The Plot to Kill the President

"Just kidding..."

After Ian Fraser, a journalist, Mail & Guardian columnist (Fraser's Razor has long been a must-read) and a blogger, suggested killing South African president Thabo Mbeki, the paper hosting his blog entry pulled it and he was visited or telephoned by heavies from the state security apparatus (the police, military intelligence and the National Intelligence Agency).

Fraser appeared somewhat perplexed by the authorities' reaction. In his original, "...deeply felt attempt to creatively and artistically form a morally and socially persuasive Argument..." our intrepid blogging journalist wrote (material lifted from Jo'blog):

I don't have this reaction with everyone, but Mbekhi (sic) really has what they call in Afrikaans, a 'moer my gesig' - I mean he looks like an extra crispy unwiped bottom that's found a suit and stubble to disguise itself in. And his vice president Zuma - I have to admit, looks very much like those creepy old guys you see in bad '70's gay Swedish porn, begging for someone to urinate on them.

This was back in May sometime, before Mbeki fired Jacob Zuma as his deputy owing to his ties to convicted criminal Schabir Shaik. I've not read the rest of the blog entry and so cannot comment on it. However, if the above is a fair sampling of the whole, hmm... Or as Jo'blog asks, "Dude, are you on crack?"

Fraser defends his position well, offering a lengthy dissertation on Swiftian satire and social / political activism using art as a medium. I would, however, suggest to our hot-water blogger that, for lessons in satire of any kind, he might do far worse than availing himself of any number of the Happy Tutor's diverse and creative services; pain is always a pleasure at Wealth Bondage.

Fraser allegedly has the support of the Freedom of Expression Institute (FXI), an organisation that feels his case merits it (and, coincidentally, shares much of its history with the Mail & Guardian). As he puts it, the FXI "...believes in my right to have expressed myself." I'm sure it does Ian. More, "...they feel its (sic) a freedom of speech issue." Feeling, feelings, feelings...

Look, I feel I'm giving Ian Fraser a hard time here and I don't really wish to. But, c'mon, if you live by the sword, be prepared to die by it. Explaining his satire, Fraser draws an analogy (I'm not correcting grammar or spelling here—this was clearly written on the run):

If a child is walking, and begins to approach a dangerous cliff edge, (and is seen as being clearly in danger.) You yell a warning. Is it sane to consider punishing the person who yells at the child, to step away from the edge?

No, Ian, it's not, but yours is a poor analogy. Look, much as I admire Mbeki and hope we can wangle him a third term, I've had my differences with the guy. Early in 2002, reacting to our slow introduction of an AIDS strategy, I entitled a blog entry Fuck Thabo? Not a Chance.

Although I felt no threat, I did feel the need to explain that header in August of that year, using reasons similar to yours. "Now this is, after all, Africa and we do not malign our leaders lightly. But AIDS is not a subject to be treated lightly and Thabo Mbeki, who represents those leading the country, the country as a whole, and me, will not get off lightly."

I'd say such a heading is more appropriate to your analogy. Let me ask you a hypothetical question. Before boarding a flight from Jo'burg to Cape Town, would you test airport security by jocularly claiming to have a bomb on you? Be it serious, satire or delirium, the state has a duty to investigate material calling for the death of public or any other persons, especially when backed by ad hominem verbal assaults (even then, Thabo's alleged thin-skinned reaction to criticism does not come into it).

In short, were you not tapped on the shoulder by the authorities, they'd not be doing the work for which we pay them—and we'd have real cause for concern. So, yeah, if you in any way indicated the death of the president might be what one could consider a good thing, you screwed up. Admit it. Such an admission will, when all is said and done, add to your lustre as a blogger, a professional and a hard man to boot.

Any blogger should follow the advice given Ian by fellow blogger Jay and visit the EFF's recently published Legal Guide for Bloggers. More, they should read Donna Wentworth's introduction to it at Corante and follow the links.

Frank Paynter points to others (including Denise Howell, The Happy Tutor, our Chief Blogging Officer, David Weinberger and Halley Suitt) publicising the guide, which Donna—no stranger to hijacking, hence the analogy above—describes as "...a collection of FAQs aimed at helping the average blogger understand her rights in the face of legal threats that most people don't even understand."

A Lucid Moment on the Lost Highway

"I like to remember things my own way." [Fred]

i know where you're taking me | i shouldn't go but you're wrenching dragging shaking me | turn off the sun pull the stars from the sky | the more i give to you the more i die

"A structure that begins and ends at the same moment in time, with a debt to the Mobius strip (or to "Pulp Fiction"), is another intriguing feature. But the film has more of these touches than it has explanations. Eventually it raises the overwhelming possibility that nobody is entirely in the driver's seat."

Janet Maslin New York Times February 21, 1997

Twenty-first Century noir horror? Parallel identity crises? A world where time is dangerously out of control? Lynch certainly asks more questions of his audience than most, but publicity for the open-ended Lost Highway is, like most things, misleading. Unless, of course, the excitement implicit in such teasers exists only in our heads—where Lynch does his best work and time, space and perhaps life itself are, as Einstein described them, entities brought into being by clocks and measuring sticks.

