All posts by Joe

One Framistat Short

Flashlight. Anti-static wrist band. Screwdriver. Vise-grips. Oscillator. Got everything… except the part we’re installing. Mitch!

Oh, hello. I do apologize. Seems like every time you drop by, I’m hollering something at someone in our motley entourage, and typically that someone is Mitch Macaphee, our resident mad scientist. Sad that Big Green has fallen to such a base level of discourse. I remember the days when… when… excuse me… What the fuck is that noise? Can’t you fucking morons keep quiet for five seconds? Jesus jumping Christ on a bike!! Ahem. Yes… where was I? Ah, yeah. I’ve tried to keep us on a civil track here at the Cheney Hammer Mill, honestly I have. But it’s almost as though an evil spirit has taken hold — the spirit of Cheneys past. It’s nearly… just a minute… I’m telling our valued readers about how much we regret our recent resort to harsh words, you ass-munching dick-head!

All right. What is the bone of contention this week? Well, we’re back to maintenance on Marvin (my personal robot assistant). Mitch Macaphee, Marvin’s inventor, is still nominally on strike over our failure to, well, pay him for his efforts on our behalf. Ergo, we are forced to perform routine and extraordinary repairs on our automatonic cohort without adequate counsel from Marvin’s designer. Well, the shit has definitely hit the fan on this little dispute — Marvin is having serious issues (i.e. problems). I mentioned the thing about watering our mixing desk. Just lately, he’s taken to repointing the bricks on the north side of the mill. This wouldn’t be a problem, except that he thinks “repointing” means ripping the bricks out and filing them into spike-like objects with his atomic hand. Clearly, it was time to operate.

Left to our own devices, Matt, John, and I resorted to what we know best — stealth. We waited until nightfall yesterday, then broke into Mitch’s laboratory and turned up what appeared to be his notebook on the construction of Marvin. It was a little yellowed and dog-eared, but still readable. We paged through the sucker by candlelight, making rough sketches of his diagrams, then studying them at our leisure between mixing sessions. Even a blind man could see that Marvin was suffering from a dysfunctional framastatic conversion unit — it was right there in front of us! So we booked the conference room upstairs (no reservations necessary, since it’s abandoned like the rest of this dump) and prepared to open Marvin up like a pull-tab can of pacific salmon. (Actually, that’s sort of what he looks like inside. Strange. Very strange…)

Of course, now that we have our robot friend sedated, broken open, and laid out on a table, we are confronting our somewhat shameful failure to procure the replacement part necessary to perform this procedure successfully. You see… this is why we need scientists! We know no method! We have no skills! Mitch — get your sorry ass down here, you bugger!

Springtime for Dubya

I guess I’m just supposed to get annoyed at the president — Rove and the boys just love getting a rise out of people like me. Though I hate to encourage them, it is irritating as hell to watch or hear Dubya at one of his press conferences. I mean, there’s something about an obvious idiot talking down to you that is just innately insulting. Then, of course, there’s the scummy substance of what he has to say… like suggesting that he’s only “protecting the troops” when he openly attempts to provoke Iran, thereby pissing off about half of the Shi’a Muslims in Iraq (in other words, 30% of the population). In a country where a majority already supports armed attacks against U.S. troops, how is this a good idea? Then there’s Bush’s speculation about how history will judge us if we “fail” in Iraq — let that happen and future generations will ask, “Where were they?” (Huh?) That’s the boy in the bubble talking… and he’s talking out his ass. We’re the people of the future with respect to his decision to start this disastrous war four years ago. What the hell are we saying right now?

It’s hard to say if Dubya is aware of it or not (there may be no institutional reason why he should be), but there is one narrow sense in which what he says is true. Future “deciders” — those who will inherit the dilapidated machinery of empire that Bush is now driving into the ground — might well deplore the failure of his Iraq project. It has, after all, been a central pillar of U.S. foreign policy planning to exert strong influence over the energy-rich Middle East, going back to at least World War II. So long as the region’s oil remains one of the world’s greatest strategic assets, our commissars will want to exercise control over it if only to maintain the option of denying those resources to our principal economic competitors. Defeat in Iraq — i.e. the U.S. abandoning its plans for a permanent presence and a congenial client state there — would mean a significant loss of influence in that part of the world. High stakes indeed for the imperial mandarin class.

