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

Not another one.

Play it again, Marvin (my personal robot assistant). Hmmm… doesn’t quite have the right ring to it. Add a bit more ring. Brass ring is okay; gold is even better. That’s right — a GOLDEN RING. Don’t say we’re not worth it.

Of all the cheap gin joints in the world, she had to pick THIS one to stumble into. No, I’m not doing imitations. Far be it from me to attempt such a thing in a blog. I’m referring to our financial advisor, Geet O’Reilly. I’ve been hiding from her because she has this list of overdue accounts that need immediate attention and, well, I don’ wanna. I jus’ don’ wanna. There’s also the small matter of resources. Not a small matter, actually — a large matter of small resources, more to the point. Simply put, we ain’t got no money to pay dem bills. After almost four years of production and one disastrous interstellar tour after another, the bank is broken, the piggy shattered, the sock empty, the mattress disgorged… you think of a metaphor. (I’m fresh out.) So here I am, sittin’ in a bar, knockin’ em back…

Yes, yes… we are broke again. Break out the violins. (Hmmm… violins. We could use more violins on that track.) Right, well, you’ve certainly heard me complain about money before. I’d be the first to admit that we have a kind of chronic problem in that area. It’s like that old Italian proverb — money she’s-a hard to hold onto. Okay… that particular proverb is only moments old, in actuality. But it’s true, nonetheless. Sure, we live in an abandoned hammer mill in the middle of nowhere, paying no rent, no property taxes, no utilities, no nothin’. We’re off the grid, man. How do we keep the lights on? Innovation. One week it’s plugging into Marvin’s ion generator. The next week it might be running an extension cord from Trevor James Constable’s orgone generating machine. What will it be next week? Only next week can say (and it’s not talking).

You see, that’s why we’re all about the music and Geet O’Reilly is all about the cash. We cloister ourselves into our makeshift studio in the basement of this drafty mill and chip away at the project of the day, never giving a single thought to what everything costs. Isn’t that what you expect of us? I mean, you don’t want a bunch of bean counters serving up your music, do you? Of course not! You expect us to be clueless about finances; to drink away the profits and smoke away the savings; to burn through the night’s take before the night has even begun. Not only that, but you want us to be lazy, shiftless, self-destructive, and random in every endeavor. And the last thing we want to do is disappoint you.

What the hell — I think she’s spotted me over here. I need a bigger drink to hide behind, that’s the thing. Marvin! Get me a large draft. No, bring me the whole bloody barrel, there’s a good chap. Damn… Busted!

Wrong again.

The Bush has spoken and — surprise! — we’re sending more troops into the hell-hole of Iraq. Where have I heard this before? Hmmm… sending more troops… sounds vaguely familiar. Much has been made of Bush’s admission that, yes, there have been mistakes, and to the extent that mistakes have been made, yes, the responsibility falls to him. My hometown newspaper actually put that striking news into its headline. Okay, someone explain to me why it’s news that Bush is acknowledging what the rest of the nation has known for several years now — that his Iraq adventure has been one massive fuck-up after another, and that it’s obviously his fucking fault, thank you very much. And what is it worth for him to backhandedly admit errors at the same time as announcing yet another massive one, the “surge” tactic? I mean, one would assume that if he regretted the errors, he might make at least a feeble attempt not to repeat them. But that’s not the Dubya way. What the hell does he have to lose now?

Actually, the story that didn’t get a lot of play was the one about the U.S. attack on the Iranian consulate in Irbil, deep in the relatively quiet Kurdish area. It apparently took place around when Bush was making his comments about Iran having some kind of undue influence over the chaotic nation just across their long western frontier (the country that invaded them just two decades ago, now occupied by an openly hostile superpower). Anyway, our boys reportedly busted up the place and detained six Iranians without even telling the Kurds. This seems particularly odd since Irbil is a long way away from the principal conflict zones, and the Kurds have been the group most amenable to the U.S. occupation. (There was a standoff in Irbil between U.S. and Kurdish forces that almost came to shots fired). What is the objective here — to piss off the last remaining group of people in Iraq that doesn’t utterly despise us? Or, as Juan Cole suggests, to provoke a reaction from Iran?

One thing is clear — our leaders are totally unscrewed. They have opened a disastrous “third front” in their war on terror by encouraging and supporting the Ethiopian invasion of Somalia, handing that sorry nation (another long-term recipient of U.S., um, assistance) back the same warlords that mis-ran it before. They are actively positioning themselves for an attack on Iran that will make the “catastro-fuck” of Operation Iraqi Freedom seem mild by comparison. And now they are planning to send another 21,000+ American troops to Baghdad and al-Anbar, a fool’s errand heartily endorsed by “straight talk express” conductor and presidential hopeful John McCain, who in fact wants to send even more troops. (My guess is that, if sent to the White House, McCain would want to re-invade South Vietnam in the belief that that war is still winnable.) Buyer beware.

So yes, Bush may be the stupidest man ever to occupy the oval office. But don’t make the mistake of thinking he’s the only one likely to drive us into endless, pointless warfare. Plenty of options for that distinction.

luv u,

jp

Brain, brain, what is brain?

Raise the spirit temperature 17 degrees. Good. Now, engage the magneto drive. Switching… switching… got it. Got the diamond drill ready? No? Just the cubic zirconium drill? That will have to do.

