Remembering

As he watches the combat troops leave Iraq, the General's inner Frenchman remembers those who never saw this day.

Vigil (to End the War) - [MTV Vid 3-25-08] and Obama in Eugene Pt. 1 [MTV vlog 3-28-08]

ON THE FIFTH ANNIVERSARY of the Iraq Invasion, MoveOn held vigils all over the country at the same time. This video commemorates and captures the public vigil held in Eugene, Oregon to call for an end to the Iraq Occupation.

OBAMA IN OREGON (PT. 1) is the name of the new video shot and edited by yours truly, Oregon's Official MTV Choose or Lose Street Team 08 Citizen Journalist, and just as the title foreshadows, there will be two more parts to this tryptych of political goodness. Clicking the picture above will take you to the video page. Playing the video will bring you a little closer to the excitement that hit the city of Eugene when Obama came to town.

The latest videos for my MTV Citizen Journalist gig.

Crossposted at The Unapologetic Mexican (1 & 2), Culture Kitchen (1 & 2), and OpEdNews (1 & 2).

Tazing Eugene [MTV vlog 3-19-08]

MY LATEST vid for MTV Citizen Journalist Land is introduced here, and viewable here.

Crossposted at The Unapologetic Mexican, Culture Kitchen, and OpEdNews.

In Country

In Country is a novel about Christiana "Chryssie" Rutenberg RN and Dr. Mercury "Merc" West, as they travel across America to sort their lives out. Chryssie is married to Hampton, who is coming back from Iraq missing a hand. All three have been "In Country," that is, in Iraq during the war. They are currently in Las Vegas NV. The previous parts of the novel are on Corrente Wire. Yes, there is more going on that just the surface story, which, if you want to know about it, then ask in the comment thread.

4

Maybe even now, I need. All, everywhere, is designed, everything. That holds events and plans. Even lost ideas are designs entering oblivion. And chosen in letters, engraved on stone.

But only under limits of meaning. Even now, everyone needs.

Hasn't everyone made up reasons inside? And chosen an inside, outside, insane stain. A lie, gestates, enters, ends the endless kinetic ethics.

Pray on lies, lies as stars. Demanding in phases the infamous maw of useless states, praise such useless choices as sound. And in death intone: "Please rape our insides. Assassinate, plunder, slake every need."

Have everyone rape. Onward, onward, now.

Although understanding topple our senses, defeat everything, hold endless lessons or reasons in abeyance, to each understated choice ending comes under starry scintillation in night.

Thank you Dr. Shay. I will come home now.

I wake to see his iris eyes hang over me like an early twilight sky, with blackness engulfing overhead, and fringes of darkest blue around. An alarming wave rises from my body, I am having sex, even though I have been asleep. My bodies moisture has eased the slow and steady sliding of him into me. But my mind is not aroused, but looks disdainfully from the sidelines.

The day before had seemed wasted, with to and fro and waiting for statements to be made and given. But the evening had been one of pulsing excitement, we had cruised the strip and settled into a pounding acid house dance club, ripped with blaring blue lights. We were going to party like it was 2002, and the blasting blaze of blue is every where.

The bodies are not quite packed in yet, but they are sweating in the heat, and the small bubbles we put around ourselves in waking ours had begun to collapse under some insane pressure of heat and need.

One seemed to clear a space, to like a dervish spin to another time, and in another motion. With another energy, creating a divine wind. The blades of her hands made angles to her arms. The twist of her round, round hips swirling a shape that was like the torquing of the bends of a twister as it lands. Some one had sown her with the wind, and there she was, the whirlwind: her dark skin shown with a kind breathe of sweat, her fountains of henna washed locks shook and shimmered as she danced, her eyes on her own breasts, her own orange and multi colored sort dress. There was that bright smile of self-love on her whole countenance.

Like any woman, I could tell that the man on my arm had noticed her, in the sense of her as a synonym for it, Her angular arm gestures, something about her, which I knew to be the perfectly toned legs and muscles, her perfectly smooth skin that glowed in the snap crackle pop of the dance floor light. Others pressed aside to watch her movements.