Assuming for a moment that Bush knows this to be true, why would he risk this invasion and how could he have been so blind to the obvious dangers? Well… I think of it as somewhat like the plot of The Producers. I mean, you got Max Bialystock and Leo Bloom just so damn certain that “Springtime for Hitler” was going to be an immediate flop, they essentially bet the store on it. Bush and company had that kind of confidence in the success of their Iraq adventure. Remember, they were coming off of the invasion of Afghanistan (real easy to beat, because it had been blown up numerous times already), and they had the same visions of an easy victory chief executives have dreamed of since Desert Storm… even back to the Six-Day War. A few encouraging words from a drunk named “curve ball” and it’s Fuck, we can’t lose! So now what? Blow up the theater? Starting to look like it.

I know some watery liberals are almost afraid that the “surge” will succeed. They might remind themselves what success looks like. It looks like Fallujah. It looks like Guatemala. It looks like Afghanistan. That kind of success is truly something to fear.

Aspergrass?

There are headaches and then there are headaches. Some just come and go. Some move in with you and stay for weeks, months, years… The kind with legs and a mouth. You know what I’m talking about. Pour me another drink, mate.

Okay, okay — you got me. I was referring obliquely to my mill-mates. No, I don’t mean Matt or John, who I’ve known to be insufferable for longer than any of us can remember. (Don’t … get … me … started …) No sir, I’m referring to some other members of our entourage. The Mitch Macaphees, if you will; the Trevor James Constables; the Big Zambooli. Nothing but trouble just lately. Perhaps it’s the confining sameness of our abandoned hammer mill that makes them so difficult to live with. These are, after all, men of the world, used to a far more ostentatious lifestyle than can be had within these rough and clammy walls. Who can blame Mitch for being dissatisfied with the accommodations after having dined with princes, premiers, and potentates in uncounted citadels of power throughout Europe and Asia? No caviar, no braised mutton, no clam pudding, no box car rides, no free balloons shaped like a baobab tree… Let’s face it — he’s seen better days!

I have to say, Mitch has been the biggest headache, pain in the ass, whatever extremity you prefer. Last week it was experiments with the weather — he invented something called the “thunder-quake” which has ruined our fence-mending efforts with the local constabulary (that and his dreaded “hurricanado”). Now he’s “on strike”, which means he refuses to maintain Marvin (my personal robot assistant) until we pony up some cash, luncheon vouchers, whatever. This is not good, because (as you know) we lean on Marvin to do just about everything around here so that we can maintain our slovenly musician-like lifestyles. When Marvin starts clunking in a serious way, his many chores fall to the next person on the duty list. And when I say “person”, I mean to include large, oddly misshapen root vegetables. That’s not a good thing. He’s got strong roots, that man-sized tuber, and a lot of pride to go with it. But as domestic help, he leaves much to be desired.

Don’t think our relationship with Mitch Macaphee is pure friendship — not at all. We have a service contract with him. Mitch is paid to find scientifically valid solutions to a variety of problems around the mill. Not that he always manages to find solutions. But what the hell — he built Marvin from bits and bobs lying around his laboratory. Only he can keep that man of tin on his rails. So when Marvin starts to cant a bit to the left, or his programming goes haywire and he starts watering the mixing console as if it were a fichus tree, I haven’t the slightest notion how to straighten the boy out. And though it pains me to give Mitch money for something he should gladly do for free… the tuber could never tell the difference between a fichus and a Soundcraft. It just ain’t in him.

So pluck me some asper-grass. Something tells me this headache is only going to get worse. Eee – gods.

Third strike.

