Go figure, though give a guy credit for trying, and since it has worked in the past, why not trot it out again?
George’s people know how to frame an issue, even if the information enclosed by the frame is wrong. So it makes sense that Bush once again evoked 9/11 when talking about the need for the US to stay the course in Iraq, even though facts, not to mention events on the ground, belie his assertions that we are making progress and that the conflict is winnable.
The conflict is probably not winnable, not this year or next or five years down the road. Freedom and Democracy cannot be imposed from without. Freedom and Democracy must be earned from within. In the case of Iraq, with its historic ethnic and religious divisions, civil war may be the only way to earn freedom and Democracy.
I wish I knew what Bush means when he states that the invasion/occupation is “worth” the sacrifice of thousands of human lives. Worth it to whom?
How can we call our fallen, wounded or maimed for life heroes if their cause is not heroic?
Go figure. Whatever happened to the great California energy crunch? It was a major issue in the Davis Recall Campaign, a sure sign of Davis’s incompetence, but once Arnold swept into office, the crunch seemed to evaporate. Perhaps the real culprit was Enron and weak oversight by the Feds. Perhaps the crisis was manufactured by Republicans to wrest control of the state from the Democrats.
Go figure as well the national terrorist threat system of color-coded alerts. We heard plenty about that prior to the November 2004 election, but little since. Are we to conclude that the terrorist threat is lessened?
Hmmm. Somewhere, George Orwell is saying “I told you so.”
Wednesday, June 29, 2005
Thursday, June 23, 2005
The CTM Chronicles - Bar Row
The streets outside the base were dark and deserted. Narrow houses flashed by, small shops, a gas station, a shuttered convenience store where a neon sign blinked green and red. Chuck drove fast, like he knew where he was going, but when I asked him if he did he said this was his first sortie outside the base.
We bumped over two sets of railroad tracks and down a hill. Here and there a street lamp threw a pool of light. We passed a man pedaling a bicycle and one lone guy walking by the roadside.
As if following an internal homing signal, Chuck whipped the Toyota through the narrow streets, a sharp left turn, a hard right, then through an alley at white-knuckle speed and across an intersection in front of the Fussa train station. At this hour the trains were idle, but a line of taxi cabs waited outside the station, the drivers passing the time sleeping or smoking cigarettes.
Another right and we found our destination: Bar Row, as GI’s called it, a place that came alive when the sun went down, a place of shadow and mystery, a place prowled by American boys for thirty-five years, ever since the Japanese surrendered. By day Bar Row was completely unremarkable; only when night fell did the Row look like a place where any pleasure was possible, for the right price.
I didn’t know all this then, of course. That night, what was left of it anyway, I didn’t know a thing other than that I was dead tired and afraid that Chuck was going to kill us both.
Bar after bar, the symmetry broken only by an open air noodle stand or tea house: Sheba, the Golden Cock, the Spur, the Last Peacock, the Pink Pussycat, Nikita’s, Charlemane, Mespotamia, Bogart’s, and the Snowy Mountain Cabaret. Most of the bars had shut down, but the noodle stands were open and serving; I caught a quick glimpse of men in business suits hunched over steaming bowls.
We cruised slowly up one street and down the next. Garish neon light reflected off the wet street. “We’re not in Kansas anymore,” Chuck said. “Hey, here’s one that looks promising.” He parked in front of the Purple Rose.
Before we reached the door a short, tired-looking woman of indeterminate age was jabbering at us in Japanese and waving both arms. She pointed at Chuck, then me, then the Toyota, making it clear by her vehement gestures that we weren’t welcome and that the Toyota was parked in a No Parking Zone.
“OK, OK,” Chuck said. “No sweat, I’ll move it. But then can my friend and I get a beer?”
The woman shook her head. “No Americans,” she said in English.
“What do you mean, ‘No Americans’?” Chuck said. “My money’s good and I’m extremely thirsty.” Chuck towered over the woman by a foot and a half, but when he tried to go around she blocked his way. Looking right in Chuck’s face she said, “I call the police. You get trouble, big trouble, mister.”
Chuck stepped back and pulled a wad of American dollars out of his pocket, mostly singles, but he held it under the woman’s nose as if it represented a small fortune. “I want beer,” he said. “Here’s my money.”
Just then the door of the Purple Rose swung open and two beefy Japanese guys with flushed faces came out to see what was going on. Three other men were sitting at the bar. The guy nearest the door had a thin, unfriendly face and I interpreted the look he gave us as one of pure hatred.