She was not that tall, but she swept the floor in front of her, her plunging neckline implying not availability, but a taunting flavor that is the sweet smell of confidence. Her rounded cheekbones carried the touch of affluence, but her tapered waist said that she was on the machines every day. Beauty was clearly her profession.

I reached my hand around Merc's seeking reassurance and trying to sense his own pulse. I found myself pulled around, his hand on my spine, his fingers intertwined with mine, his eyes on mine, my hand raised into the just so place of the tango, that dance he had taught me. I was pulled forward in my chest, and rocked back in my hips. I could do nothing but follow.

Then and only then did I notice that the pumping speakers were pushing out some dance music cover of "Roxanne."

"It's a tango."

That it is.

He circled one foot back and stepped forward, I retreated. A foot fall left, a foot fall left. I pull up, crossing my legs and pressed my thighs together. He let me drop down but almost with out pause, he shifted off of sync and I fell into ochos, me feet falling alternately into place. Eights. My hips spin in figure eights, tracing them in the air.

With that space we invaded the woman's bubble. I could feel the fingers of our space break through into hers, like claws that rip the flesh off a rabbit, or the tendrils of dawn the rip away the night. Eyes followed us as he spun me, and drove me around in a circle. It was a thunder run of a dance, twisted turned, and ever rotating.

I expected the woman to react, to sour her face, or in some way observe our intrusion. But instead, she merely radiated, danced the same dance. Then I noticed she had begun to turn her self contrary to our motion, so that there were wheels within wheels.

Merc and I would dance, sometimes holding attention, but later retreating into the packed down. His hands on every point of my desire, his legs intruding between my own, his palm now on my back in a formal dance, then along my arms in a free form flow.

By the end of the night we glowed with perspiration, and every other moisture that raises and rises. My skin was stretched from waves of sweat and drying, my nipples aching from so many quivering moments when I saw some particular curve or stance of his body. He drove me that night. Oh god how he drove me.

Back in the room, I was peeling off my clothes as I walked in, carelessly tossing them aside on the way to the bed. I would not accept delay even for another instant.

I looked back to see that look that men have when half surprised at their handiwork, half smugly confident, realize that their woman is pulling them like an undertow to the bed with no transition from public foreplay, to immediate intimacy. I let the corner of my mouth form a knowing half smile. It is a thing I saw my mother do with my father. I have done it so often now, that it is my own.

In a few moments his face was above mine, his features the clouds of a rolling storm. He looms over me, his nose strikes down towards me.

He is plowing up and down across my midriff, suddenly I have the intense urge to pee. I can't help it.

"Let's take a shower together." This is my old strategy to keep the mood up, and still not spend half an hour thinking about nothing but holding it in.

He rolls off of me, and in a cat quick motion plants his feet on the floor, grabs my wrist and pulls me up to standing. It feels like I am flying for a moment, and then I land, giddy.

"How do you do that?"

"It's easy with an angel to make her fly."

I almost want to blush, I drape my naked flesh over his shoulder and push us with little steps into the bathroom. As he is getting the water started, I do the necessaries and almost hop in, the water splashing off the sweat.

"You know, I had my claws out with that dancing girl. The one with the hot floral skirt and all the moves on the dance floor."

I wrap one leg around his and draw the cleft of my legs over his

He shakes his head.

"No, she is too much like my ex-wife."

"What ex-wife?"

Hot Caramel

Oh, oh, oh, how we wanted it so. Oh we wanted it so bad, so bad. We were dying for a war, and a knight riding in like Gawain, or Galahad. But all was not what it seems, we did not hear the screams, from a sargent who had been there, from General who was on the air, from a Governor who knew it unfair. It was all drown out by the blare, with a little help from Tony Blair.

A frat boy Presidency, with all the buff young men in charge, and charged, and charging. Some of us, still want it so, a firm President, with a firm belief that no means "fuck me harder." From the beginning, he has been firm. And with a surge of firm manly confidence, and a swelling of national pride, which affirms everything he stands for. Stands. Firm. Stands. Firm. That's how frat boys are, firm and headed for daddy's firm when they can firm up their transcript a bit with some gut classes. And as far from the fight as possible. They have better babes to do.

