Hammer down.

Aw, tubey… what do you want to go and do that for? Put it down, tubey… put it down. Owwww! Not there — that’s my freaking skull, you cruciferous moron!

Ah, yes… there you are. Welcome. As you can see by the banner head (oh, say, can you see the banner head?), your belov’d “Notes from Sri Lanka” has been re-christened (or more properly speaking, re-agnosticized) “Hammer Mill Days” — just one component in our year-long rebranding project. Ahem… did I just say that? Can’t have been me. I must have been channeling our publicist from Loathsome Prick records — the one who keeps insisting that we re-brand ourselves as some kind of contemporary country or aging emo band (yuk!). Fucker put one of those Bluetooth antennae in my head while I was sleeping, so every once in a while I pop out with his latest PR drivel.

Just to keep you straight on who’s saying what, I’ll just put all the publicist’s words in some other color… like maroon, say. Maroon is so last year! Yeah, that will work nicely.

All right, now that I’ve dealt with him, let’s get back to you. You may be wondering, What the fuck are they doing now? Why change the name at this advanced stage of pointlessness? Well, with the help of Marvin (my personal robot assistant) and the man sized tuber (who won’t put that hammer down), your friends in Big Green have prepared the following brief Q&A:

Q: What the fuck are you doing now?

A: Specifically, scratching my left earlobe. But more to the point, we’re changing the name of this blog to better serve you, our valued customers… or not, depending on who you trust. (Jesus, that’s annoying!) Actually, the truth is that we’ve gotten tired of explaining how Sri Lanka is not so much the place where we live (which, of course, it isn’t) as it was a clumsy attempt to make reference to our state of near-total obscurity as a band. Turns out a lot more of our readers/listeners know all about Sri Lanka than we gave them credit for. So we’ve settled on something more suitably obscure — an abandoned hammer mill in the middle of nowhere. That’s the ticket.

Q: Why “Hammer Mill Days” and not “Nut Butter Alley” or “Reflective Blister Times?”

A: Excellent question, Marvin. It’s all about branding, you see. No, no… Don’t listen to that asshole! It’s because the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill is the locus of all that is Big Green. And because “Nut Butter Alley” was already taken. (That other one, I’m not even going to comment on.)

Q: Why do you suck so bad?

A: Loaded question, but fair. I guess it’s because you say so, tubey. (He’s just pissed off because I haven’t watered him yet today.)

So anyway… there you have it. Big new name, same poor quality. Everything you expect out of your favorite Big Green blog… and more. We’ve even set up a mirror site at Blogspot so that you can check out our latest exploits without having to surf all the way over to the hammer mill every time you want to hear from us. Isn’t that considerate of us? No, that’s elementary customer service. Arrggh… Loathsome Prick is certainly earning their label this week. Tubey — give me that goddamn hammer so I can knock that pernicious Bluetooth receiver out of my skull. I’ll get the freaking water, okay? Tubey!!

Post morbid.

It was another one of those discouraging weeks in Iraq — you know the type. Bombs going off. People dying in large numbers. Very… well… discouraging. But far be it from our leaders to become discouraged with the project itself. And no, I don’t mean this project they call “Middle East democracy”, because that’s just some policy hack yammering. I mean the real Iraq project involving permanent U.S. bases in country and an Iraqi government compliant with (or at least sensitive to) our wishes. Something tells me that project will withstand a good many setbacks of the type that involve loss of life and limb, so long as those lives and limbs belong only to the relatively poor and poorly connected. It was with this goal in mind that our leaders insisted on starting this disastrous war back in March 2003, and if they’ve shown an element of regret over that decision during the last four years, I’ve missed it.

Actually, the “project” was dealt a minor blow in the past couple of weeks with the drafting of legislation regulating the Iraqi oil industry. I say minor because the legislation does actually appear to allow foreign (i.e. U.S.-based) companies to invest in the Iraqi oil industry without significant limits and to repatriate most if not all of the profits from those investments. However, outright privatization of the industry has been left out of this draft. According to Christian Parenti in last week’s Nation, the law has not provided for productions sharing agreements — contracts that allow massive profit-taking and asset management advantages on the part of the petroleum multinationals. (Previous iterations of the law had been a bit kinder to Bush’s friends in the industry.) I’m certain they haven’t exhausted all of their options on this point, and the law does allow them a strong foothold in some of the richest oil fields on earth. But what isn’t really being reported on is the role these efforts play in fueling the insurgency.

Imagine just for a moment that the Iraqis are not simple, ignorant people who have been waiting since the bronze age for us to come and grant them “freedom”. Imagine that people in the insurgency and folks like Moqtada al Sadr have a somewhat subtle understanding of their own national self-interest. Imagine, too, that they have been paying attention to U.S. policy in the region over the past half century… perhaps paying it greater attention than we ourselves have done. How can we expect that they would show any enthusiasm over our apparent intention to settle in for a good long stay? How can we think that they would willingly submit themselves to a government dominated by people who were living in exile prior to the arrival of U.S. forces in 2003? Do we really think that they will sit still while our armed forces (government-run and private) are in occupation of their country and our commercial sector lobbies for greater influence?

