Archive for the 'Afghanistan/Pakistan' Category

Madness

March Of The Wooden Soldiers

We now know the genesis of addled actor Clint Eastwood’s “talk to the chair” routine at the 2012 Republican National Convention.

Seems the man was arest in his hotel room, preparing his speech, when some puckish alien-being forcibly piped in over the radio Neil Diamond’s 1971 his faultemu-pop hit “I Am . . . I Said.”

This is the Diamond number that contains the notorious foursome:

i am, i said
to no one there
and no one heard at all
not even the chair

This last line is one of the great clunkers in all of songwriting. People active and practiced in the craft,  to this day they cannot understand why persons and/or sound machines emitting such a travesty are not pelted with tomatoes, squash, eggplant, and other rotting substances.

I mean, yeah, the guy needed a rhyme for “there.” And, in this tune, Diamond is deeply afunk in Bummertude. Because he ain’t being listened to. About the crushing burden of having to live in Los Angeles, rather than New York. In order to earn eleventy-billion dollars in the music business.

So sure, okay, we get it, nobody’s listening to him bleat.

And, among the nobodies, can be counted a chair.

But, like, had the chair ever heard him? When he was moaning about having to earn more money than Midas, out in LA, rather than in New York? Was it normal for the chair to give ear, when he was on about such things? Was this like . . . a magic chair?

Or, since we are talking 1971 here, a drug chair? A chair that, when Mr. Diamond delved into the many fine psychoactive substances of the time, heard and talked and danced and sang and otherwise engaged in all manner of merry wonderful weirdness?

We receive no information about any of this. All we know is that the chair doesn’t hear him.

And this is not surprising. Because a chair—unless it is a drug chair, and/or a quantum physics chair—is not equipped with drug chairaural apparati. Hearing is not what a chair is supposed to be about. The thing is there but to plant your butt on.

No. Sorry to say, what we must here reluctantly conclude, is that Diamond was a lazy-ass mofo. Who just settled on some “chair,” not hearing him, because he was too slothful and/or thickheaded to come up with any other rhyme for “there.”

And it is said that the man spent four months writing that song.

And in all that time the best he could up with was “not even the chair”? The mind: it reels.

Today, while driving, it took me about four minutes to come up with about fourteen alternatives.

For instance, if Diamond had not been suffering from a city-disability, and were singing instead from or about some country place Normal, then various and sundry animals could have been mustered not to hear him. We could have had “not even the bear” or “not even the hare” or “not even the mare.” Who were not hearing the guy.

Or he could have complained “not even Aunt Clare,” which would also have allowed him to go wild with banjos in the break. Or “in all County Klare,” which would have permitted him to pour a thundering wall of bagpipes into the song.

Since Diamond at the time was riding a wave of songs in which he praised unrestrained bibulation—”Cracklin’ Rosie,” “Red, Red Wine,” etc.—he could have referenced his ongoing rednoseness by admitting “and no one heard at all/when I tripped on the stair.”

He could have been all stoic, and defiantly proclaimed: “and I did not care.” He could have gone dada, and pronounced: “so I ate a pear.” Or strayed into Isaac Hayes territory, with “so I porked the au pair.” He could have envisioned the onrushing cult of The Rocky Horror Picture Show, and come out as a crossdresser, boasting “so I shaved with Nair.”

And so on.

Anywho. Clint—fast-forward to 2012—is there in his hotel room, when suddenly the extraterrestrials—who, as has previously been documented here on red, owned and controlled the GOoPer portion of the 2012 presidential campaign—bring to him over clint chairthe radio Diamond declaiming about the obdurate chair that will not hear.

And  Clint, he experiences a truly massive brainshower. He will go on stage, with a chair, and pretend it is President Obama. And, like the Diamond chair, the Obama chair, when Clint pours out upon it his complaints, it will just sit there; it will neither hear, nor respond.