“No Americans,” the woman repeated. “Japanese only.”
Chuck looked at the woman, at the two bouncers, and then, smiling broadly, raised his hands in mock surrender. “Hey, people,” he said. “It’s cool. No reason to create an international incident. We’ll boogie.”
We got back in the Toyota and pulled away. Chuck waved at the woman and the bouncers, all nice and friendly, while muttering, “You ain’t seen the last of me, motherfuckers,” under his breath. “No Americans. What kind of twisted bullshit is that?” Chuck turned down an alley and parked. “Be right back,” he said. While he was gone it started to rain again. My head felt as if it was about to explode; my eyelids scraped painfully across my eyeballs. A cat scampered down the alley. Rain drummed on the hood of the Toyota.
Chuck returned, soaked from the rain, and handed me a flower pot. “What’s this for?” I asked. “Just hold it,” Chuck said, jamming the Toyota in reverse. He stopped on the street opposite the Purple Rose and got out with the pot. “Bad idea, Chuck,” I said, knowing exactly what he was about to do, and that no word from me could stop him. He fired a perfect strike that shattered the opaque plate glass window. As we sped away I saw the man with the unfriendly face framed in the broken window.
We bumped over two sets of railroad tracks and down a hill. Here and there a street lamp threw a pool of light. We passed a man pedaling a bicycle and one lone guy walking by the roadside.
As if following an internal homing signal, Chuck whipped the Toyota through the narrow streets, a sharp left turn, a hard right, then through an alley at white-knuckle speed and across an intersection in front of the Fussa train station. At this hour the trains were idle, but a line of taxi cabs waited outside the station, the drivers passing the time sleeping or smoking cigarettes.
Another right and we found our destination: Bar Row, as GI’s called it, a place that came alive when the sun went down, a place of shadow and mystery, a place prowled by American boys for thirty-five years, ever since the Japanese surrendered. By day Bar Row was completely unremarkable; only when night fell did the Row look like a place where any pleasure was possible, for the right price.
I didn’t know all this then, of course. That night, what was left of it anyway, I didn’t know a thing other than that I was dead tired and afraid that Chuck was going to kill us both.
Bar after bar, the symmetry broken only by an open air noodle stand or tea house: Sheba, the Golden Cock, the Spur, the Last Peacock, the Pink Pussycat, Nikita’s, Charlemane, Mespotamia, Bogart’s, and the Snowy Mountain Cabaret. Most of the bars had shut down, but the noodle stands were open and serving; I caught a quick glimpse of men in business suits hunched over steaming bowls.
We cruised slowly up one street and down the next. Garish neon light reflected off the wet street. “We’re not in Kansas anymore,” Chuck said. “Hey, here’s one that looks promising.” He parked in front of the Purple Rose.
Before we reached the door a short, tired-looking woman of indeterminate age was jabbering at us in Japanese and waving both arms. She pointed at Chuck, then me, then the Toyota, making it clear by her vehement gestures that we weren’t welcome and that the Toyota was parked in a No Parking Zone.
“OK, OK,” Chuck said. “No sweat, I’ll move it. But then can my friend and I get a beer?”
The woman shook her head. “No Americans,” she said in English.
“What do you mean, ‘No Americans’?” Chuck said. “My money’s good and I’m extremely thirsty.” Chuck towered over the woman by a foot and a half, but when he tried to go around she blocked his way. Looking right in Chuck’s face she said, “I call the police. You get trouble, big trouble, mister.”
Chuck stepped back and pulled a wad of American dollars out of his pocket, mostly singles, but he held it under the woman’s nose as if it represented a small fortune. “I want beer,” he said. “Here’s my money.”
Just then the door of the Purple Rose swung open and two beefy Japanese guys with flushed faces came out to see what was going on. Three other men were sitting at the bar. The guy nearest the door had a thin, unfriendly face and I interpreted the look he gave us as one of pure hatred.
“No Americans,” the woman repeated. “Japanese only.”
Chuck looked at the woman, at the two bouncers, and then, smiling broadly, raised his hands in mock surrender. “Hey, people,” he said. “It’s cool. No reason to create an international incident. We’ll boogie.”
We got back in the Toyota and pulled away. Chuck waved at the woman and the bouncers, all nice and friendly, while muttering, “You ain’t seen the last of me, motherfuckers,” under his breath. “No Americans. What kind of twisted bullshit is that?” Chuck turned down an alley and parked. “Be right back,” he said. While he was gone it started to rain again. My head felt as if it was about to explode; my eyelids scraped painfully across my eyeballs. A cat scampered down the alley. Rain drummed on the hood of the Toyota.
