NOTES FROM SRI LANKA.
(October '01)
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10/6/2001
Ah, gahd. It was a chicken...
Pinch me. This whole cold war flashback thing is turning me a whiter shade of pale. Welcome back to the planet of us-'n-them. Here we've grit our teeth through three American presidents wondering when they'd settle on a replacement paradigm for anticommunism, and all it took was some lunatics blowing a massive hole in lower Manhattan. Was there ever a better time for an interplanetary tour?
Ahh, the trackless void of interplanetary space. Far from beeping cell phones, blinding Mercedes headlamps, and racist emails. sFshzenKlyrn was right...this planet is podunk. Time to go where it's really happening. Man.
Of course, there's still a lot to
straighten out before our departure next month. Construction on our
third-generation lean-to is back in business, 
now
that we've been able to rifle some money out of the Hegemonic Records and Worm Farm,
Inc., Suharto crony cabal. In fact, we've got a team of off-duty
canal workers installing our 1950's style vanity bathroom (Matt picked out the
tile color. It was my idea to get the matching toilet seat.) So impressed was
Dr. Mitch Macaphee with the new accommodations, he insisted on snapping a
photograph and making a postcard to send to all of his friends, showing them how
they might enjoy such shining beauty in their own homes. I myself though he was
making a bit too much of it, but...why discourage the boy? Gotta keep those
vendors happy, especially when you owe them money.
Dr. Mitch is a touchy son-of-a-bitch, but not nearly so touchy as Tiny Montgomery, our new organist. We've broken with tradition and actually started rehearsing a few numbers more than 3 hours before the first show. Tiny's a pretty personable guy, but he does tend to take the heat if, say, sFshzenKlyrn steps all over his "Magic Genie" intro to Special Kind Of Blood. He really does need to get old Tom Temper under control (he should use the Rumsfeld method and count to 15, instead of just 10).
Don't
get me wrong -- Tiny's not a screamer and a stamper. But when something doesn't
go his way in rehearsal, he'll start to sulk a little. Then he'll fold his arms
and abstain from playing. If we don't tender apologies, send him flowers,
propose marriage, etc., he'll make his way out to the little public square up
the street from the Cheney Hammer Factory and make himself comfortable on one of
the park benches. Then he'll just sit there for the rest of the afternoon,
his briefcase full of Mel Bay organ arrangements by his side, expounding to the
neighbors and generally creating an attractive nuisance. Why, he had one of the
Cheney Hammer Mill engineers off the job for more than an hour the other day
just telling him about his herb garden. Thoughtless!
Not to worry. I've got a feeling that once he's on board our shaky little spaceraft, he'll snap right into the spirit of things. I've seen his type before -- hates to rehearse but can't get enough of performing. I walked past his room the other night and saw him sewing new patches onto the elbows of his corduroy jacket. He was whistling. Need I say more?
Really? Are you sure?
Arranging this thing really is a bit like
keeping about twenty spinning plates in the air. Everybody has their nit-picking
to do, pre launch. John insists on stocking eight cases of tomato paste. Matt
wants to issue pogo sticks to all of the flight technicians, in case there's a
problem with turbulence between 
Mars
and Jupiter. sFshzenKlyrn
wants yet another foodlocker. And I can't even get
Mr. Tedd -- Matt's friend the talking horse -- to give me his shoe size so that
I can have the Hegemonic wardrobe department start patching together a
pressure suit for him. We've tried sending uniformed policemen over to lead him
into a "fitting" corral, but he's too smart to fall for that
one. Of course, that's why we want him on board. In the absence of Dr.
Hump, we need somebody with a clue. What
happens if we take a wrong turn in the asteroid belt? What if we forget how to
spell Tajikistan? We gotta have that horse!
There are always these sorts of challenges with a project this large. The trick is to take your Zenite snuff and not let little things drive you crazy...like that insistent banging emanating from your neighbor's chocolate pterodactyl farm. That can ruin your whole day.
