All posts by Joe

Escape.

What’s this? Parchment? Could just be old vellum, you never know. Look for the watermark, that’s what Mitch always says. Kind of crisp and, well, fragrant, quite frankly. Good lord, throw that thing away.

Digging around for buried pirate maps of the greater Indian Ocean. What can I tell you? That’s what desperation will do to a man. Let me be the first to report that I am so sick and tired of this bloody island I could lay my head on an anvil and order the blacksmith to give me twenty of his best… that is, if there were a blacksmith in this deity-forsaken place. Yes, it’s that bad. Oh sure, I know what you’re thinking. Tropical paradise, isolated from the insanity of the civilized world. Peace and quiet, or as Elmer Fudd would say, “West and wewaxation at wast.” Yeah, well… that’s a lot of aloha hooey. I like civilization, damn it. I like indoor plumbing. I like having more than one dry cleaner to choose from. And just for the record, I hate fucking plantains! (And no, I haven’t been fucking them, so settle down… settle down….)

Another thing you have to remember about being stranded on a desert island — there’s nobody there but you. Oh, sure… we’ve got each other to keep us company, but frankly, I’ve been cooped up with these assholes for the last month and a half, bobbing around in a cramped spacecraft, and while I like everybody okay (except for Lincoln), enough is freaking enough, already. We’re all getting on one another’s nerves. Matt’s not talking to Mitch. Mitch is pissed off at Trevor James Constable. Trevor James has a mad on against John. John and anti-Lincoln have been exchanging ugly looks. Even Marvin (my personal robot assistant) has been copping an attitude lately. (He’s spending most of his time with the stabilization control unit on the command deck of the spacecraft. Only intelligent conversation he can muster.) And even tubey has had a falling out with the Mango tree.

Wow. Listen to me, dissing Marvin. I have been here too long. So what’s holding us back? Well, a spacecraft with no engine, for one. Not likely to fly again soon, even taking into consideration the scientific “brain trust” we have on hand here on Ben-Lostawhile island. Just try making an ion-magnetic interstellar drive run on coconut shells. Just try. (Mitch did, and the result wasn’t pretty.) Believe it or not, the most practical suggestion came from anti-matter Lincoln — throw a mast and a mainsail on the top of the mock-jupiter 2 and push it into the water, then use some worm-eaten piece of driftwood (posi-Lincoln) as a rudder. Lash a rope to the rudder handle and call it “mother hubbard.” (Okay, that last suggestion wasn’t so constructive. But it was better than what Mitch came up with. Coconut reactor vessel, indeed!)

Right, then — our task is clear. Build us a mast and sew together some scraps for a broadsheet sail. And, if luck smiles down upon us, dig up a pirate map that’s useful as well as being rancid… i.e. one that shows us the way to the subcontinent. Dig, men, dig!

Majority rule.

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

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

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

So much for vox populi.

luv u,

jp

Blog in a bottle.

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

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

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

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

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

In the blood.

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

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

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

The tradition continues.

luv u,

jp

On the beach.

Sit right back and you’ll hear a tale, a tale of a fateful trip; that started in Colombo, aboard this fucking ship. This is (A) 110 pounds of mashed potatoes; (B) George Washington, our first president; (C) the ballad of Big Green; (D) Gilligan.

Well, friends, in the titanic battle between Big Green and gravity, gravity won and won big. Let’s face it, we were fighting over our weight. That mighty magnetism of old mother earth is more than a match for the likes of us. So, as I indicated last week, it was down, down, down, through ever-thickening (and ever-sickening) layers of atmosphere, our skin temperature reaching somewhere around 7,600 degrees Kelvin (no, no, not our skin — the skin of the space ship, damnit!). That was a wee bit exciting, especially when Marvin (my personal robot assistant) started popping diodes left and right. (I was reminded of his “renegade robot from Mars” routine on a previous tour. Those were the days… not!)

