Irony: still dead.

Somebody – I don’t quite remember who – opined recently that irony might still be with us, albeit just barely. Well, I’m here to tell you that rumors of its demise have not been greatly exaggerated. I’m referring of course to Rumsfeld’s Asia trip. Yes, the “Omega Man” of the Bush administration visited the region with which he is truly obsessed – more so, I’ll wager, than with the middle east. Recall that prior to the 9/11 attacks, there was that somewhat exciting stand-off with China over one of our spy planes, covered with typical disdain right here in Notes. Rumsfeld is a poster child for that faction of the Republican party that still has the 1954 map of Red China tacked up on its situation room wall; the folks that fueled the Wen Ho Lee spy controversy during the Clinton administration, which resulted in a bogus trial-by-media of Lee, incarceration, and subsequent retraction of the most serious allegations. (I forget which genius it was, but one Congressional Republican was so worked up in a lather about the Chinese menace that he fulminated over Clinton state department nominee Bill Lan Lee for some time without realizing he had the wrong Chinese guy.  

While in Singapore, Rumsfeld made some ludicrous statement about China’s military spending, which I believe comes in at around $35 billion U.S. per annum. Last I looked, that’s about eight percent of what we spend annually, if you leave out the intelligence budget and various extras. It should surprise no one that China is spending more on defense than it used to – this is a quite predictable response to our massive increases in military expenditure, particularly our stated intention to deploy “missile defense” (which, in truth, amounts to an offensive capability) along the Pacific rim. There is also a little thing called the Bush doctrine, which incorporates “preventive” (i.e. unprovoked) war and the development of a new generation of nuclear weapons. This has got Russia spending more on its military capabilities as well, which provides yet another stimulus for the Chinese, provoking India and Pakistan to follow suit. You can’t really call this an arms race, since we’re so far in the lead… but it’s something similar. 

As remarkable as this East Asia performance may have been, never has irony been so sorely missed as in the wake of Zarqawi’s death. There was Rumsfeld at the podium, earnestly commenting on how, in all the world, no man had been responsible for the deaths of more innocent civilians than the late Jordanian jihadist. I could only ask myself, how many people watching this are thinking the same thing I’m thinking? That, in terms of lives extinguished, no jihadist on Earth holds a candle to the rap sheet of mssrs. Bush, Cheney, Rumsfeld and partners. That’s another league entirely. A member of Rumsfeld’s press entourage described the defense secretary’s mood on the plane as ebullient and optimistic about the future of the Iraq enterprise. No surprise there – visions of sweets and flowers still dancing in his tiny head. Back in the real world, it seems to me this execution will have two effects on the insurgency. For the foreign jihadists, it will provide a new martyr – a rank far higher than that of regional commander, to be sure. And for the vast majority (85%-90%) that comprise the native Iraqi resistance, it removes what can only be described as a major obstacle to their success – a mad dog bent on killing civilians, one they themselves would ultimately have had to put down. 

So someone has something to cheer about today. The question is, who?

Anchors aweigh.

Tell me what I say, right now. Or rather, I’ll tell you what I say right now. And do it right now. See how much meaning there is in even the simplest, most emotive pop lyrics? Just dripping with meaning… like Crimson and Clover… the song that, I believe, could have more logically inspired the Manson rampage than Helter Skelter (which is just a raucous song about a carnival ride). I’ve mentioned this before — think about it. “Crimson”… blood! “Clover”…. on the graves of the dead! “Over and over”… many dead

So I say unto you – beware those who read too deeply
into pop lyrics.

Anyway, what the hell, things are a little disheveled here in Big Green land (so what’s new?). Seems we’ve gained a Hammer Mill but lost a … well… lost a wall of the Hammer Mill. A major supporting wall. Not a good thing from a structural engineering perspective, no sir. Our overzealous neighbor Gung-Ho really knows how to put a hole in something. (And if we hadn’t been in the midst of our eviction order, that something might have been us.) With a daunting clean-up and repair job ahead of us — to say nothing of the effort we will need to expend staying ahead of the legal consequences of Gung-Ho’s bombing run — we are giving serious thought to another interplanetary romp, spreading our message of love throughout the galaxy through the universal language of song. You know, on the lamb again.

