Eurasian power relations but also as the world's paramount power. The defeat and collapse of the Soviet Union was the final step in the rapid ascendancy of a Western Hemisphere power, the United States, as the sole and, indeed, the first truly global power..."
"The attitude of the American public toward the external projection of American power has been much more ambivalent. The public supported America's engagement in World War II largely because of the shock effect of the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor."
"For America, the chief geopolitical prize is Eurasia... Now a non-Eurasian power is preeminent in Eurasia - and America's global primacy is directly dependent on how long and how effectively its preponderance on the Eurasian continent is sustained."
"In that context, how America 'manages' Eurasia is critical. Eurasia is the globe's largest continent and is geopolitically axial. A power that dominates Eurasia would control two of the world's three most advanced and economically productive regions. A mere glance at the map also suggests that control over Eurasia would almost automatically entail Africa's subordination, rendering the Western Hemisphere and Oceania geopolitically peripheral to the world's central continent. About 75 percent of the world's people live in Eurasia, and most of the world's physical wealth is there as well, both in its enterprises and underneath its soil. Eurasia accounts for 60 per cent of the world's GNP and about three-fourths of the world's known energy resources."
"It is also a fact that America is too democratic at home to be autocratic abroad. This limits the use of America's power, especially its capacity for military intimidation. Never before has a populist democracy attained international supremacy. But the pursuit of power is not a goal that commands popular passion, except in conditions of a sudden threat or challenge to the public's sense of domestic well-being. The economic self-denial (that is, defense spending) and the human sacrifice (casualties, even among professional soldiers) required in the effort are uncongenial to democratic instincts. Democracy is inimical to imperial mobilization."
But how do you really feel, Z-bigster?
"...To put it in a terminology that harkens back to the more brutal age of ancient empires, the three grand imperatives of imperial geostrategy are to prevent collusion and maintain security dependence among the vassals, to keep tributaries pliant and protected, and to keep the barbarians from coming together."
It gets better:
"Without sustained and directed American involvement, before long the forces of global disorder could come to dominate the world scene. And the possibility of such a fragmentation is inherent in the geopolitical tensions not only of today's Eurasia but of the world more generally."
"It follows that America's primary interest is to help ensure that no single power comes to control this geopolitical space and that the global community has unhindered financial and economic access to it."
"The most immediate task is to make certain that no state or combination of states gains the capacity to expel the United States from Eurasia or even to diminish significantly its decisive arbitration role."
"In the long run, global politics are bound to become increasingly uncongenial to the concentration of hegemonic power in the hands of a single state. Hence, America is not only the first, as well as the only, truly global superpower, but it is also likely to be the very last."
Finally, it appears Mr. Brzezinski was also doubling as a fortune teller:
"Moreover, as America becomes an increasingly multi-cultural society, it may find it more difficult to fashion a consensus on foreign policy issues, except in the circumstance of a truly massive and widely perceived direct external threat."
It’s worth noting that The Grand Chessboard came out in 1997.
(III)
It strikes me as quite pathetic that we're supposed to be schlepped along for this "War on Terror." Pathetic because it can be taken apart so easily: 500 billion dollars a year for defense and I'm still expected to be fearfully xenophobic, or dismissive in my apathy, or cheering on the latest bout of Leibensraum/Manifest Destiny? It's all a bit daft until one calculates the length and breadth of the Cold War; of course, the Soviet leaders weren’t saints, and yet that hardly makes us cool for the countless civilians slaughtered in Guatemala, East Timor, Angola, etc., etc., because indigenous populations were the necessary fodder as pawns of foreign policy.
I believe this current moniker makes as much sense as the "War on Drugs" campaign, though the current incantation is far more vague, with its endless nooks and crannies, and without question more destructive to the planet. Some might opine, “Well, why is that? Why are some so bent on annihilation?” I’m only suggesting why that is – its factual precedents and current irrefutable evidence. The policies formatted exactly as the Cold War was winding down gestated for ten years and now have been running with near total abandon. Appalling, really, and not because we in the US will tend to act like spoiled children for a while longer, but because the lever of upheaval on the horizon seems more than a bit ominous.
And it is exactly what has, and will always have, defense contractors and other corporations frothing at the mouth.
But that’s a rather obvious fact, no? Here’s another one, though not usually framed this way: In November of 1989, as the wall came down in Berlin, some parts of the world showed very optimistic trends. Soviet communism and South African apartheid were winding down. Corazon Aquino was in; Augusto Pinochet was on the way out. For all of the pernicious human conduct before, during and since, here, at least, was a slice of unfolding history with some very heartening news for the people in several countries. How did the US celebrate this costly victory of four Cold War decades? How did we mark what should have been the bellwether of our time? By taking a few weeks off before invading Panama!
