Monthly Archives: July 2005

Chief Injustice Karlsputin Rove

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ToadSpawn, Be Gone! the Exorcizm of GeorgeBush from America's Soul 

Appendix K .. Chief Injustice Karlsputin Rove

   

    Et tu, Morford? Karlsputin Rove has tu too? I knew that the 12ftTall Lîzards Disguised as Human Beings Who Purport to Lead Us had intimidated, paid off, or drugged almost all of us – but you Morford? This is an icepick in the eye. You write a salaciously delicious column ostensibly, almost erotically trashing Karlsputin – I felt like I should be wearing black leather boots to read it. It was swell. It was magnificent in moments. Wary as I am of even my own reflection in the mirror these fateful days, I was drawn in like the little bird following the trail of tasty crumbs. I felt safe.

     Even past little-bird-eating-crumbs-safe in my totem, I felt otter safe paddling gleefully in the oceanic elixir of your offerings of tsunamic comeuppance for the pinguid pipsqueak at bloody LAST. I was frabjousing in splashing joys. You were my Prince Felix Yussupov, the assassin of the original Rasputin, my assassin with the excaliber of ridicule, kill ‘im with unkindness, and I was all but on the wings o’ love, Morford¹, certainly a few feathers of devotion. I began to hear song again. I remembered butterflies.

       Oh brave new world, that has no spouse-trasher Karlsputin in it. No one to make Lee Atwater look like Gandhi. No one to play maggotball. No one to pushpoll, the insidious insinupolls that infamously felled Ann and John & Cindy. No one to Willie-Horton Max with sinister Saddam grim-picts. (Of course I suppose the reason why Karlsputin couldn’t walk in Mr. Cleland’s moccasins is because Mr. Cleland who did go to <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Vietnam got both his legs blown off in combat and can’t wear moccasins any more.) No “double super secret” leaking to reporters to intimidate whistleblowers saying, “We'll even go past you to your family, Chuckles — When you choose to blow the whistle, you're not just risking yourself, but also your family. Wanna think thrice about it?” No more Mr. Rove, an official with zero scruple – with no scruple or ethical pebble in his shoe. Bete noir, be gone!

   I was skipping along the yellow brick road in ruby slippers. Maybe now we could quit spending $14000 a minute(sic) on the fantasy Missile Crackpot Scheme aka Star Wars. We could raise the minimum wage, offer universal healthcare, and all the other fair and lovely humane things that could be done by sane people undrugged by that potent hallucinogen, the drug-cocktail of religiopatriotism. Tra la tra la tra la. As I read your column, my heart opened trustingly like a flower, seeing the  Buenopia where things aren’t perfect, but are good enough for the pursuit of silliness.

   And then through your very pen, you Morford, ye gods, Karlsputin Rove struck with his terrible swift malice – there in boschian technicolor on the most gigantic inner screen I have ever seen while screaming was Chief Injustice Karlsputin Rove with his red and bulging little piggy eyes glinting in triumph at me, the necrotic glisten of his soulrot sweat increased by the weight of his judicial robes under which he, as we later heard from an attending clerk, wore nothing but a sequined solid-gold codpiece.

    He reached with his hell-slime tentacles even into your brilliant brain and made you a tool of his mad devices. I am now blind from that gruesome and clearly indelible sight – it is the last thing I saw before I was felled near to death, surely preferable to this vision now playing ever in the Times Square of my once-jubilant brain. Karlsputin always wins. His the evil the evil always outmaneuvers any hope or ebullience we might have mustered. Chief Injustice Karlsputin Rove. Doom’s thunder has sounded.

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Fare well,

pogblog

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¹Morford's terrific column America's Big Malignant Tumor

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Remember to check pogblog's Glossary for tasty words like 'pinguid.'

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Time Avalanche

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<?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />04:46:55a.pdt.us  8 Deer . Manik . West  tzolkin 47  07.20.3005 wed  8783§24d8h36m59s

mon Digrif,

   I found this letter I sent you back in the early 21st century when they still fought wars, called mutilated children 'collateral damage,' and spent $14000 a minute(sic) on the fantasy Missile Crackpot Scheme. I remember our visit to Planet Earth as it began its great transmogrification to Planet Myrth. It was in its last throes of being ruled by the 12ftTall Lîzards Disguised as Human Beings Who Purported to Lead Them. The Lîzards were in a cruel and bitterly sad addiction to that lethally seductive self-induced drug cocktail of patriotism combined with religion. It is the perfect  hallucinogen. The ultra-addictive substance with low-down tribal war and revenge joined with the exalted sanction of a monotheistic, unchallengeable God was a demonic brew. Remember how we were agog that they were so swept by this plague in large swaths of the pretty planet.

   But then some things began to mysteriously change, as I note in my letter below which I chanced across in my 21st Century Archive of psymail.

<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office” /> 

ÞÞÞ ÞÞÞ ÞÞÞ ÞÞÞ      

 

wolfcake,

   It’s like being skiing near the top of a huge mountain of time when there’s just the first not-even-feeling yet, but a kind of suspendedness as the snow is just about to let go of the mountain and avalanche tremendously down the mountain side. 

   Now this coming avalanche has some peculiar qualities. If one can keep breathing (not paralyzed by a completely rational fear), and leans in a dancing embrace of languorous tangotrust with the time mountain, the avalanche is like skiing on note:flakes, the time:snow is music (the ±8784th song, say). However when one tightens or gets churlish or can’t taste the shine of time, it can get washboard ugly and staticstruck. As all thoughts and memories and imaginations become more quintD, indeed more meloD, the time signature changing with your own emotions, but at a very deep strata of e-motion as the ancient silts and shards of rage and betrayal and worse, wasp hives of  unpretty pettinesses are swept away by this cosmic time-sound that is striking us like sunflares, an avalanche of sunlightlightlight in which we are concentrated – oh remember the pain the necessity as the coal became diamond; the light-tectonic shift from darkest to brightest was sudden, not gradual, but the pressure was long and there was no exit.