This brainshower, it will be remembered, when it was spewed out across the land, was considered a laff riot by that 23% of the American population that occupies what is today the equivalent of Dogpatch.

“Way to put it to the black man, Clint!” the Dogpatchians, they squealed like a pig. “Yeehaw!”

However, those of us who have not married or otherwise had sexual congress with our sisters, and/or other blood relatives, we had quite a different reaction.

Not even the Captain Underpants people, it developed, not even they, could easily stomach the chair scene. Literally, they could not stomach it. Senior Underpants advisor Stuart Stevens, it is said, vomited. While the Neil-inspired Eastwood, he was dying there, on stage, with the chair. Stevens, he wished that, like in the Diamond song, no one would hear Clint. At all. Not even the chair.

It was the astute AvoWoman who first pointed out to me that this speech was not the first time that Eastwood had publicly addressed wood products.

Oh no. For way back in 1969, Eastwood wandered around on screen, “singing,” in the film Paint Your Wagon, “I Talk To The Trees.”

And even back then, the wood gave ol’ Clint the deaf ear.

And it was not only the trees. But every other blessed natural element, as well.

I talk to the trees
But they don’t listen to me
I talk to the stars
But they never hear me
The breeze hasn’t time
To stop and hear what I say
I talk to them all in vain

Be warned. Beyond the furthur, I shall embed Mr. Eastwood. “Singing.” Not only that, I shall also embed, from the same film, Lee Marvin, also “singing.” And this last, some say, is the aural equivalent of the Holocaust.

furthur=>

Eyes Be Closed

This Monday, came a “report,” from a “study,” that US medical doctors, attached to the armed services, they had joined right in, back in the BushCo days, when American serial killers had determined that it was Right And Meet to, in the name of the abu ghraib superstarWar on Terra, torture, or even kill, Bad Brown People.

They had, these docs, at the very least, according to said study, sat on their asses and sucked their thumbs, while their fellow serial killers inflicted “cruel, inhumane and degrading treatment” on human beings never charged with, much less convicted of, a single crime.

Imagine my surprise.

For, back in the day—five, six, seven years ago—on the once and future blog Never In Our Names, folks like Valtin, and Avila, and I, we wrote about this shit all the time.

Not that anyone paid any attention.

And: note: we didn’t merely foam at the mouth. We strived, just as did these newbie “study” people, to source, to soberly express.

Not that anyone gave a damn.

I understand why the right didn’t give no damn. Because, nothing at all ever pursued, by George II and Darth Cheney, could ever possibly be considered, by such people, “torture,” much less “death.”

But I remain puzzled, even unto today, why the “left,” they, during this period, mostly sat on their Cheetos.

Until—Avila was the first to point this out to me—the black man ascended, in 2009, into office. At which time the lefty white dumb racist fuckscrackers, they suddenly came boiling from out of each other’s a-holes, to scream till their lips bled, that the black man, he should be lashed into jail, for not lashing into jail the white men—torture! rendition!—who had come before him.

Weird.

Today, I feel like such a fool. For spending all those years. There at StormKos. In an alleged “lefty” borough. As riven with racists as any righty sewer on the tubes. Yea, verily: even more so. For, these days, on StormKos, you can even crow you helped kill a black man. And still be lovingly embraced. To the dKos Marky-Markos bosom.

Semper fi.

Anyway. When, on Monday, “reports” of the “study” emerged, there came a great hand-wringing:

“This is a big, big striking horror,” said Dr. Gerald Thomson, professor of medicine emeritus at Columbia University[.]

Why? Why, exactly, is it a horror?

These doctors, all of them, every one, to the fucking core of all that they are, they are serial killers. Because they have sold their souls to the US armed forces. Which is about nothing but killing people. And breaking things.

They, these people, these “doctors,” are wedded to Thanatos. Lined up against life.