What about the album? Well, we’re close to finished with that sucker. Just doing some backing vocals, incidental instrumental parts… then it’s mixing time. So I think we can afford to take the old mastering deck on the road with us. Only trouble is, Mixmaster Marvin (my personal robot assistant) will probably be staying behind on this trip to oversee the reconstruction work at the Cheney Hammer Mill (and to soak up all the love from the local constabulary as they arrive with torches, hoping to put our heads on pikes). Don’t know how that’s going to work, exactly. We may need to have the man-sized tuber sit in for some of the mixing. He can actually push those faders pretty well with his larger roots. (It’s the ears I’m a little worried about. Namely, he ain’t got any.)

Hey, we’re used to just feeling our way along around here, anyway. You know that, right? That’s what drives us creatively… grim happenstance and the usual assortment of animal needs. For Matt and I, that means assorted vegetables and a hard roll. For John, a carton of cottage cheese (or “cowboy food” as it’s known in this manor). For Mitch Macaphee, a bottle of Riesling and a live circuit board, or one of those Frankenstein-era arc generators with a big spark flying off the end. See? It’s a little different for everyone.

So next week, expect to see us packing our belongings into the battered spacecraft we use as an interstellar RV. Something to look forward to, eh? Let’s just hope the local constables are a little slow on the uptake. (It usually takes a week or two for them to get around to discovering that we’re responsible for some disaster.) ‘Nuff said. 

Brutal truth.

The story of Haditha is finally emerging in its ghastly entirety, just the kind of tale this sort of conflict inevitably produces. A war of hostile occupation, fueled by a generalized distaste and even hatred of the people being occupied; a war with no discernible strategy or end point, in which soldiers are sent on patrol after pointless deadly patrol until their hopelessness and anger tears them apart from within. This is a brutal act, but it’s enormously easy for someone like me to sit safe at home and moralize — if I were there on patrol, I don’t know what the fuck I’d be doing, and let’s face it, neither would you. We are all responsible for this crime, because we have been unwilling to restrain our government from committing the larger crime of invading Iraq and compounding that crime with the evils that have proceeded from the occupation. I say “unwilling” because we are free to make our voices heard. If we demanded an end to this war, it would be over. 

One of our biggest problems as a society, in my opinion, is that we let ourselves off the hook too easily. It’s part and parcel of the prevailing trend in modern American politics — separate the voters from the costs of major policy decisions and you will gain their tacit support. This is especially true of anything involving our all-volunteer military. For the first time ever (I believe), our forces have been deployed in a major conflict for an extended period of time without the support of a national mobilization. In essence, the money to fund the deployment is entirely borrowed — another first. We are just barely aware that there’s a war going on, and yet the administration, members of Congress, and political pundits intone Churchillian rhetoric about the long struggle ahead, etc., etc., as if to sell the American public on a flattering image of itself as a defiant, heroic people facing incredible odds (like Britain during the blitz) without the inconvenience of, well, any actual sacrifice… unless you are among the unlucky minority with family members in the military. 

And when the inevitable happens — when it becomes clear that our soldiers are cracking under the stress of multiple tours of duty and shooting civilians like Cheney shoots caged quail — how do we react? Well, the military begins by blaming the messengers, calling the journalists who follow the stories traitors and dupes of al Qaeda, etc. After about 3 or 4 months of that, when they’re forced by mounting evidence to admit to some portion of the ugly truth, it becomes the individual soldiers’ fault. They then apply the dubious remedies of courts martial and sensitivity training slide shows, while the administration and its various flacks encourage us to look at the bigger picture (it took an endless war to get conservatives talking about “context”). But there’s one thing Bush’s cousin Tony Snow won’t tell us at the daily briefing — we are more responsible for those deaths than the soldiers who pull the trigger. This is the result of a criminal foreign policy, and because we enjoy the unparalleled freedoms of American democracy, we must also accept the responsibility for what our elected officials get us into. 