Okay, so where was I? Ah, yes. We managed to survive re-entry thanks to the timely intervention of our bandmate John White, who has done enough virtual flying in his time to actually… well… know how to fly a second-hand spacecraft. (Multi-talented fellow.) On the advice of our resident science advisor, Mitch Macaphee, John kept us at the proper attitude for re-entry, then brought us down through the troposphere, dodging obvious atmospheric disturbances (i.e. tropical storms), and pointing us toward what appeared to be open water. (Actually, it was more than mere appearances. It was, in fact, open water… and lots of it.) As the waves got closer and closer, we broke out the floatation devices and prepared for the worst. Didn’t look good at that point, quite honestly. Even the man-sized tuber was breaking out into a cold sweat… and he doesn’t even have pores.

I expect it’s not easy for you to imagine how we worked around this particular crisis. Well, it wasn’t easy for us either. In fact, seconds before impact, we blacked out, all of us, cold as whitefish on a bialy. (Mmmmmmmm. Whitefish.) Where was I? Oh yes — when we came to, we were on the beach of this picturesque made-for-television desert island somewhere in the South Pacific… or North Atlantic… or Western Indian… actually, I’m not entirely sure where we are. We could be on a Hollywood back lot for all I know. Wherever we are, the sun rises in the east and sets in the west, so long as you have your north and south straightened out and your eyeglasses aren’t on upside-down. (Or perhaps you’re built upside-down. Does your nose run? Do your feet smell?)

Closing a tour with a forty-year-old joke — that’s just sad. But this is what we’ve been reduced to, my friends. At least the fucking phone isn’t ringing every five seconds. (Though, in fact, it very well may be…. I haven’t dug it out of the beach sand yet.)

Remember this.

On the fifth anniversary of the 9/11 attacks (which seems to have lasted months rather than a single day) my trusty hometown newspaper published a jumbo-tron sized headline on the front page: NEVER FORGET.

They were, of course, referring to the terror attacks in New York, Washington D.C., and on the plane that crashed in Pennsylvania. That one moment in time — one morning in September that must remain seared into our collective memory for all time. A moment of supreme infamy, as horrific as they come. There are other moments, however, that our government would much prefer we forget. In fact, they are relying on us not to remember those particular moments.

Like the decade we spent sluicing money into what was the biggest CIA project in history up to that time — the war against the USSR in Afghanistan, when we created a virtual Ford Foundation for jihadists of the type our politicians now excoriate at every opportunity. Thanks to our largess, aspiring militants anywhere in the Muslim world could go to their local Pakistani embassy and pick up free tickets to Afghanistan on the CIA’s tab. I recall hearing about U.S. State Department officials pulling their hair out because the Reagan-era U.S. embassy in Saudi Arabia kept issuing visas to highly unsavory types on the insistence of our intelligence community. It was at that moment that the seeds of Bin Laden’s (then himself a CIA asset) organization were planted.

Of course, at the same moment (the 1980s) the U.S. was actively helping a certain Saddam Hussein prosecute the war he started against neighboring Iran. We supplied strategic intelligence, supplies, helicopters, and other aid as Saddam repeatedly used chemical weapons against the Iranians, starting as early as 1982 (fully six years before the Halabja massacre). When he gassed to death 5,000 residents of that Kurdish community, our State Department put the word out that Iran was somehow responsible. When Saddam started attacking ships in the Persian Gulf, we ran escorts to protect the safety of shipping allied with Iraq — not Iran’s ships. When Saddam’s air force shot up the U.S.S. Stark and killed 30+ sailors, our leaders cursed Iran. No one in the Reagan administration, from the “Gipper” on down, gave a damn for Saddam’s victims throughout that entire war. Meanwhile, these avowed enemies of terrorism were secretly selling arms to Iran (which they considered the center of terrorism), funneling the proceeds to the Contra terror army in Central America, so they could shoot up more undefended civilian targets, like farms and clinics and anywhere their U.S. sponsors told them the Nicaraguan army wouldn’t be.

