WalktheTalk Solution to the daily hell of poverty

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WalktheTalk Solution .. ToadSpawn, Be Gone! Appendix T 

  

    My solution is simple. Let each paid elected citizen-servant from the president to the mayor live on minimum wage and take public transportation for one week of each month for the duration of their term. You’re too important? Nope. Don’t like it? Don’t run for office. (By the way, there won’t be any hoarding Samuel Adams for the WalktheTalk Week. You drink what you can afford that week.) Hard on the kids is it? Yeah, well.

    How fast do you think our leaders would change the minimum wage and the frequency of trains and buses? Yes, within a year society would be magically transformed. (We could always start with using that pesky $14000 a minute 24/7 we’re spending on the fantasy Missile Crackpot Scheme aka StarWars.)

   WalktheTalk Week. That’s the solution. Let’s gander at a snapshot of the problem. As of 07.22.05, in Ciudad Acuña, at the Alcoa maquiladoras (assembly plants), you make $1.21 an hour according to Bill Tucker’s report on Lou Dobb’s Business Show. You work six days a week. You may be lucky enough to live in a really horrible hovel instead of a refrigerator cardboard box. (In 1999, Mr. O’Neill, Alcoa’s ceo, who went on to become Mr. Shrub’s Secretary of Treasury until the neocons over-disgusted him, ‘had exercised $33 million in stock options beyond his $3 million salary.’)

    No one can live on the meager (emaciated) wages the actual workers make, but, God be praised, you can go across the river to <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Eagle Pass, Texas and sell your blood for $45 a week for pin money. Alcoa says they are very “aggressive in cost containment.” Yep. Now, if you are a troublemaker and you don’t like this what-the-word-exploitation was invented for, they remind you that they can go to Honduras and pay the peasants there 65¢ an hour. Or Nicaragua for 41¢ an hour. And if they get uppity, there’s always Haiti for 30¢ an hour.

   The courageous work done by American unions in the 20th century which led to a greater middle class and the weekend has to be done all over again globally so the corporations which don’t give one fig seed about you, pilgrim, are forced to have a facsimile of a soul. A proto-soul. Requiring ceos to live on the lowest wage in their company and take public transportation for one week of each month, the WalktheTalk Solution, would fix things fast. Ideally your imagination should supply you with the empathy, but if not, the actual experience will treat you to a transforming insight. There is a direct relationship between your obscene heavenless eye-of-the-needle riches and the daily hell of their poverty. If it’s so acceptable, you do it. WalktheTalk.

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1 Cane . Ben . Reed . East  tzol 53  07.24.05 sun 8783§24d8h36m59s

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Protecting the Identities of Covert Agents .. “a circle of doubt”

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Protecting the Identities of Covert Agents  . .  .. ” a circle of doubt” .. if not a crime, a terrible wrong ..

    I transcribed (très tedious is transcribing) some of the stark and compelling unedited testimony of Patrick Lang, a CIA covert guy and a man who ran all the Dept of Defense Humint Services who is so qualified to speak on this subject that the list of his distinctions is a foot long. The text is below.  

   Well, friends, I am now immersed so deep in this FixedIntelGate matter that I see mistake after mistake by anchors and others. It’s amazing how ill-informed they are. I don’t expect them to have the info, but I do expect their producers and interns to get it. I realize now why the Lîzards have such an easy time injecting their JustPlainLies into their Talking Points, The anchors don’t know enough to challenge them.

   Today Byron Dorgan and Henry Waxman had the most extraordinary Protecting the Identities of Covert Agents ‘hearing,’ joined by  Louise Slaughter, Jay Inslee, John Conyers, and Charles Schumer, serious heroes all. It was not a proper subpoena-power hearing because the Reptilians, the Lîzards refuse to hold such a hearing. (Someone said ‘Where’s Howard Baker [Republican of Watergate,  independent of the Party Line] when we need him?’)

    There is so much to tell you, and my typing ain’t much and I’ve been transcribing in pencil on little sheets while the cats (both Burmese, silver Lucy Furr and chocolate Rowan) tramped on me. The hard part of the transcribing is letting the VCR play for a sentence, pausing, then rewinding as little as possible and then playing for the next sentence. But it’s <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />4:45am now and I want at least to try to get the main Patrick Lang stuff down for you. All of these people in the hearing were offended in their bones at the dark damage done to the clandestine services by these acts and non-acts of the Administration.