On a week when most of the mass media have been obsessing over love-crazed astronauts and tabloid corpses, it’s almost easy to forget that there are a couple of bloody neo-colonial wars going on, and that one of them is on the verge of a significant escalation in violence. Oh, well, we’re supposed to say… what’s on the other channels? The less we focus on this growing catastrophe, the better off our leaders will be. They’ve already made certain we won’t be called upon to fight if we don’t want to, and that all of the costs will be deferred until long after they leave office to their opulent retirement consultancies (Uncle Carlucci! Keep that chair warm for me!) A little high fructose news-food puts icing on the multi-layer cake of denial they’ve baked up for us — devil’s food, for sure. And yet, at the same time, the Iraq war story keeps growing larger and larger, its lethal tentacles stretching into every corner of American life, destined to touch each one of us, whether we like it or not.

With respect to that, there were some non-tabloid stories in the news this week as well. One was the Pentagon inspector general’s report on the Office of Special Plans — that raw intelligence stovepiping shop run by snot-nosed neocon Doug Feith (now on to bigger and better things, thank you very much). Seems even the Pentagon may be getting around (four years too late) to recognizing that putting ideologically-driven morons in charge of policy is maybe not such a great idea. That won’t stop us from doing it again, mind you. Our new Defense Secretary Robert Gates, whose job it once was to exaggerate Soviet military capabilities, is making much of some fragmentary evidence that Iranian munitions may be making their way into Iraq. Well, there’s a surprise. I have to think that if a provenance were found for each item of explosives in that sorry country, someone other than Iran would top the list. Jesus Christmas — isn’t it just too fucking obvious that this administration (and really any administration) will bend the facts to their own purposes whenever they see fit?

It never ceases to amaze me the extent to which the principal boosters of this war will engage in rhetorical gymnastics in order to prove themselves right in some small measure. Chuck Krauthammer is exemplary of the war planners’ three-strike process to the hell we live in today. Strike one: scare talk about a grave and gathering threat — Saddam’s dreaded nuclear weapons that Krauthammer and others insisted we must “pre-empt”. Strike two: triumphalist blather just following the fall of Baghdad about the glorious “three week war”. Strike three: shifting the blame to the Iraqis and domestic opponents of the war, whom Krauthammer attempts to portray as possessed of a kind of paternalistic, colonial attitude that in effect discriminates against Iraqis by suggesting that America is the author of the current catastrophe, not the Iraqis themselves (who, according to Krauthammer, “chose” civil war). That’s the trajectory of both the administration and the congressional leaders who bought into the 2003 invasion, and if we’re not careful, that is the kind of thinking that will define the debate in the coming election.

This is the time to resist — not just this attempt to blame Iraqis, but also the associated effort to attack Iran. They’ve had their three strikes. It’s our turn to drive this debate.

luv u,

jp

Buck, wanna eat?

After all that baking, this is what you come up with? Doesn’t even look edible. I’m telling you, I’ve never heard of an artichoke pie. That’s just plain deees-gusting. (Last night it was artichoke sorbet. Uuuulllgghh….)

What the hell does a guy have to do to get a decent meal around here, eh? Christ, I sound like Robert Young on “Father Knows Best.” Can’t a guy get a little attention around this place? Geeeeezzzz. Next I’ll be going around in corduroy jackets with patches on the elbows. (If you see me like that, just shoot me, okay? Do me a kindness.) Honestly, though, the menu around this ludicrous hammer mill is almost too revolting to describe. No, we don’t have a proper chef… unless Boy-Ar-Dee counts. (And it doesn’t, Mitch, so settle down.) We can’t even afford the utensils these days. I’ve been reduced to spooning my dinner with creased slips of construction paper. Pretty soon we’ll be down to shirt cardboards. And then what? Unsold CD’s? Brick fragments? I shudder to think.

Never mind how I get the grub to my mandible. Who prepares our meals? I’ll give you one guess. Hint: His name starts with an “M” and ends with a “(my personal robot assistant)”. Those of you who guessed Marvin (my personal robot assistant) can help yourself to some artichoke pie. (Uuuuuulllgggh….) Sure, I know — wasn’t it me who said we’ve been leaning far too heavily on our mechanical friend? Wasn’t it me who said, let’s just be glad for our time together? (No, wait — that last one was Diana Ross. Sorry.) Right, right… but that was weeks ago. Marvin should be able to handle cooking. Mitch has programmed him with the latest recipes from Wolfgang Puck and Chef Guillame. Can we help it if the sauce gets ruined somewhere in the transcription process? Am I to be blamed for everything that goes wrong around here, huh? HUH?