That was before 9/11. Then, of course, there was all that stuff since the day of infamy — stuff like, oh I don’t know, lying us into a major war that has now cost nearly as many American lives as the 9/11 attacks. They run away from it now, but the Bush administration and its allies in congress (of both parties) played the terror card over and over in the run-up to the Iraq invasion, making claims and insinuations about Al Qaeda links and WMDs that were wholly unsubstantiated. No investigation is needed to work that one out — it’s a matter of public record, and a performance so transparent that any five-year-old could see through it. Now, because of their actions, Iraq is in worse shape than ever, and it’s well on the way to becoming a “failed state” on the magnitude of Afghanistan in the 1990s. Their boneheaded efforts at building a hillbilly empire (their own Mayberry on the Tiber) is probably beyond any hope of even a moderately benign outcome, and we will pay for their stupidity for many decades to come.

Yeah, well… you can forget all that.

luv u,

jp

Downer, man.

I spy with my little eye… a planet. See it? Just outside the viewport there? Right — very good. Yes, that’s right… the one that’s getting bigger and bigger with each passing moment. That’s the one. You’re good at this game.

Ah, the distractions we devise to keep our minds off of unpleasant things. Things like uncontrolled descents, fiery crashes, and all that. Yes, friends — that bit of engine trouble I told you about last week was a bit more serious than we’d thought. Now it appears we’ve been issued a one-way ticket to Kerplackistan, if you catch my meaning. And let me tell you something, blog-o-file… it’s downhill all the way. It’s that irresistible force of gravity that’s the problem — no matter where you go in the universe, you’re never quite free of it. Too technical? To simplify matters, I will convey the problem in song, while Marvin (my personal robot assistant) renders its emotional import in a brief interpretive dance:

What goes up
must come down.
Spinning wheels
got to go round
Talk about your troubles
it’s a cryin’ sin
Ride a painted pony
let the spinning wheel spin

Then there’s the bit about having no money and no home, but you already know that part.

How did we arrive at such a revolting predicament? Well, after drifting aimlessly through the asteroid belt, past the object briefly known as the “planet” Ceres, one of our number stumbled upon a novel idea for interplanetary propulsion. No, it wasn’t a member of our scientific contingent — both Mitch Macaphee and Trevor James Constable had long since retired to their cabins with a case of Beefeater’s (each) and a sizeable poke of Zenite snuff (courtesy of sFshzenKlyrn). It was, in fact, the man-sized tuber who first “suggested” (i.e. made his idea known through the art of bad cooking) placing our main PA speakers inside the aft airlock and turning them up to eleven, with sFshzenKlyrn obligingly supplying a mega power chord from his trademark trashed-out telecaster. We just cracked the hatch open, let that bad noise out, and forward we lurched.

When I say “lurch”, I mean just that — an aimless forward motion. (Not a large, Frankenstinian butler working for the Addams family). We were propelled by the sustained power chord out of the asteroid belt and into the gravitational pull of our home planet, known to you terrestrial types as “de oit”. (That’s like “Detroit” without the “tr”.) Well, as many of you already know, the “oit” has a much stronger gravitational field than the asteroid formerly known as “planet” Ceres. And resisting said gravitational pull will take more than a mere power chord or two.

So, let me close with the refrain from another highly apropos little number:

Down and down and down I go!
Round and round and round I go
like a something, something, something….

P. S. — YAAAAAAAAHHHHH!!!!!

Meet Mr. Guilty.

It was a real Rove moment. George W. Bush at the rostrum in front of a room full of 9-11 victim families, announcing his new policy on the disposition of detainees held in the never-ending “war on terror.” (God forbid our official enemies should declare a similar “war on air power” or “war on artillery”). Dubya pulled most of his trademark non-sequitur facial expressions ( the “by crackee” squint-smirk, the long “get it? get it?” glare) and was generally in form for this photo-op as he promised to bring the 9-11 plotters to justice for the nearly 3,000 lives lost on that awful day. And yet, as well received as his words were among that group, I wonder if anyone there pondered how Bush has brought about, by his own count, at least ten times as many deaths in Iraq — and really more like 50 times as many by the most realistic reckoning — as a result of the war of choice he initiated in the name of their fallen loved ones. I know that a good many 9-11 families are none too happy about being used in such a manner… and they can expect the memory of their loss to be invoked regularly in the weeks leading up to the mid-term elections.

