Everyday Madness

Ordinary everyday madness, the DOW is up, the DOW is down, investors are wary, investors are jubilant, the recession is over, the recession is just beginning, racism is a relic of the past, racism is embedded in our DNA.

The eagle cries and the raven squawks, a caterpillar must run a gauntlet before it becomes a butterfly, water wears down rock, stupid is as stupid does; Texas Governor Rick Perry has a nice head of hair but before long his Jesus shtick will wear thin. Mitt Romney believes that every dime a corporation earns (steals, siphons, extorts, you decide…) ultimately returns to the people – yeah – Mitt said that on one of his campaign stops. Which people? How much dough does Wal-Mart return to its grunt line employees, the very same ones, mainly women, who are encouraged by Wal-Mart to apply for food stamps and any other government assistance for which they qualify? How slick is that? Are those the people Mitt is talking about? Mitt wants us to think he’s a regular guy, a can of Bud and a ballgame Everyman, but he’s a millionaire like most American politicians and his view is marred by gilded glasses. Mitt thinks the rich deserve everything they have no matter how they got it, just as he believes the poor are responsible for their own fate, their own poverty, their own ills, their own health care, their own college tuition.

In gleaming glass-enclosed Christian churches God wants you, me, every body, to be rich and blessed with a nice head of hair. But many are poor and many are balding, so there is a difference between what God wants and what God delivers. Money on the table, blood in the gutter, Woody Guthrie is trading his guitar for a pistol and Mother Theresa is sharpening a machete. Tempting fate yet again, the armadillo sets off across the two-lane blacktop, just another crapshoot, another turn of the deck, another roll of the dice. Few win, most lose, ageless, timeless, back to the garden and the fall, the primordial swamp, the Big Bang, the meteor shower. Don’t forget, Mr. Bigshot, that you lost your virginity to a 300 pound whore in Tijuana. You’ve come a long way since college: house, luxury car, stock portfolio, purebred dog, trophy wife, young mistress, lovely children and a cholesterol reading below 200. You the man! America has been very, very good to you and the gifts keep coming. Generous tax cuts and free airline miles, the complimentary first class upgrade with champagne and strawberries. Hotel maids earning minimum wage pay more Federal tax than you do. You’re one of the winners.

Ordinary everyday madness, garden variety, as common as bird shit on a statue. A woman in Florida drowns her infant in the bathtub; a man in Texas rapes his daughter because Jesus told him to; ordinary and mad, mad and ordinary, madness from the pulpit, madness from the judge’s bench, madness in the maternity ward and the Governor’s office. Only the graveyards are calm and serene. The captain of the cruise ship has gone AWOL in port and the ship is drifting on the outgoing tide. The passengers are oblivious and the entire crew is below decks, drinking pilfered booze from paper cups and dancing to Lady Gaga.

Summer is almost over.

Poem: The Elusive Lady

My muse is on vacation tonight
Or maybe she’s dancing close
With someone else
She comes and goes
Here today, gone tomorrow
The biggest tease I’ve ever known
I reach for her
My need urgent
The well is almost dry and the words
Refuse to cooperate
I need an idea that will grab me
And hold tight until the demon is exorcised
By words on the page
Come back to me, elusive lady
Play fair for once

Burning

London burns for three nights running
Bottled anger and frustration spills into the streets
Sirens wail, smoke billows, broken glass sparkles
In the firelight
Hopelessness is a powerful thing

Standard & Poor’s passes judgment on Uncle Sam
And the DOW freefalls
Why S&P is given any credibility after the role
It played in the mortgage fiasco of 2008
Is a mystery no one bothers to explain

All eyes focus on traders in Wall Street’s casino
Which way will they lean when the bell rings and
It’s gambling time again?

Sirens wail, smoke billows, broken glass sparkles
In the firelight
Hopelessness is a powerful thing

China – America’s banker -- lectures the US on austerity
The way the US once hectored Mexico, Brazil and Italy
To make “structural adjustments”
And let the market rule
Ironic advice from Communists

The proverbial banana has found a home in our crumbling republic
Land of the indebted and indentured
Students buckle under college loans and a low wage future
Families choose between medicine and food, clothing and gas
The long-term unemployed pray to a God as deaf
And indifferent as the politicians in Washington

Sirens wail, smoke billows, broken glass sparkles
In the firelight
Hopelessness is a powerful thing

Poem: All Guns, No Butter

America is all guns and no butter
Big, bad and broke
But never too broke to spend more money
On guns and bombs than China,
Russia, France, and England -- combined

We’re masters of the remote-controlled drone,
The F-14 and the A-10, the Apache attack helicopter,
And the Tomahawk cruise missile;
Under the banner of freedom and security
We kill “suspected militants” and deny civilian
Casualties

Here at home deliberate neglect is our weapon of choice
Roads and bridges and schools and libraries
Are allowed to go to seed
Another sign of government’s failure and
Incompetence;
The public pond is systematically
Drained
Then handed to profiteers as political
Payback

Captive children of the Market God
We would rather self-destruct than pay taxes
For services the rest of the civilized world
Takes for granted

We’re an empire in name only, a swaggering thug
Living off past glory and hoary myths
Repeated endlessly by a corrupt, gullible
And cowardly media:

“Tax cuts for the rich equal jobs for the poor.”
“The free market will regulate itself.”
“Social Security causes budget deficits.”
“The Taliban is a threat to America.”

While the clock winds down and the sun sets and
Night falls on the American experiment
Imposters and posers, fakes and frauds
Make a mockery of representative democracy
Under the majestic capitol dome
Common ground for the common good
Is trampled beneath the jackboot of ideology

And our more perfect union
Is dying a perfect
Death

The Eloquent Ankle Grabber

The news is full of details about the debt ceiling compromise reached in Congress and my BP is moving into dangerous territory. Breathe, baby, breathe. Most of the reporting in the mainstream media is sloppy, warmed-over BS passed along as truth or wisdom, neither of which can be found in Washington D.C. today. Let’s be clear: this manufactured crisis is a new low point in American politics, an insult, a slur, an epithet against the people. Today the New York Times repeated the fantasy that economic “catastrophe” has been averted, even though the deal was based on extortion from extreme members of the GOP. The Times also stated that no deal might have triggered a new “recession.” Huh? New recession? The only people who think we are not now mired in a recession are the big shots at Goldman Sachs, a few nitwit economists on the payroll of right-wing think tanks, and maybe the hacks President Obama takes advice from.