(IV)
In his The End Of History, Francis Fukuyama, while still part of the Dark Side, wrote of Hegel's human need for recognition with some good examples, but suggests a rather unrealistic endgame if a) universal recognition, whether to the left or to the right means history, as previously defined, doesn't "matter" in the same way because of attainment, or b) that, in contrast to liberal democracies' "last man", who, having the nerve to be at peace by being part of a social whole, are, according to Nietzsche, hardly macho and an object of contempt. And then he posits some hypotheticals, but, honestly, it struck me as fantasy. He draws on Plato, Kant, de Tocqueville, etc., but he skips the part about some people, both the visible ones and those behind the scenes, are just flat out reptilian in their interaction with others. It's an immutable fact; Humans fuck other humans, period.
Perhaps he is operating in an Ivy League mindset that is beyond my grasp, though it's seems pretty straightforward that the "last man" scenario is just that. Unrealistic. We are not wired to live harmoniously in very large numbers. At least not without microchipping.
Mr. Fukuyama's updated intro may be found here, if interested.
I mention Fukuyama because he recently broke ranks with the minions that have (...let's see, what's an appropriate analogy? Ah, boats are always good...) claimed to have charted the right course, turning into the wind when necessary, chest out, gallant, determined and so forth. It would appear, though, that they are really determined to keep turning with the wind, then ducking as the boom comes whipping around. And then say that we need to greatly enhance our boom development programs.
By now many people, though perhaps not enough, have heard of the Project for a New American Century. Home of the minions. Calling it a non-profit, neo-conservative think tank is sort of like calling Eichmann a tireless accountant. An agenda is being served, and this is the wait staff. PNAC's now infamous "Rebuilding America 's Defenses" paper from 2000 is so chock full (cock full?) of such bellicose, jingoistic mantra that it would appear an entire fleet of H G Wells proportions has already left the home planet and will be here shortly...
This is where the "Congress will never fund this / absent some cataclysmic event / like a New Pearl Harbor" quotes come from that are so popular amongst the "Bush knew" crowd. As far as I can discern, Bush likes to go on vacation. One could even say he spends the better part of each day on vacation. One might also say that, so far, this has generally worked out for those actually in the loop.
It is at the end of the PNAC document, where the project participants are listed, that a couple things do leap off the page (aside from the obvious fact that those who haven’t fought in wars just adore perpetuating them). Obviously, there is the expected collusion between agencies, colleges, centers, defense contractors, etc., that directly influence or are part of the US government. But, at first glance, it does seem that about half of these evildoers are members of The Tribe. Does this matter? I mean, apparently they run Hollywood as well. It's just that these aren't your Stephen Spielberg kind of Jews, these are your Richard Perle kind of Jews. The Bad News Jews, if you will.
(Here's a quick sidebar - a short fill in the blanks: “All this talk about first we do ______ [Poland/Afghanistan], then we do _____ [France/Iraq]…this is entirely the wrong way to go about it. If we just let our vision of the world go forth, and we embrace it entirely and we don’t try to piece together clever diplomacy, but just wage total war…our children will sing great songs about us years from now _____ [Adolph Hitler/Richard Perle].”)
(Sadly, the quote is from 2003.)
My point is that this instrument, partially commandeered by the BNJ or otherwise, is a sizeable part of the current state of affairs.
Watching Bill Kristol's nervous little laugh during TV appearances as if he just saw boobies for the first time, or seeing Rumsfeld stammer when confronted with his own lies, or any of the other examples so prevalent these days, makes it seem as though this is a pretty lame "high cabal." But they are proceeding nonetheless. I don't know about any invisible power structure behind the Bilderbergers, Trilateralists, etc., but if one exists, it is rather crafty of the "power elite" to make us think that their ruthless agenda is being pushed forward by those with their picture in the paper, lame cabal and all. (I suppose an argument could be made that it seems highly unlikely that this bunch of buffoons and marionettes are really the end of the line; that they must be controlled by some rich, silent minority somewhere. But that’s not my argument.)
The dark alternate explanation mentioned above hardly seems secretive: greed and exploitation. What Ike had the nerve to warn everybody about with that televised farewell speech about the Military Industrial complex. What Smedley "War is a Racket" Butler was talking about after refusing to stage a coup and overthrow Roosevelt with a corporate-backed militia. I would say it's more subtle now, and based on the garden variety ignorance of the general public one might draw that conclusion, but, if anything, the opposite is true.
So, a constant can be established. Where does this lead?
(V)
Now, as much as any other time in history, what is said is often the opposite of what is meant: "Saddam must leave within 48 hours" actually meant "Don't you dare leave;" "We are addicted to oil" meant "Buy a bigger SUV," and so on.