   It is well to remember whatever the horror the horror or the beauty the beauty, that there is no exit. No scream, no retreat into dream – it’s all interlacing dreams which will be akashically apparent in a at-onceness that will be distemporienting to many of the 6537969955 facets of the face of Gods.

   Most of the 6totheninth are too uninhabited (which we read as stupid, contumely being our flaw which like chromium in the emerald is what makes our gleam green)to notice all of this fancy folderol as the universe goes from melodramatic to operatic, or from chamber music to symphonic. These are not esthetic judgments or descriptions, but rather intensity and quantity portrayals.

   Just for a moment consider if the air became water – it already is actually and we are all fish now but we haven’t grokked it yet. If the air became water and the whole planet was flooded with extra-time, not longer or shorter, but richer if you imagine water as a richer air, in which one can be more buoyant and even fly. The air is too weak to hold us up, but this h2oair, you can fly in, all the way into space which now is revealed to be the fragrant rambunctious sea of the impossibly bright matter. Dark matter was always a misnomer – we just haven’t had activated the 80purrcent we don’t use but which is available for fabulous tactile and tastile and kinetile luminous experience with the twitch of a cosmic switch. But for us to bear the voltage, the pressure of this new kind of avalanche light, this symphony of sun (inner & outer), we can get the bends in this sunsea, or we can push back just the on-going right varying, dancing amount and not be collapsed or burst, but rather fit lofted and laughing in this embracing and bracing environeironment.

 

6:46a.pdtish

&c         

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02:46:28a.pdt.us  Water . Muluc . The River . East  tzol 49  07.20.05 wed 8783§24d8h36m59s

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FixedIntelGate .. letter to Dana Bash

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to Dana Bash CNN-TV

Dear Ms. Bash,
In a (7.18.05) segment on FixedIntelGate (the Mr. Rove & Mrs. Wilson facet of that story), you who are a very smart reporter talked about the “Democrats piling on”; “As this flap plays out”; “pouncing on every detail”; “Why are the Democrats so aggressively going after this knowing so little?” Later you let Mr. Holt talk about “the wacky Left” with no challenge. He said “… if they were serious about this, they would maintain a modicum of decorum and of seriousness, but every passing day, it gets more ridiculous.”

Well, John Kennedy was shot on my 19th birthday and I am not “wacky.” I could not be more serious. I am not ‘piling on’ — nor are my representatives in the House and Senate.  The idea that a President of the United States would lie and “twist” intel to fit the policy is a treachery to the young men like my neighbor’s only child who had his head blown off the week after he was stop-loss held over in country. I do “pounce’ on details when the stakes are so high if you must use a trivializing word like that to describe my rapt and anguished attention.  I think it is unconscionable to allow a guest to describe earnest and devastated people like me and my representatives as the “wacky Left” with no challenge. You know it’s a “talking point phrase” and you should not let it pass.

I lived through the whole Vietnam mess – Vietnamization/Iraqiazation: “When the Vietnamese/Iraqis stand up, our boys can stand down.” Deja entendu. Someone should read the horrible history that I lived through. And take a walk at night by the Vietnam Wall and touch the carved names. Imagine 30 World Trade Centers on the horizon – that’s how many Iraqis we’ve collateralized. Not that Vietnamese or Iraqis count as much as Americans, of course. The words and the blindness are identical.

If we do not unmask people corrupted by power like Mr. Rove and others, more young people on both sides will die. Politics is not a game. This is not a flap. I resent being called ‘wacky’ and ‘ridiculous,’ and you should have stood up on my behalf. My fighting for peace and for a living minimum wage and universal health care rather than spending $14000 a minute on the fantasy Missile Defense system is neither wacky nor ridiculous. These are the things all the Democrats I know are focused on. And on truth in government. Mr. Bush and Mr. Rove are supposed to be citizen servants, not Emperor and minion. 

‘Aggressive’? ‘Know so little’? We know a lot. We know that when Mr. Wilson wrote the 'What I Didn’t Find in Africa' piece he touched a nerve in the palaces of power. We know that Mr. Rove gave Mrs. Wilson’s identity as Mr. Wilson’s wife working at the CIA to Matt Cooper who did not know it before. We know that without the ‘nuclear piece’ of the puzzle, Mr. Bush does not get this unilateral war.

It is suggested that Mr. Wilson is a Democrat. In fact Mr. Wilson voted for George Bush #One. It is made to seem as if Mr. Wilson worked for Mr. Clinton and has always been a partisan Democrat, but in fact he also worked for and voted for George Bush #One and they clearly had a respectful relationship.

Not that anything about Mr. Wilson is actually pertinent to the wrongs that Mr. Rove committed. Mr. Rove had no business going after a spouse to try to intimidate someone. But then he had gone after Mrs. McCain too in South Carolina (and Mr. Bush knows that!), so maybe we shouldn't be so surprised.

We know that an upshot of Mr. Rove’s “double super secret” leaking to reporters was to intimidate people from going against the Administration line. The subtext to whistleblowers in the CIA and elsewhere is *We'll even go past you to your family — When you choose to blow the whistle, you're not just risking yourself, but also your family.* This is maggotball indeed. Wouldn't it make you think thrice about blowing the whistle?

You’re such an incisive reporter, I’m surprised you would use the language to not so subtly undermine the integrity of the Democrats. I did listen very carefully and heard no ‘piling on’ the Republicans with similarly glib phrases. It may be OK to treat news like entertainment, but there ought to be equal opportunity bashing, perhaps.

This is not an inside-the-Beltway story to my friend whose kid is never returning from a war we went to on intel fixed to fit the policy.

I appreciate your thinking about these things.

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Greenstock Iraq Bombshell

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friends of pogblog,

  I'm posting this to as many blogs with more blognads than me as I can so the info can maybe be saved from being disappeared.

 

You've got more blognads than me. Please add  Jeremy Greenstock Cost of War info to your river of consciousness. Adding to the web of stealth and treachery that Karlsputin Rove, a nasty piece of work, continues to bring to American politics, UK Ambassador to the UN Greenstock further illuminates the yet larger treasonous FixIntelGate, a context we need to emphasize so folks get why the Rove furor matters.