    Transcribed from video tape of the 07.22.05 CSpan coverage, Patrick Lang says, “What has happened in regard to this disclosure and its follow-up is a kind of structural assault on the ability of the United States to have sound and well-respected and effeicient clandestine intelligence services. [Paraphrase here: The enemies now have not much of a technical signature. There’s no overhead photography of them in a pickup. They’ve gotten cunning about no signal signature.] It’s all about humint (human intelligence). Humint [usually HUMINT but that gets tiresome to look at] is about human beings. One person, an American case officer causing some foreign person to trust him enough and his unit enough and the United States enough to put his life and his fortune and indeed his sacred honor into the hands of this case officer and the American intelligence unit that stands behind this case officer. It’s all about trust. It’s completely about trust.

    The moment in which some person whether he’s an ambassador or a Montenyard in the hills of Vietnam with filed teeth decides that he’s going to trust you enough so that he’s going to believe that you’ll protect him in every way in doing what he is doing which is extremely dangerous to him and his family and to everyone else is a magic moment indeed – it’s almost sacramental in a lot of ways really. And it imposes on the case officer and the unit behind him and the United States the kind of obligations that are as serious in some ways as the seal of the confessional.

     The obligation to protect this person is absolute in fact. It’s not only absolute from the point of view of morality, it’s absolute from the point of view of practicality as well. If when in a practicing clandestine intelligence unit, the case officers believe that their superiors will not protect the identity of their sources or their own identity in fact in doing things which are dangerous and difficult, then a kind of circle of doubt begins to spread like throwing a rock into the water and it spreads in such a way so that if an intelligence service that belongs to a particular country comes to be thought generally in the world as an organization that does not protect its foreign assets, then the obvious is true in that people are not going to accept recruitment, are not going to work for you, and the smarter they are, the better placed they are, the better educated they are, the less likely they are to accept recruitment and to work for you if they believe that you are not going to fight in the last ditch to protect their identities, and so this is all completely about trust.”

==

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13 The Road . Eb . Grass . Rattlesnake Tooth . South  tzol 52  07.23.05 sat 8783§24d8h36m59s

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NEVER Said That the Vice President Sent Him .. Joe Wilson Wronged

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NEVER Said That the Vice President Sent Him

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

I get so sick of hearing the press and the Lizard Talking-Points Bloviators say that Joe Wilson “lied” about saying that the Vice President sent him to <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Africa and that that's what Karlsputin was so virtuously “correcting.” 

 

Balderdash.

 

Over & over Mr. Wilson has said and this is straight from his What I Didn't Find In Africa NYT op-ed: “In February 2002, I was informed by officials at the Central Intelligence Agency that Vice President Dick Cheney's office had questions about a particular intelligence report. While I never saw the report, I was told that it referred to a memorandum of agreement that documented the sale of uranium yellowcake (a form of lightly processed ore) by Niger to Iraq in the late 1990's. The agency officials asked if I would travel to Niger to check out the story so they could provide a response to the vice president's office.” [my emphases]

 

Repeat after me: vice president's office .. vice president's office ..vice president's office ..

 

Repeat after me: The agency officials asked if I would travel to Niger .. The agency officials asked if I would travel to Niger .. The agency officials asked if I would travel to Niger .. 

 

Joe Wilson thought the question they wanted answered was serious and important.

 

It's so frustrating that these damn Big Lies such as this pernicious canard about the “Vice President” are allowed to perpetuate without challenge. The core of Rove's 'excuse' for talking to reporters simply is not true.

 

pogblog

 

You can read the whole actual Joe Wilson July 6, 2003 NYT op-ed piece.

 

For you to paste into your own blog or email:

http://query.nytimes.com/gst/abstract.html?res=F30D12F7355E0C758CDDAE0894DB404482&incamp=archive:search

 

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06:35:03a.pdt.us  12 Monkey . Chuen . Raccoon . West  tzol 51  07.22.05 fri 8783§24d8h36m59s

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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.

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

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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04:26:44a.pdt.us  11 Dog . Oc . Wolf . North  tzol 50  07.21.05 thur 8783§24d8h36m59s

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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.

=====

 

 

 

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 

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

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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02:21:11a.pdt.us  6 Serpent . Chicchan . East  tzol 45  07.16.05 frisat

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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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06:00:44a.pdt.us  4 Hearth . Akbal . Night . West  tzol  43  07.14.05 thur

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