One of the more current ones is the mantra against the Iranian honcho getting any nuclear material. I would suggest just the opposite is being allowed to happen, as that would provide an opening for the US to continue its desperate march towards resource management and depletion. And, yes, I realize Ahmadinejad would like to wipe Israel off the map (so would a few guys in Idaho) - but that certainly doesn't make Bush any less an asshole, nor does it ignore the fact that his grandfather supported Hitler or that his dad continues to fellate wealthy Saudis at the world's expense. This is simply in lockstep with very established, if unadvertised, business plans.
The Iranian's letter to President Bush was pretty lengthy and, if you can get past the paragraph questioning Israel's right to exist, is fairly well written and has a bullshit factor far inferior to anything Bush's speechwriters have got their clown to say. (And yes, I know...even Mein Kamph draws upon perfectly valid laws of natural selection before the eugenics suppositions come rolling in and you remember it's Mein Kamph for crissakes...no hate mail, please!)
Bombing the shit out of them isn't nearly as difficult as engaging in dialogue for some. But whose interests are really being served? Being blind to possible outcomes certainly seems to be what we are supposed to believe is the guiding force in US foreign policy, as it provides a tidy explanation for one horrendous blunder after another. But more and more this tired refrain is showing itself to be that which it really is - just a smokescreen. Looking beyond the haze, it becomes a little clearer that this is the endgame of an empire.
Perhaps all we have left is to stay vigilant in our desire to be informed, e.g. Keep your friends close; keep FOXNews closer, etc. Paying attention is never overrated.
(VI)
Israel, with over four decades of nuke experience tucked away neatly under the desert in Dimona, and with scruples that are A-OK simultaneously selling to weapons to both Iran and Iraq - as long as they shoot each other, right? - has never struck me as particularly stupid. Arrogant and ruthless, yes, but not dumb, and certainly questionable is the Charles Krauthammer type of propaganda that, regarding the Iranian president, "there are all of about 50 of [these types of] nuts in Israel, and none of them is president". Conversely, I would submit, that there are as many as 70 million nuts in Iran, yet not one of them has nuclear weapons, while the aforementioned "Israeli Fifty" would appear to have few misgivings about utilizing their nukes in the defense of there five and a half million "fellow nuts." Perhaps the very best quote I have laying around here is from a chapter on Dimona from Gordon Thomas' excellent book Gideon's Spies. It's from David Ben Gurion, after Kennedy insisted to the old man's face that there be an inspection of Israeli dirt. Ben-Gurion turned to native New Yorker Abraham Feinberg, responsible for millions in fundraising if that meant political support of Israel and, referencing JFK, said, "Sort out the boy. Make the putz understand the reality of life." Priceless, and even better because Israel eventually relented and allowed an inspection…of a complete mock up sitting right on top of the real thing. Crazy Zionistas...
One could argue that radical Islam this or Muslim Brotherhood that - sure it's a real danger, but look into it for more than five minutes and you start to see more than just bearded cheerleaders. In fact, you not only get ties to the Third Reich but, tragically, a "hands off" policy by the current administration.
For an informative article on the Muslim Brotherhood and it's slimy tentacles, right this way.
One could also argue that there is little point in thinking anything but sinister thoughts when a government sheepishly says they didn't connect the dots on September 11th, though that morning they did orchestrate multiple war games, sending defensive aircraft far away as well as using radar injects closer to home, and stage a what-to-do-if-a-plane-hit-the-building drill at the NRO, emptying out their satellite reconnaissance offices on the one day planes were actually hitting buildings. And one could argue that, if the CIA can track stock market transactions in real time using PROMIS software, why can't we know who purchased thousands of "put" options on United and American Airlines just before the attacks? The arguments are infinite about what transpired before and after September 11th, but there is one Boolean-type constant in my mind: IF those in control dropped the ball repeatedly before 9/11, THEN proceeded to run amok with U.S. foreign policy since 9/11, making us less safe, WHY should the citizenry continue to support such self-destructive conduct?
In Italian only two words are necessary: Cui Bono?
(VII)
ANYWAY...where I started going with all this is that it does seem to lead to what one finds in the opening chapter of Calculus for Dummies: that the derivative signifies the rate of change at any given time and, more important, what is this worth to any of us taking notice? The examples are numerous and everywhere, of course, and can be seen, in environmental as well as human terms, at various levels along the spectrum of nefarious behavior at one end and little flickers of light at the other concerning our delicate planet.
The Earth has a finite amount of oil but its tenants possess an exponentially growing rate of consumption for that oil which, in all likelihood, will pit the US against China someday. At least that's how it will be presented. However, Brazilians need only grow sugar to keep their scooters going.