 

This Jeremy Greenstock info below is hiroshimic to the reigning hypocrisies if someone will bravely do a Pentagon Papers on rescuing it and get the unredacted copy into the blogbrain and to the few remaining uncowed columnists. Please pursue with your greater blognads, er, ah, resources.  pogblog

 http://pogblog.myblogsite.com

pogblog@yhoo.com 

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http://observer.guardian.co.uk/politics/story/0,6903,1530311,00.html

 

Publication of The Costs of War by Sir Jeremy Greenstock, <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />UK ambassador to the UN during the build-up to the 2003 war and the Prime Minister's special envoy to Iraq in its aftermath, has been halted. In an extract seen by The Observer, Greenstock describes the American decision to go to war as 'politically illegitimate' and says that UN negotiations 'never rose over the level of awkward diversion for the US administration'. Although he admits that 'honourable decisions' were made to remove the threat of Saddam, the opportunities of the post-conflict period were 'dissipated in poor policy analysis and narrow-minded execution'. . . . Greenstock is also thought to be scathing about Bremer and US Secretary of State Condoleezza Rice.  from Sunday July 17 Observer/Bright & Beaumont. (emphases mine). 7-17-05 7:59:44 pm

 

Please spread this comment to as many blogs as possible with more blognads than me so the “deeply shocking” Greenstock info can maybe be saved from being disappeared by the janus-face-&-perhaps-rump-savers. Thanks.

 

 http://pogblog.myblogsite.com

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General Ization . . . 4 Star Error

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    General Ization . . . 4 Star Error .. ToadSpawn, Be Gone! Appendix G

 

    Why is General Ization more horrible to the human experiment and experience than even the grotesqueries of fragment bombs and nerve gas?
    General Ization poisons the precious, possibly impeccable, unrepeatable daily life. General Ization is a pusher of lethal illusions.
    Metaphysics is the study of what is real. (Epistemology of how do we know? Ethics of what is good?) Generalization is a fundamental metaphysical failure of fact. Not one generalization actually exists. The secret revolting ugly rationales for prejudice all shatter on this reef. Contempt and disdain are bolstered by bold and glittering generalizations.

    The truth does lead to a stark, sweet humbleness. The truth is unbearable — and dangerous. But until we dare understand and act in the boggling, singular truth, our actions must be false.
    The truth is that there are no giraffes. No fill-in-any-ethnic-slur; no men; no women; no butterflies. There exists only one giraffe plus one giraffe plus one giraffe. No plurals actually exist. No group. All collective nouns are a convenience of the language, a sleight of hand, a legerdebrain. When we act upon them in prejudice or contumely, we act in as great an hallucination as if we had ingested synapse-tangling drugs. General Ization leads us hurtling off cliffs of patriotic propaganda or religious exclusivity or racial prejudice.

 

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<?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />02:21:11a.pdt.us  7 Death . Cimi . Twins . North  tzol 46  07.17.05 sunday

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the Ultimate Cult

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the Ultimate Cult

from Planet NU .. Numera Una

    The Planet NU awoke on <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />16 July 2005 in a planet-wide frisson of gossip and delicious palaver. The Planet NU was new. It was ashiver, it was agog. Jamie Hill Fuller was the toast of the town, the marmalade, the jam, the butter, the honey of the town – all the towns. Tetra String Quartet, “the best chamber music ever heard” had aired on Radio New Classiq at 11:00pm on Thursday 15 July 2005. Wars ceased. Peace grew like fleece on sheep.

   We’re all so used to the now-legendary cult of Jamie Fuller, like Elvis, on every lip, but this was when it began. Fun escalated. Ill will evaporated – poof, like a busted soap bubble. All human beings greeted each other, “From one human being to another, you’re pretty cute.” “Igualmente!” Heels were clicked, somers were saulted, sees were sawed, teeters were tottered delight reigned like rainbows, soft and colorful, impossible really, but magical and actual; dances were danced, romances were chanced.

   The hubbub and hullabaloo the morning of Friday July 16 made whales write new deep and more sonorous songs. Made everyone rich enough to be comfy and jolly.

   Because I had known Jamie Fuller ‘when,’ I was vouchsafed one of the rare interviews that this shy Cult Figure ever granted. I was enchanted. I mean, weren’t we all? It was clear that violinist Clyde Mills, ole Sly Eyes Clyde had stirred virtuoso lust in all the little ladies of the Planet NU, but Jamie Fuller with his milk-chocolate-colored eyes and bittersweet-chocolate cello playing slouchily stirred a ferocious fondness in the matrons and maidens.

     Tetra String Quartet acclaim spread across the Planet like psychic lava. Emergency rooms were filled with people who were dying of joy. Everyone remembered where they were when they first heard Tetra String Quartet, whose hand they were holding, whose ear they were nibbling. Widdershins and triple sixes were all the rage. All 666,666 tv stations played an outlaw tape of Tetra exclusively, 24/7, because no one would bear to watch anything else ever again.  

   All religions melted and merged and splurged into one gigantic choir of lovely and longing song. Planetary anguish was extinguished. For centuries Tetra was played on the Jumbotrons of all 30 baseball teams during all 162 games. Rightness was ignited. The Raiders always lost. The 49ers always won. We were all excited and delighted. None of us shouted loutily. None of us shouted or doubted or pouted anymore. We were free. We were glee. We were pagan and ebullient. We were freed from need except the need for song and for the Tetra String Quartet.

    Because we rode on magic carpets now, instead of gas stations on corners wee taco and burrito stations where La Bamba and Burrito Real competed benignly to provide us with al pastor and chile verde, subsidized with the money that had gone for the now universally seen as absurd Missile Nonsense system. Hedonism became the word to watch. Irony the only necessary vitamin. Flowers and lovers ambled amiably along rivers of sweet summery song. Tunes festooned the summer air. The moon sang too. Power to the peaceful became true and immediate and undeniable. ‘Laughter ever after’ began and ended all prayers – giving the deities a break from the previous endlessly needy whining which tended to have been the hallmark of praying on the old planet.