Our soldiers have very few options. We have many. If we don’t want them to kill, we should bring them the fuck home. Now.

Whoops…

There it is – the magic word. Little mishap or major catastrophe, doesn’t matter. One word covers it all. Call it an apologia, a mea culpa, a universal admission of human failing… that’s the word of the day. Then there’s that other little word: FUCK!

Fair warning to all: Be careful what you ask for! Yes, friends, in an effort to restore our squatter’s status at the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill, we have managed to blow a big hole in our beloved squat house – a major breach in the street-side wall, courtesy of neighbor Gung-Ho and his squadron of bombers-for-hire. Of course, we had asked the good fellow to drop a few intimidating shells on the offices of the developer-bloodsuckers that turned us out onto the streets. This he did – actually, a bit more emphatically than we had expected. In fact, much of the town is in ruins, including the local magistrate’s courthouse. (Our plea for leniency was vacated, as was the courthouse itself… just ahead of a wall of fire.  But as is his wont, he got a little carried away and… well…. ka-boom. That’s right — ka. boom.

When we headed back towards the mill to claim what was rightfully ours and saw a yawning gap with black smoke rising to the heavens, we knew something was awry. Though I was inclined to send Marvin (my personal robot assistant) in first to assess the damage (and perhaps extinguish the fires before secondary explosions ensue), I took it upon myself to walk through the front door ahead of him. What happened then? Well… I can only tell you in the form of a popular song:

I fell in through a burnin’ ring of fire!

Down, down, down, and the flames a-gettin’ higher!

Yes indeed — Gung-Ho had opted for the heavier ordinance. I think he may have had one or two of those mini-MOAB’s in his arsenal, I don’t know. Earth penetrators, perhaps. Either way, there was a gaping hole in the Earth’s crust just inside the front entrance, the walls of which were alight with an unearthly flame – Saint Elmo’s Fire, perhaps. (Saint somebody’s fire…) In any case, I was imploring Saint Getmethehelloutahere in as loud a voice as possible, grabbing uselessly at the air as I hurtled downward through a newly drilled chimney of living rock that appeared to stretch straight to the chewy center of the “oit”, already. And I would have encountered that great ball of molten caramel, had it not been for the diligence of our own Trevor James Constable, who quickly surmised my perilous circumstance and trained his orgone generating device down the bomb crater, grabbing me like a science fiction tractor beam and pulling me back from the very jaws of oblivion. Close shave, big mister.

I would rather not go through the trauma of describing the rubble-strewn mess that confronted us within the bowels of our beloved squat-mill. Suffice to say that we (i.e. Marvin) have a very large clean-up job ahead of us. Probably a good time to go back on the road, especially since the local constabulary will be after our collective ass, once they discover who is responsible for the surprise attack… and once they’ve dug themselves out of their collapsed building. Spaceward ho!

Best laid plans.

Israeli Prime Minister Ehud Olmert pressed the flesh with Dubya this week, collecting his vaguely qualified endorsement of the unilateral “disengagement” plan that would complete the project of dispossession forced upon the Palestinians for the past 39 years. The plan, originally proposed by Sharon, seeks to redraw the borders of Israel to encompass major settlement blocks in the West Bank and virtually all of East Jerusalem, while securing the Jordan valley and dividing the Palestinian population into isolated cantons, cut off from one another and from Jerusalem, their cultural, political, and economic hub. It officially throws all relevant UN resolutions out the window from 242 forward, allowing Israel to claim land it seized in the 1967 war — land that is clearly not part of the State of Israel, illegally occupied by the IDF since that time. Bush’s reservation about the disengagement plan is really just a diplomatic chimera — he would like to see the same result achieved with some level of participation by the Palestinians. What they term being a “partner in peace” is really just taking part in your own oppression. 