Chuck returned, soaked from the rain, and handed me a flower pot. “What’s this for?” I asked. “Just hold it,” Chuck said, jamming the Toyota in reverse. He stopped on the street opposite the Purple Rose and got out with the pot. “Bad idea, Chuck,” I said, knowing exactly what he was about to do, and that no word from me could stop him. He fired a perfect strike that shattered the opaque plate glass window. As we sped away I saw the man with the unfriendly face framed in the broken window.
Monday, June 13, 2005
Trivial Seriousness
Another day
the heads on the tube
tell us what
we need to
know
The jury’s out on Michael;
the Runaway bride
returned home;
Angelina has the hots
for
Brad
Meanwhile,
Africa burns
glaciers melt
our tuna is
laced with
mercury
and our beef might
make us
sick
Serious about the trivial
trivial about the serious
Don’t trouble the masses
with the blunt
hard
ugly
unsettling
truth
They might get
angry
and
do
something
the heads on the tube
tell us what
we need to
know
The jury’s out on Michael;
the Runaway bride
returned home;
Angelina has the hots
for
Brad
Meanwhile,
Africa burns
glaciers melt
our tuna is
laced with
mercury
and our beef might
make us
sick
Serious about the trivial
trivial about the serious
Don’t trouble the masses
with the blunt
hard
ugly
unsettling
truth
They might get
angry
and
do
something
Sunday, June 05, 2005
The CTM Chronicles - Tokyo
Near the end of the third week of technical school in Wichita Falls, we were handed surveys that asked us to list all the places in the world where we might want to serve. It was a bullshit exercise, of course, because Uncle Sam was going to deploy us wherever he damn well pleased. The joke went, “If you select Germany you’ll get sent to Korea, and if you select Korea it’s a foregone conclusion that you’ll wind up in Germany.”
Chuck ranked his bases this way: Greenland, Guam, Turkey, Alaska, North Dakota, California, Italy and England.
I chose England, Italy, California, Spain, Hawaii, Oregon, Washington, and Maine.
On graduation day, sixteen weeks later, I opened my orders and learned that I was being sent to Yokota Air Base outside Tokyo, Japan. Due to an unexplained snafu in the mammoth Air Force bureaucracy, Chuck’s orders were delayed, as were the orders of my roommate, Michael Webb. Nonetheless, Chuck hosted a raucous “Freedom” party in his room that night. Around two in the morning we moved the party up on the roof of our dorm, where we took turns throwing empty beer bottles at a statue of some long deceased Air Force general. The Security Police rolled out after two rounds and we scampered back to our rooms, drunk and exhilarated.
I flew home to California the next day, fairly certain that I would never see Chuck T. Miller again. I wrote him a letter during my thirty-day leave, but never expected, and never received, a reply.
The days of my leave passed in a blur, and before I knew it I was in San Francisco, boarding a Pan Am flight to Tokyo.
It was evening and raining when I arrived, a steady drizzle that made the streets glisten. The Tokyo skyline was ablaze with neon signs advertising familiar names: Canon, Minolta, Fuji, and others that I would get to know soon enough: Kirin Beer and Suntory Whisky. The chartered bus crawled through heavy rush hour traffic, long lines of black taxi cabs, snub-nosed HINO delivery trucks. Pressing my face to the window I saw trains packed with passengers running on elevated tracks; I saw road signs that I could not read. The bus passed blocks and blocks of tall, narrow apartment buildings. Despite the steady drizzle, I saw men in suits peddling bicycles home from the train station.
By the time we arrived at Yokota Air Base it was late and my sponsor, Airman First Class Arthur C. Lee, the guy who was responsible for getting me settled in my new dorm, was no where to be found. At the newcomers center a sullen Senior Airman named Jenkins directed me to Temporary Housing. Handing me a base map, Jenkins said I’d have to walk because the shuttle busses had stopped running. I slung my duffel bag over my shoulder, picked up my suitcase, and went into the rain.
Around three o’clock in the morning I was awakened by someone pounding on the door of my room. Startled as much by the unfamiliar surroundings as the pounding on the door, it took a full minute before I got out of bed and staggered to the door. “Who is it?” I called.
“Security police,” a gruff voice said. “Open the door or we’ll kick it down.”