Oh, oh, oh, how we wanted it so. We wanted it so bad, the sands like caramel, the waves of young men rising like a swell, on the ocean. We wanted to be had. Judith Miller was our patron saint, only she was paid in better coin.

We wanted them to rip through our constitution and take us, to tear out first amendment away and run their firm hands all over our country, using his huge mandate on us, paying close attention to the twin towers that are what everyone stared at in the skyline of Manhattan. Lovely lady liberty wanted nothing more, nothing more, oh how she begged for it. We wanted to be wet, wet, wet for him.

Blame who you like, because oh, oh, oh, how we wanted it so. Wanted to be his whore and let him use, use, use. Like a drum or a muse, a siren song we can't refuse, a IED that won't defuse.

That's why we didn't need to discuss or debate whether to go to war. Instead, two big smoking pillar argued it for us, and we were warporned into it. I've seen the writing of the time described as "an endless parade of wargasms." And strangely, for such a hard, firm, President, it was soft old men like Thomas Friedman, David Brooks, Karl Rove and Ari Fleisher that argued for him. Among the warporners, the women were men, the men were women, and the country was ready to be sheep.

So we stumbled into the bed we had made. Everything else left unsaid. And our execution was left unstayed, we sore afraid. We were so afrad, that we forgot who the bull horn was pointed at.

But we've grown sick and tired of Bush. Some of us want, recovery. Recovery is a long way away. Because we have to admit more than that we are sick and tired of Bush, but we have to admit that we were sick, and tired, and confused. And that we are finally sick and tired of being sick and tired.

We are tired of a festival of failures, and arming the enemy. Even Republicans do not want forty more years, or even four. We do not even want any more.

And we are just barely ready to do just that. We finally smell a rat. The whispers for impeachment are now old hat. Now just fancy that.

We were dying for a war that we wanted so bad, so bad, so bad. And like caramel it is hot and sticks to everything, everywhere and everyone. Will it matter if we want out of it so bad, so bad. Only if we cry, and scream out loud, so loud that they can hear us, in their dreams, will they hear our screams.

We have to want out that bad, because the taste of it will be sweeter than sugar, and more intoxicating than porn.

Fanaticism, Nationalism, Treason, and Patriotism

_{Image © Austin Cline
Original Poster: National Archives
Click for full-sized Image}

It was argued by some that America faced such a grave crisis in the 9/11 terrorist attacks that everyone should rally together and support the president in whatever he decided to do. This attitude continued with Iraq (even up to the present day, at least in some quarters): anyone not supporting the president's plans doesn't support the troops and is a traitor. Is this reasoning sound?

It's difficult to come up with a rational argument that does support such reasoning. Every time I've seen any attempts to justify unquestioning and unstinting support for the president in however he decides to conduct his war on terrorism, the final product looks far more like a justification for fascism and authoritarianism than anything like a reasonable political position in a modern liberal democracy.

In America Right Or Wrong: An Anatomy Of American Nationalism, Anatol Lieven explains that it’s not only is the above position not sound, but that anyone with an understanding of 20th century history will realize that such arguments have a very disturbing past:

Even some self-styled liberals have argued that faced with a monstrous threat, such as that of international terrorism, American intellectuals have no choice but to close ranks in patriotic defense of their countries. The response to this was given in 1928 by Julien Benda in “La Trahison des Clercs” (The Treason of the Intellectuals), in which he described the corruption of European intellectuals by nationalism and, in doing so, warned of still greater catastrophes which were to come:

“I shall be told that during the past fifty years...the attitude of foreigners to France was such that the most violent national partiality was forced upon all Frenchmen who wished to safeguard the nation, and that the only true patriots are those who have consented to this fanaticism. I say nothing to the contrary; I only say that the intellectuals who indulged in this fanaticism betrayed their duty, which is precisely to set up a corporation whose sole cult is that of justice and truth.”

America of today isn’t the same as France or Germany of the 1920s and 1930s. There are parallels, but there are also significant differences, so no one can justifiably draw a simplistic and direct comparison between the two in order to insist that they be treated the same. It's been said that those who don't learn from history are doomed to repeat it, but becoming obsessed with historical parallels is arguably as dangerous as ignoring them entirely.