I have written several times before about Barrack Obama’s weak spine and teeny-weeny testicles, but this man of empty eloquence has outdone himself this time. To put it in blunt playground terms: Barrack Obama is a pussy. In the face of extortion, he caved; in the face of overheated rhetoric, he capitulated; in the face of a terrible plan that will have dire consequences for the country, he channeled Jimmy Carter and at the same time moved right of Richard Nixon. How the fuck he managed this bizarre contortion is beyond me, but he did. The cause of the deficit is inextricably linked to Republican policies of tax cuts for the rich, a stupid, endless global war on Muslim terrorists, and the financial implosion orchestrated by Wall Street bankers and speculators. Instead of mounting a ferocious counter-argument from the biggest bully pulpit on the planet, Obama meekly bends over, grabs his ankles and begs for more of the same: “OK, boys, give it to me harder this time. Ram it up there. Harder. Faster. Make it hurt so good.” My grandmother once told me that Richard Nixon had the instincts of a Mafia don; as much as I despised Tricky Dick, I have to admit that he would never willingly bend over and take it up the ass.

Obama is John Boehner’s bitch. Obama allows congressional Republicans to line up and piss in his face. This isn’t the hope and change I voted for in 2008. Obama has moved far beyond being a mere disappointment; he’s now a joke and a disgrace. Candidate Obama bears no resemblance to the serial coward and habitual capitulator that occupies the White House. Might as well elect Sarah “Shit-for-Brains” Palin or Michelle “Homosexuality-is-a-Sin” Bachmann in 2012 and crash the republic all at once rather than bit by bit. Watching Boehner and Eric Cantor and Mitch McConnell bitch slap Obama whenever they wish is painful. Why won’t the man stand up and fight? Does he really believe that there’s nothing he can do because the GOP controls one house of Congress – or is he, at bottom, a fellow Kool-Aid addict who believes that Republican prescriptions for the economy will help put people back to work?

Now that the burning question of the summer – will Harry Potter finally vanquish Lord Valdamort, save Hogwart’s and hook up with Ginny Weasley – has been answered, we need to find out who stole Obama’s soul and how we can get it back.

Voice Mail from Dr. Duke

July 24, 4:30 P.M. PST

Tanguay, answer the God-damn phone. Where the hell are you? I think I know what’s missing from your blog: sex. Think about it. What do people use the Internet for more than anything else? That’s right, sexual titillation. I’m talking porn, man, in every imaginable variety -- boy on boy, girl on girl, two boys and a girl, men abusing goats, women pleasuring themselves with dildos the size of baseball bats. Get the idea? Give people what they want. The Balcony is too fucking serious. Life is full of dire news, famine, war, pestilence, drought, murder, slavery, scandal, child abuse, earthquakes, tidal waves, death, death and more death. Why do you think reality TV is so popular? Because people need to escape the stifling confines of their boring lives by becoming absorbed in other people’s totally dysfunctional lives. Give up writing serious shit about serious subjects and become a porn impresario – that’s my advice. In case you’re wondering, I’m half in the bag. OK, more like three quarters. OK, three and a half. For the past hour I’ve been drinking tequila shots in the airport bar with a professional poker player. Least that’s what he claims. Weird, pint-sized guy, oversized head, small hands, very dark eyes, but a helluva drinker! Anyway, I’m in Vancouver, on my way to San Francisco and then Maui for a week of R&R. We’ll catch up when I get back. Do me a favor and stop by my house and check for squatters, particularly of the female variety. If you see a dark-haired woman who looks like a gypsy, run like hell. And remember, people want porn. Amen and good luck.

Downward Spiral

Deep into summer here on the Platinum Coast, long evenings with clear skies and the day’s heat finally abating, diffused sun falling through the eucalyptus trees. Tonight I am thinking about Hunter Thompson who put a pistol to his head six years ago and pulled the trigger. Dr. Thompson wrote – a full three years before Sarah Palin thudded on the national stage and proved his point beyond any reasonable doubt -- that America was locked in a downward spiral of dumbness.

All you need do is switch on the TV and watch the news for three minutes, white noise on every channel about the debt ceiling and the potential default by the world’s leading debtor nation. President Obama stands on one side, his weak spine barely holding him upright, while John Boehner and his Nazi lapdog, Eric Cantor, stand on the other. Nobody mentions that the debt ceiling crisis is wholly contrived and manufactured, a faux crisis if ever there was one, nothing more than blatant opportunism on the part of the GOP to further emasculate government, continue the rollback of basic entitlement programs like Medicare and Social Security, and score political points with anti-tax ideologues ahead of the 2012 presidential election. The BS is so thick and noxious on both sides that only a policy wonk can begin to understand the deal, but maybe all you need to know is that the debt ceiling was raised at least a half dozen times – without debate -- during the W. Bush junta.

For all their disdain of government and praise for “free markets” as the cure for every human problem, from toe fungus to cancer, I haven’t heard Boehner or Cantor offer to relinquish their government salaries, gold-plated health benefits, or guaranteed pensions as a symbolic gesture of austerity. When public servants in Wisconsin or Ohio or Indiana are demonized as the cause of budget deficits, stripped of their collective bargaining rights or forced to accept unpaid furloughs and pay cuts, Boehner and Cantor have nothing to say. Austerity is fine when it happens to someone else.

Slice it any way you want, hypocrisy is hypocrisy and Washington DC is brimming with it. The poor and the elderly and the unemployed must sacrifice, you see, lift themselves by their own shoestrings and learn to stand on their own while those with the most are exempt from any and all sacrifice.

The tables are rigged and the game is fixed. In America, the wealthy always get out of jail free and always pass GO on their way to the bank.

Downward into the swirling vortex, twisting, turning, spinning through icy air, past common sense, past moderation, past compromise, past empathy for the less fortunate, past sympathy for the unlucky, past forgiveness for the damned, past overflowing jail cells, past cemeteries, past toilets clogged with shit, past troughs filled with piss, past denuded forests, past polluted lakes, past windowless factories, past the truth, past popes and cardinals and bishops, and past corporate chieftains perched on golden thrones.

What does it mean? Everything. Nothing. The sun drops behind the eucalyptus trees. The smell of lighter fluid drifts on the evening breeze. A man and a woman argue in Spanish. Far off a Southern Pacific freighter rumbles through town.

Short Fiction: Last Call

Repko’s wife drained her wine glass and gestured to him for a refill.

Take it easy tonight.

Fill. It’s the only thing that dulls my pain.

What pain is that?

Being married to you, for one thing.

Really?

It’s not what I dreamed about when I was a little girl.

You think you’re a picnic?

Fill.

I wanted better for myself, too, you know? I had dreams, aspirations even.

The only dreams you ever had were wet ones. Fill ‘er up.

You’re a mean drunk, Valerie. You used to be a kind person, but now you’re just mean. What happened?

What happened? Shit happened, that’s what. You happened. My crummy job happened. More shit happened. Shit, shit and more shit. It’s all shit, a great big stinking hill of shit.

You’re very negative, Valerie.

Well, I have reason to be.

Your aura is cloudy.

What do you know about auras?