A Superpower Takes Aim. Having only recently discovered internationalism, the marvelous Bush team has been employing the usual methods to enlist the cooperation of Arab nations in "America's New War," as CNN has dubbed it. A little arm-twisting here, a little debt forgiveness there, a watery promise or two. Of course, when you've screwed people once, it's a little hard to get their leaders to agree to let you screw them a second time. So the U.S. has turned to the central Asian republics from which the Soviet Union waged its brutal war on Afghanistan back in the 80s.
Irony?
Nah. More of the same. We and our Pakistani military allies recruited extremists
and mercenaries from countries all over the Arab world to mount the largest CIA
operation in history in support of the "Afghan" resistance. When the
Soviets withdrew, we left as well, leaving the various Mujahadeen factions to
war amongst themselves and destroy what was left of the country. Our government
doesn't give a toss for the Afghans, many of whom are starving and in desperate
flight from what promises to be yet another battle. If their suffering can be
turned to our purposes, we will use them once again. No fear.
Predictably, I'm hearing more and more groups of people referred to as "terrorists." Pretty much anybody "we" don't like, and anybody our allies don't like. The war on terrorism will provide useful cover for Russia's campaign against the Chechens, China's battle against Muslims in its Central Asian region, Colombia's war on its own population...the list goes on. And when those American bombs start to fall, that's when every "terrorist" had better watch out. Including you, if you make the list this week. Or next week.
Peace and luv,
jp
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10/14/2001
Call me Ishmael. Or some other name, even.
An apt greeting for someone contemplating a long voyage, wouldn't you agree? Of course, these days perhaps a more appropriate traveler's salutation might be "abandon all hope ye who enter." Flight 999 is now boarding at gate 7734. (Now hold your test paper upside down, kids. That's right.)
You'll have to forgive me. I'm suffering from level-5 sleep deprivation, what with all the interplanetary tour preparations that have been going on around here. Frantic rehearsals. Long zero-gravity training sessions. Anti-nausea coaching by one of the world's foremost experts on surviving road food, our own Mitch Macaphee. (He's eaten at every Ho-Jon's between here and Salt Lake City, and he's got the mustard packets to prove it.) We're in good hands, generally speaking.
Our
lean-to construction crew is busily trying to erect something we can think of as
"home" during our absence. I'm sure you're not surprised -- it's
a little hard to develop an emotional attachment for a place like the Cheney
Hammer Factory. In fact, we're in a bit of a hurry to leave this place behind,
especially since the September 11th atrocities and their grisly aftermath. After
all, our Vice President (and one-time host) Dick Cheney is officially in
hiding...and the place does have his name written all over it. I mean, if
anyone were to try to guess where the Veep's "secure location" is,
they might just pick this joint. So we're trying to make the factory look a little
un-lived in...you know...in subtle ways.
So if your snail-fanmail is getting returned unopened, don't fret. Pop me an email at jperry@biggreenhits.com and I'll send you the address of a secure location where you can reach my colleagues and I, no problem. And even though it may look like we're cowering, we are, in fact, shopping and flying and acting normal. Just like commander Bush wants us to do. (I'm saluting.)
Yes,
we all must make our sacrifices. After all, there's only so much carry-on
luggage you can bring with you on an interplanetary transport ship. John's going
to have to leave his geode collection home this time. Matt's partially assembled
Diplodocus skeleton is just going to have to stay half-built until we
return. And sFshzenKlyrn
is faced with a pretty hard choice over which toaster he should take. I told him to make it
a toaster oven, because they're more versatile, but he seems to be leaning more
toward one of those traditional pop-up jobs. He keeps repeating all the
flavor-convenience claims he read in the toaster brochure. Man -- for someone
who grew up in a totally different solar system with only diffuse methane entities to
interact with, he sure is a sucker for advertising! (Any more like you at home?)