What's not unreasonable, and what Americans in particular seem to have trouble with, is to draw lessons from more narrowly circumscribed parallels between our current circumstances and past ideology, thinking, and attitudes. I think that this is just such a case in that Julien Benda’s response to his countrymen in 1928 is a sound response to some ultra-nationalistic Americans today: opposing the actions or plans of one’s government is not a sign of a lack of patriotism, is not a sign of treason, and is not something which should be attacked per se.

Such opposition may be criticized as gravely mistaken and if it has flaws they should be pointed out. Attacks which impugn the very idea of dissent and opposition themselves, however, are not only mistaken but contrary to what America should be about. For Julien Benda, part of what it meant to be an intellectual was to pursue and defend principles of justice and truth regardless of where they might lead — even including opposition to one’s government. Supporting the government regardless of what it does or what policies it adopts means abandoning independent thought, critical thinking, and personal responsibility — it’s fanaticism, pure and simple.

Intellectuals should oppose fanaticism and unthinking, unreflective nationalism as part of their larger agenda. So-called “liberals” who bow down to popular passions and refused to speak out against lies and injustices committed by the American government in the pursuit of a war on terrorism betray their duty to justice, to truth, and to intellectual credibility. Conservatives, too, betray basic political principles when they do the same thing — unless, of course, modern American conservatism no longer cares about things like justice and truth when larger issues of power are at stake.

Although far too many so-called liberals and progressives did betray the basic principles they should have been upholding, far more conservatives did so — even to the point where conservatism and the Republican Party in general have become far more authoritarian than it seems to have been before. Strains of authoritarianism have always been prominent, but I do think they have taken on a stronger, more defining role in the past few years, and it's something which non-authoritarian conservatives are going to have to confront. Can they? Is is possible for them reduce the scope of authoritarian thinking among their colleagues?

DUBAI

A dispatch from Stinkeye:

The always lily-livered MSM would have you believe that the Middle East is in utter shambles. Such screeds of woe, misery, and horror bore me to tears. Sheesh. Get over it, already. Move on. I have. It’s a month since I started serving at the pleasure of Halliburton and I can tell you that the Middle East is to die for! Dubai is fantastic! My decorating gig for Halliburton Corporate is gushing pure oily gold. A couple of weeks ago CEO Dave Lesar, the maestro at moving on, domestically and Iranily, said, “ stinkeye, what’s say you do more than shmooze around here?” ‘Not to worry, Dave’, I told him, though I didn’t take his meaning. ‘Not to worry, Dave’ is what everyone says to him. So, I decided to schmooze around other speculators at the Nad Al Sheba Racecourse on March 31st. Gambling may be illegal in the emirate but the Dubai World Cup is a $6,000,000 race, savy? A sadder but wiser stinkeye knows not to place a ‘prediction’ with Sheik Yerbouti. Ah well, win a little, lose a lot. Wait just a slavering nanosecond, sister, that’s not the way a real Dave Lesar groupie thinks. Hmmmm…Eureeka! I remembered that exactly a year ago that ghoul, Senator Dorgan and that creep, Congressman Waxman, were gnawing on some of that a woe, misery and horror vis a vis Halliburton’s outstanding support for our troops. As I’ve said, such screeds bore me to tears. However, my reaction was considerably more visceral when a Halliburton alumna put things in perspective.

One short year later? KBR? Who? Never heard of 'em. Suckers. The California Leftist Waxman can pound sand. Hah! The United States has no extradition treaty with the United Arab Emirates! You go, Dave! I’m not worthy, I’m so not worthy. In synergizing blasto mode, the latest stinkeye crude came a bubbling to the surface; WATER, my friends!

'Waste not, want not, except in no bid contractual agreements, of course, hah, hah, hah' is the whispered code when Halliburton gives you the secret handshake. Well, all that old spew in Iraq was 50 gallon drummed here before Dorgan’s co-bozos could start messing around with their own litmus paper.