Sorry again, friends. Just a bit on edge. It isn’t that I don’t like artichokes. It’s that, well, Marvin is a little confused about which part of the vegetable is edible. You see, being a mechanical creature without a soul or any identifiable animal needs, Marvin seems to think that the spiny, crunchy part that tastes like chicken feathers is some kind of delicacy. Fact is, it reminds me of something someone described as a “delicacy” whilst standing on a bridge over a pond just outside my girlfriend’s residence hall at SUNY New Paltz in 1980. (I won’t elaborate any further, just in case some of you are reading this over dinner.) It may well be true that Marvin can burn this coarse material in his ion reactor, but it certainly doesn’t constitute “food” to the rest of us. Christ in himmel, it’s not even a savory artichoke pie! It’s got brown freaking sugar in it. This robot is trying to make me spew in the worst way. (Though John White and Trevor James Constable seem to enjoy what they term the pie’s “delicate flavor.” I think it’s the result of food poisoning.) Oh, doctor!

Okay. Now I sound like Red Barber. That means it’s time to sign off, for sure. (I hate baseball… honest!) Put in a good word for us over at the cheap lunch counter. As soon as we can hock a few pipe fittings from the mill’s plumbing system, we should be getting some take out. Keep working that monkey wrench, boys — daddy’s hungry.

Loose lips.

Am I dreaming, or did Joe Biden just blow another presidential bid with that big yap of his? I feel like I’ve been transported back to 1987, when the old media knockout machine first kicked into high gear. First it was Gary Hart, presumptive front-runner, derailed because of what — some kind of heterosexual liaison with an adult woman? God, no! He was out of there, his morals not up to the high standard set by the ersatz Hollywood cowboy then ensconced in the White House — a man who had cavorted with the likes of Errol Flynn back in the day, for chrissake. Then Biden got caught cribbing British Labor party leader Neil Kinnock, and he was out. Would that work today? Not as well as Biden’s clumsily phrased comment that seemed to suggest Obama is cleaner and more palatable to, well, white people. The insufferable NPR Morning Edition team brought up Obama’s comment that he did not take the remark personally, about which one of them commented, well, why should he? It wasn’t about him. Ummm… well, yeah, it was about him, if the comment was a reference to “blackness” in general.

Anyway, that’s Joe Biden. Less newsworthy, apparently, is his contention (which he shares with nearly all of his fellow Democratic presidential contenders) that the Iraqis need to, in essence, get their shit together. This is positioning for our eventual exit from Iraq. It’s the same exit strategy we applied to the Vietnam War — blame the victims, as though what we did to them was something we did for them. That’s the Vilsack line, as well, and of course Hillary is all about “benchmarks” for the Iraqi government, etc. Meanwhile on the other side of the aisle, the “hang tough” Republicans (all safely beyond fighting age, one might notice) have added “benchmarks” to their resolution of support for Bush’s escalation, though the rhetoric is still designed to set their opponents up for blame when (not if) this “strategy” doesn’t work. And when it doesn’t work, you can bet it will be because people just slightly to the left of them doubted it, and not because it is an utterly bankrupt policy.

Yes indeed, you can see the outlines of a “knife in the back” explanation for our failure in Iraq when the war is finally over. Again, this is Vietnam redux. Those antiwar protesters, press critics, and wishy-washy liberals emboldened the enemy, undermined our troops, compromised the mission, stabbed the president in the back, etc. Hey, it worked great for Nixon… and for Hitler, come to think of it. Mark my words — this catastrophe will be blamed upon the very people who counseled most strongly against it in the first place. We will be lumped together with everyone from Osama and the crew to those French “surrender monkeys,” whose Gaullist president Jacques Chirac recently had the temerity to suggest that an Iranian nuclear weapon would not be the disaster the U.S. makes it out to be, since its use would result in Teheran’s utter and immediate annihilation by the enormous Israeli and U.S. nuclear arsenals. (The Morning Edition crew seemed utterly flabbergasted at this remark, as if they’d never heard anything so outlandish as the concept of nuclear deterrence that we’ve lived by since the start of the Cold War.)