Our Lowery organmaster Tiny Montgomery was
in another one of his little moods this past week, though we did
manage to get his fingers moving over the upper manual (uberwerken) long
enough to run through our "A" set. I am starting to wonder about him a
bit. You know...the way you wonder about anyone
prior to embarking on an interplanetary journey with them. It's a considered
process space travelers have subjected themselves to since the early days of
space travel (or "since before Von Braun had to pay his help," as the
old NASA expression goes). You start asking yourself, "Is this 
the
kind of person with whom I would want to share a pressurized tin can for the
better part of six weeks? Would I share my Tang with this clown? And if sFshzenKlyrn
drops a parcel of farmer cheese into one leg of his spacesuit, would I be
inclined to warn him?" The answers tell you a lot about yourself.
Tiny's kind of a grandstander, of course -- he's always inviting the neighbors over for a little solo performance, giving them his somewhat flowery rendition of "Send In The Clowns" and flashing those showroom teeth. I guess that just rubs me the wrong way. I wish Trevor James Constable were coming along, so he could introduce Tiny to some of those invisible flying critters he attracts with his orgone generating device. That'd keep the fucker in line.
"I feed you; I kill you." That's how one observer in Egypt described the U.S. attack against Afghanistan, and that's just about the way it is. Only with a little more emphasis on the "kill" than on the "feed." With a modest number of packages littered over a nation with 5 million on the verge of starvation, the food drops barely rise to the level of a P.R. exercise, albeit a very successful one from the standpoint of the average U.S. daily newspaper (mine had at least two oversize photos of Afghans picking up food packets; no photos of destroyed buildings). Yep, the U.S. military drops a little chow, and the corporate media eat it up.
Perhaps even more remarkable was the
media's shameless torrent of drool over Dubya's lackluster performance before
the White House press corps on Thursday night. Whenever the man strayed from his
prepared phraseology for more than five seconds, his wits would begin to wander
in all sorts of directions. Naturally enough, the press gang clipped what seemed
to be the most coherent bits and presented them out-of-context as evidence of
his mastery and his range of emotions -- tough, folksy, funny, sad...just like a
real boy. Ah, the magic of post production. I only hope this 
will
give Dubya and his handlers the confidence to do more press conferences...it
provides the truest picture of his cluelessness.
And while Deputy Dubya encourages us to go out and shop -- but be watchful! -- and start flying again -- but keep an eye on your crop duster! -- we can take comfort in the fact that, aside from a few extra reservists milling about the terminals with assault weapons, airline security is still in the toilet, according to people who have tested the system recently. So the same thing could happen again fairly easily. But that's okay -- because the airline industry is getting its $15B chunk-o-federal-cash with no strings attached, after having fired tens of thousands of workers to protect their bottom line. Welcome to what Americans euphemistically refer to as "free enterprise"-- privatize profits, socialize the losses. Mission accomplished!
Heads down, people. Shop with caution.
luv,
jp
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10/21/2001
Ding-dong....
Is everybody ready? Really ready? Well, I'm not. That bloody furnace went out again.
Yeah, that's right -- that old Cheney
Hammer Factory heating system leaves a bit to be desired. Here we are with only
two weeks to go before the ship 
sales
on Big Green's interplanetary tour
2001, and I'm only adding to my sleep deficit, thanks to this freaking
lousy-ass furnace. Hey -- it gets cold at night here in Sri Lanka in late
October. And when that sucker goes out, it's up to me to make my way downstairs
and throw a match into the works
Why me? Because my room is closest to the stairs. And because Matt doesn't believe central heating is even possible, let alone practical. And because sFshzenKlyrn doesn't like fire. And because John contributes the matches. Those are the main reasons. Man...if we only had one of those Bryant Automatic Gas Heaters, I wouldn't have to deal with this every morning. Bryant units are tough, reliable, and made to last 100 seasons. So if you're losing sleep over your furnace....
Sorry. Had to do that plug...it's in the tour contract Hegemonic Records & Worm Farm, Inc., cooked up for us. I have to do at least three promos per column for the next several weeks, or else we're going to have to leave something behind when we depart from Earth next month. Like oxygen.