If so, we suffer from a morbid kind of optimism, tacking somewhere between Pollyanna and Pangloss. Kind of late in the game for these sorts of illusions, isn’t it?

luv u,

jp

Freak-tastic.

Aw, c’mon Mitch! You’ve got at least three electron microscopes to your name. Can’t we just use one of them for our experiment? One little one?

Damn these scientists and their ethical codes of conduct! Yes, that’s right — I did indeed make reference to ethics and Mitch Macaphee in the same sentence. Far be it from me to ever suggest that our resident mad doctor (or as you say, “daktari“) has constrained himself to purely ethical behavior through the course of his long and spotted career. No, no — I’m referring to this annoying internal code that scientists maintain between one another. It’s kind of like a secret handshake. In fact, with respect to Mitch and Trevor James Constable (another member of the scientific contingent here at the Cheney Hammer Mill), it is a secret handshake. (Honest — they really will not let us watch them shake hands. It’s kind of… unnatural…)

Why do we want to play with the shiny, pretty, candy-like electron microscope? Well, if you’ll recall last week’s episode (and there’s absolutely no reason in the universe why you should), the entire Big Green contingent was on a hunt for water. Potable water has become rather scarce here at the mill, what with the recent drought, earthquakes and sandstorms we’ve been experiencing. And then there’s that other thing… yeah, right. We haven’t paid the water bill in 18 months. That may have had something to do with it, as well. Anyway, there were several plans circulated, some of them involving divining rods (my idea), some involving acts of plant-like ingenuity (the man-sized tuber’s idea), some involving mayhem and hooliganism perpetrated against our unsuspecting neighbors (the evil anti-Lincoln’s brain child) — none of them seemed quite the thing. Then Marvin (my personal robot assistant) had one of his notions… and frankly, it was a cracker.

No, no — not that kind of cracker. And not Robbie Coltrane, either, so don’t even go there. I mean kind of a … well… not bad idea. You see, Marvin pulled a tiny fragment of knowledge out of one of his microscopic electronic brain units — it was something he read somewhere about a certain amount of water residing in every object, every cubic inch of air, every club sandwich. It may be an extremely minute amount of water (as in the case of the club sandwiches over at Bolanders’s deli… I swear, they’re made of real clubs!), but because it is everywhere, that water may amount to a significant amount… perhaps enough to fill a pool. If only we could see it. Ergo, electron microscope. Point the sucker at some water-bearing object (Lincoln), and start sponging it up. Simple, right?

Well… maybe it wasn’t such a good idea. I’d still like to borrow Mitch’s microscope. No particular reason. Well, there is one. Our neighbor is watching re-runs of Daktari, and we don’t have a telescope, so… you know…

Little war.

In their efforts to paper over a catastrophe, the Bush administration (and Iraq war supporters in general) are beginning to look like Saddam’s old press spokesman, “Comical” Ali, who steadfastly denied the advance of U.S. troops to Baghdad in 2003 when his audience could easily see American tanks in the street behind him. There’s a P.R. hero for you. Bush really needs that guy! All he’s got is his lame cousin Tony Snow, his even lamer “uncle” Dick Cheney, and the ever faithful bride of Frankenstein, Laura, who opined to Larry King recently that things are going not too badly in Iraq except for that one bombing that discourages everyone. I think she may have meant to use another word that begins with “dis”, like “dismembers”. In any case, all this minimizing does have some effect. Some recent polling shows that large numbers of Americans have no even semi-realistic notion of how many Iraqis have been killed since we unilaterally decided to “liberate” their country (by destroying it). People seem to think about 10,000 Iraqis have died since March 2003 — that’s only 1/3 of the ludicrously low-ball estimate Bush himself offered some months back.

Would it make a difference if people were more broadly aware of, say, Les Roberts’ Johns Hopkins study that estimates the death toll at as high as 650,000? I mean, imagine it were explained to the American people that the type of statistical model used in this study is the same that is routinely applied to war zones all around the world. What would we do with that knowledge? Would we force our leaders to end the war now? Or do we really only care about American lives? Hard to say. I like to think that many of us would be appalled to know that Bush had brought us back into Rwanda territory (we’ve certainly been there before). I don’t know if that would be enough to bring a stop to all this. What worries me is the degree to which people tolerate this war. This sort of permissiveness merely encourages bad behavior on the part of our leaders. Let one president get away with mass murder, and you can bet the next one will try the same thing. There are precedents.

Sadly, I don’t think we’ll have to wait for the next president. This one and his team are ready to strike a blow against Iran and, more broadly, what they view as Shi’ite extremism on the rise throughout the region. They appear to think that they can attack the center of regional Shi’ism without pissing off the millions of co-religionists who live in neighboring Iraq. (Check out Sy Hersh’s article in this week’s New Yorker.) And sure, I know the administration has said they will sit around a table with representatives of Iran, but that’s likely just so that they can say they went the extra diplomatic mile before bombing Tehran. It’s hard to imagine any foreign policy team that includes creatures like Elliott Abrams would offer the hand of friendship to a regime in whose vilification they’ve invested so much of their political capital. As Hersh and others have reported, the Bush administration is wittingly or unwittingly setting the stage not just for war with Iran, but for a regional conflict between Shi’as and Sunnis. Think they wouldn’t dare push their luck? Think harder.