So what is this thing called guilt? What meaning does it have if it is only applied to those who lack the power and resources to avoid apprehension and prosecution? Recent experience suggests it has very little meaning at all except as a marketing tool — recall the Saddam trial and all of his unindicted Reagan-era co-conspirators. Actually, I had occasion to hear one of the great legal minds behind the administration’s war on terror this week. NPR’s “Day to Day” was interviewing John Yoo, author of Bush’s legal justification for torture and detention without due process. Yoo drew a distinction between “war time” and normal circumstances, arguing that it is not practical to apply the niceties of constitutional rights to combatants captured on the field of battle. Of course, what he didn’t discuss was how many of these “combatants” were pulled from their homes in, say, Lahore or Karachi, and thrown into a black hole where they were beaten, humiliated, and held without legal recourse for up to three years before being released on the admission that they were innocent all along. In Yoo’s legal world, it’s okay to hold someone like that until the end of the “conflict” (i.e. forever) — just arrest everyone you can get your hands on (or pay a bounty for) and sort them out later.

Fact is, this denial of rights is criminal in the extreme, and the Bush team knows it. That’s why they are so dead set against any international legal architecture of justice — not because they fear U.S. soldiers will be dragged off to the Hague (as they claim) but because they see themselves in the dock one day, facing charges of unlawful abduction, torture, mass murder, and the supreme crime of waging aggressive war against a nation for no legitimate reason, at the cost of many tens of thousands of lives. So as you pause for your solemn moment of silence this Monday, think not only of those who perished in the 9-11 attacks, but also of those who have died since as a result of our political culture’s thirst for blood and our own indifference to the suffering of others. Let us duly mourn our failure to stop this before so many were forced to pay with their lives (including nearly as many Americans as died on that fateful day five years ago).

And so long as your head is bowed, think of that Pet Goat Bush was reading about as the WTC burned and ask yourself why the hell this man is still being allowed to run our nation into the ground.

luv u,

jp

Hail and farewell.

Mmmmm, burnt toast. The smell of over-heated coffee. That cool splash of orange juice in your lap, while strips of fakin’ bacon belch greasy black smoke from an unattended frying pan. Yes, breakfast is my favorite meal of the day. (Is that the fire alarm I hear? Seems like the wrong pitch….)

Greetings from the lower deck (galley area) of the reconstituted J-2 space RV, our home-away-from-home planet during this GET ME THE HELL OUTA HERE Big Green Tour 2006. We’re just in the middle of a particularly toxic breakfast, so bear with me. No budget for an on-board chef, unfortunately. We’ve press-ganged the man-sized tuber into doing the job. Probably not the best pick, but we figured that, since this is an all-vegetarian voyage (much to the chagrin on Mitch Macaphee), it might be appropriate to have a certified organic vegetable doing all the cooking for us. Besides, old tubey has to carry his own weight somehow. Can’t spend the whole trip sitting in his specially designed space terrarium, keeping himself humid and well-mulched. (Or can he?) So we got him a second-hand chef’s hat and made him watch the Food network in his little glass room for a few hours… and voila. Instant chef.

Still, it’s actually kind of relaxing to just sit here and let an overgrown yam burn our breakfast snausages, especially after the frantic week we’ve had, framming away uselessly on celestial objects no longer considered to be planets. (Mmmmmmm. Burned snausages….) Beats the hell out of me how these hellacious hunks of interplanetary rock and ice ever got themselves in the running to be considered planets in the first place. What the fuck were those rocket scientists thinking? Anyhow, that nightmare is over, and we are drifting lazily through the asteroid belt, meandering our way home, lonely as a cloud of dark matter. Why so nonchalant? Lots of reasons. We’re close to the end of our tour. We’re almost finished with our sophomore album (now in the mixing phase). And … ah yes… we’ve blown our ion-drive engine to kingdom come. Nearly forgot that one. (Details, details!)