I know more than you give me credit for. Believe it or not, I’m connected to my spiritual dimension and I know a cloudy aura when I see one. Yours is cloudy, like there’s a dust storm swirling around it.

You’re full of shit. Shit’s coming out of your ears. I’ve never heard anything more ridiculous in my life. Fill!

Repko started to uncork the bottle but then thought better of it and smashed it down on Valerie’s head, something he had fantasized about doing for years. The sensation that ran up his arm was even more satisfying than he had imagined. Surprisingly, the bottle didn’t shatter. Valerie fell backwards. Her eyes rolled up in her head and her mouth opened as if she had one final thing to say, but nothing came out except a grunt. Rivulets of blood rolled down her face.

Repko uncorked the bottle, filled Valerie’s glass, and offered a silent toast to his now dead wife.

Star Spangled Nightmare

It’s the 4th of July and part of me feels compelled to write something high-minded about America. Land of the free, home of the brave, 1776, beacon of liberty -- all that stuff. Yes, take the exalted path and pen something in praise of the birth of a free nation, steeped in the principles of the Enlightenment. John Adams, Thomas Jefferson, George Washington, John Hancock, a few of the fabled founding fathers that Michelle Bachmann always refers to in her speeches to Tea Party faithful – as if to say: if we only return to the time-tested values of our white fathers, all will again be well.

Today the star spangled banner will play from thousands of loud speakers, Gob Bless America will be sung in ballparks and arenas, hot dogs will hiss on BBQ grills, bands will march…

Damn it! Why is a vision of a leering George W. Bush slipping across my mind? Why is Dick Cheney sinking his teeth into Jefferson’s neck? Why is that skinny bitch Ann Coulter flashing her insipid tits at John Adams? Am I losing my mind? Am I having a waking nightmare? Is this what psychosis feels like when it finally takes hold?

Wow! Where did that come from? It was like 2003 all over again, when Dick and W ran roughshod over the Constitution and lied through their teeth about the need for America to invade and occupy Iraq. But it’s better now, right, and if the Founding Fathers are gazing down on this fruited plain, surely they are smiling?

OK, maybe not. Washington is teary-eyed and Jefferson is livid with rage, John Adams can’t believe what has become of America, and John Hancock simply mutters, “Bastards, bastards, bastards” over and over. The venerable Founders look at the current Congress, aghast that a single great leader cannot be found beneath the dome. Instead they see a house filled with clowns, idiots, shysters, fools, pederasts, homophobes, morons, perverts and criminals, all of them grubbing for money from corporate lobbyists and shilling for wealthy donors. Of the two political parties, one is in thrall to a failed ideology and the other is craven and intellectually bankrupt. Meanwhile, the president is a serial coward who repeatedly raises the white flag and flees the battlefield before the first shot is fired.

And the people, the good, decent American people that Mitt Romney and Bachmann and Newt Gingrich and Rick Perry are always droning on about, how are they getting on? Not so well. Many are running scared in the face of a bewildering economy that serves the few on the backs of the many, swimming in debt or waiting to lose their homes to the maw of a pitiless foreclosure machine. The cost of living rises but decent jobs at living wages are harder to find than a moderate Republican, and the playing field that once made sense and held promise is now tilted against wage earners.

Washington, the military hero, cannot fathom how easily the nation commits its sons and daughters to murky wars in distant lands, and how little sacrifice is asked from the people, and how these wars go on without end, long after the rational for them expires. The military generals cow the politicians and in turn the politicians frighten the population with predictions of dire consequences should our soldiers come home before the mission is complete. The huge footprint left by the American military colossus on the globe – particularly in places where oil is found -- tells Washington that something besides national security is in play…

Whoa, man, this is getting heavy. Don’t be such a downer. What about fireworks and cold beer, juicy hamburgers, and American flags snapping in the breeze? Don’t stress about the economy, distant wars, political gridlock or the fact that the FBI and the NSA spy on us. Forget all that dark stuff. Crack a cold Budweiser and stick your head in the sand. Now you’re behaving like a patriotic American.

Fly, Redux

Note: Fly made his first appearance on the Balcony on April 15, 2011.

Greetings. Fly here, still stuck in our nation’s capitol where the people are truly cuckoo. After my experience in John Boehner’s office, all I wanted was to return to the suburbs of Northern Virginia and the simple joy of stalking backyard BBQ’s.

One thing I’ve learned about DC: it’s easy to get in and hard to get out, which might explain why some of these political hacks remain for decades.

Anyway, I was buzzing along K Street, waiting for a prevailing breeze to carry me to the burbs, when I passed an open window in a nondescript office building where the odor of junk food was overpowering. I ducked in for a quick peek and saw this rotund gentlemen (OK, the truth is, he was a fat slob, at least 290 pounds) eating lunch at his desk. And what a feast it was: two Big Macs, French fries, king-size Dr. Pepper, a half pound bag of peanut M&M’s, and a vanilla shake. Nirvana! I dived, flew a tight loop around the shake, and then made a perfect landing on the French fries. The fat man paid no attention to me because he was looking at porn on his computer.

I dined slowly, savoring every delicious morsel, while the fat man gobbled his burger and watched two Asian women do things to each other that I dare not describe. And people think my kind dirty and disgusting! When the fat guy began fumbling with his belt buckle I flew to the far side of the room… As much as I love French fries, there are some acts I can’t be witness to.

My host quickly minimized his computer screen when there was a knock at the door and a man poked his head into the office. “Wassup Greg? Hey, French fries!”

“Help yourself.”

The newcomer’s name was Mark and he was as skinny as Greg was fat. Mark helped himself to a handful of fries and settled in a chair, all arms and legs, elbows, and an Adams apple the size of a golf ball.

“Is that a Dr. Pepper? I’m thirsty.”

“Mitts off. What time are you meeting with Senator McConnell?”

“Three-thirty. What you got for me?”

Greg cleared space on his desk. “OK, first thing is to remind the Senator that American Millionaires for Fair Taxation support the GOP’s efforts to revive the economy by cutting spending on wasteful entitlement programs – “

“No,” Mark interrupted. “The first thing is to remind the Senator of all the dough we’ve contributed to his re-election campaigns and those of his pals. OK, proceed.”

“Right. AMFT also supports further tax cuts – corporate and individual – because everyone knows that Americans are overtaxed. We’re encouraging our contacts at the New York Times, the TV networks, and the business press to print or air stories about the struggles of wealthy Americans. Average people don’t appreciate how stressful being fabulously wealthy can be. It’s not easy to maintain seven houses, a private plane, a helicopter, a fleet of BMW’s, a string of polo ponies and a private petting zoo.”