That's not all that's getting under my
skin. This anthrax thing is pretty unnerving, let me tell you. Just the other
morning I got a piece of mail that 
looked
a little suspicious. So I brought it over to Dr. Mitch Macaphee for his
considered opinion, and after several days of testing he came back to me with
the conclusion that it was benign. I still didn't want to open it, though.
Terrorism changes the whole way you look at the world, you know? You see plots
in the most innocuous things. You peek around corners and shake your sushi rolls
upside-down.
Then I got to thinking. I'm afraid of a harmless little piece of mail? What's the matter with me? Well, I've got something to tell the bin Ladens of the world...You can send your poison pen letters. You can send your suicide pilots. But you can't.....kill.....rock....and...roll.
Only a record label can do that.
Anyway, we're ready for the next salvo of
anthrax-laced post (or should I 
say,
the first). I loaded up on Cipro...enough for everybody in our entourage.
How'd I manage that? Simple, really....I found it on the Web. It was real cheap,
too -- only $470 a bottle. (I never knew how much Cipro looks and tastes like
Necco wafers...it's uncanny.) And Johnny got this great little anthrax
prevention kit from the 12-year-old kid next door. Not that any of us are crazy
about needles, but...you gotta do what you gotta do. (That's what the kid told
us, anyway.)
So as you can see, we're still shopping and watching and flying and baking and saluting right along with the best of them. And it's thanks to wonder drugs like Cipro and great bands like the Beach Boys. (That makes three....whew! Just by the skin of my teeth.)
Klaatuu, Where Are You Now? At this writing we're still happily bombing a devastated country that can't even begin to fight back, turning a society on the verge of mass starvation into one big, rolling, grinding death march. Are you feeling proud yet? I know I am.
Some
folks are smiling these days, but probably none so gleefully as our retread
"Defense" Secretary Donny Rumsfeld, who is really digging on this turn
of events. After all, this means tens of billions in extra appropriations for
all of his favorite Cold War era weapons systems, and he doesn't even have to
ask nicely. Still, I kind of worry about the guy, standing there out in the open
with all this anthrax floating about. If he's going to have a laugh with the
Pentagon press corps, he should take a few sensible precautions.
I
was glad to see that, at his next press conference, he had taken the advice of
his more sensible advisors and donned some type of protective face gear. Sure,
it made it a little harder for him to make eye contact, and it muffled his
signature cackle somewhat...but these were necessary sacrifices for the sake of
safety.
Only
trouble was, I think they had his oxygen supply feeder hose wrapped around his
leg or something...because before long, he started looking a little unsteady. I
mean, they barely got him back inside that photo-op stealth bomber before he
fell over backwards. Poor Don!
I can't say whether or not this incident
was 
the
work of terrorists, but I have my suspicions. Perhaps they've subverted the very
oxygen we breath, and turned the rocks and trees against us. In any case, the
next time I saw old Don Rumsfeld, he was dressed a whole lot tighter than
before. No more of that open air pontificating for him -- no sir! Now he's
ironman, for sure. Must be in response to some "credible"
threat...like the one that sent Dubya down into that hole in Nebraska a few
weeks back. Should impress the kids in Congress come appropriations time. (Of
course, then they'll all want a Gort suit, too.)
Klaatuu, for Christ's sake...come on back and make the world stand still again, willya?
luv u,
jp
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10/28/2001
Fire Rockets!
Whoa...did someone say something? Did I say something? For a brisk moment there I thought I was rear admiral Stufflebeam or somebody. Get the lead out, you pusillanimous bacon-eating glow worms! YOU HEARD ME!!
What a "warrior president" I would have made, eh? All I need is a face like a ventriloquist's dummy and a platoon of marines flanking me fifty deep on a side. They could all just flex their muscles and carry me along to the next photo op, feet dangling, head held high. Meanwhile, somebody's up ahead arranging for a few photogenic children of color to place around me. Piece of cake...hand me the reins!