Or, say, until the 20th century, pulling edible stuff out of the ground required sunlight and the ability to farm - both fairly sustainable - though this changed markedly with the need for manufactured fertilizer, pesticides, hydrocarbon-fueled irrigation and so on down the line to the cutesy petroleum-wrapped package on the market shelf. Clearly, clearly unsustainable when you factor in stats like (U.S.) topsoil eroding 30 times faster than it's natural reproduction rate, and more water needed for more fertilizers that are required to keep plots of land that are no longer being rotated producing food. This is great when we First-Worlders go grocery shopping, but a bit intimidating when I think of the blip of time between, say, 1950 and 2050, and the results that amazing amount of consumption will most certainly produce. The environmental footprint we leave, in this regard alone, is so much larger than the 300 million that live here - and then there's the effect of the other nations whose policy towards the Earth (also) seems to be pillage with total disregard for future generations.
However, Norway is currently boring out a giant cave inside the ice in order to store (at least) two of every kind of seed (The Nordic Noah Project?). On one hand you got your Beijing-ians having taken in something like 400,000 new cars in 2003 alone - just that one city - and with American auto makers only too happy to sell them vehicles with emission requirements 10 years behind that of Europe. On the other hand you have your French with roughly 80 per cent of their power being nuclear and your Germans with the foresight to subsidize the locals if they'll put a solar panel on their roofs.
(VIII)
It may very well be fantasy, yes, but given that the average U.S. citizen spends about $4.50 out of each $100 defending this great country against perils both real and imagined, and about fourteen cents out of each $100 supporting the Third World in eradicating hunger, building roads, farming supplies, etc., why not split the difference for awhile? (These are not my figures; they are from the UN Millennium Project's indomitable Jeffrey Sachs.) I mean, how bad could it be? Compared to fourteen cents, $2.25 buys a lot of infrastructure, literal and figurative, at home and abroad. It would be one honest, conciliatory step towards doing the right thing. I'll concede that not many here in the US wake up in the morning thinking about our decades-long involvement with Angola wondering why, say, Luanda is right there with Tokyo as far as cost of living goes and yet two-thirds of the populace has no access to clean drinking water. Or pondering just what the fuck happened in Argentina under the repeated usage of the words "financial austerity." But America, Inc. is being run into the ground. Expensively.
I would also argue that it's been my experience most people generally have more difficulty maintaining an angry posture when their family is fed and they are treated with equity, and are allowed at least a semblance of dignity. The inverse is also true: intimidating and humiliating people breeds confrontation. Emphasizing the use of weapons to those with empty stomachs can only exacerbate the situation.
Regrettably, financial austerity has little ledger room for human decency. Greed trumps humanity with roughly the same historical record that queen takes pawn. As a country, how close are we to the massive flight of capital, the doors of banks being closed, the middle class reacting to the disruption of their livelihood by taking to the streets and banging on pots and pans, like the recent history in Buenos Aires? (Even worse: unlike Latin America, street protests in this country utilizing kitchen wares as noisemakers will be pathetically disheveled, given the general lack of rhythm inherent in the U.S. populace…)
We certainly have a lot to lose, but we also have a lot to gain.
(IX)
Caught an article that stated something so obvious it bears repeating. It had to do with what is called "gentling," and stems from the simple fact that test animals respond to kindness. And isolation produces negative results. This is hardly revelatory, yes, but, it's nonetheless true, just like "violence begets violence." I suppose any decent parent already knows this, but it does start to explain Afghanistan for those who don't.
For "gentling."
A few days ago, while taking a lap around Greenlake here in the city, I came across a section between the shoreline and the road that had been marked with white cardboard tombstones, one for each American death so far, with names, ages, hometowns. It was done by a veterans for peace group, and it was quite striking, and all the more so when I tried to picture if everyone killed over there got a tombstone near this peaceful lake...would there be enough lake?
Seattle, Washington
May, 2006
Copyright 2007 Jexican Publishing. All Rights Reserved.
Things Related and Not
(I)
Although I view myself as neither particularly well read nor highly educated, it nonetheless stands to reason that spending the better part of one's adult life interacting within the "floating world" - misfits, artisans, troublemakers, etc. - allows for some simple insight into a planet mired in bullshit.
The one recurring thought that seems to keep coming back in recent months (or has it been years?), after the "topical" categories of amassing monstrous debt, modernizing fascism, screwing anyone vulnerable for their resources and carrying on like we own those rapidly depleting resources anyway - the one thought that keeps coming back is the rate of change in all organic systems, and the attention, or lack thereof, given by those organisms in the midst of it all. Granted, I'm speaking as a gringo first (since my tax revenue ends up supporting this country), and then as a cohabitant of the planet.
Started wading through the 700 pages of Steve Coll's Ghost Wars this week, and I'm at the point where, thanks to Zbigniew Brzezinski's overt bending of Carter's ear, then Bill Casey's swashbuckling attitude towards covert anything, we are holding hands with Saudis and Pakistanis and backing freedom fighters in Afghanistan who, initially anyway, aligned themselves with the Khomeni mindset of independence taking place next door - because the communists had the nerve to expect women to read and write in Kabul. You just know this isn't going to have a happy ending...