“Absolutely correct,” Mark said, stretching his long legs and helping himself to more fries. “Not to mention how hard it is to find decent domestic help. The wealthy are carrying the burden of jump-starting the economy and should therefore be rewarded for their heroic efforts. Good angle. I’m sure Senator McConnell will be happy to carry our message to his colleagues. Can we book him on Face the Nation?”

“Piece of cake, buddy. We control that agenda. M&M’s?”

OK, my friends, I’m on the wall thinking, OMG, WTF, again with this Kool-Aid? Is everyone in this town insane? Do they ever get outside the bubble and rub shoulders with real people? When have tax cuts for the rich ever produced jobs for the poor? I’m just a common, insignificant fly, but if I can understand how spurious that idea is, why can’t you?

“We’re also launching,” Greg continued, “an aggressive billboard campaign in selected cities. Check this out: photo of a man with blueprints tucked under his arm in front of a new office building, with the caption – ‘I’m a producer. I’ve earned my tax relief. Have you?’”

“Brilliant,” said Mark, helping himself to more M&M’s. “What else?”

“’Entitlement programs only produce debt.’ We’re thinking the photo will be of a fire hydrant spewing red ink.”

“Hunky-dory,” Mark said, unfolding his long body from the chair. “Keep producing this wonderful crap. God help us if the voters ever wake up and realize they’ve been fleeced. It will be like Greece, only ten times worse.”

“No chance,” Greg said. “Voters are irrelevant. Fist bump, dude!”

Before I flew out the window I crapped on Greg’s French fries. Take that, fat man! I should have jumped on the wind and gone straight to the burbs but I wasn’t through with DC yet. Somewhere in this former swamp there had to be someone who understood that the American people were being mugged by their elected representatives on behalf of plutocrats and vicious ideologues, and I was determined to find that person.

Fly will be back!

Satire: War is Hell

Senate Intelligence Committee Hearing Room, Washington D.C.

Members of the Committee file in and take their seats behind the dais. A few moments later, David Petraeus, incoming CIA Director, sits down at the witness table. Although he will soon be a civilian, Petraeus wears his dress uniform.

Dianne Feinstein (Democrat, Chairperson): Thank you for taking time out of your busy schedule to meet with us, General.

DP: No problem. War is hell, ladies and gentlemen, but our brave warriors carry on.

Saxby Chambliss (Republican): Amen, General. How’re things going in Afghanistan?

DP: We’re taking the fight to the enemy, hitting him hard where he lives and breathes; we strike fear in his women and children and make his animals cower at our feet. I think it goes well and I believe we can secure the country by 2024.

Daniel Coats (Republican): That’s fantastic news, General.

Ron Wyden (Democrat): General Petraeus, I don’t mean to rain on the parade, but we invaded Afghanistan in 2001, and you’re telling us it will have taken 23 years to secure the country by the time we’re done.

DP: You’re not a military man, Senator. You’ve never tested yourself on the field of battle against an enemy intent on blowing your brains out. You’ve never eaten MRE’s for weeks on end and crapped in an open latrine in a hailstorm. Al Qaeda has a foothold in Afghanistan, and is aided and abetted by the Taliban. Together, they are a formidable enemy, as cunning and merciless as any fighters in the world.

Ron Wyden (Democrat): How many Al Qaeda fighters do you estimate are in Afghanistan, General?

DP: Last time I checked there were 12. We may have taken one or two out since that point in time.

Ron Wyden (Democrat): Do you mean 1,200 or 12,000?

DP: No, I mean 12, as in a dozen, although, as I said, we may have taken one or two out during night raids.

Ron Wyden (Democrat): Let me make sure I understand…in all of Afghanistan there are maybe a dozen Al Qaeda operatives? How many US troops does it take to contain 12 Al-Qaeda fighters?

DP: A minimum of 100,000, not counting contracted support forces, CIA agents and private mercenaries. Don’t look so surprised, Senator. As I told you, these Al-Qaeda fighters are devilishly clever. I’m convinced some of them have invisibility cloaks like in the Harry Potter movies.

Daniel Coats (Republican): Let’s shift gears for a moment and talk about President Karzai…what’s you impression of the man, General?

DP: Well, it’s clear that most Afghans despise him and his family, and that he’s up to his eyeballs in the opium trade. He lies, he schemes, he cheats. He’s hopelessly addicted to smoking opium, totally unreliable when the going gets sticky, in short, the kind of tinhorn strongman the United States has always supported. Karzai can be sanctimonious when it comes to civilian casualties, but overall, not a bad guy. I’m encouraging him to take up golf.

Daniel Coats (Republican): Shifting gears again…what about Pakistan?

DP: A nation of two-faced liars and thieves. They take our military aid with one hand, support the Taliban and Al-Qaeda with the other. I curse them all. I’d like to put 150,000 combat hardened troops on the ground in Islamabad and teach those lying rag-heads a lesson they will never forget.

Saxby Chambliss (Republican): Well said, General, my sentiments exactly.

Dianne Feinstein (Democrat): General, some Americans have expressed concern about the cost in lives and money in what seem to be perpetual wars. How do you respond to these concerns?

DP: I don’t. War is hell. Get used to it.

Ron Wyden (Democrat): Give us a sense of what is going on in Iraq.

DP: The flower of Democracy is definitely taking hold in Iraq. When necessary we take the fight to the enemy, hit him hard where he lives and breathes; we strike fear in his women and children and make his animals cower at our feet. If the current trend continues, our troops can come home in 2085.

Daniel Coats (Republican): That’s fantastic news, General.

Ron Wyden (Democrat): Out of curiosity, what duties are American forces in Iraq performing?

DP: Our brave warriors stand on guard against undesirable elements in Iraqi society. Other than that, they spend their time playing softball, tennis and soccer, all indoors in air-conditioned comfort, of course. We’ve spared no expense to make our brave warriors comfortable.

Saxby Chambliss (Republican): Would you also call them gallant?

DP: I would. OK, ladies and gentlemen that’s all the time I can spare for you today. If you’ll excuse me, I have a lunch engagement with Sarah Palin.

Confidants

Huma Abedin is standing by her husband, Anthony Weiner, while Weiner battles to salvage his political career, though unlike many other political wives in recent years, Huma’s not standing anywhere near Anthony. Her support is of the low profile variety.

Huma works for Hillary Clinton at the State Department, and is said to be one of HC’s most trusted advisors. When it comes to dealing with a lying, cheating, scofflaw husband, who knows better than Hillary? One can easily imagine the older more experienced Hillary offering solace to her shell-shocked aide.

“Men are pigs,” she might say. “Especially men who also happen to be politicians. They treat their marriage vows like campaign promises: easy to make, hard to keep.”