How, you ask, could such a thing happen? Well, ahm gon’ tell yuh. As you know, our friend Quality Lincoln was dispatched from his position as official booking agent for this tour, owing to some rather unforgivable oversights on his part (I won’t go into all the ugly details… he knows what he’s done). He has been replaced by the inestimable Big Zamboola (a former planet himself, you know), who was serving as our navigator. That post was taken over by Marvin (my personal robot assistant), who had been putting in his duty as our helmsman these past couple of weeks. Since posi-Lincoln was semi-familiar with concepts related to aviation and had personally commanded several observation balloons in his day, we though he might sit in at the helm for the last dog leg of the tour. Big mistake. BIIIGGGG mistake! My guess is that he’s more of a steam locomotive guy than an ion-drive spacecraft guy. He apparently thought he had to get up a good head of steam to pull over the top of Saturn. Then there was a bang. Then a boom. Then another bang, but not the same as the first one. Finally… the sound of a dog barking. (I’m still working on that one.)

And so, here we are. Adrift. Total rupture in the reactor vessel. No forward thrust whatsoever. Auxiliary power only. Bottled oxygen. And a vegetable cooking our meals. Is this any way to end a tour? What sayest thou? I can’t hear you. (Oh, sure…. the transmitter’s out and all. )

One man, one bomb.

The smoke has barely cleared from Israel’s bombing of Lebanon and the chattering/scribbling classes are already climbing over one another to claim the “master narrative” (in po-mo language), telling us what lessons may be drawn (and quartered) from the recent bloodletting. I don’t know about you, but I’ve heard plenty of the official Israeli line — about attempting to create a “new reality” in southern Lebanon; about the international community’s responsibility to implement all provisions of the ceasefire (i.e. take up the fight that Israel could not win); about how the U.N. had ignored Israel’s warnings about the build-up of arms in Lebanon over the past six years. (Israel’s deputy U.N. ambassador Daniel Carmon even questioned on DemocracyNow! whether “all the civilians in southern Lebanon were purely innocent civilian(s).” All of this constituting a rationale for not lifting their naval blockade of Lebanese ports, not allowing even western organizations to clean up the massive oil spill the IDF created, and not entirely removing its forces from Lebanon. I think the amazing thing is that Israel can arrogate to itself the right to block shipping and aid to Lebanon without any serious international consequences. Who died and left Olmert god, anyway?

We are supposed to see the malevolent hand of Tehran and Damascus in Hezbollah’s success, but this is a very weak gambit. Sure they get money and arms from Iran… just as Israel gets much more of both from the United States. But I think Israeli peace activist Uri Avnery is right when he points out that the biggest reason for Israel’s poor performance in the second Lebanon war is the corrosive effect on the IDF of Israel’s 39-year occupation of the West Bank, East Jerusalem, Gaza, and the Golan Heights. They no longer have the skills to fight a reasonably well-organized and adequately armed adversary because they’ve been using their tanks, missiles, and helicopter gunships mainly against civilians and lightly-armed militants, as well as stone-throwing boys. What tactical sophistication is needed in a place like Gaza, where your bulldozers, tanks, and pilotless drones can lay waste to any housing unit you care to target? There has been almost a sense of outrage at Hezbollah’s capacity to resist the Israeli invasion. They’re not fighting fair! (Translation: they’re fighting back.)

The fact is, the only meaningful military capacity Hezbollah possesses is a defensive one, as well as a largely random retaliatory one. So their real offense in this conflict has been not to crumble like so many Arab armies before them. This is getting up Dubya’s nose in a serious way, because he cannot attack Iran now without having missiles rain aimlessly down on northern Israel. It’s not just the fact that these people can repel an attack — it’s that they now have some semblance of a deterrent; a primitive variant on Mutual Assured Destruction, like the North Koreans, whose massed artillery casts a shadow over Seoul (not to mention Washington’s desire to “take them out”… and I don’t mean to dinner.) So “Project Democracy” is in trouble. Of course, Dubya’s concept of “democracy” is fully congenial to Israel’s taking 30 democratically elected Palestinian parliamentarians prisoner and the PAN evidently stealing a presidential election in Mexico.

Just try to remember: when Viktor Yushchenko rallies the masses against a fraudulent election in Ukraine, it’s a good thing. When AMLO does the same thing south of the border… not so good.

luv u,

jp