    Nine crows cawed in the surprising bliss of minor keys. Languorous levity kissed our cheeks like zephyrs. The Bartholomew Empire of Sloth Lazy Susan Company led the Fortune 500, which now became the Fortune 5 Billion because we learned how to share the 1644 million dollars a day saved from the disappeared military budget to subsidize absurdly generous grants for both wild and mild practical jokes. If you were funny or aspired to be funny, it was pretty much “Apply ‘n Get Money.’ Funny money for real, at last. All practical joked could also be deducted from your income tax.

    The sunlight poured over all of us like honey. How sweet and complete we became. All full of quirky mischief. There was no margarine after the Tetra String Quartet, only butter.

 

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9/11 Horrible Truths UnVeiled ..

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9/11 Horrible Truths UnVeiled .. ToadSpawn, Be Gone! Appendix 11

 

mon su garplum,

   Serious rabbitholeism. Finished Jon Ronson’s Men Who Stare at Goats & realize how staid I have been, Riffie. If you’re ever worried anywhere along the line that you might be mad, fret not my most dear, we’re not nuts, we’re just cute, sexy, and quaintly eccentricky.

   These folks are nuts. We aren’t even on the charts. These neonutcons & their ilk & servants have sprung every sprocket. The stuff I don’t make up, their stuff ranges between spooky and terrifying on the Sprung-Sprocket-O-Meter.

   The day began with a big banner on the top of the Frisco Chronicle (on the front page!) saying Lîzards in Your Backyard. Vrai — I swear it's true. (LIMBY). Now, that’s fun but exceedingly maybe even scarily synchronissimo since I've been writing so much lately about the 12ftTall Lizards Disguised as Human Beings Who Purport to Lead Us. Late evening I mis-timed (so I thought – or was I just guided by Unknown Forces) when the new show 30 Days was on, so was surfing and landed on CSpan Beach idly at first listening to David Ray Griffin who’d written a book triple-snoringly titled 9/11 Commission, Omissions, Distortions. Mr. Griffin was a mousy-looking theologiany emeritus professor at <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Claremont College I think. He could not have been less of a firebrand, axgrindy kind of guy. Dishwater is Dom Pérignon to this frayed tweed gent. Gray on gray. At first glance of listen, he was tediously and monotonily listing errors of the 9/11 Commission.

     It was only slowly that an invisible hand of disbelief and horror began to tighten the strangle around my neck and every rasping breath and every creak off in the kitchen became as distinct as of your rabbit heartbeat when you smell the tiger, see the dread glowing eyes poised three feet from paralyzed you in the forest of the night. Or — the flood of fear-water rose slowly as he spoke. I was lying in the comforting and familiar squalor of my dear couch with the wages of  professional sloth tumbled about me – half a glass of milky black-tea; an indigo blue plastic bowl streaked with traces of Ben & Jerry’s Magic Brownie Vanilla & Raspberry Swirl IceCream on the floor; another dark blue plastic bowl (these wonderful plato’s ideal-bowls are my ‘china’ set) streaked with traces of Trader Joe’s Key Lime Pie. Silver Lucy Furr and bittersweet-chocolate-colored Rowan yin-&-yangily curl together on their special cat heating pad to the left of my head on the ‘shelf’ of the couch back so I can have them as close as possible to me. The myriad artifacts of our howling hilarity yours & mine, our wry mischief happily clutter my heart. All these familiar things become more luminous as Mr. Griffin slowly turns up the darkness.

        Either Mr. Griffin is a complete lunatic or I am completely naïve. The gist follows in my translation: Those Lîzard Pustules, the neonutcons, have a megalomaniacally inflated notion of the Absolute Rightness of their Versions and Visions. They are hellbent upon the establishment of American complete Global Domination. America (by fiat of God as a subtext) is the last remaining superpower left standing. In order to weaponize space, the real goal of the otherwise Fantasy Missile Nonsense project, huge funds are needed, which the fat, happy budget surplus left by Clinton and a prosperous citizenry will never provide and permit.

   An actual neonutcon document of 1999-ish requires a “new Pearl Harbor,” a Pearl-Harbor-equivalent to mobilize the citizenry to allow the Gigantic Sucking of funds and the bestowing of Emperorhood upon the Presidency, granting the Appointed and Anointed by God clearances to do whatever they deem necessary (from war to body-cavity searches) sans consultation except with said God.

    The veneer of, the facade of democracy – well, they barely bother to maintain that any more. The populace is so bovine that the Lîzards hardly have to even pretend the trappings of democracy anymore. Even the sheeps who think the occasional non-lock-step thought don’t do anything, don’t quantum it up to write a letter to the editor, give $10 to MoveOn,  clik on michaelmoore's site and send a letter to their Congress people out there. The natives are not restless enough to disturb the slurping of mint juleps on the veranda of the new-slave-holding Lîzards who have us all in thrall, all in invisible fetters of fear and consumer-drugged apathies.

   They cruise in the juggerHummers along the yellowbrick highway to Global Domination and the occasional pogblog is roadkill and the rest of the sheeps have long since had their baaas surgically removed.

    Mr. Griffin showed point by gray point how the Demolishing of the World Trade Centers buildings was irrefutably arranged or allowed as a New Pearl Harbor by the 12ftTall Lîzards Disguised as Human Beings Who Purport to Lead Us Cabal.

   In order to understand how we are so deeply duped, you need to know about RaceHorse Haynes; Ralph Reed, Karlsputin Rove, and the Mechanism of the Big Lie; and how an Incredibly Smart Woman like me was taken in by a pathological gambler for 15 years.

    First, here are some of the slithery details. The maneuver that led to the inexplicably light hit on the Pentagon could never have been performed by the putative one-way pilot of Flight 77. Only deliberately planted, designed-demolition explosives could have collapsed the three buildings in New York in the manner that they fell. A Secret Service not-in-on-the-game would never have allowed the POTUS (president of the united states) to sit unprotected in a second-grade classroom for 10 minutes. How did the Secret Service know that the very well-publicized photo-op Florida school event would not be also targeted by terrorists – if they didn’t know? High officials are always instantly bundled off to undisclosed safety at the first whiff of danger – tackled if necessary. The Secret Service is in instant and complete and legal control. Unless there was a deliberate stand-down, the Pentagon is the best protected building on Earth and there is zero way that a plane gets through those myriad missiles which ring the Pentagon and the 24-hr-on alert fighters &c.