There’s no question but that the occupation of the West Bank, East Jerusalem, and Gaza is illegal, and that any Israeli settlements built within those areas violate international law, aside from being so plainly unjust that any 5-year-old could see it. And yet it continues, with the support of our government and both major political parties. And like any occupying power since Roman times, the Israeli government has attempted to replace direct rule of the territories with some form of proxy rule, via compliant (and bribe-friendly) local agents. During the years prior to the first intifada, Tel Aviv tried to accomplish this by imposing collaborationist Palestinians as local officials, mayors, etc., while working to undermine the influence of the PLO. In fact, Israeli intelligence had a hand in getting Hamas established as a component of this divide-and-rule strategy. The Palestinian uprising in 1987-91 demonstrated to Israel that, even with a severely marginalized PLO, Palestinian nationalism could not be countered through the use of individual quislings. Then came Oslo. 

Indeed, the brilliance of the Oslo Accords was that they co-opted Arafat and the PLO as that long sought-after colonial administration, in the form of the Palestinian Authority. The PA was charged with handling security (Israeli security) while the development of Israel’s colonial infrastructure in East Jerusalem, the West Bank, and (to a lesser extent) Gaza continued at a steady pace. In return, the PA would distribute all aid and tax moneys (minus graft) and Arafat could call himself “president”. This gave us the spectacle of his overfed lieutenants living opulently amongst the unspeakable squalor that was Palestinian society, while the superimposition of the Israeli settlement infrastructure continued unabated by this sham peace accord, through both Labor and Likud administrations. Though virtually unknown to the American public (which has underwritten much of this construction), Israel’s project in East Jerusalem and the West Bank has been an inescapable reality for Palestinians, its trajectory very clearly discernable. They see the Fatah-dominated PA as an accomplice in this, at worst, or as an institution too ineffective and self-serving to stop the land grab, at best. Recall, too, that Abbas (Abu Mazen) was chosen by Sharon, and that more popular Fatah figures were kept from competing (some by remaining in Israeli jails). That’s largely why Hamas won the legislative elections — because they are obviously not in the pocket of Israel.

One thing hasn’t changed: there can be no peace without justice. We ignore this fact at our own peril. 

Run for cover!

Holy smithereens, batman. Or are you superman? Either way, keep an x-ray eye open for falling debris. Actually, that’s only if you’re superman. If you’re batman, perhaps you have some kind of protective or repellant device in you utility belt. If so, deploy at once. Use ’em if you got ’em. (That’s what I need… a utility belt! Mitch!)

Hola, you blog browsers out there. Welcome to the land of unintended consequences. Yes, that’s right, my friends… Big Green has made another slight miscalculation. It seems we weren’t real careful about what we were asking for, and Jesus Christmas, we got it. (Or is that Mother of Pearl?) As you may recall (if, like me, you haven’t got anything better to do than surfing the net and catching up on one bogus thread or another), we had resorted to a last ditch effort at getting a-hold of Gung Ho, our militant neighbor, and asking him to use his mercenary war machine to… well… blast our way back into our beloved squat house, the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill, in a manner of speaking. Now, specifically what I had had in mind was a show of force to intimidate the developers who pulled the mill out from under us. You know what I mean – a couple of ultra-low flyovers aimed at their local headquarters. Maybe dropping a couple of duds on the roof. Leafleting, perhaps. That sort of thing.

Well, we tried to reach Gung-Ho at his remote deployment (destination: classified) via a number of different methods of communication – smoke signal, orgone generator, e-mail, etc. I’m not sure which one(s) actually got through to the old man, but whichever it may have been, the message must have gotten significantly garbled somehow. (My vote is on Trevor James Constable’s orgone generating device, which should never be confused with a telegraph.) Gung-Ho apparently got the impression that he should mount a full-scale, sustained bombing campaign against the real estate firm in question. Or maybe he just thought that would be a more fun way to do the job — he’s never been real big on the subtle approach, quite frankly. Either way, he and his A-Team came screaming into town in their surplus F-15’s, shooting up everything within seven square blocks of the real estate office. To make matters worse, he chose the very moment when we were making another appeal for leniency to the local magistrate… on the basis of our good will towards the community.

Awwwk-ward. 