Well,
it's time to change here in Sri Lanka. And no, I don't mean Greg's new
song...nor do I meant the bit about Eastern Standard Time turning to Daylight
Savings Time (you know...fall ahead, spring back). I mean it's time to change
into our pressure suits and begin our early, early pre launch procedures in
preparation for the start of Big Green's
Interplanetary Tour 2001. We will be disembarking from the chewy center of the
Cheney Hammer Factory courtyard in exactly 6 days from now. And I don't know
about you, but I'm damned excited. Why, you ask? And well you may...
For one thing, we've received letters of
commitment (complete with 
complimentary
unidentified crystal powder) from some of our most valued compatriots and
hangers-on. In fact, that poison pen letter I received last week was from none
other than Dr. Hump himself, who has agreed to accompany us on one leg of the
tour (the left one, I believe). In other news, Trevor James Constable sent us an
"ether-gram" saying he would meet us on Titan and travel the following
few stops with us, assuming we stock the ship's galley with plenty of Necco
wafers. (Matt says, "Nooooo problem.")
Of course, Neccos aren't the only thing we'll be needing to accommodate our guests. Before we sign ships articles on any of these losers...I mean, cronies, we will have to make damn sure that we've got enough protective gear to fend off any unanticipated terrorist assaults beyond the exosphere. Naturally, I put sFshzenKlyrn in charge of tour security because of his long experience with law enforcement (and his remarkable resemblance to Tom Ridge.)
Our
erstwhile Zenite friend immediately got his hands on a genuine Barney Fife squad
care search light -- ideal for shining into the faces of unsuspecting teenage
terrorists out parking on a lonely hillside with the windows all steamed up. Aw,
Andy!
With characteristic aplomb, sFshzenKlyrn
also snagged a few cases of traditional rubber gloves, the ideal
prophylactic device for dealing with unfamiliar or suspicious mail. Not that
we'll be receiving any mail during the tour, but...you understand. Don't you?
(He can always make 
balloons
out of them.)
While sFshzenKlyrn is busy with these important matters, and Matt and John are provisioning our vessel for the long journey ahead, I've been desperately trying to remix some old live takes from last year's tour so that we may have some sort of product to hawk -- all this to appease the bean counters at Hegemonic Records & Worm Farm, Inc. With professor Mitch Macaphee's assistance, I may have something before the end of the tour...but god only knows what. Gangrene, perhaps.
Joint Strike Marketing. Bombs
continue to fall on Afghanistan as I speak, and the chorus of praise (much of it
from the "liberal" end of the spectrum) continues unabated. Yesterday
the International Red Cross warehouse in Kabul got hit by U.S. warplanes for a
second time -- another "mistake" -- wiping out badly needed food,
blankets, and all the dollars contributed by 
Dubya's
cute little telegenic school kids. As "collateral" casualties mount,
the American military appears to be preparing for a drawn out campaign. This in
a country with more than 3 million people on the point of starvation because of
our actions.
What a great time to announce a new fighter-bomber!
Yes, that most deserving of military contractors Lockheed Martin has been awarded the contract for the new Joint Strike Fighter, which will cost a staggering $200 billion before the smoke clears. I guess DOD figures, with the polling solidly behind their splendid little war, they'd best run this major purchase through the press while everybody's playing happy-stupid with federal funds. After all, the airlines got their $15 billion, no strings attached, without any trouble. Plenty more for DOD operations, too, as well as Justice. From a marketing standpoint, there's definitely no time like the present. (Press accounts are talking "jobs jobs jobs" -- pronounced "profits profits profits".)
One small cloud on the defense contractor horizon -- as a minor concession to Russia, Dubya is suspending testing on missile defense and is signaling renewed support for the ABM treaty. It hardly matters. The cash is coming their way anyway, only under a different project. And NMD/Star Wars will be back, no fear...that sucker has nine lives. Five minutes after they don't need Russian cooperation anymore, the worm will turn once again.
No, they don't leave a slimy trail everywhere they go. They are themselves the slimy trail left by others.
luv u,
jp