They, these alleged doctors, may once upon a time have sworn to some bullshit oath about “first, do no harm.” But that’s all over now. Because they are in the United States armed forces. Where their sworn duty is to kill. Or assist in a kill. Or overlook a kill. Or excuse away a kill.

They are not doctors. They are killers.

They don’t give a goddam fucking shit. They will, these “doctors,” visit whatever harm, upon a human being, they are told to.

And this they did.

We don’t need to go to Germany. We don’t need to go to Japan. We don’t need to go to China. We don’t need to go to the USSR.

For examples. Of doctors as killers.

We have just had more than enough. Right wronghere. In the US of A. Thank you very much.

I try not to write about this stuff anymore. Because It breaks me.

But not completely. Because I’ve looked over.

It’s simple: you don’t want your hoo-rah doctors to be some latter-day riff on Dr. Mengele? Then get them out of the armed forces.

Next, get your country, out of the armed forces.

This last, it is so simple and basic and obvious, that I’m weary tired unto death of expressing it.

But I will, below, again, because I feel that some people—this “feeling” no doubt merely some form of brain damage—are just creeping up on getting it.

And so, once again:

As has been observed here, many times, before, the Founders did not intend this country to maintain even a standing army. Which is why the Constitution specifically prohibits army appropriations of more than two years. And since the US is at peace with its neighbors, Canada and Mexico, it does not need an army. So the army should be eliminated. As the only legitimate use for an air force is in support of ground troops, it should be eliminated as well. The Marines need to be folded back into the Navy, from whence they sprang; they are support troops for ships, that’s all they are; that they are sent to fight in landlocked countries, like Afghanistan, is madness. So: down the loo, they go. Since the US already possesses a Coast Guard, perfectly capable of patrolling the waters of the continental United States (Alaska and Hawaii are imperial possessions, and should be permitted to break free, as should all overseas territories, possessions, protectorates, and the like), Americans can go ahead and get rid of the Navy, too—Marines and all. Make a clean sweep.

No more serial killers. No more death industry.

Unless, devotee of Thanatos, this—hoorah, anchors aweigh, wild blue yonder, semper fi—is what you do like:

Me, I vote no. On Thanatos. In its all and every.

I vote, instead, for this: eros over eros eyes be closed in eros over all:

Oh, Ashley

In one of her most recent meth-mouth ejaculations, Sarah Palin, the tundra termagant, decreed that a number of sitting Republican US senators shall soon have their heads cut off at the ballot box.

This fate they shall suffer because the witless Panzer Powder aficionado, and her confederates, have determined senior senator, south carolinathat said men are insufficiently committed to the complete and total destruction of the United States, in the name of Getting The Black Man.

One of the termagant’s targets was identified as Lindsey Graham, senior senator from the Confederate state of South Carolina.

Graham has long frenzied the nightriders galloping at the outer edges of the GOoPer herd of the unsane. This is first because he is a closeted gay man. And second because he is so often joined at the hip to John McCain. A loose cannon anathema to the nightriders, because he first primary-challenged once and future favorite son George II for the presidency (McCain’s campaign effectively scuttled right there in South Carolina, when Rove & Co let it be known (falsely) that McCain had fathered a black child; though such is a South Carolina tradition, see Strom Thurmond, it is one that is supposed to remain delicately concealed until after the white rapist’s death). And then, when McCain had his own shot at the presidency, he refused to center his campaign around the fact that his opponent was black, and therefore an unacceptable existential threat to all that is Good and Godly.

Graham periodically attempts to woo the nightriders by dragging his knuckles right down to the ground. Such as his July 2013 scratching and hooting that the United States should boycott the 2014 Winter Olympics in Sochi, Russia, because of “what the Russian government is doing throughout the world.”

And so, within hours of Palin recently mustering the riders, Graham was flapping across all the televisions and tubes in the land, thundering that he shall not allow the black man to appoint anyone to a job in the federal government until he, Graham, “gets some answers on Benghazi.”

furthur=>

It Burns

Someone I Know, she works with a woman who draws a paycheck for pretty much nothing more than babbling ceaselessly, senselessly, uncontrollably; occasionally spinning her head round 360 degrees; now and then erupting into Tourette’s-like cursing at all and sundry.