As long as we don’t hold people accountable for this disaster, they will cause new disasters. And we will be left with the bill.

Water under it.

Empty again, eh? Throw another bucket down there. Was that a ker-plunk I heard just then? No? Okay, okay. Dry as a bone, I guess. Saints preserve us… not that they have any reason to. What the hell — we’re not saints…

Pardon my mental meandering. We’re just working our way through another one of those “issues” (or what honest people call “pains in the ass”) that crop up from time to time when you’re squatting in an abandoned hammer mill. Don’t know if you’ve ever had the pleasure. Actually, it’s not that different from sleeping out in the road. Cold all winter, hot all summer. Every spring, a river runs through it. And now, because of the freak weather, we can’t find the water table. Now, before you ask how anyone could build a table out of water, let me just pre-empt you by saying that I do, in fact, mean the aquifer we draw upon for our sustenance. No, we haven’t paid the water bill — that takes money (or as Democratic fundraising consultant Chris Lehane puts it, “munnee”), something that is in short supply ’round this manor, squire.

We started dropping the bucket down our community well yesterday when Marvin (my personal robot assistant) dumped the last of our drinking water onto the mixing console. (Yes, Marvin is still having “issues”, even with his newly installed framistat. Lately he’s taken to wearing silly hats, but just don’t get me started on that subject…) All that came up was air. Not that air is unimportant — quite the contrary. I’ll tell you, if we were on Titan or Kaztropharius 137b, we would KILL for that air. No sir, there ain’t hardly a terrestrial rock band that understands the value of air better than we do. It’s just that, here on earth, we have no practical use for an air well. We expect water from the ground, damn it. We get no water, we get no where — simple as that. Little known fact: Big Green is more than 60% water. So, in essence, it’s as if one of us — John, say — were made of rock. Something to think about.

There have been a number of different views on how to satisfy our water needs — one view per squatter, in point of fact. Some have been a bit more aggressive in their thinking than others. Anti-Lincoln thought that we should take a three-pronged strategy that goes something like this:

  1. Invade the neighboring row house
  2. Kill neighbors
  3. Steal precious water
  4. Do primitive victory dance with punching fist motion (which he helpfully demonstrated)

Got that? Personally, I didn’t think much of that idea. (Neither did the local constables, who now have an APB out on our anti-matter emancipator friend.) Of course, that’s not the only suggestion that’s been turned in. The man-sized tuber, for instance, suggested we all send down tap roots to the aquifer. So, okay… what we need now is a solution that is somewhere between those two poles. Anyone? I’m getting thirsty over here…

Miller’s heroes.

We seem to be headed, once again, down that treacherous path that leads to unprovoked war. Would such a course be possible were it not for the willing participation of the major national news media? Indeed, some of the mighty organs of the American press that felt compelled to apologize when the Iraq war rationales they so enthusiastically peddled fell apart are now engaging in the very same sort of behavior that brought on the mea culpas. Like the many politicians who supported this seemingly endless war at the outset, the press is only sorry that Bush/Cheney’s Iraq adventure wasn’t a swift success. The thing they’re decidedly not sorry for is the fact that they helped send thousands to their deaths needlessly. For this, they couldn’t care less. And you can bet politicians, pundits, and Pulitzer-prizewinning scribblers will raise a collective cheer for war with Iran if they see short-term benefit in it.

Still, this time around, the dossier against our potential enemy is pretty weak stuff, even for the New York Times. I mean, background-only briefings on weapons they can only provide photos of? Give me a break. Even the bogus claims about Iraqi WMDs held up for a week or two. This shit didn’t even last a day. Andrew Cockburn had an excellent article about how these “sophisticated” weapons can be built in a machine shop with about $20 – 30 worth of materials, according to Cockburn’s source at the Pentagon. Iraq is flush with the kind of high-explosives that might be used in these improvised devices, versions of which have been employed by the French resistance in WWII, by the IRA, and by Hezbollah during Israel’s 19-year occupation of southern Lebanon. Even NPR pointed out that the claim about Iran supplying these weapons was nothing new and had, in fact, been floated by the administration since early last year.

So… why does this shit make the front page of the Times? Because the prevailing model in mainstream journalism is to take the word of government spokespersons and “senior administration officials” at face value. Often it seems that reporters rely upon these highly placed sources even when it conflicts with the evidence of their own senses. In Iraq, they rely upon official information for just about everything that occurs beyond the boundaries of the Green Zone. So Judy Miller may be gone, but the Miller brigade marches on — next stop, Teheran! And if Cheney is to be believed (as he most assuredly will be in the corporate newsrooms), it will be another cakewalk. Hell, look what a difference the British have made in Basra, eh?

Then again, don’t look. Just take Cheney’s word for it — you’ll find it on the front page.

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

Official site of the band Big Green