“I feel stupid,” says Huma. “He swore he was done catting around on-line and I believed him. I believed him! I was clueless!”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself, Huma. Now, now, shhhh, don’t cry. Our men are of a particular breed. Like Bill, Anthony can be charming, persuasive, suave, and sincere. Oh, the sincerity! I knew Bill was messing around on me long before the Monica story broke, primarily because he was skipping around the West Wing with a permanent hard-on, but even though I had seen that telltale energy many times before, I believed him when he looked me square in the eye and denied there was something going on. I know what you’re going through, it’s a terrible blow, but you can survive it. You will survive it.”

“How did you do it, Hillary?”

“First of all, I exacted revenge, that’s very important. Don’t listen to any BS about forgiveness and putting the incident in the past. My past with Bill was littered with cocktail waitresses, secretaries, interns, hotel maids, other men’s wives, etc. Lewinsky broke the camel’s back. I told Bill in no uncertain terms that my support came with a high price tag. I made that man crawl on his knees.”

“Can I ask you something? If it makes you uncomfortable you don’t have to answer… “

“Huma, dear, after what I’ve been through, nothing makes me uncomfortable except being in the same room with Newt Gingrich. It’s about the cigar, right?”

“How did you know?”

“Woman’s intuition. Yes, the little bitch rode that Montecristo like it was a stallion, up, down, in, out. I’m sure Bill was fascinated. It was like going to Bangkok and watching the whores shoot ping-pong balls from their VJ’s.”

“They really do that?”

“Oh, Huma, you’re so sweet and innocent. Take my advice, go home and treat your husband like a dog for the next eighteen months. Exact ten pounds of his flesh.”

“Thanks, Hillary.”

“OK, I’ve got work to do. The Libyans are pissing me off. Dictators are complete assholes.”

“That’s because all of them are men,” says Huma.

Control Thy Weiner

Enough already, Good Morning America. Weiner-Gate is a non-story that you and your breathless correspondents keep dressing as a major “scandal.” It’s not, except as the details pertain to Mr. Weiner and his wife. OK, granted, the congressman from New York might be a little weird and a lot lacking in self-control and common sense, he might be an inveterate pussy-hound or an incurable narcissist, but his offense is hardly as egregious as sending young Americans to fight and die in unnecessary foreign wars or using taxpayer dollars to host orgies with underage hookers in the Presidential Suite of the Ritz-Carlton hotel.

Are Weiner’s constituents – the people who voted him into office – the ones clamoring for his resignation? No. The clamor is coming from talking heads and the Democratic Party power structure and Weiner’s colleagues who are now petrified to associate with him.

Nobody wants to hang out with a leper.

The Democrats are afraid of being embarrassed by one of their own, when they should be embarrassed by how cravenly they act and how quickly they cave in the face of right-wing pressure.

Of all the shit going on in America at this moment, why is our media totally absorbed with this pedestrian story? Husbands cheat on wives every day. Porn is a multi-billion dollar business. Sex sells cars, beer, cell phones, deodorant, shampoo, yogurt, clothing and jewelry. Facebook, Twitter and MySpace are the next best thing to sexual carnivals. Hey, ruling class, let’s get fucking serious here. Do something about the devastating foreclosure crisis that shows no signs of tapering off; do something about the scarcity of full-time jobs at better than McDonald’s wages; do something meaningful about climate change; do something about the grotesque disparity in wealth that is making America look like a Third World country; do something to bring the endless treasure-sucking American occupations of Iraq and Afghanistan to an end. Stop jabbering about “deficits” and “tax relief” for the wealthy; at this point, deficits have no business being the country’s number one priority. As for the very wealthy, they’ve been sucking at the public trough long enough.

But most of all, gilded and out of touch rulers, stop masturbating over Anthony Weiner and get down to real business before the unemployed and the hopeless surge into the streets and what remains of the National Guard is deployed to restore order.

This Bud's for You

Watched Game 2 of the NBA Finals, Dallas at Miami, Dirk Nowitzki and friends against the Dream Team with the Big Three: King James, D-Wade, C-Bosh. Hometown fans in white t-shirts, courtside seats occupied by attractive women, an overblown introduction of the home starting five just before tip-off, with pyrotechnics and pumping music.

Broadcasters for ABC/ESPN hype the game from all angles. Can the Maverick bench respond and contribute? Will Dirk’s finger injury be a factor? What should we look for from the Heat Magic Johnson?

The Heat dominated for most of the contest, James and D-Wade slicing, slamming and jamming to a big 4th quarter cushion, but the gritty Mavericks refused to fold and in the end, found a way to win.

Sandwiched between the B-Ball action are the commercials, targeted for consumers of beer, cell phones, cars, fast food. One Budweiser commercial showing a young soldier in fatigues coming home to a surprise party in an old barn ran several times. This Bud’s for you, glad you made it home in one piece. A hug from a brother, a kiss from a teary-eyed girl – cue the music, yank the heartstrings; this is what America is all about. Support our brave troops – run out and buy a six-pack or two.

Yesterday was a day for it, I guess, hard on the heels of Memorial Day. Standing in line at the post office in the morning I saw an ad about special mail rates for military members. Later, when I tuned in to watch the game, two soldiers were being feted by the Miami Heat – two more heroes, home from the wars; one female, one male, both black.

In the commercials and the pre-game ceremonies our soldiers are always heroic paragons of self-sacrifice who fight long wars in far away countries against implacable enemies so that the rest of us can sip beer, upgrade our cell phones, buy new cars and eat fast food. No mention, of course, is ever made of those soldiers who return maimed, broken, psychologically destroyed, or crippled. Nor is any mention made of civilian casualties in the countries where our heroes have been deployed.

Dress a pig in army fatigues and most Americans would stand up and salute. As our politics has become more and more corrupt, and our economy tilted in favor of the haves at the expense of the have nots, as we deny the logic and evidence and consequence of climate change, as our infrastructure crumbles, as high unemployment persists, the more we celebrate our warriors, the power of our killing machines, and our inherent right to unleash the dogs of war whenever and wherever we see fit.

This national obsession with military might is common to dying empires that refuse to recognize that they are dying. To prove to the world that we are still as bad-ass on the battlefield as Lebron James is on the hardwood, we manufacture new threats, new enemies, new rationales for invasion and occupation, and, tragically, we devote more and more of our resources to these foolish efforts.

And our most renowned corporations cloak themselves in patriotic garb as they sell us stuff we do not need.

Graduation Day

Sunshine all over the American Riviera, sea glittering sapphire, roses in bloom, grapes hanging heavy on the vine.

It’s graduation day for hundreds, sixth grade to junior high, junior high to high school, high school to college. White chairs in neat rows on the grass in Peabody Stadium. Anticipation for the march in cap and gown, for one’s name to be announced over the PA system, for the cheer to rise up from friends and family, anticipation for the next step, for the beginning of the road, for the class trip to Disneyland, anticipation for the long days of a carefree summer, for liberation from mom and dad, duty and convention, rules, restrictions.