Okay, so how did this affect our plea? Never mind that now. Suffice to say we failed to engender a sufficient degree of sympathy from the judge — or so it seemed when he was fleeing the courtroom along just ahead of a collapsing cinderblock wall. (Yes, the courtroom is downtown, a stone’s throw from the developer’s office.) It’s a little hard to describe the phantasmagoric scene that confronted us as we scurried into the street. The word pandemonium comes to mind, but I’m sure there are others more appropriate to the occasion. Catastrophe, perhaps. Suffice to say that Gung-Ho’s principal target — the headquarters of the Madagascarian firm that had arranged for our eviction — had sustained more than superficial damage. The basement looked as though it might still be useable, once rubble from the five floors above it could be steam shoveled out. Ouch. 

We tried to reach Gung-Ho on the phone, but no luck. He must have just swooped in for the air strikes and then flown back to whatever area of the world he’s destroying-for-hire this week. Seems like the only thing to do is to make our way back to the outskirts of town and see if, by any small chance, a stray round or two might have homed in on… the… hammer… mill……       

Red meat.

Looks like Admiral Rove is settling into his new post (job description: save Republican Congress at all costs). You can see the big juicy cultural issues being tossed out in time for November, as fat boy scrutinizes each race, each district, each county for that crucial wedge. Bush’s loopy plan to station National Guard troops at the Mexican border — in conjunction with fences, barriers, high-tech sensors, and unmanned drone aircraft — is a clear gambit to mobilize the “minuteman” vote in these crucial border districts. Congressional races are all about getting the base (and I do mean base) constituencies in action — that’s why we’ll see various draconian proposals aimed at immigration, gays, abortion, and other brain-stem targeted issues. Even with Bush’s ratings in the low to mid 30s, they can still carry the day if they capture the top-of-mind issues in enough districts and get the American Taliban to march zombie-like to the polling stations. Overall turnout in mid-term elections is usually way below even the poor numbers we see during presidential races, so the X-treme voters are far more influential. 

I can tell you, in my hometown Congressional district (the 24th in upstate New York), we are going to witness the most monumental political clash in living memory. Our 12-term Congressman is retiring this year — he’s a “moderate” Republican, though with an increasingly reactionary voting record as his party has swerved drunkenly to the right. The Democrats have an opportunity to pick up this seat for the first time in decades (the last time Utica, NY, was represented in Congress by a Democrat was 1948), and the GOP is desperate to hang onto it… so both parties will be spending like sailors this fall, bringing in the heavyweight political consultants. It’s going to get ugly, my friends, very ugly, and I can already smell the pungent aroma of the porcine Mr. Rove wafting up from the sewers. For a few brief moments, this backwater district will seem like the most important place on the planet… then, after the November vote, it will recede back into total obscurity, all promises forgotten once the hacks have packed up their tents and beat it. 

How do we stay important? Move the whole bloody district down to the Mexican border. There just aren’t enough economically desperate people of color streaming across the Canadian border for the national focus to remain fixed upon us. Not that all that attention is a positive thing — I for one would not want to live near what is increasingly becoming a militarized zone; a kind of Maginot line against immigration (it’s likely to be every bit as effective as the original, too). And another thing (ahem), how are they going to deal with ordering the National Guard to the southwest when so many of them have served multiple tours in Iraq? How are these guards people going to react to the situation at the border after having been shot at for months on end? Is there anything else we can ask of these citizen-soldiers? I mean, for chrissake, we’re giving them yet another mission? Meanwhile, Bush and company are awarding their rich constituents massive tax cuts — that’s their sacrifice. Some give up their lives, while others give up their tax burdens. They also serve who line their pockets. 

Next: the National Guard will be deployed as hood ornaments for the rich. Expect an address to the nation sometime soon.  

What the… ? (Fill in the blank.)

Fill in the blank. (My preference is “fuck”, but don’t let that influence you.) Always the “f” word in this group, eh? Not so unusual. A million and one uses for that storied old English term, and most of them apply to the music business. Nouns and modifiers… sometimes proper names. (Sometimes improper names.)