I unlocked the door and stepped back, just in case. Chuck and Michael Webb pushed through the door. Michael gave me a big hug, shook my hand, and fell across my bed and passed out. Chuck slapped my shoulder and handed me a can of beer. “Get dressed,” he said, “and I’ll show you the lay of the land. I’ve got a car.”
“What are you guys doing here?”
“Mike’s on his way to Okinawa and I’m here to do my duty for the Armed Forces Radio & Television Service.” Laughing, Chuck saluted. “Mikey’s been drunk for two days,” he said, pulling off Webb’s shoes. “Actually, we’ve managed to stay drunk for the past three weeks. C’mon, the engine’s running.”
The car was a Toyota Cressida with a crunched left front fender, the result of an accident Chuck had got into earlier that night behind the NCO club. The steering wheel was on the right side. The back seat was littered with empty beer cans, an American flag, and the latest edition of Playboy.
“Don’t mind the mess,” Chuck said, jamming the gear shift into first. “And before you ask I’ll tell you that a. I do not have a license to drive, and b. we are prohibited from leaving the base until we’ve been officially briefed on local customs, laws, and assorted regulations -- in other words, the same old Air Force BS, which is precisely the reason I am taking you for a whirlwind tour of downtown Fussa. By the way, the car belongs to your sponsor, Art Lee. The guy’s a winner. He’s going to be pissed when he sees that dent. But what the hell!”
Chuck slowed as we passed through the main gate, waved to the guard as if they were old pals, and asked, “Beer and women, which way?”
Chuck ranked his bases this way: Greenland, Guam, Turkey, Alaska, North Dakota, California, Italy and England.
I chose England, Italy, California, Spain, Hawaii, Oregon, Washington, and Maine.
On graduation day, sixteen weeks later, I opened my orders and learned that I was being sent to Yokota Air Base outside Tokyo, Japan. Due to an unexplained snafu in the mammoth Air Force bureaucracy, Chuck’s orders were delayed, as were the orders of my roommate, Michael Webb. Nonetheless, Chuck hosted a raucous “Freedom” party in his room that night. Around two in the morning we moved the party up on the roof of our dorm, where we took turns throwing empty beer bottles at a statue of some long deceased Air Force general. The Security Police rolled out after two rounds and we scampered back to our rooms, drunk and exhilarated.
I flew home to California the next day, fairly certain that I would never see Chuck T. Miller again. I wrote him a letter during my thirty-day leave, but never expected, and never received, a reply.
The days of my leave passed in a blur, and before I knew it I was in San Francisco, boarding a Pan Am flight to Tokyo.
It was evening and raining when I arrived, a steady drizzle that made the streets glisten. The Tokyo skyline was ablaze with neon signs advertising familiar names: Canon, Minolta, Fuji, and others that I would get to know soon enough: Kirin Beer and Suntory Whisky. The chartered bus crawled through heavy rush hour traffic, long lines of black taxi cabs, snub-nosed HINO delivery trucks. Pressing my face to the window I saw trains packed with passengers running on elevated tracks; I saw road signs that I could not read. The bus passed blocks and blocks of tall, narrow apartment buildings. Despite the steady drizzle, I saw men in suits peddling bicycles home from the train station.
By the time we arrived at Yokota Air Base it was late and my sponsor, Airman First Class Arthur C. Lee, the guy who was responsible for getting me settled in my new dorm, was no where to be found. At the newcomers center a sullen Senior Airman named Jenkins directed me to Temporary Housing. Handing me a base map, Jenkins said I’d have to walk because the shuttle busses had stopped running. I slung my duffel bag over my shoulder, picked up my suitcase, and went into the rain.
Around three o’clock in the morning I was awakened by someone pounding on the door of my room. Startled as much by the unfamiliar surroundings as the pounding on the door, it took a full minute before I got out of bed and staggered to the door. “Who is it?” I called.
“Security police,” a gruff voice said. “Open the door or we’ll kick it down.”
I unlocked the door and stepped back, just in case. Chuck and Michael Webb pushed through the door. Michael gave me a big hug, shook my hand, and fell across my bed and passed out. Chuck slapped my shoulder and handed me a can of beer. “Get dressed,” he said, “and I’ll show you the lay of the land. I’ve got a car.”
“What are you guys doing here?”
“Mike’s on his way to Okinawa and I’m here to do my duty for the Armed Forces Radio & Television Service.” Laughing, Chuck saluted. “Mikey’s been drunk for two days,” he said, pulling off Webb’s shoes. “Actually, we’ve managed to stay drunk for the past three weeks. C’mon, the engine’s running.”