            How are the naïve, thee & me, so easily duped? Well, there’s the RaceHorse Haynes Factor. 30 years or so ago, I was watching the Dick Cavett Show, like Larry King, but smarter, wryer. It’s important to this fable, this parable to remember that Dick Cavett had a Tom Sawyer, boyish, good American lad appearance. RaceHorse Haynes was a dashing famous superlawyer of the time. He was from Texas and oozed charisma by the bucket. One was, as I’m sure his juries were, spellbound. The shocking, nay shattering, point he made that has stuck with me all these years came when he said, “Dick, if you had murdered – minced —  your sweet old granny, I could guaranteed get you off in spite of ironclad evidence. You do not fit the unconscious inner picture that each juror has of what a murderer must look like. To them, you look too handsome, cute, baby-faced, blue-eyed to be a killer.

    “On the other hand, this gentle soul who has never so much as bruised a fly, if he has a certain dark and creepy look, they’ll convict him every time on the flimsiest evidence or no evidence.”

     So Karlsputin Rove and Ralph Reed and George Bush don’t look evil to the casual observer. And even Dick Cheney sounds all but irresistibly avuncular in person, so they say.

   The reason the Big Lie works on us sweet sheeps so effectively is that the words are spoken in the Form of Truth. (Like the demeanor of killer, we think we know what lying looks like.) I thought repeatedly for 15 years that my pathological Gambler friend was redeemed, cleaned up, telling the Truth this time because if I looked and acted like that, I would be telling the truth. He tells a seamless Lie better than I tell the truth. You believe the bastards because you’re not a bastard. (Well, you’re not that kind of bastard, dollface . .)

   Cynicism is not the response, tho it grows daily more flypaperly tempting. Alertness is. Trust but verify.

   What worries me now is the New Pearl Harbor booster-shot. (Note that this was written on July 4, 3 days before the London bombing but I didn’t send it because I was So DamnMad at You for not grunting at my latest droll email.) Clearly their Crying Wolf and the 'We’ll be greeted as Liberators like in the streets of Paris at the end of WWII' (dubya dubya 2) – the New Streets of Paris gambit – is wearing off. You beat the Fear Drum long enough and people just learn to live with that level of Fear. It’s clear we need a booster-shot of New Pearl Harbor. Remember the Enron-summer 2001, the Shrub poll numbers are being defoliated with the agent-orange of Enron/World Com. Boom.

   I’m worried that the pavlov’s-doggism — ‘beat the 9/11, New-Pearl-Harbor fear-drum’ and we’ll roll over for more narrowing of rights and stupid foreign wars and $14,000 a minute being spent on the fantasy Missile Nonsense — is wearing off in the citizenry. We aren’t drooling on cue and wagging our tails in time to the Star-Spangled Banner. The ied’s red glare and the rocket-propelled grenades bursting in air are smelling a tad too acrid for us to ignore even tho we aren’t allowed to view the star-spangled-banner-draped coffins forever silent of song.

     The “New Pearl Harbor” vaccination of fear is wearing off; I dread they will think we require a booster-dose in the ides of July or of August. Before or after the Supreme Court confirmation fight?

    Ye owls, mon prune de sucre, Mr. Griffin’s thesis was a growing chill hard to describe. I kept thinking I can’t really be hearing this not as an Something Awful joke. The chill seeped through my flesh, through my bones, into my marrow as if in the presence of something so undeniably not-mammal, not-Earth-born. On this one, I feel dropped down the rabbit-hole nothing but net.

   I bazookaed the info at the Housemate who went to his morning coffee folk who said, “You didn’t know that?”

   The amount of time the FAA and the Air Force had to react after the first plane was hugely more that the time that they have reacted 100 times a year to much less compelling alerts, not the once-in-the-last-two-years the 9/11 Commission claimed.

   Anyhow, wolfcake, there seem to be two main hypotheses still standing. I have been naïve, gullible, and ill-informed. Or Mr. Griffin is a lunatic full of crap.

   Well, they lied about the Gulf of Tonkin; they lied about the Maine; they lied about the WMD; and we should always remember what they did to Max Cleland. Max Cleland lost three limbs in Vietnam. Baby-Face Rove and Baby-Face Ralph Reed ran 200,000 Large bucks worth of tv ads with Max Cleland’s ‘mug-shot’ next to Saddam Hussein’s ‘mugshot’ – they nailed the traitor coonskin of Max Cleland to the Saddam Hussein wall and defeated him in the Georgia Senate race. They have no scruple, not one. No ethical pebble in their shoe. At least if you’re Already-Born.

   You in the juggerHummer’s path on the yellowbrick highway to Global Domination, you bug on the windshield or you roadkill, but you splat, and that’s that.

 

toujours et un jour, ami de ma vie

     o7.o4.o5  7 cane .Ben . Reed . East tzol 33 sunmon  2:34:02 a.pdt.us

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Visions of Karlsputin Frogmarching in My Head

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  Visions of Karlsputin Frogmarching in My Head 

 

   I long for someone in the Administration to out or plame Karlsputin Rove as the mastermind of pushpolling in Texas to insinuate that Gov. Ann Richards was a lesbian; and in the South Carolina primaries to say Mr. McCain was the father of a ‘colored baby’; and also past disgrace to disgusting having destroyed Max Cleland’s career by suggesting that he was ‘soft on Saddam Hussein’ with $200,000 of advertising in Georgia.

<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office” /> 

   Mr. Rove is an official with zero scruple – there is no scruple or ethical pebble in his shoe. Of course I suppose the reason why Karlsputin Rove couldn’t walk in Mr. Cleland’s moccasins is because Mr. Cleland who did go to <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Vietnam got both his legs blown off in combat and can’t wear moccasins any more. 