Of course there was more to it than books and burkas...but...as someone who spends a fair amount of his free time researching the causes and effects - and the human, economic and environmental tolls - of this "benevolent hegemony" (as neo-con turned human-being Francis Fukuyama has put it), I'd posit the following: If it wasn't perpetrated to stave off the evils of communism, well then, that leaves a rather dark alternate explanation, does it not?
Actually, my supposition is that it was always a rather dark alternate explanation. Manipulating ideology can be very profitable.
(II)
Brzezinski’s The Grand Chessboard offers a candid menu of American policy options. Perhaps he, like Kissinger, derives his need to suggest tectonic shifts in the human condition based on fleeing the Nazis as a youth. Or, perhaps, he is merely doing the bidding of his sinister overlords by luring entire countries into the back of his van so he can build a new suit piece by piece…
Seriously - and these quotes have been floating around certain Web sites for some time - reading from The Grand Chessboard is enough to weaken the knees of anyone with a soul (I first came across these excerpts at the excellent fromthewilderness.com Web site before purchasing the book itself):
"...The last decade of the twentieth century has witnessed a tectonic shift in world affairs. For the first time ever, a non-Eurasian power has emerged not only as a key arbiter of Eurasian power relations but also as the world's paramount power. The defeat and collapse of the Soviet Union was the final step in the rapid ascendancy of a Western Hemisphere power, the United States, as the sole and, indeed, the first truly global power..."
"The attitude of the American public toward the external projection of American power has been much more ambivalent. The public supported America's engagement in World War II largely because of the shock effect of the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor."
"For America, the chief geopolitical prize is Eurasia... Now a non-Eurasian power is preeminent in Eurasia - and America's global primacy is directly dependent on how long and how effectively its preponderance on the Eurasian continent is sustained."
"In that context, how America 'manages' Eurasia is critical. Eurasia is the globe's largest continent and is geopolitically axial. A power that dominates Eurasia would control two of the world's three most advanced and economically productive regions. A mere glance at the map also suggests that control over Eurasia would almost automatically entail Africa's subordination, rendering the Western Hemisphere and Oceania geopolitically peripheral to the world's central continent. About 75 percent of the world's people live in Eurasia, and most of the world's physical wealth is there as well, both in its enterprises and underneath its soil. Eurasia accounts for 60 per cent of the world's GNP and about three-fourths of the world's known energy resources."
"It is also a fact that America is too democratic at home to be autocratic abroad. This limits the use of America's power, especially its capacity for military intimidation. Never before has a populist democracy attained international supremacy. But the pursuit of power is not a goal that commands popular passion, except in conditions of a sudden threat or challenge to the public's sense of domestic well-being. The economic self-denial (that is, defense spending) and the human sacrifice (casualties, even among professional soldiers) required in the effort are uncongenial to democratic instincts. Democracy is inimical to imperial mobilization."
But how do you really feel, Z-bigster?
"...To put it in a terminology that harkens back to the more brutal age of ancient empires, the three grand imperatives of imperial geostrategy are to prevent collusion and maintain security dependence among the vassals, to keep tributaries pliant and protected, and to keep the barbarians from coming together."
It gets better:
"Without sustained and directed American involvement, before long the forces of global disorder could come to dominate the world scene. And the possibility of such a fragmentation is inherent in the geopolitical tensions not only of today's Eurasia but of the world more generally."
"It follows that America's primary interest is to help ensure that no single power comes to control this geopolitical space and that the global community has unhindered financial and economic access to it."
"The most immediate task is to make certain that no state or combination of states gains the capacity to expel the United States from Eurasia or even to diminish significantly its decisive arbitration role."
"In the long run, global politics are bound to become increasingly uncongenial to the concentration of hegemonic power in the hands of a single state. Hence, America is not only the first, as well as the only, truly global superpower, but it is also likely to be the very last."
Finally, it appears Mr. Brzezinski was also doubling as a fortune teller:
"Moreover, as America becomes an increasingly multi-cultural society, it may find it more difficult to fashion a consensus on foreign policy issues, except in the circumstance of a truly massive and widely perceived direct external threat."
It’s worth noting that The Grand Chessboard came out in 1997.
(III)
It strikes me as quite pathetic that we're supposed to be schlepped along for this "War on Terror." Pathetic because it can be taken apart so easily: 500 billion dollars a year for defense and I'm still expected to be fearfully xenophobic, or dismissive in my apathy, or cheering on the latest bout of Leibensraum/Manifest Destiny? It's all a bit daft until one calculates the length and breadth of the Cold War; of course, the Soviet leaders weren’t saints, and yet that hardly makes us cool for the countless civilians slaughtered in Guatemala, East Timor, Angola, etc., etc., because indigenous populations were the necessary fodder as pawns of foreign policy.