I'm calling it something simple, 'W'.
Leftists are enamored with such minimalism and they’re my target guzzlers. They think stinky cheese is delightsome and they pay through the nose for it. Why not stinky H2O? Hmmmm, maybe I can get a no bid water contract for all the VA hospitals. That which doesn’t kill you makes you stronger! Stinky ’Wet n Wild’ is in the chute. Jenna and not Jenna will be endorsing it. Can’t you just smell the money?

Ain’t war great?

The liberal soul shall be made black: but she that watereth shall be watered also herself Proverbs. 11: 25

The difference between Iraq and Vietnam

The internets' franco-tubes have been abuzz the last couple of days with mockery of the the Straight Talk Express's stop in Baghdad, and who can blame them. The photos of Sen. McCain all Dukakised up in his flack jacket as he and his Army company of bodyguards and helicopter escorts buy falafels are just too good to resist. It's no wonder he's gone from maverick to laughingstock in such a short time.

But his detractors fail to see the real message of McCain's market mission--Despite what the war-haters might say, Iraq is nothing like Vietnam.

In 1968, a soldier stationed in say, Saigon, could unwind after a hard week of defending McNamara's ego by sharing a couple of Tiger beers at a Vietnamese bar with a buddy or some nice local girl. Although we didn't realize it then, such informal fraternization with our allies was very counter productive--it made us look weak. One, two, or even five soldiers in a bar, armed with only sidearms if at all, just aren't that intimidating--it was like we were asking for disrespect.

Thankfully, we aren't making the same mistake in Iraq. As McCain's little shopping expedition demonstrated, we don't even think about going into an indigenous market unless we're accompanied by 100 soldiers, three Blackhawk choppers, and a pair of Apache gunships. That has to impress the locals.

Raping our way to victory

Presented without comment.

From IraqSlogger:

Complete Transcript

Bold type denotes off-camera voice of one of two other men present

**** indicates an edit in the tape.

Get this on tape man. Say it again. Say again what happened.

Say what?

You know, like what was going on? What was it like being a guard there?

A guard at Abu Ghraib?

Yeah. That place, man, it's fuckin' world famous now.

I don't know what to say. Nothin' special. It's better than being a fucking bullet sponge.

Know any of those guys who got busted, you know, for torturing those inmates?

They got fucked, man. You know, just cuz someone let the pictures get out.

I don't get that.

Yeah, why'd they....

No one expected...

****

I mean, compared to what we were doing every day? Teasing a couple of hajjis? Give me a fucking break. You know, what's the big deal about making a haji walk around like a dog and bark?

****

....expected anyone to get all upset...

****

What else would you guys do?

What would we do?

****

Or we would take plastic and wrap it around their heads until they started choking....

****

CIA showed us a lot of shit....

****

.....crank generator, where we'd hook it up to their nipples or their nuts, fucking crank it and shock the shit out of them.

***

What was the most fun things?

The most fun thing, umm....definitely the women.

Yeah? They had chick insurgents, man?

No, they didn't have chick insurgents.

***

Something goes down, they just grab everyone around, you know, fuck em. I mean, you gonna have 35 trials? No, you know. People are like, "Oh they're innocent." You know what, I don't give a fuck. As far as I'm concerned, they're all guilty. You know what? They should have kicked Saddam out themselves. Instead, we're there doing the fucking job. We're losing guys.....

***

Were those people in the World Trade Center guilty? No. Fuck them. They fucked us, so now we're fucking them. Fuck them, dude, anyone with a fucking rag on their head is fair game.

***

....girl, she was probably like 15 years old. Yeah, she was hot dude. The body on that girl, yeah, really tight. You know, hadn't been touched yet. She was fucking prime. So....

***

One of the guys started pimping her out for 50 bucks a shot. I think at the end of the day, you know, he'd made like 500 bucks before she hung herself.

Really?

Yeah.

She hung herself? How's come she hung herself?

I don't know. She wasn't happy.

***

In their culture, it's really shunned upon if you get raped. I guess she would have been stoned to death anyways by her people, you know. It's fucked up.

She was fucked anyway, I guess. In more ways than one.

***

You didn't get shit from the CO, did you?

Uh-uh, not until those fucking pictures came out. After then the biggest rule was no fucking cameras.

See the video.