This woman, she is like Linda Blair in The Exorcist. Except she does not koolprojectile-vomit green bile, or plunge a crucifix in and out of her vagina. At least not publicly.

With Halloween coming on, I suggested to the Someone I Know that she festoon her office with this wonderment, identified by the descriptive-dullards at eBay as “Halloween Animated Exorcist Spinning Head Linda Blair Sounds Decoration Prop,” and presented to you-all there in the image to the right. The thing, its “head rotates 360 degrees, the eyes light up and the mouth moves,” it “plays (6) audio tracks and the Exorcist theme from the movie,” and “spoken phrases include ‘it burns'; ‘keep away, the sow is mine'; and ‘I can’t sleep, my bed is shaking.'”

But the Someone I Know, she demurred, reasoning that bringing the outre object into the office—it would just encourage her coworker, to further rotate her head, and spew stupidness across the land.

Oh well. I tried.

Tonight, I am trying again.

Having witnessed this day Secretary of State John Kerry—he of the once and future “how do you ask a man to be the last man to die for a mistake?”—rotate his head and spit green bile and slide a crucifix in and out of his urethra, as he ululated screamingly about Bad Chemicals in Syria.

Even as Foreign Policy printed a timely piece about how, back in the day, the United States of Reaganoids were only too happy to assist Iraq, in hosing down brown people, with chemical agents.

Even as the US was blearily emerging from a week which witnessed the conclusion of a dizzying confluence of legal proceedings in re one of the more recent American imperial adventurings in “how do you ask a man to be the last man to die for a mistake?”

Wherein first Chelsea Manning received 35 years, for telling the truth; though, telling, wasn’t it, that what it isthere was an acquittal, on the charge involving the release of the war-crime video of an airstrike on Afghan civilians.

Then the driven-mad Fort Hood psychiatrist, who would rather mass-kill, than be deployed to Afghanistan, convicted on something like eleventy-billion murder and attempted-murder charges.

Finally, there was the hoorah, he who cut a deal whereby he would escape the death penalty by saying “I’m sorry” for shooting up an Afghan village. Apparently, this man, he was “bummed,” he was “stressed,” about “personal problems.” News to me, and to many, that murdering Afghans is a recognized outlet for relieving stress and ameliorating bummedness.

Meanwhile Sean Klannity, there on the radio, was yammering today, in re Syria, about “therapeutic bombing.”

At first, I assumed he was joking. I mean, I know the language is going straight to Hell. But there must be some limits. No one could seriously employ a term like “therapeutic bombing.”

But no. I was wrong. Klannity, he is on it, and he is for it.

I shut him off. For there is no such thing as “therapeutic bombing.” Not in my universe.
So I’m thinking: maybe there should be a variation on the Linda Blair-head thing.
Where, instead of her whirling round and burbling things like “leave her alone, the sow is mine,” or “I can’t sleep, my bed is shaking,” one could have a hate-radio or politician head, that spins round, and round, and round, and meanwhile upchucks bile like “we must therapeutically bomb to protect the homeland!,” “travel internationally only when wrapped in plastic and sealed with duct-tape!” or “danger! danger! scary brown people!”
Just a thought.
Here in the brave new world.

Sign Of A Local Nigger Unravelin’

Michelangelo was a sculptor. That’s all of who he was. The rich rat bastards, they kept paying him for paintings—he didn’t want to paint, but painting was where the money was. So, he painted.

A sculptor—what he really was—involved selecting and regarding a block of marble. Seeing what it was meant to be. Knowing the interior. The finished let the slaveglowing being. Then, having to go, through time and effort and time, the tiresome endless work, of bringing out what was already there. The already happened.

Chisel.