I believe this current moniker makes as much sense as the "War on Drugs" campaign, though the current incantation is far more vague, with its endless nooks and crannies, and without question more destructive to the planet. Some might opine, “Well, why is that? Why are some so bent on annihilation?” I’m only suggesting why that is – its factual precedents and current irrefutable evidence. The policies formatted exactly as the Cold War was winding down gestated for ten years and now have been running with near total abandon. Appalling, really, and not because we in the US will tend to act like spoiled children for a while longer, but because the lever of upheaval on the horizon seems more than a bit ominous.
And it is exactly what has, and will always have, defense contractors and other corporations frothing at the mouth.
But that’s a rather obvious fact, no? Here’s another one, though not usually framed this way: In November of 1989, as the wall came down in Berlin, some parts of the world showed very optimistic trends. Soviet communism and South African apartheid were winding down. Corazon Aquino was in; Augusto Pinochet was on the way out. For all of the pernicious human conduct before, during and since, here, at least, was a slice of unfolding history with some very heartening news for the people in several countries. How did the US celebrate this costly victory of four Cold War decades? How did we mark what should have been the bellwether of our time? By taking a few weeks off before invading Panama!
(IV)
In his The End Of History, Francis Fukuyama, while still part of the Dark Side, wrote of Hegel's human need for recognition with some good examples, but suggests a rather unrealistic endgame if a) universal recognition, whether to the left or to the right means history, as previously defined, doesn't "matter" in the same way because of attainment, or b) that, in contrast to liberal democracies' "last man", who, having the nerve to be at peace by being part of a social whole, are, according to Nietzsche, hardly macho and an object of contempt. And then he posits some hypotheticals, but, honestly, it struck me as fantasy. He draws on Plato, Kant, de Tocqueville, etc., but he skips the part about some people, both the visible ones and those behind the scenes, are just flat out reptilian in their interaction with others. It's an immutable fact; Humans fuck other humans, period.
Perhaps he is operating in an Ivy League mindset that is beyond my grasp, though it's seems pretty straightforward that the "last man" scenario is just that. Unrealistic. We are not wired to live harmoniously in very large numbers. At least not without microchipping.
Mr. Fukuyama's updated intro may be found here, if interested.
I mention Fukuyama because he recently broke ranks with the minions that have (...let's see, what's an appropriate analogy? Ah, boats are always good...) claimed to have charted the right course, turning into the wind when necessary, chest out, gallant, determined and so forth. It would appear, though, that they are really determined to keep turning with the wind, then ducking as the boom comes whipping around. And then say that we need to greatly enhance our boom development programs.
By now many people, though perhaps not enough, have heard of the Project for a New American Century. Home of the minions. Calling it a non-profit, neo-conservative think tank is sort of like calling Eichmann a tireless accountant. An agenda is being served, and this is the wait staff. PNAC's now infamous "Rebuilding America 's Defenses" paper from 2000 is so chock full (cock full?) of such bellicose, jingoistic mantra that it would appear an entire fleet of H G Wells proportions has already left the home planet and will be here shortly...
This is where the "Congress will never fund this / absent some cataclysmic event / like a New Pearl Harbor" quotes come from that are so popular amongst the "Bush knew" crowd. As far as I can discern, Bush likes to go on vacation. One could even say he spends the better part of each day on vacation. One might also say that, so far, this has generally worked out for those actually in the loop.
It is at the end of the PNAC document, where the project participants are listed, that a couple things do leap off the page (aside from the obvious fact that those who haven’t fought in wars just adore perpetuating them). Obviously, there is the expected collusion between agencies, colleges, centers, defense contractors, etc., that directly influence or are part of the US government. But, at first glance, it does seem that about half of these evildoers are members of The Tribe. Does this matter? I mean, apparently they run Hollywood as well. It's just that these aren't your Stephen Spielberg kind of Jews, these are your Richard Perle kind of Jews. The Bad News Jews, if you will.
(Here's a quick sidebar - a short fill in the blanks: “All this talk about first we do ______ [Poland/Afghanistan], then we do _____ [France/Iraq]…this is entirely the wrong way to go about it. If we just let our vision of the world go forth, and we embrace it entirely and we don’t try to piece together clever diplomacy, but just wage total war…our children will sing great songs about us years from now _____ [Adolph Hitler/Richard Perle].”)
(Sadly, the quote is from 2003.)
My point is that this instrument, partially commandeered by the BNJ or otherwise, is a sizeable part of the current state of affairs.
Watching Bill Kristol's nervous little laugh during TV appearances as if he just saw boobies for the first time, or seeing Rumsfeld stammer when confronted with his own lies, or any of the other examples so prevalent these days, makes it seem as though this is a pretty lame "high cabal." But they are proceeding nonetheless. I don't know about any invisible power structure behind the Bilderbergers, Trilateralists, etc., but if one exists, it is rather crafty of the "power elite" to make us think that their ruthless agenda is being pushed forward by those with their picture in the paper, lame cabal and all. (I suppose an argument could be made that it seems highly unlikely that this bunch of buffoons and marionettes are really the end of the line; that they must be controlled by some rich, silent minority somewhere. But that’s not my argument.)