Mylar balloons, still and video cameras ready to go, house full of relatives all itching to freeze the moment in time, something the kids can’t yet understand. Hold onto to seventeen, eighteen, fleeting youth and unbridled optimism, that sense of invulnerability, as long as you possibly can. Listen to Lady Gaga, respect your youth, be yourself, love who you are. Don’t listen to the old farts yet; they had their shot – now it’s your turn. Claim your inheritance no matter how minor. Play, goof off, slip into a new identity every other week, sing at the top of your range, trace your beloved’s footprints in the sand. Sleep under the stars as often as possible. Skip stones across lake or stream, jump in puddles, eat pancakes for dinner.

The world is out there, waiting for you. You’ll find no shortage of windmills to tilt at, though take the road anyway, see where it leads, leave home and come back, run to stay in place, chase whatever mirage makes you happy. The world is patient, time masquerades as an ally when you’re young and your heart is invincible and your teeth are white and your skin is supple.

Read the great philosophers, read billboards, read comic books, read and save every fortune from every fortune cookie; plant flowers; swim naked; ride your bicycle with no hands; party all night; remember mother’s birthday.

Milestones and markers, signs and portents, omens and premonitions. Claim it. Own it. Your turn and time, Generation Now, speeding through the galaxy, where the fake, the staged and the contrived might be more real than the real thing. Find out, return to tell the tale, conjure a memory of places you’ve never been.

What did Paul Simon say? “Every generation throws a hero up the pop chart.”

It’s evening now and a gusty wind asserts itself, whipping across the empty stadium, where the white chairs are folded and stacked; the graduates have scattered.

Fiction: Legal Tender

In the money universe I am a grunt, common and run-of-the-mill, printed by the millions, cut, stacked and bundled, sent to Federal Reserve banks and then dispersed into the world. I doubt very much that you have ever given me a second thought or considered that I might have feelings, dreams, desires and hopes. I don’t blame you for this.

The single. The buck. My life expectancy? Eighteen months, on average. But let me assure you that a month in the life of a dollar bill passes like a year. My kind travel non-stop, hitching rides in pockets, purses, wallets and backpacks, never in one place for long. As crisp, clean freshly printed dollars many of us dream of cozy piggybanks where we can remain in one place, conversing with our metallic cousins -- pennies, dimes, nickels, quarters and the occasional half dollar – as well as the fives and tens and twenties received from relatives in birthday or Christmas cards. That’s the life. Calm, routine, predictable, but mainly, stationary.

Imagine life without the $1 bill. I see that you’re beginning to understand and view my kind in a more appreciative light. Listen now as I tell you how I came to be here, in this silk purse, under this pillow.

My first glimpse of daylight came in New York City when I was handed to a Norwegian tourist – a big boned blonde woman with blue eyes -- by a sidewalk vendor. The woman had a habit of biting her fingernails, and in general seemed nervous and high-strung, traits not normally associated with Scandinavians. For reasons I never understood, she hid me and my kin from her husband, a heavyset fellow who took hours of boring video, mostly of street scenes; he was particularly fascinated by taxi cabs and their drivers, most of whom were sullen looking Hindu or Pakistani men. Ending up in the pocket of one of these men, wrapped in a greasy wad, frightened me, but that was my fate and fate is inescapable. After a visit to the Empire State Building I was unceremoniously wrapped around a bunch of soiled tens, fives and fellow ones – none of them as new as I -- and held captive by a thick rubber band.

The cabbie’s name was Humayun. He smelled of stale cigarettes and onions. When he wasn’t making change for his fares, Humayun kept us in his coat pocket, alongside lint, salted almonds and scraps of tobacco. His cell phone rang constantly and in his native tongue he barked at whoever was calling; more often than not he hung up while the other person was still talking. Humayun grumbled about his customers and made it very clear that he thought goats far superior to people. Into the pocket and out, in and out, until I was peeled off the wad and handed to a woman on her way to JFK and then Philadelphia. She carefully folded me in half and slid me between a snooty twenty and a tired, dog-eared ten. The twenty was talkative, arrogant, and boasted of his recent travels in Atlanta and New Orleans; the ten was weary and morose. I didn’t converse much with either of them.

Sue was the woman’s name, plain, vanilla Sue. After flipping through the airline magazine in her seat pocket she spent the entire flight to Philadelphia working on her laptop. My impression was that she had been jilted recently, her heart crushed and left to wither; now she was immersing herself in work in order to block her pain. Tap, tap, tap on the keyboard, rapid fire, words and numbers, lines and columns, but I was not fooled: her fingers were full of sorrow.

My time with Sue was short and uneventful and, to be honest, I was happy when she traded me for a Diet Coke at the airport and went on her sad way. After a short trip to the night deposit I landed in the hands of a man named Reed who was visiting Philadelphia from Santa Fe. Reed owned an art galley with his wife but I soon discovered that Reed had a secret life with a man named Peter. Reed and Peter. There were monogrammed towels hanging in Peter’s bathroom and fuchsia sheets on the bed. Egyptian cotton. Yes, it was a cozy love nest that Reed and Peter shared, full of books and paintings and delicious smells because Peter was a remarkable cook. They knew many people in Santa Fe and were openly affectionate with one another, which led me to assume that Reed’s wife knew about Peter. Understand that I make no moral judgments – I’m just a lowly $1 bill.

I rode in Reed’s expensive wallet for more than a week and thoroughly enjoyed myself and the ambience of the art gallery. Well-dressed tourists ambled through the gallery, admired the paintings and sculptures, chatted with Reed about color, perspective and style, the attributes of particular artists, up and coming talents on the Santa Fe scene, and enjoyed wine and cheese set out by Peter. This life suited me very much and I wanted it to continue forever, though I knew my hold upon it was tenuous and fleeting. To circulate is the destiny of a $1 bill.

And I did circulate, in places low and high, hand to pocket, pocket to hand, until a wannabe gangster known by the nickname Bobcat scooped me off the counter at a Taco Bell.

Bobcat had seen too many music videos. He wore a baseball cap sideways on his shaved head, a thick gold chain around his neck, a Kobe Bryant jersey, baggy jeans, and new Nike’s. How ridiculous he appeared swaggering around in this getup! The fool boy carried two hundred dollars in worn bills and three ounces of marijuana into an area of Albuquerque controlled by Calderon, a dealer with ties to the Sinaloa cartel and a deserved reputation for vicious retribution on his rivals. When Bobcat, all of seventeen, crossed West Alvarado Street to meet his customer I noticed that my fellow bills, even the $20’s – usually so boastful – had fallen silent, as if they knew something awful was about to happen. I have to tell you that a chill swept over me even before Calderon himself stepped out of the shadows with two henchmen behind him.