Chip.

Chip. Chip. Chip.

In the last decades of his life, Michelangelo approached marble, chipped away for a time, then stood back, saying he was finished.

No one, at the time, could see how he could possibly say that he was the least bit finished.

To this day, people do not understand what he meant. By “finished.”

His, here, is an avenue of art, that no one, over the past umpteen-hundred years, has pursued. Because it appears to be nothing but “unfinished.” Like, maybe, probably, he just gave up.

Bollocks. This is the man who had already used chisel and stone to depict the most precise and divine representations of human beings in the entire history of sculpture. Before, or since.

So, when he moved elsewhere, people should have paid attention.

But they didn’t. And they still don’t.

The “unfinished” Michelangelo pictured above is called “Awakening Slave.” From the title alone, it should be obvious, to anyone employing brain cells, that it is absolutely right, that the slave is unable to fully emerge from the marble. Michelangelo’s choice, here, was absolutely right.

He said that the marble spoke to him. And, when it said, stop carving, he stopped.

True artists don’t listen to the bullshit. They listen to the art.

Writing is like regarding a block of marble. The task is to chip away the bullshit, the effluvia, the waste, revealing, relating, only what is.

That is why, when I was 16, and first regarded the “unfinished” sculptures of Michelangelo, I knew exactly what they were about. He had gone beyond the mere perfection of form. To regarding, and representing, perfection attempting to emerge, yet held back, by the muck.

Now that I am older, I see a second reason why he went with the “unfinished.” Because, for decades, he’d put it all out there, in the way that they wanted to see it. Yet, they still didn’t get it. So: fuck ‘em. Go with the quantum. The finished/unfinished. The way it really is.

So, uh, this piece, that follows, I had grand finished plans for the thing, some weeks ago, when I wanted to both Snowden, and Zimmerman. I was first concerned about those in my karass so hurt by the Zimmerman verdict. And, next, those, also in my karass, so wounded by the Snowden revelations. Unfortunately, I don’t think I ever got around to serving, in what I have here written, completely, either. Much less both. The piece is unfinished. But I’ve decided to put it out there anyway. In hopes people can regard what is there, and see also into the marble. To what was meant to be. To what is.

(for robin and denise and amazing and adept and time and sephius and conk and tree and trayvon and sooth and seeta and ms. turn-up-your-radio and my pooldar anacaona and she-be-hawaiian-feet and the far rambling planet and all whose skins and souls burn 24/7 with the lies of this nation . . . . ) 

The Snowden uproar has been driven mostly by white people.

In garment-rending frenzy, that maybe government folks, are ear-trumpeting their phone conversations, goggle-eyeing their email.

Like, checking them.

People of color have, generally, been less exercised. Because, from when they first become conscious in this country, in this culture, people of color naturally assume they are being allchecked. Watched. Listened to. Tracked. As a condition of their very lives. Because, everything about their lives, about their history, teaches them that they are.

(The exception was when the Bolivian president’s homeward-bound plane was forced to the ground: people of color, then, particularly south of the border, they for sure, then uproared, over that. Because it was, so humiliatingly, typical of their lives, their history. To wit: white people won’t believe them. Will naturally assume them of involvement in nefariousness. Will physically roust them. Whenever they feel like it. Even if the rousted is the president of a sovereign nation.

(So let it be written. So let it be done.

(Same as it ever was.)

What people of color in this country would like, it is something more basic than freedom from a government-snout snorting about in their email.

What they would like, is a guarantee of physical safety.

That, maybe, they can feel free, to, oh, say, walk to the store, and back again, without getting shot.

And what the Zimmerman verdict tells them is that, once again, this—this is a forlorn hope.

Because what the Zimmerman verdict tells people of color is: no, really, they can’t—still “not yet”—walk to the store and back, without fear of being shot.

And white people, they have no idea, what that means.

To live, day in, day out, every day, like that.

Knowing they might be killed. For just walking the streets.