The dark alternate explanation mentioned above hardly seems secretive: greed and exploitation. What Ike had the nerve to warn everybody about with that televised farewell speech about the Military Industrial complex. What Smedley "War is a Racket" Butler was talking about after refusing to stage a coup and overthrow Roosevelt with a corporate-backed militia. I would say it's more subtle now, and based on the garden variety ignorance of the general public one might draw that conclusion, but, if anything, the opposite is true.
So, a constant can be established. Where does this lead?
(V)
Now, as much as any other time in history, what is said is often the opposite of what is meant: "Saddam must leave within 48 hours" actually meant "Don't you dare leave;" "We are addicted to oil" meant "Buy a bigger SUV," and so on.
One of the more current ones is the mantra against the Iranian honcho getting any nuclear material. I would suggest just the opposite is being allowed to happen, as that would provide an opening for the US to continue its desperate march towards resource management and depletion. And, yes, I realize Ahmadinejad would like to wipe Israel off the map (so would a few guys in Idaho) - but that certainly doesn't make Bush any less an asshole, nor does it ignore the fact that his grandfather supported Hitler or that his dad continues to fellate wealthy Saudis at the world's expense. This is simply in lockstep with very established, if unadvertised, business plans.
The Iranian's letter to President Bush was pretty lengthy and, if you can get past the paragraph questioning Israel's right to exist, is fairly well written and has a bullshit factor far inferior to anything Bush's speechwriters have got their clown to say. (And yes, I know...even Mein Kamph draws upon perfectly valid laws of natural selection before the eugenics suppositions come rolling in and you remember it's Mein Kamph for crissakes...no hate mail, please!)
Bombing the shit out of them isn't nearly as difficult as engaging in dialogue for some. But whose interests are really being served? Being blind to possible outcomes certainly seems to be what we are supposed to believe is the guiding force in US foreign policy, as it provides a tidy explanation for one horrendous blunder after another. But more and more this tired refrain is showing itself to be that which it really is - just a smokescreen. Looking beyond the haze, it becomes a little clearer that this is the endgame of an empire.
Perhaps all we have left is to stay vigilant in our desire to be informed, e.g. Keep your friends close; keep FOXNews closer, etc. Paying attention is never overrated.
(VI)
Israel, with over four decades of nuke experience tucked away neatly under the desert in Dimona, and with scruples that are A-OK simultaneously selling to weapons to both Iran and Iraq - as long as they shoot each other, right? - has never struck me as particularly stupid. Arrogant and ruthless, yes, but not dumb, and certainly questionable is the Charles Krauthammer type of propaganda that, regarding the Iranian president, "there are all of about 50 of [these types of] nuts in Israel, and none of them is president". Conversely, I would submit, that there are as many as 70 million nuts in Iran, yet not one of them has nuclear weapons, while the aforementioned "Israeli Fifty" would appear to have few misgivings about utilizing their nukes in the defense of there five and a half million "fellow nuts." Perhaps the very best quote I have laying around here is from a chapter on Dimona from Gordon Thomas' excellent book Gideon's Spies. It's from David Ben Gurion, after Kennedy insisted to the old man's face that there be an inspection of Israeli dirt. Ben-Gurion turned to native New Yorker Abraham Feinberg, responsible for millions in fundraising if that meant political support of Israel and, referencing JFK, said, "Sort out the boy. Make the putz understand the reality of life." Priceless, and even better because Israel eventually relented and allowed an inspection…of a complete mock up sitting right on top of the real thing. Crazy Zionistas...
One could argue that radical Islam this or Muslim Brotherhood that - sure it's a real danger, but look into it for more than five minutes and you start to see more than just bearded cheerleaders. In fact, you not only get ties to the Third Reich but, tragically, a "hands off" policy by the current administration.
For an informative article on the Muslim Brotherhood and it's slimy tentacles, right this way.
One could also argue that there is little point in thinking anything but sinister thoughts when a government sheepishly says they didn't connect the dots on September 11th, though that morning they did orchestrate multiple war games, sending defensive aircraft far away as well as using radar injects closer to home, and stage a what-to-do-if-a-plane-hit-the-building drill at the NRO, emptying out their satellite reconnaissance offices on the one day planes were actually hitting buildings. And one could argue that, if the CIA can track stock market transactions in real time using PROMIS software, why can't we know who purchased thousands of "put" options on United and American Airlines just before the attacks? The arguments are infinite about what transpired before and after September 11th, but there is one Boolean-type constant in my mind: IF those in control dropped the ball repeatedly before 9/11, THEN proceeded to run amok with U.S. foreign policy since 9/11, making us less safe, WHY should the citizenry continue to support such self-destructive conduct?