Have you ever heard a young man beg for his one human life? It’s not pleasant, believe me, and Bobcat’s tearful pleas for mercy only amused Calderon, who toyed with the boy the way a cat toys with a cornered mouse. In a calm, casual voice Calderon explained how he couldn’t afford to let Bobcat slide. It would damage his reputation and invite others to poach in his territory. He had a business to protect, after all. You’d do the same thing if you were standing in my shoes, right? A man’s not worth shit if he’s unwilling to protect what’s his. Nothing personal, see, just the nature of my business. Shaking his head as if human nature was beyond understanding, Calderon told Bobcat that the tragedy here is that he, Bobcat, has nobody but himself to blame for his current predicament. Who forced you to cross the wrong line with the intent of upsetting the order of things? After ordering Bobcat to hand over the contents of his pockets, Calderon made the trembling boy kneel before a cinderblock wall sprayed with graffiti. If you think it will help, say a prayer, Calderon suggested. Hail Mary, Lord’s Prayer, whatever, and don’t mumble because God won’t understand you, and right now you need him to hear you. Laughing at his own gallows humor, Calderon pulled a pistol from his coat pocket and calmly pumped two bullets into the base of Bobcat’s skull.

We Treasury notes, backed by the full faith and credit of the United States of America, home of the free and land of the brave, witness more suffering than we deserve. Bobcat’s brains were splattered against the cinderblock wall and this grotesque fact meant nothing to Calderon; he had solved a problem in the same way a plumber solves the problem of a clogged drain, and now that it was resolved he was taking his girlfriend to the movies.

And that is where I parted company with the murderer and found my way to the shirt pocket of a hard working, God-fearing janitor named Luis Valdez, born in Mexico and now making a meager but much appreciated living in Albuquerque with his wife and daughter, Maritza. Luis once worked in an electronics factory in Ciudad Juarez so he was no stranger to exploitation and suffering, the unfathomable cruelty that human beings inflict upon one another without a moment’s hesitation. I felt comfortable in his simple hands and the chill that had gripped me finally abated.

On the day that Bobcat lost his life, Maritza lost a tooth. After Maritza fell asleep that night Luis placed me in a silk purse and slipped me under her pillow, and it is there Maritza found me when she woke. Her gap-toothed smile was as beautiful as any painting in Reed’s gallery. Like her father, Maritza possessed the capacity to be thankful for small gifts.

Rant: Road Rage

The most useless freeway sign in California is the one that reads, Slower Traffic Keep Right.

The major problem with this dictate from the State is that few motorists in California – at least the section of the state between Santa Barbara and Los Angeles that I normally travel – use their rearview mirrors. Of all the accessories on an automobile none is more under used. How do I know this? Because every time I head out on the highway I find myself behind some motorist cruising in the fast lane at 60mph, who, if he or she would simply look in the rearview mirror, would see my car on their tail and change lanes.

Just the other day I was driving south on the 101 in the fast lane when I had to slow for a Toyota Camry doing about 62mph. I had been doing a steady 70mph until I caught up to this joker. I wanted to move into the near right lane and scoot around, but no break in the traffic presented itself. I speeded up to get closer to the slowpoke blocking my way, hoping that he or see would notice me and move the hell over, but this was wishful thinking. The driver of the Camry was oblivious.

I flashed my headlights. Nothing. I tapped my horn twice. Nothing. I let out a string of curses: “Jesuschristassholemotherfuckingpinheadlimpdick.” This made me feel better but did nothing to remove the Camry from my path. I wished my Honda was equipped with a laser beam that could project a message in foot high letters on the offender’s rear windshield:

MOVE…THE…FUCK…OVER.

I hit the turn signal and hoped someone would give me room to pass this jackass, but my fellow motorists were not in a charitable mood.

“Look in the rearview mirror, asswipe,” I screamed.

After a few more minutes of this irritation I had space and made my move, swinging to the right and quickly back into the fast lane in front of the Camry. As I shot by I looked at the Camry’s driver and prepared to salute with my middle finger. “Don’t do it,” my wife said, mindful of the fact that there are a lot of unhinged people on California’s freeways, some of them armed to the gills.

But how could I flip off a white-haired woman who looked like a dead ringer for Mary See? She was hunched over the steering wheel, hands at ten and two o’clock, totally focused on the road directly in front of her.

Nine hours later on a northbound stretch of 101 outside of Ventura it happens again. 9:30 p.m., traffic sparse, I’m doing 75mph with the cruise control on, anxious to get home after a long day at Disneyland, and I’ll be damned if a Jeep Cherokee is in the fast lane doing all of 60mph. Another codger, I thought, a fugitive from Shady Acres nursing home, out for a late night joy ride along the ocean. Though I could have passed easily enough, I stayed on the Jeep’s ass for a mile or two, determined to make a righteous point about the rules of the road. More wishful thinking. The Jeep's driver was yet another California motorist with no use of a rearview mirror and no regard for Slower Traffic Keep Right.

Enough being enough, I veered right and jammed on the gas until I pulled even with the Jeep; old or not, armed or not, I was giving this idiot driver the finger.

Except the driver wasn’t old at all, and neither was the woman sitting beside him. Twenty-something’s by the look of them, sharing what appeared to be a joint, laughing uproariously and taking no notice of me whatsoever. What’s the point of flipping off a couple of stoners who are feeling blissful and at peace with everyone in the world?

I hate it when the joke’s on me.

Gloriously Ordinary

Parenthood is said to bring many joys and immeasurable satisfaction.

I know a few people who hold this opinion, though I am not one of them.

Heartache and worry, maybe, but not so much on the satisfaction scale.

Every day when I take my daughter to school, I see parents doting on their offspring and it reminds me of David Sedaris, who I saw at the Arlington Theatre recently. In a riff on his childhood Sedaris pointed out that he was born before the creation of self-esteem, so his parents put him and his sisters to bed the old fashioned way: “Lights out, shut up. If your father hears any chatter he’ll be back with his belt.”

Contemporary parents, on the other hand, feel derelict if they fail to read a bedtime story for half an hour, then spend another twenty minutes assuring their child that he or she is special, exceptional, gifted, a living miracle and without doubt the center of the universe.

I love my kids, don’t get me wrong, but I tend to think we – my generation, I mean – act insane when it comes to our children. Take play dates, for instance, a concept that absolutely staggers me. When I was a kid – in a society that was as full of dangers and predators as our current one – we’d give our parents a general idea of where we were going and what we intended to do and with whom, and dash off, into the neighborhood, out of touch for hours. We didn’t have cell phones or GPS tracking or picture ID cards with a DNA sample embedded in them. Today our kids’ schedules are so jam-packed with wholesome, supervised activities that we must schedule time for them to play with their friends. “Can Sophia do 3:30 on Tuesday or is 4:00 on Wednesday better? Oh, she has ballet on Tuesday and gymnastics on Wednesday and chess on Friday and Advanced Mandarin on Saturday morning. Wow, when does Sophia sleep? Does she sleep?”