 

   You might object hither & yon that my acid remarks about Mr. Rove are ad hominem— but that would assume he was hominem rather lizardem. Anyone who euphemizes dead children as ‘collateral damage’ is lizardem to me.

 

I’m going to sleep with visions of Karlsputin frogmarching in my head. I  long to spring from my bed to see what is the matter. Away to the CNN I fly like a flash, I clik the remote and throw up the sash. And finally my teeth end their 5-year gnash, For Karlsputin’s being frogmarched Across the White House Grass.

 

Sometimes hallucination get you through the night . . . America’s dark night of the soul. 

 

 

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Planet Asylum .. hissing disbelief

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<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office” />planet asylum 

hissing disbelief .. rabbit:blackhole help!

    I’ve been toying with the notion that Ï might be going a tad mad? Staring at Goats? Overwork? Not enough oxygen down the rabbit:blackhole? Too much heat on my melon? Forget that noise. I am as sane as a water jug. I am as sane and placid and sturdy as a plain apple-green water jug. I am very sane — and ëxtrëmëly naïve.

    What I’m trying to say if I could figure out a way to say it is that you & me are boringly normal, reassuringly ordinary and familiar rather like a pair of comfy old slippers. Thêse Lîzard people, on the other hand, are hurricane insane, teeth-chatteringly, eyes-bulgingly, skin-crawlingly insane, Category 5 when all the roofs blow off. They are disguised as human beings. They are not. This is what trips you up, takes you in.

    Where to start on today’s Lîzard Exposé? Steinbeck, I suppose. I had this starry-eyed notion that art is cathartic, that artists might be brutish, nasty of word and of plot to make an icepick point or two, but that in actual life, they are at least bittersweet and rather roly-poly of soul, like me.When I found that Steinbeck had been writing LBJ to suggest even more excellent ways of maiming the enemy, I quailed. It’s 1984-&-½ — the rats are chewing off your face.

    These particular fricots are from the July 2005 Harper’s Readings, passim pp.13-28. (Do subscribe to Harper’s – it’s not a Rock of <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Gibraltar, there’s no ground left; but it is a raft in the seething Sea of Crazy.)      

    In the Galactic Councils when they consider lifting the Cosmic Quarantine of the Planet Asylum(as we are known), the Wise Old Turtle from Antares always — rather wistfully actually, he always longs for redemption – says one word, “napalm,” and they pass onto the next agenda item. Mr. Steinbeck, says LBJ to McNamara, writes him “from time to time . . . with an imaginative flair for war and its weaponry.” Oh good, that’s what that lambent gift, the imagination has been given us for: “What I suggest is a napalm grenade packed in a heavy plastic sphere the exact size and weight of a baseball.” A napalm grenade. “There isn’t an American boy over thirteen who can’t peg a baseball from infield to homeplate with accuracy. And a grown man with sandlot experience can do much better. It is the natural weapon for Americans.” He proprietarily and proudly dubs the napalm grenade, “the Steinbeck super ball.” Let’s ‘peg’ some napalm. I swear to gods, my synapses can’t take this boschian¹ stuff.

    I’m not telling you this to torment your reeling mind so much as to remind you to rejoice in your relative normality. I may be eccentricky, but I don’t even think about pegging napalm grenades, so in this equation I can be considered wise enough to say a thing or two.

   Ǿ So let’s proceed down the rabbit:blackhole of Malice in Wonderland.  Paraphrasedly, some European military intelligence reports say that some American physicians in Iraq are “extracting human organs from the dead and wounded. … The Europeans have noticed the absence of organs from the cadavers dealt with by Americans and have reported to their commanders, who instructed them to maintain silence and to avoid discussion of the subject due to its gravity.” The absence of organs from the cadavers. “Iraqi guides to dead and critically injured individuals are paid $40 for every usable kidney and $25 for an eye.” As a commentator remarked, “Y’might as well save them American rich people. A life is a life.”

  Ǿ From Kuttab al-Battar, a jihadist online manual, Exercise 3. “Suppose you are with the mujahedeen in the Philippines, and you are in the jungle, starving, with nothing to eat. You see a bright, colorful frog. Will you feel forced to eat this frog? Or will you waive this appetizing meal:)? Mention why it is possible – or impossible—to eat this frog. Answer: This frog cannot be eaten. Colorful frogs and very big frogs hiding on dry land are poisonous and must not be eaten. If you eat it, you will go to hell:). Better to stay thirsty than to drink poison only to wish your thirst and yourself farewell:).” These are the first smiley faces I have ever allowed out of my typewriter – have the courage of your convictions I say, don’t try to soften the blow – but the quirk of their being used here is so sublime that I couldn’t edit them out.

  Ǿ From Kathmandu, Nepal where unrest is ratcheting up,  “Clean socks command respect in our society, for there are very few indices by which we can measure prestige. The people living in impoverished districts cannot afford socks. They are a heavenly luxury.” Socks are a heavenly luxury and us oft-spoiled Amuricans ought remember that.

  Ǿ  Another tidbit mentions Wagner saying in essence that “the pursuit of power destroys love and leads to degradation and downfall.”  This relates to Mr. Griffin who exposes 9/11 complicities saying that we usually misquote the “Power tends to corrupt; absolute power corrupts absolutely.” The ‘tends to’ is deliberately missing from the second clause.

   Ǿ Now, my favorite soupcon from this Readings Section of Harpers July 2005. 68 million Chinese people who belong to the Communist party were asked to reflect on their short and strong comings online. (Hmmm, an interesting idea in a, er ah, democracy, no whoops I mean a communist country.) There are two I want to tell you, the second of which I’ll do a whole article on soon.

   § “I don’t take the pain of the people to heart. I don’t try to feel the will of the people. In March a migrant from the Three Gorges area asked me to give him a special permit to recycle scrap metal. Even though he had already come to see me four times, I still used all sorts of excuses to get rid of him. My determination to serve the people wholeheartedly was not strong enough.”