The car was a Toyota Cressida with a crunched left front fender, the result of an accident Chuck had got into earlier that night behind the NCO club. The steering wheel was on the right side. The back seat was littered with empty beer cans, an American flag, and the latest edition of Playboy.
“Don’t mind the mess,” Chuck said, jamming the gear shift into first. “And before you ask I’ll tell you that a. I do not have a license to drive, and b. we are prohibited from leaving the base until we’ve been officially briefed on local customs, laws, and assorted regulations -- in other words, the same old Air Force BS, which is precisely the reason I am taking you for a whirlwind tour of downtown Fussa. By the way, the car belongs to your sponsor, Art Lee. The guy’s a winner. He’s going to be pissed when he sees that dent. But what the hell!”
Chuck slowed as we passed through the main gate, waved to the guard as if they were old pals, and asked, “Beer and women, which way?”
Friday, June 03, 2005
Shock & Outrage
Of late I've felt impotent as a citizen of the United States, a taxpayer, a voter. It troubles me deeply that the corruption and deception practiced by the Bush Administration goes on, unpunished. It sure as hell wasn't this easy when Clinton was president. Remember Whitewater and Lewinsky? -- those "scandals" dragged on and on, and Republicans talked like it was the end of the world. But very few Republicans seem troubled by the near daily deaths of Americans in Iraq. I can't tolerate the hypocrisy...
June 2, 2005
Senator Barbara Boxer
United States Senate
112 Hart Senate Office Bldg.
Washington, D.C. 20515
Dear Senator Boxer:
Inre: Bush Lies…Downing Street Memo…Lack of Outrage…Congressional Hypocrisy
I may be slow on the uptake, but if my memory serves, the United States Congress impeached President Clinton for lying under oath about a sexual dalliance with an intern. National security wasn’t threatened by the affair, and as far as I know, no one was killed, wounded or maimed by Clinton’s indiscretion.
Those of us opposed to the invasion of Iraq knew the conflict was bogus from the start, and now the Downing Street memo appears to confirm our suspicion that President Bush flat out lied to Congress and the citizenry.
And yet, in a display of hypocrisy and cowardice that will surely stand as a low point for Congress and the Senate, neither body appears to have the will to investigate the President’s lies; the cost to the United States in terms of soldiers killed or wounded; taxpayer money wasted; lost international prestige and trust; not to mention the horrific cost to Iraqis.
Despite the cheerleaders on the Fox Network, Iraq is headed for a protracted civil war and years of instability.
The decision to take the country into armed conflict is the most serious decision a president and congress can make and deserves rigorous, unbiased debate and an honest assessment of aims and ends based on verifiable facts. Any violation of this strict standard should hold serious consequences for the nation’s leadership.
The Bush Administration clearly lied about the need to invade and occupy Iraq. Why can’t we hold them accountable? Why is President Bush able to strut around, consequence free? Why are Rumsfeld and Cheney virtually untouchable?
June 2, 2005
Senator Barbara Boxer
United States Senate
112 Hart Senate Office Bldg.
Washington, D.C. 20515
Dear Senator Boxer:
Inre: Bush Lies…Downing Street Memo…Lack of Outrage…Congressional Hypocrisy
I may be slow on the uptake, but if my memory serves, the United States Congress impeached President Clinton for lying under oath about a sexual dalliance with an intern. National security wasn’t threatened by the affair, and as far as I know, no one was killed, wounded or maimed by Clinton’s indiscretion.
Those of us opposed to the invasion of Iraq knew the conflict was bogus from the start, and now the Downing Street memo appears to confirm our suspicion that President Bush flat out lied to Congress and the citizenry.
And yet, in a display of hypocrisy and cowardice that will surely stand as a low point for Congress and the Senate, neither body appears to have the will to investigate the President’s lies; the cost to the United States in terms of soldiers killed or wounded; taxpayer money wasted; lost international prestige and trust; not to mention the horrific cost to Iraqis.
Despite the cheerleaders on the Fox Network, Iraq is headed for a protracted civil war and years of instability.
The decision to take the country into armed conflict is the most serious decision a president and congress can make and deserves rigorous, unbiased debate and an honest assessment of aims and ends based on verifiable facts. Any violation of this strict standard should hold serious consequences for the nation’s leadership.
The Bush Administration clearly lied about the need to invade and occupy Iraq. Why can’t we hold them accountable? Why is President Bush able to strut around, consequence free? Why are Rumsfeld and Cheney virtually untouchable?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)