Once in a while, as my daughter and I are waiting for the custodian to unlock the school gate, I’ll overhear other parents, almost always mothers, talking. “Tyler’s doing exceptionally well in his GATE (Gifted and Talented) classes, and I definitely think he has a predilection for medicine. He loves science, and he’s always watching medical shows on The Learning Channel.” “You let him watch TV? We only allow Brianna to watch the Disney Channel for one hour each week – provided she executes all her homework perfectly, of course.” “Tyler will probably attend Stanford or Harvard – he’s such a bright child.” “I see Brianna at USC Film School. She’s very creative.”

I glance at Tyler, expecting to see him reading the Physician’s Desk Reference on his iPad, and instead see that he is picking his nose with reckless abandon, twisting his index finger up and in until he extracts a juicy green mass, which, after long inspection, he proceeds to wipe on his jeans. Definitely Harvard material.

Is it just me or do we put too much pressure to perform, succeed, strive and accomplish on our children? Is it acceptable for them to daydream and goof off, to occasionally stare slack-jawed at the TV or the computer, or climb a tree without parental supervision and a safety net below? Is it OK if our children don’t acquire a foreign language and proficiency on at least one musical instrument by age seven?

The other morning my daughter marched into the living room and announced that she wanted to ask a question about sex. OK, we said, let’s have it. “Can you get pregnant from kissing a mirror?” No, we explained, kissing a mirror won’t do the trick, there’s a mechanical component to it, the joining of a female’s egg with a male’s sperm... We can go into more detail if you want. “No, that’s OK, I just wanted to know about the mirrors.”

We learn later that our daughter’s classmate Elena is fond of kissing the mirror in the girl’s bathroom at school. Each to her own.

Play dates, questions about sex, neurotic parents on the school steps planning their child’s college experience ten years in advance – this is what kills the rapture for me. Childhood comes once and is all too quickly gone. My kids are gloriously ordinary, which is just fine with me.

Our Booyah Moment

We got bin Laden.

High five in the streets. Fist pumps in the bar. Crank up the ticker tape parade. Dispatch six F-14’s to do a flyover above New York City.

We got the big bogeyman.

Finally.

Killed him dead they say. Tested his DNA to prove it.

It only took ten years and thousands of deaths and casualties for the US to kill the world’s most wanted man.

This is a triumph for our crack intelligence community and intrepid troops.

Even if it took ten brutal years.

Now what? Does Al Qaeda fold its tent and slink off into the dusk?

Doubtful. It’s likely there will be reprisals, somewhere, for the killing of bin Laden, just as there will be Pakistanis and Afghans and Iraqi’s willing to die as long as their friends and relatives are being killed by US drone strikes or occupation forces. When it comes to death, people have long memories. Bin Laden may be gone, but Al Qaeda will be with us for a time yet.

Killing begets more killing, but we are blasé about it now, as blasé as bin Laden acted after 9/11. Bin Laden indirectly plotted to kill in spectacular fashion; we kill systematically with our powerful weapons, our eyes that see in the dark and through thick walls.

This really is an amazing development on one level. No, I’m not talking about the breathless reporting from Diane Sawyer and Brian Williams, or the sound bites from Uncle Dick Cheney and Hillary Clinton; I’m talking about the fact that the US cedes to itself the authority to assassinate a man on foreign soil. If any nation in the world except Israel – which plays by a different set of rules -- granted itself the same authority, the US would be screaming about the rule of law and sovereign rights.

Hypocrisy is unpleasant. Do as I say, not as I do.

But it goes without saying that the US only kills with the purest motivation and in the name of the highest ideals. Right? Our cause is always righteous, though I wonder what the back-channel traffic on this operation looks like, the secret cables between spies and soldiers, diplomats and politicians. And I wonder what the US had to promise Pakistan in order for the latter to cough up bin Laden? Why now? Why not five, six or ten years ago?

But hey, why be skeptical of the US government and its motives? After all, this is the finest government money can buy and it can be depended on to do the will of its benefactors. This is a “feel good” story, frontier justice meted out to the mastermind of 9/11.

The only surprising thing thus far is that Donald Trump hasn’t claimed responsibility for killing bin Laden.

Footnotes

Almost a year since the Deepwater Horizon blew up, killing 11 men and spilling an estimated 5 million barrels of oil into the Gulf of Mexico. The explosion and spill were riveting news for nearly 2 months. The major American networks broadcast live video of oil gushing from the wellhead along with non-stop TV commercials from BP, a PR assault designed to show how concerned the oil giant was for the welfare of the Gulf ecosystem and the people who depend on it for their living.

BP pledged to make it right. Of course, pledging to do something and actually doing it are quite different things. Like any self-serving corporation, BP ducked and dodged as much responsibility as it could, blaming Transocean, the rig owner, and Halliburton, the oil services giant for being the root cause of the disaster. Not to be outdone, Transocean blamed BP and Halliburton blamed Transocean, and Republicans blamed Obama, and the Democrats blamed Republicans, and the dish ran away with the spoon, and the cow broke a leg trying to jump over the moon.

Meanwhile, oil continued to gush into the sea.

On the ground, the United States Coast Guard and BP kept journalists away from beaches and out of the airspace above the spill area. It was odd to see a government agency conspiring with a multinational corporation to limit access to a disaster zone. It was equally odd to see President Obama cheerleading for Gulf seafood and tourism – as if the spill was nothing more than a minor inconvenience, a blip that should not deter business as usual. Obama talked tough, as he always does, about accountability and oversight and stricter regulation of the oil industry, but then left the clean up to BP.

Once BP finally figured out how to cap the well, the story slowly vanished from the airwaves, which is no doubt what BP and other oil industry giants had hoped for. To be sure, BP took its lumps in the media, smarmy CEO Tony Hayward proved to be a train wreck, and the claims process BP created worked as designed, paying out as few claims as possible in the longest amount of time possible, frustrating Gulf residents.

Claims are still being paid slowly and research efforts on the effects of the spill are tied up in red tape.

In other words, standard procedure on this fruited plain. Kid gloves for the powerful, tough love for the powerless, along with years of court cases, motions, denials and appeals – a lawyer’s dream, a plaintiff’s nightmare.

Yes, it’s perverse.

12 months later. What became of those 5 million barrels of oil and the thousands of gallons of chemical dispersants deployed by BP? Are we to believe that the Gulf is undamaged, as good as new, back to normal, healthy? According to Sam Champion of Good Morning America and research done for ABC by Texas Tech, yes, the Gulf is once again fine.

Would you eat Gulf seafood or feed it to your children?

And what of the 11 men who died? Why are they little more than a footnote to this tale? Is it because working men and women in America are disposable?