Anyway, greetings from the streets of Colombo, Sri Lanka — Big Green‘s new “virtual squat house”, now that we’ve been tossed out of the Cheney Hammer Mill. As always, morning finds us scrambling for shelter amongst the curbside artifacts and trash bins. Expect to see us huddled together? Not a chance – it’s every slug for himself in this band. At least that’s the way I felt about it while there was still a relatively congenial spot available to me beneath the flapjack vendor’s stand. Alas, I have been expelled from that sanctuary, as well. Bloody merchants! Now I’m trying to worm my way into my colleagues’ temporary digs. So that thing I said earlier about every man for himself? Not so. Not so.

Now, I don’t want to leave you with the impression that there has been no movement on our efforts towards reparations. As I mentioned last week, our (former) neighbor Gung-Ho may prove to be our ace in the hole, so to speak. So far we’ve had no luck trying to reach him at whatever remote location he’s been hired to invade, but we’ve got our best minds working on it. Marvin (my personal robot assistant) has graciously allowed his solar batteries and internal cosmium oscillator to be linked into a makeshift transmitter. (Matt’s on the key now, tapping out “C-Q, C-Q”, just like pops used to. Sometimes Marvin throws in “S.O.S.” for good measure.) Trevor James Constable is using his patented orgone generating device to send distress signals out into the ethers, even though the chances of their attracting Gung-Ho’s attention are next to nil (especially if he has his helmet on). John? I don’t know… I think he and anti-Lincoln are resorting to smoke signals. Either that, or they’re burning an awful lot of Zenite snuff.

It may seem ignoble of us to be calling in for close air support. Why, you may ask, don’t we use the legal process? Why the early resort to violent methods? Well, I’m going to tell you. We Big Green ers are simple folk. We don’t go in for all that fancy legal-schmeegal mumbo-jumbo. Most of us, at least, prefer a more direct message… like blow a big hole in their land office headquarters. (My brother is a bit more attached to the intimidation method – have some goon lean on them, know what I mean? Only goon we’ve got is Big Zamboola, and his intimidating days are definitely over.) Not that we can count on Gung-Ho to do anything particularly rash, but hey… we can ask, right? Doesn’t hurt to ask.

There’s a time limit on this street lifestyle – I’m sure some of you know what I’m talking about. As my photos indicate, I’m getting a little scruffier every day. (You should see the man-sized tuber. Couple of days out in the rain and he starts taking root… and even the pillbox-dwellers can’t take the sight of him.) Come on, Gung Ho!

Connecting the dots.

Well, well. Looks like the NSA has been checking into our phone records and keeping a big fat Orwellian eye on whom we’ve been calling, when, and for how long. Oh, damn! I shouldn’t be writing about this — the mere discussion of any topic detrimental to the Republicans gives aid and comfort to our enemies. So get that straight, people — talk = treason, okay? With the cooperation of their good friends and campaign contributors at Verizon et al, the government is opening your mail and checking out your phone bill… and it’s none of your goddamn business. They just want to know if you’ve been talking to any hardcore terrorists, like — say — the folks at the Thomas Merton Center. It’s a matter of national security, so don’t talk about it or you’ll make Senator Jeff Sessions very very angry. Don’t even think about it — the terrorists will read your mind and take comfort in our lack of discipline. There’s nothing they can’t do, nothing!   

Are you afraid yet? Good. So am I. 

God this is idiotic. I mean, does anyone seriously believe that al Qaeda operatives would never suspect their phone records are being scrutinized unless they read about it in USA Today? In this age of disposable cell phones and calling cards you can buy at your supermarket checkout counter, who the hell would plan terrorist attacks using their household phone? The Democrats are treating this like a privacy issue, but it’s more serious than that. Sure, the notion of the government checking my phone bill is annoying and invasive, but the larger question is what exactly are they looking for? When they vacuum up large volumes of calling data, what makes the NSA connect-the-dot-o-tron go ka-ching!? A call to Yemen? No… ’cause these are domestic calls. Once again, the administration is saying “trust us”, but after all we’ve seen in the last few years, that only recalls to mind the line from Animal House: “Hey… you fucked up. You trusted us.”