So by all means, oppose this stupid war. But don’t for one minute suppose that you’ll be thanked for it later. As my mom always told me, no good deed goes unpunished.

The hand… it’s playing!

Can’t you hear it? It’s playing the piano. It’s Ingram’s hand… it’s playing down there! The hand… Oh no, wait. It’s not Ingram’s hand. It’s actually my hand — I’m playing the piano. Fuck a duck, I always make that mistake.

Bad old movie fanatics will recall The Beast With Five Fingers, a moody horror flick featuring Peter Lorre and a one-handed piano player. Actually, my brother (and Big Green co-founder) Matt wrote one of his many Christmas songs on the theme of this ridiculous movie. I think he called it “Christmas Piece (written for one hand)”. I’ll post the file sometime, if he promises not to kill me for doing so. It’s an eight-track DTRS recording from about ten years ago, now in mothballs. Dig it up, fucker! Is that what I hear you saying? Very well, then… We’ve got a pretty deep grab bag over here at the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill. Lots of old masters (and I don’t mean Rembrandt), including 4 track cassette recordings, scary demos, and unreleased out-takes from our last album, 2000 Years To Christmas.

Yup, it’s been seven years since our last proper album release, though we have archives stretching back to the 1980’s when we knuckleheads first started playing together. I’ve actually put Marvin (my personal robot assistant) in charge of maintaining these archives, deep in the dusty catacombs of the mill. My feeling is, since he’s a machine, he will feel some sympathy towards these fruits of modern technology (tapes, song files, etc.) and handle them with gentleness and sensitivity. I know he has a strong capacity for… for… what the hell was that noise? Sounded like tapes being dropped down a basement stairs. Excuse me… Marvin? Is that you? What the hell are you playing at, you tin-plated moron? Those reel-to-reel spools are irreplaceable! Get your head out of your ass! What the…? Put that torch away. I said PUT IT AWAY! No… NOOOOO!!!

Okay, that was just a bit of melodrama. Got to keep the kids entertained, know what I mean. Marvin is not one bit clumsy — he’s like a wolf on his feet. It’s the man-sized tuber who’s the clumsy clod around this joint. I warn you, never leave him with the cleaning up after dinner. Can’t tell you how many sets of second-hand china we went through because of that ham-fisted root vegetable. Nowadays we just eat on paper plates recovered from the local falafel vendor. And on those rare occasions when we do use actual dishes, I just ask Trevor James Constable to train his orgone generating device on them after dinner. (Just throw the switch and the bioplasmic etheric energy does its magic while you watch the Daily Show.) Hell, I know — it’s not tubey’s fault. His withered abdominal roots can barely hold a coffee cup, let alone a stack of stoneware platters, heavy with leavings from a four-course Mexican feast. (Clumsy fool.)

Yeah, when we finish this album (for years he’s been saying this, for years…), I’ll start sorting through some of our old recordings and post a few of the more listenable examples. Or maybe I’ll just re-do them with one hand tied behind my back. Hey — this is Big Green. Anything can happen.

Next act.

Watch the state of the union address? Nah, neither did I. At this stage, I won’t give Bush the satisfaction of irritating me for the better part of an hour. (I understand the word “strong” was employed more than once. How novel.) This has become such a highly ritualized tradition that I feel as though I watched it anyway. I mean, since Reagan (the cardboard commander-in-chief), the state of our union has always been “strong,” regardless of what horrible hell-disaster the president had propelled us into during the previous year. There is seemingly always some anecdotal tidbit about a soldier or a mother or a small business owner or a virtuous immigrant who just happens to be seated next to the first lady. No real new information is imparted, since the previous week is choked with trial balloons sent off from the White House to preview all new policy proposals. So aside from bad television, there is no meaningful content… though that doesn’t stop the various news organizations from yammering about it for days afterward (when they’re not talking about who is and is not running for president next year).