   § “I found it more practical to be humane, to give my staff higher income and benefits, and to solve their problems with housing, employment, schooling, and health care, than to talk about the usefulness of Communism.”

   I would only change a single word: “I found it more practical to be humane, to give my staff higher income and benefits, and to solve their problems with housing, employment, schooling, and health care, than to talk about the usefulness of Democracy.”


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¹ Hieronymous Bosch .. see pogblog's Glossary (left sidebar) and clik for illustrative pict.
 
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Woman Who Stares at George Bush Instead Of At Goats

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Note: This piece was written before the writer read Jon Ronson's book, Men Who Stare at Goats. I'd read this first if I were you, then pogblog's review of his terrific book. 

 

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The Woman Who Stares at GeorgeBush Instead Of At Goats .. A Militant Pacifist’s State of the Union address <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />. . . ToadSpawn, Be Gone ..

 

<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office” />Chapter 7 

    There is actually (reality, actuality; matter of fact, sober reality; truth &c; stubborn fact, hard fact; not a dream &c; no joke; be the case; occur &c; extant; afloat, afoot, prevalent; undestroyed; indeed; ipso facto) a military occult cadre in America who are paid by us taxpayers to stare at goats with intent to kill.¹  A very occult project this, so secret in fact that you might say it’s oc:oc:occult. The rest of this report is both interpretative and factual, but this basic staring-at-goats-gig fact exists on the Planet you walk on and upon which you eat your Cheerios. Tremble and be afraid, very afraid – you’re paying for these people, and they are loose.

    You are paying them enough to play golf more than once a week at Pebble Beach ($700 per round, not counting tipping the caddy), the most beautifullest golf course on the planet, teal-colored ocean views; white pelicans skimming the combers; velvety Bermuda-grass greens with duffer-flattering pin-placements; scrotum-tightening pleasure oiled in reminiscence by much Jack Daniels, a real guy’s drink. A real guy who spends his time when he’s not golfing or servicing the trophy wife staring at goats with intent to kill.

    Now, the goats’ friendly bleats have been surgically excised because it’s hard to concentrate on the glaring-to-murder a goat cheerfully bleating for a scratch behind the ears or a nice handful of molassesy grain (which the goats who aren’t reaped by the grim gazes are given by their sweet Keepers at night.)

    How bizarre the goats must find our species – they get death stares for 8 hours (It’s a job for the humans) while they mill, baffled, bleating earnest silence. Then at 5pm, the Starers put their uniform jackets (made in China) back on and button up the brassette buttons. At which point the tender and fondling and sweet-whispering Tenders arrive to whisk away the corpses and to give the remaining goats honeyed grain and alfalfa hay and cool cool water. What could a goat philosopher make of it all?

    I don’t decry psychic powers – I have quite a few of my own.

    But, dear reader, it never occurred to me not once to just stare at the Lizard-in-Chief, Mr. Bush, until – until boils do us part. Yeah, friend, as many eyes and teeth as George owes for, I just can’t do death. But if boils is good enough for God to job Job with, they’re good enough for me to do unto George. Amen and hallelujah, brother.

     I wish there was a Boils R Us store nearby so I wouldn’t have to work so hard at this boils thing. On my groaning plate, I’ve already got daily praying for The Rapture to occur – win-win, they’re happy to go, I’m happy they’re gone, hip hip hullabaloo. (My friend, Fuerta, says pilots should have to sign a sworn statement that they are not Rapture-Ready – suddenly pilotless² planes are a clear hazard.) Adding this boils-staring voodoo at our Scaly Leader is gonna seriously cut into my sloth, snack, and siesta time.

   Now, I only need two more of you with boils-erupting baleful gazes to join up so we can triangulate Mr. Bush with boils-wielding ridicule, BWR – if you ain’t got an acronym, what kind of weapons system are you really? FMD, for instance, Fantasy Missile Defense at $14,000 per minute. Now there’s a truly ridiculous notion that no one is sufficiently squawking about. How can citizens of a sane nation allow $14,000 per minute to be spent on a Fantasy Missile so-called Defense while we are paying fellow citizens $5.15 per hour, $206 a week – you live on that, pilgrim.

     I remember the supercilious William Buckley on Larry King a decade ago intoning in his inimitable pontifical mannered manner, “Wull, Larry, you ask that [African, Indonesian; Peruvian; Alabamian] peasant if they wouldn’t rather have that 35¢ an hour?” Wull, yes, Bill, while you’re silver-forking down your lobster thermidor — over nothing, the pesky starving will choose 35¢ an hour. But that’s the wrong question, Bill baby. The question is how would you like 35¢ an hour? That’s how you sort the ‘we are all humans of equal worth’ equation; that’s the ethical calculus – prince and pauper – I would trade places with you right now. I have sufficient courage of my pompously pontificated convictions that I, William F. Buckley Jr, would trade places with you right now. Justice is blindfolded and can’t tell you from this happy happy poor person reveling in the 35¢ an hour you’re so magnanimously offering, no doubt with a daily watermelon bonus and a free turkey at Christmas. The Knights of Ridicule can set a basic Boils Team on you too, Bill.

    My Martian philosopher-journalist friend, DanGero, from the South Mars Gazette, a cosblog linked to pogblog, said his 20 years in a human suit observing homo notso sapiens undercover was an assignment of hadal delight and of a five recent years revulsion so shuddering that Martian oneiro-shamans feared for his recovery of equilibrium and equanimity.

     “Part of your species is pleasant, even jolly, fun, quite generous. The 12ftTall Lizards Disguised as Human Beings Who Purport to Lead You are so empathy- and agog-impaired that my Martian friends who’ve never visited your Planet have voted for a 100% Quarantine of your planet’s sentient effluvium from cosmic councils; cosmic trade routes; from cosmic museums; cosmic libraries, the whole Big Shebang.

    “’How can they treat their fellow conscious beings so scummily?’ ask my Martian friends.

    “On Mars we have an ancient story of a unicorn whose hide is the shimmering colors of the rainbow. Where our unicorn passes, there is music in the air. And where her golden hooves fall, the grasses are not bruised.