Ah, hello. Wasn’t aware there was anyone within eyeshot of our little corner on the Web. One never knows, does one? Caught us all in the middle of an experiment, or as our Italian scientist friend Dr. Hump calls it, an experimento. (My Italian is a little rusty.) Actually, the experiment is being conducted not only by the good doctor, but also on the good doctor. Does that sound unethical? I certainly hope so, or your moral compass is way out of alignment. Better get that sucker looked at, little fella. But I digress… As I’ve mentioned earlier in these pages, we’ve been on a bit of a science kick here at the Cheney Hammer Mill. I’m not just talking about the esoteric stuff, like “how much does the moon weigh?” I’m talking practical, too, as in, “how do you keep the rain out of my bedroom?” The science of roofing, as it were.

Anyway, the redoubtable Dr. Hump — a brain in a jar, as you may be aware — has talked us into helping him acquire something akin to super-powers. Granted, he has no body with which to leap tall buildings in a single bound. He’s concentrating more on mental agility and parapsychological powers of the kind that our friend Trevor James Constable masters through various contrivances, like his patented orgone generating device. In fact, Trevor James is acting as an expert consultant on this procedure… though the actual bull work is being done with great precision by Marvin (my personal robot assistant). Why Marvin? Well, Mitch Macaphee did not want to get directly involved — something to do with professional ethics, I believe — so he asked his invention to serve as a stand-in. (Mitch took the trouble to program the requisite skills into Marvin before the procedure began. Good thinking. Good thinking.)

How does this bear on our ongoing recording / mixing / mastering project, now in its fourth glorious goddamned fucking year? Well, I’m gon’ tell yuh. If we can help Dr. Hump (the brain) to acquire fantastic para-psychological powers, he can be of enormous help in marketing whatever finished product comes out of the other end of our endless recording / mastering sessions. The way I figure it, the good doctor can project an irresistible impulse into millions of people the world over to buy or download our album. Oh, then the money will come rolling in like hay bales in September. By that time, of course, we will need telekinesis just to get the CDs into the shops, as none of us will have the energy to do it ourselves (and, of course, our distributors have long since abandoned us). Good things come to those who wait… and to those who are particularly receptive to telekinetic suggestion. Pass it along, will you? There’s a good chap.

Rest assured, we are drawing closer and closer to the day when our new album will be released into the wild. And you will know it has arrived when you see a strange image of a disembodied brain in your mind’s eye… and hear a sound that goes WOOoooWOOOOoooWOOOooo. That’s called marketing, friends. Ear muffs won’t help you. Neither will Rice Crispies.

Capital idea.

Don’t know how they managed it, but the Bush administration appears to have found a way to evoke sympathy for one of the biggest mass murderers in modern Middle East history (in the same league as Bush himself, in fact). The ugly spectacle of Saddam’s hanging was somewhat reminiscent of the Abu Ghraib images — dim, shabby, shameful. As regular readers of this sorry blog know, I am no fan of the death penalty, even when it comes to war criminals like Saddam and, well, George Bush. This goes beyond the question of basic humanity, though. If you’re going to execute someone, that should be punishment enough without making a circus of it. As it was, they (i.e. the American idiots who decided on this policy) made Hussein seem dignified by comparison and, in so doing, further inflamed the Sunni community in Iraq and throughout the Middle East by allowing the deed to be performed on the day Sunnis celebrate Eid. I can’t entirely blame the Shi’a execution squad for behaving as they did — that’s to be expected. But don’t tell me no one in the Green Zone knew that particular detail wouldn’t be shot through with militia people.

There’s an even more critical issue here. The execution of Saddam Hussein closes off a rich source of critical testimony regarding crimes committed during his rule and the accountability of those associated with him during those years. That includes whatever light he could shed on American and European complicity in the war against Iran, the use of chemical weapons against Persians, Shi’a Arabs, and Kurds, and so on. As Richard Falk pointed out on Democracy Now!, Hussein was put to death for an act of collective punishment that had nothing to do with the U.S. If he had been prosecuted for his serial chemical attacks from 1983 forward, we might have learned more about our role in facilitating those attacks, apologizing for them, covering them up, etc. Not that any of those details would make it into the mainstream American press, which has essentially expunged the U.S. role in supporting Hussein from their various retrospectives and timelines.

Such are the fortunes of those who benefit from U.S. covert operations — some retire to Florida (Orlando Bosch); others dangle from the end of a rope. The CIA apparently fostered Saddam’s early career as a torturer and assassin, quietly supporting his participation in 1959 in a notorious attempt on the life of the Iraqi president (who was a communist). After he became Iraq’s leader (something like Lee Harvey Oswald becoming president), he received crucial support from the U.S., particularly during the Reagan / Bush I administrations, who unfailingly portrayed him as a “moderating influence” in Middle Eastern affairs right up until his invasion of Kuwait. While they turned against Saddam at that point, it was in such a way as to allow him to carry out one of the greatest atrocities of his career — putting down the Kurdish and Shi’a uprisings George Bush Sr. had actively encouraged, as the army of “Stormin’ Norman” Schwartzkopf looked on just a few miles away. Aside from resulting in probably half a million deaths, the Clinton era sanctions only strengthened Saddam’s grip on his nation, forcing ordinary Iraqis to rely on the central government for subsistence. Now, of course, we are busily compounding the heinous errors of past administrations with even more heinous errors, including a Bush surge strategy that will focus on targeting the denizens of Baghdad’s poorest neighborhoods and the most vulnerable portions of Iraq’s majority Shi’a community.

If nothing else, we are demonstrating that you can kill hope if you try hard enough… but stupidity is a lot more resilient.

luv u,

jp

Official site of the band Big Green