Not that any of them care what I think, but I think they should be concentrating more on the impending war against Iran, which is seeming more inevitable all the time. I mean, a carrier battle group added to the Gulf fleet, an admiral in charge of middle east operations, attacks against Iranian diplomats and other personnel in Iraq? Sounds like provocation mode to me. Have the major media taken note of the catastrophe in Iraq they report on each day with clinical detachment? I mean, don’t they feel as though they should give us a head’s up when a very similar danger is fast approaching? I presume they would fight to be the first to tell us that another Katrina-scale hurricane was bearing down on us. Well, what the hell — here comes hurricane Iran: another ill-defined, open-ended conflict in the Persian Gulf, only this time it will be against a relatively functional society with a long record of repulsing well-armed invaders. Where is Anderson Cooper on that one?

It’s happening again. Forget all the lofty mea culpas about the press’s failures during the run-up to the Iraq war. They’re once again performing that vital function of amplifying the administration’s bogus claims about the perils we face from a third-rate power — a nation surrounded by hostile armies (and navies!); a nation under existential threat from both the U.S. and Israel (both of which have the capacity to make good on that threat); a nation that shares a long border with the chaotic clusterfuck we’ve created in Iraq. Our major news organizations should put a freaking laugh track under any administration official that accuses Iran of destabilizing Iraq or of having undue influence in a country that invaded them (with our help). Instead, such claims are treated with seriousness and are seldom subjected to the kind of scrutiny that elevates journalism above public relations. One such failure in a single decade is inexcusable; two is simply criminal.

Peace Machine. With a major peace rally in Washington under way this weekend, I wanted to give a call out to Dennis Kyne, veteran, activist, and member of the band Peace Machine, whose song Ain’t Goin’ Back Again has risen to #28 on Neil Young’s Living With War chart. Dennis is a friend and supporter of Lt. Ehren Watada, on trial for refusing to deploy to Iraq. (Learn more about him at www.thankyoult.org ) Incidentally, Big Green’s The President’s Brain is Missing is now up to #154 on that little list.

luv u,

jp

Out, damned spot!

What is this? More bickering? Jesus Christ on a bike. Can’t you guys ever just let it drop? Always putting the boot in, putting the boot in. Leave it, damn you, leave it. Do I have to come back there again? You’re distracting me from my driving!

Oh, it’s you. Honestly… sometimes I feel like the parent of three-year-old quadruplets. (Or is it four-year-old triplets? Same total number of life years, you see.) It’s especially bad when we’re out for a ride in the woody. No, that’s not a euphemism for some kind of warped sexual encounter between bandmates — we really do have a paneled station wagon, an old Ford country squire. Don’t look at me like that. It’s an old junker, okay? I can’t help it if it belches black smoke into an otherwise moderately breathable atmosphere. For chrissake, if you lived with this crew, you’d have to find a way to get them all out of the hammer mill from time to time too. It gets pretty close in there, even with all that space. Mitch and his cigars. Matt and his cooking. Marvin (my personal robot assistant) and his incessant juggling.

We went out for a brief ride in the ‘wagon just yesterday, and I had to pull over at least a couple of times specifically to speak to Marvin about those bloody pins he keeps tossing in the air. (He had the best juggling coach, too… some guy named Sven. Go figure.) Not a lot of headroom in that car, as you might well imagine — this isn’t some suburban land-yacht or Mercedes SUV, friends. Anyway, it was my turn to drive and by virtue of our friend sFshzenKlyrn’s generous holiday gift (a small poke of Zenite snuff), the vehicle somehow ended up in a roadside drainage ditch. I’ve been in a number of crashes in my time; most of them involving space vehicles (or at least one space vehicle and a car of some sort), but this was among the more embarrassing incidents of its kind. For one thing, it transpired within eyeshot of the freaking mill. My comrades elected to walk the rest of the way home, singing the ridiculous round with which they had been bludgeoning me while we were still on the road. That left me to beg assistance from a passing donkey cart. I think you can imagine the ride home, station wagon in tow. Not a pretty sight.