   “It is with musical gentleness we are asked to treat our fellow creatures. The best way I could translate it perhaps for you Earthlings is Music unto others as you would have them music unto you.

   “On Mars we hear all the songs —  the stone’s song, the butterfly’s minuet, the sonnet of your soul. On Mars, your worth is weighed in the number of jokes you’ve invented.

    “We are not aura-blind as most of you Earthlings are. We see or grok the aurora borealis of your being as it plays its concertos of actions and reactions, its woven songs. We love the ambush of practical jokes and the fierce dueling of satires.

      “Your very real harshness to one another, however, your deafness to the other’s life song are so alien to us that most of us did ratify the Quarantine.”         

    When I look at DanGero, I hear him mostly in the tangerines and hyacinths of his liliacly lyrical soul. He’s helped train me to stare boils at GeorgeBush whose putative leadership sounds all static behind the clichéd bombast. “We are bewildered,” DanGero said, “by your exploitative hierarchies anyhow, but that you would allow someone to domineer you so unmusically is sick and senseless to us.

    “Advanced worlds in the cosmos no longer require ethical laws, we have aesthetic laws. We weigh and measure actions and value in units of comedy. That’s why I gave you that necklace with the silver dogtag with carpe comedy stamped on it, as a token, as a reminder of your Martian blood, pog, that you are steeped in comedy and songfulness.”

   My exile to Earth, my exile from song and mirth to deaf Earth had been part of the last desperate Expedition of the Healers Guild, the Clowns, to find a cure for GAC, the Greed and Creed soul-crippling condition, the epidemic of which had swept sweet Earth for 2000 years of arid desolation.

   In his latest visit DanGero had told me that since I had foolishly fallen so somersault and devil dance with an Earthling, I could never risk bringing the possible contamination  home again to the planet we do not call Mars, but Bylar, To Dance. That permanent exile from the laughing apple-sweet rivers of my home is, dear reader, a dazzling and damned story for another fire-light flickered night. Is what you dimly call love, the insane rage, the filigree of mad mirth he and I pitilessly feel with each other worth that exile? Filigreeis a dainty web of precious metal, an haunting elf song wrought into a tiny token, a lace of metal, a braille grail jewelry you could feel in the dark, that dark where all souls journey implacably alone sometimes, at times arranged by Fate’s deranged whim – that filigree to remind me in that doomed silence which may or may not end of our dread mirth which we dared, holding only each other’s hand over the uncalculatable abyss. So is it worth it, Digrif, my friend in obsidian mirth, my cruel ironist, this exile for which I paid my whole soul? Timelessness will tell.

    So back to the goats whose plaintive and silent bleats remind us we’re in a surkafka land where people will actually spend $14000 per minute on a Fantasy Missile Defense system when they could fund universal health care for their fellow citizens in the beloved community with those same funds, as an example.

   BWR. Boils-Wielding-Ridicule. Frankly, of course I would prefer long, slow skewered rotisserie over hell-fires death for the maggots-for-brains ghouls who rule us, but I have evolved in civilized past the mutilations-by-proxy which keeps them in the ‘excruciating bone-splintering pain to other people’s children’ business that they practice with lurid violence behind the veil of patriotic songs and tinnily noble sentiments which bring back no dead child’s laughter.

    So on the 4th of July 2005, The Woman Who Stares At GeorgeBush Instead Of At Goats begins her BWR, Boils-Wielding Ridicule campaign. The end of Mr. Bush’s pinocchioing nose is the bulls-eye prize target. If just two of you can join me, we can triangulate and cast our blessedly mumbo jumbo voodoo boils spells upon his lying nose, the Lizard-in-Chief who will not offer up his own children to the Worthy Cause.

      “Yankee doodle, stare it up/Yankee doodle dandy/Mind the music and the step/And with the stares be handy.”   

 

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¹I wanted to write this report before I treated myself to reading Jon Ronson’s The Men Who Stare At Goats. I saw him on CSpan a while back and he spoke of the stranger bubbles we can slide into and of the 12ft Lizards that one guy was convinced ruled the world. I had been on this Reptile angle for years and this seemed a nifty ratification in neon of the theme. I didn’t want to read the book until I wrote The Woman Who Stares At GeorgeBush so as to have free rein to channel that idea without fear of imitation. Jon Ronson did tell us that the goats’ bleats were removed. Mr. Ronson has no association with or responsibility for even a gnat’s eyelash of my version of things. I’ll do you all up a review when I read the book.

 

²For those three people in America unfamiliar with The Coming Rapture – the Gist of it is that all the people who Truly Take Jesus Christ as their Lord and Savior are going to be Raptured Up en masse into Heaven in their actual bodies, leaving the rest of us infidels to brimstonily stew in our own sulphurous juices down here. I can’t recall whether Trumpets Sound as The Rapture begins, but I’m pretty sure that the Heavens open. This Divine Hoovering is imminent, any day or year now. Thus planes being piloted by Born-Again pilots will suddenly be pilotless, cars driverless, trains will have empty locomotives. //There is doctrinal uncertainty about whether one’s teeshirt from Target or for the better-heeled Believer, one’s crisply-ironed, medium-starch blue shirt from Brooks Brothers will be Raptured Up with one? Likewise dental fillings? Should one dress for Rapture every day? I have no answers to these questions because believe me *I* a.m. g.o.i.n.g.  t.o. b.e. left behind. Not only do I not take JC as my personal savior, I distinctly and specifically reject the lad. Boy, when I was 32 years old, I thought I knew it all too. But I’ll never have Mel to make a Passion of Pogblog and pour bucket’s o’ blood over me. I never actually used the word prayer before because me ‘n the multi-verse(many-poem place) are pretty tight as these things go, but I have taken to praying that The Rapture will come asap so they can go and we can be left behind to get about making it a fairer and jollier world without all the tedious preachy nastiness. The Shortest Book on Earth is Jokes in the Bible. (By the way, I’ll reiterate that I could care less what comforting hallucination anyone indulges in if they don’t force it and its consequences down the throat of others. That’s what’s got me riled.)

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