In Italian only two words are necessary: Cui Bono?
(VII)
ANYWAY...where I started going with all this is that it does seem to lead to what one finds in the opening chapter of Calculus for Dummies: that the derivative signifies the rate of change at any given time and, more important, what is this worth to any of us taking notice? The examples are numerous and everywhere, of course, and can be seen, in environmental as well as human terms, at various levels along the spectrum of nefarious behavior at one end and little flickers of light at the other concerning our delicate planet.
The Earth has a finite amount of oil but its tenants possess an exponentially growing rate of consumption for that oil which, in all likelihood, will pit the US against China someday. At least that's how it will be presented. However, Brazilians need only grow sugar to keep their scooters going.
Or, say, until the 20th century, pulling edible stuff out of the ground required sunlight and the ability to farm - both fairly sustainable - though this changed markedly with the need for manufactured fertilizer, pesticides, hydrocarbon-fueled irrigation and so on down the line to the cutesy petroleum-wrapped package on the market shelf. Clearly, clearly unsustainable when you factor in stats like (U.S.) topsoil eroding 30 times faster than it's natural reproduction rate, and more water needed for more fertilizers that are required to keep plots of land that are no longer being rotated producing food. This is great when we First-Worlders go grocery shopping, but a bit intimidating when I think of the blip of time between, say, 1950 and 2050, and the results that amazing amount of consumption will most certainly produce. The environmental footprint we leave, in this regard alone, is so much larger than the 300 million that live here - and then there's the effect of the other nations whose policy towards the Earth (also) seems to be pillage with total disregard for future generations.
However, Norway is currently boring out a giant cave inside the ice in order to store (at least) two of every kind of seed (The Nordic Noah Project?). On one hand you got your Beijing-ians having taken in something like 400,000 new cars in 2003 alone - just that one city - and with American auto makers only too happy to sell them vehicles with emission requirements 10 years behind that of Europe. On the other hand you have your French with roughly 80 per cent of their power being nuclear and your Germans with the foresight to subsidize the locals if they'll put a solar panel on their roofs.
(VIII)
It may very well be fantasy, yes, but given that the average U.S. citizen spends about $4.50 out of each $100 defending this great country against perils both real and imagined, and about fourteen cents out of each $100 supporting the Third World in eradicating hunger, building roads, farming supplies, etc., why not split the difference for awhile? (These are not my figures; they are from the UN Millennium Project's indomitable Jeffrey Sachs.) I mean, how bad could it be? Compared to fourteen cents, $2.25 buys a lot of infrastructure, literal and figurative, at home and abroad. It would be one honest, conciliatory step towards doing the right thing. I'll concede that not many here in the US wake up in the morning thinking about our decades-long involvement with Angola wondering why, say, Luanda is right there with Tokyo as far as cost of living goes and yet two-thirds of the populace has no access to clean drinking water. Or pondering just what the fuck happened in Argentina under the repeated usage of the words "financial austerity." But America, Inc. is being run into the ground. Expensively.
I would also argue that it's been my experience most people generally have more difficulty maintaining an angry posture when their family is fed and they are treated with equity, and are allowed at least a semblance of dignity. The inverse is also true: intimidating and humiliating people breeds confrontation. Emphasizing the use of weapons to those with empty stomachs can only exacerbate the situation.
Regrettably, financial austerity has little ledger room for human decency. Greed trumps humanity with roughly the same historical record that queen takes pawn. As a country, how close are we to the massive flight of capital, the doors of banks being closed, the middle class reacting to the disruption of their livelihood by taking to the streets and banging on pots and pans, like the recent history in Buenos Aires? (Even worse: unlike Latin America, street protests in this country utilizing kitchen wares as noisemakers will be pathetically disheveled, given the general lack of rhythm inherent in the U.S. populace…)
We certainly have a lot to lose, but we also have a lot to gain.
(IX)
Caught an article that stated something so obvious it bears repeating. It had to do with what is called "gentling," and stems from the simple fact that test animals respond to kindness. And isolation produces negative results. This is hardly revelatory, yes, but, it's nonetheless true, just like "violence begets violence." I suppose any decent parent already knows this, but it does start to explain Afghanistan for those who don't.
For "gentling."
A few days ago, while taking a lap around Greenlake here in the city, I came across a section between the shoreline and the road that had been marked with white cardboard tombstones, one for each American death so far, with names, ages, hometowns. It was done by a veterans for peace group, and it was quite striking, and all the more so when I tried to picture if everyone killed over there got a tombstone near this peaceful lake...would there be enough lake?
Seattle, Washington
May, 2006
Copyright 2007 Jexican Publishing. All Rights Reserved.
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