When did it become my responsibility to entertain the troops? I’ve been elected by default, quite frankly. Mitch Macaphee may be able to pilot a spacecraft, but he’s no taxi driver. And don’t even ask me about the man-sized tuber. Why, his little spindly roots can’t even reach the pedals, poor fucker. Matt and John? They like to hang out the windows with their tongues flapping in the breeze. I suppose the most likely candidate for chauffeur would be Marvin, but hell — we get Marvin to do everything. I mean, that robot is entitled to a little down time, even if he is my personal robot assistant. Besides, if you put a robot in the driver’s seat, it’s like riding with Hitler. Don’t ask me why… some truths are imponderable.

With a bullet… literally. Big Green’s acoustic anti-war song Red, Gold, and Green has reached number 250 on Neil Young’s Living With War Today chart — that’s out of about 1,100 songs and without any promotion from yours truly… until now. Get over there and click that mo-fo! (By the way… The President’s Brain is Missing is at #399 and could use a few click, too.)

Dogs’ day.

I’m not an enormously cynical person, actually — let’s just say that I have very low expectations when it comes to politics. That stems from my formative years, when my favorite political figures were either murdered by assassins’ bullets or the electorate’s ballots. The first political campaign I ever worked for was George McGovern’s in 1972 — I was 13 — and I didn’t work directly for another candidate until just last fall. Voted for a lot of losers in-between, I might add. So no, I don’t expect miracles when I pull the little levers every November, and I’m seldom disappointed in that expectation. But I will tell you that it gave me tremendous pleasure to watch Condi Rice and Alberto Gonzales sit so uncomfortably before a relatively hostile group of congresspeople, especially after the free ride they’ve gotten over the past six years. You can see reflected in their dour expressions the petulance of their boss, now so obviously irked at the prospect of having to share a portion of the government’s vast power with people who at least mildly disagree with him. There is also that telltale grimace of accountability… something very unfamiliar indeed. Perhaps it’s finally dawning on them that every dog may well have its day.

Is it enough? Not nearly. People are still dying in hideous numbers, and by the noises the administration’s various flaks are making, it’s almost certain to get much worse once they start attacking the Sadrists (probably the largest mass-based organization in Iraq’s majority Shi’a community). We cannot afford a waffling, half-assed, non-binding response to this idiot-based strategy of escalation. Congress needs to exercise its authority over the allocation of public funds to pull the rug out from under this war any way and every way it can. Let’s be clear — the Pentagon has plenty of cash in the pipeline to bring our troops home. I’m sure if the Bush administration something like the McGovern proposal (as if!) Congress would provide the requisite funds to implement not only redeployment but reconstruction and reparations. The danger to our people is in having them stay, not making them leave, and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. Democrats should be saying that clearly and unequivocally… but they’re not, and that’s a shame.

All right — it’s more than a shame. It’s compounding the crime. We’ve got to save our own people, and there’s only one way to do it: Get out now. But we’ve also got to help the Iraqis overcome the clusterfuck catastrophe we’ve brought upon them. First step is to get our troops off their streets. We are not wanted there, and the longer we stay, the worse it will get. We do need, however, to provide the Iraqis with assistance — a portion of the cash we were going to spend on blowing the place up for the fifth time — so that they can piece their country back together. Yes, there will be continued violence, but that will happen no matter what we do. And sure, Bush and Cheney keep telling us that failure is not an option, but frankly, their credibility is about zero right now, maybe less. Besides, it’s not a question of failure. The Iraq mess was fairly predictable from the beginning. What we’re seeing now is the successful outcome of a lunatic policy, not the failure of some noble effort that never was. Bush, Cheney, and the rest need to be told what to do in Iraq because they’ve thoroughly demonstrated that they can’t find their ample asses with both hands.

Of course, they can’t be told until we tell our congress people to do the telling. That’s where we come in.

luv u,

jp