We know that they’ve been targeting lawful, peaceful organizing and activism. We know that they’ve been painting animal rights activists as “eco-terrorists” and the like. We know that they routinely engage in “pig-fucking” their political adversaries. What is the big picture here… the elephant in the room? Domestic spying is like a narcotic to the executive branch. Once they start using it, it’s hard to stop. Cointelpro is probably the most glaring example, but it’s not the only one. What we’re seeing may be the outlines of another massive abuse of power by an administration that’s politically on the skids, paranoid, and willing to do just about anything to advance its highly unpopular agenda. That’s not conspiracy mongering — I’m just observing that there is reason for concern. It’s similar to the detainee abuse scandal; the many disparate pieces strongly suggest a unifying policy at its base, one that reflects well established patterns of executive behavior stretching back decades. We were expected to believe that the abuses at Abu Ghraib — taken straight from the CIA torture manuals — were the work of rogue subalterns. Now we’re supposed to believe that opening our mail, listening to our phone conversations, and infiltrating our bridge clubs will make us safer, when all the while they’re failing to meet even the minimum standards for preparedness and prevention identified by the 9-11 Commission and dictated by common sense. 

I confess to being a wee bit skeptical. 

Is it morning?

Once I had a hammer mill, made it run… made it race against time. Once I had a hammer mill, now it’s gone. Brother, can you spare a… Oh, if I had a hammer mill…. I’d hammer in the mornin’ …

They say there’s a song for every occasion, every circumstance of life. Particularly the less pleasant circumstances (though most of those are country songs). Why do you suppose that is, eh? I mean, what is it about living in a small, damp, shaded area beneath a pancake-vendor’s cart that drives a person to song? Is it the persistent smell of rancid cooking oil? The muttered oaths of disgruntled customers, waiting in vain for a decent stack of jacks? The puddle of stagnant muck that is gradually leeching into my ragged clothes? Well… it’s hard to quantify the precise sources of creative inspiration. It pains me to tell you that, though the shadow of the wrecking ball is not yet upon her, our beloved Hammer Mill is not long for this world. Damn their eyes, those Madagascarian developers…. O defilers of our humble dreams! What kind of upscale tourists or well-pensioned retirees would want to make a new start upon the ruins of this sainted mill? Okay… so perhaps I’m overstating it a little bit. The place smells like a city bus. But… and this is important … it smells better than the bottom of that malodorous pancake stand! And after a few years, I’ve became used to the draftiness, the rusted machinery, the occasional cave-ins, the crumbling brick battlements. Yea, we even started to look forward to them. After all, it’s all just part of the squatter’s lot — living the dream, as it were, even if it more resembles a nightmare. (What… you can think of a better way to live? I’m listening. Speak louder!) I think the hardest part is watching Marvin (my personal robot assistant) fighting against more than five years of programming that keeps sending him up to the barricaded doorway, only to be turned back again. He’s got a number of routine Mill maintenance tasks filed away in his sophisticated electronic brain, and not being able to complete them makes his circuits smoke like a chimney. (I saw Mitch Macaphee lighting a cigar on one of Marvin’s red hot relay panels just yesterday. Matt and John sometimes warm their hands over the glow when the night air gets brisk.) Hmmm… well, maybe that’s not the hardest part. The hardest part is probably listening to Anti Lincoln make his dictatorial speeches to nobody. Even his low-rent junta generals have skipped town in search of more promising digs. All right, mister anti-president — it’s been three hours. Time to clam up. Jesus, do I miss those massive hammer mill walls! What recourse for the wrongly evicted? Well… there is one possibility, slight though it is. We’ve put a call in to Gung Ho, who’s currently deployed with his mercenaries someplace explosive (and profitable, no doubt). I figure he might know a guy who knows a guy… who’d be willing to drop a bomb on a guy before they get the wrecking ball in position. Hey, don’t look at me like that. Last chances are last chances, right? Anyway, so far no response from the Gungster. If you happen to run into him (and live to tell the tale), have him contact us at:

Just under the Flapjack Cart

Third vendor stall along

Colombo Market Square

Colombo, Sri Lanka

Or just have him dial “JOE FLAPJACK” on his cell phone- it will go right to me.

Official site of the band Big Green