As they continue to squeal. The white people. About a snout. Maybe in their email.

I received, in the wake of the Zimmerman verdict, an email from a person of color, who has succumbed to despair.

Says she:

A lot of what I came up believing, spouted ad nauseam by Jose Marti and Rev Dr. King? I am doubting any of it now. I don’t believe for a New York minute we shall overcome, or “not too long.” This seems like the weakest pabulum and fairy tale imaginable. It’s open season on people of color.

What can I say to her?

Nothing.

furthur=>

Serial Killers Continue To Cry

The nation’s serial killers continue to weep openly because they are no longer permitted access to the entirety of the federal treasury.

The latest disgusting display occurred Tuesday, when John McHugh, Secretary of the Army division of the American death industry, kicked his high chair and threw his rattle during testimony before the Senate serial killer at workArmed Services Committee, outraged that some 100,000 serial killers may have to be discharged from the army over the next decade.

Good.

Although 100,000 is but a start, it is at least that.

The goal, of course, is to reduce the number of the nation’s serial killers to zero.

McHugh blubbered that the Army already planned to reduce its ranks from a current 570,000 serial killers to 490,000 serial killers, due to legislation approved by Congress in 2011.

Now, he wept, the sequester will require kicking loose an additional 100,000 serial killers.

The sequester is an automatic spending-reduction program that the Republicans in Congress refuse to reconsider because the president is black.

As has been observed here before, true anti-war people would embrace the death-industry portion of the sequester as a wondrous and unexpected gift. And, from there, work so that the sequestered funds will never, ever, under any circumstances, be returned to the serial killers. Work until the Already Happened has been achieved: the nation’s serial-killer budget reduced to $0.

However, as has also been observed here before, there do not seem to be any real true anti-war people in the United States.

Certainly I have heard no hosannas sent forth in appreciation of the truly wonderful news that emerged on Friday: that in the first quarter of 2013, “[d]efense spending fell rapidly again, contracting by 11.5 percent as compared with the previous quarter’s 22.1 percent contraction.”

This is nothing but Good. Death-industry spending must decline until it contributes not a cent to the nation’s GDP. For no decent, civilized people would what it iswish to make a single penny off of serial killers and all their worldkilling works.

The McHugh serial killer, though, that ain’t the way he sees it. He wept before Congress that “the budget cuts could threaten readiness levels on the Korean peninsula, where military forces remain on high alert after North Korea threatened to attack the United States and South Korea. Sequestration has forced the cancellation of a series of training exercises intended to help prepare soldiers for possible combat there, he said.”

Good. No sane human being wants American serial killers to be “prepare[d] for possible combat there.” Prepared for possible combat anywhere, but especially not in Korea. For United States serial killers have no business in that nation. They all need to come back to the US. To be discharged. So that they may pursue some truly useful employment. Like, say, manufacturing tinkertoys.

As has been observed here, many times, before, the Founders did not intend this country to maintain even a standing army. Which is why the Constitution specifically prohibits army appropriations of more than two years. And since the US is at peace with its neighbors, Canada and Mexico, it does not need an army. So the army should be eliminated. As the only legitimate use for an air force is in support of ground troops, it should be eliminated as well. The Marines need to be folded back into the Navy, from whence they sprang; they are support troops for ships, that’s all they are; that they are sent to fight in landlocked countries, like Afghanistan, is madness. So: down the loo, they go. Since the US already possesses a Coast Guard, perfectly capable of patrolling the waters of the continental United States (Alaska and Hawaii are imperial possessions, and should be permitted to break free, as should all overseas territories, possessions, protectorates, and the like), Americans can go ahead and get rid of the Navy, too—Marines and all. Make a clean sweep.

No more serial killers. No more death industry.

Unless, devotee of Thanatos, this—hoorah, anchors aweigh, wild blue yonder, semper fi—is what you do like:


When I Worked

September 2014
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