If the director of Mulholland Drive offers us 'parallel identity crises', it is to illustrate the separation of our and others' perceptions of our many conflicting and complementary selves. Lost Highway—while it mirrors itself—reflects life, and all the characters in it are one; in this instance and for want of a conventional character lead, Fred Madison. We all, to a degree, live Leonard Cohen's Secret Life. We are all as much Fred Madison as we are Dick Laurent, Pete Dayton, Andy, cops, hoods or Pete's goofball friends. We are all Renee as much as we are Alice or Sheila. We are all right and we are all wrong.

And we are all the Mystery Man, the deaths head lending a storyline of dynamic tension to our lives. Everybody and nobody is in the driver's seat. For most, life is lived in shades of darkness, a confused melange of broken memories. Left to travel the Lost Highway blindly, we do the best we can, piecing the road markings we discern unreeling before and under us into a single, coherent line. Do we travel the road or does it travel us? Lynch suggests life is less about the journey than it is about those undertaking it. Given the arbitrary checks and balances of real and unreal, we are the dreams that drive and, frequently, destroy us.

In Lost Highway, Lynch offers, not a lengthy, obfuscatory dreamscape of surreal meanderings, but a glimpse into a momentary lucidity only a loss of control driven by passion brings. It does not matter whether or not the film's protagonist, Fred Madison, kills his wife—metaphorically or otherwise. Lost Highway focuses entirely on the instant in which Madison might or might not decide to do so. Ultimately, as the characters making up his being merge and meld, he comes to accept her as a part of himself.

I smile when I'm angry. | I cheat and I lie. | I do what I have to do | To get by. | But I know what is wrong, | And I know what is right. | And I'd die for the truth | In My Secret Life.


"You'll never have me." [Alice]

you make me hard when i'm all soft inside | i see the truth when i'm all stupid-eyed | the arrow goes straight through my heart | without you everything just falls apart

Whereas in Mulholland Drive (his later excoriation of Hollywood and paean to women) Lynch condenses decades and broad concepts to a sad moment of suicide, he uses Lost Highway to dissect and extrapolate (through an intertextual weaving of the viewer's and the protagonist’s perceptions) a single, defining moment to explore the infinite probabilities of our—and Fred Madison's—humanity.

Somewhere along the Mobius Strip of his life, Madison loses his way and discovers his capacity for life.

Might he have resorted to violence and butchered his wife? It's unlikely. More than the many devices Lynch uses to map the neural pathways of Madison's psyche (videotapes, electricity, cameras, light, the Mystery Man), characters populating his inner world allow us understand his moment of possible madness. This is a film of human longing, perceptions, and needs that cannot be met. Only gross simplification would mistake Lynch's vision and Badalamenti's haunting score as celebrations of violence and death. Yes, Lynch exploits explosive energies, but he does so more to illustrate repression than he does to unleash chaos.

It is his embodiment in Renee, his wife, of all that he desires that drives Madison to the edge of insanity and himself. At the beginning and at the end of the film, itself a mockery of time and meaning, Madison is told Dick Laurent, a self-absorbed, compulsive lowlife with a passion for violence—and the only character bearing Lynch's initials, is dead. Laurent (aka Mr. Eddy), a generous psychopath who, after beating a hapless motorist to pulp on Mulholland Drive lectures him at length on road safety, is Madison Unchained. With the Mystery Man, he plays an increasingly important role as the movie and the moment unfold. In Laurent, Fred becomes the once and possible monster who would abuse, dismember and devour Renee so that he can possess her—and all she represents—absolutely.

The more he wants, however, the less he gets.

Hold on, hold on, my brother. | My sister, hold on tight. | I finally got my orders. | I'll be marching through the morning, | Marching through the night, | Moving cross the borders | Of My Secret Life.


"I hate ridin' in this fuckin' car." [Pete]

my blood just wants to say hello to you | my fears want to get inside of you | my soul is so afraid to realize | how every little bit is left of me

Nine Inch Nails | The Perfect Drug

Madison's appreciation of Laurent and, by extension, the Mystery Man, is his dubious salvation. He is innately aware that violence and death are inextricably linked to passion and life and this awareness affords him opportunity to comprehend the ghastly potential inherent in his (and Renee's) unfettered selves. If he is to experience a longing for anything deeper than experience and possession, it is the Laurent within—rather than his wife—he must subdue. In a sense, if he is to live, he must die.

And he does so. A couple of times. Flipping perceptions every which way, Lynch shows us drawn to darkness and our own ends like moths to light. Is Pete Dayton dead? Is Fred Madison dead? Strangely, they are more likely to be so than either Laurent or the Mystery Man. But, in a film of this nature, what is and what is not are choices more than realities. And, where death is portrayed as life, surely the former is preferable—and here, Rammstein’s contribution to the soundtrack comes to mind?

Madison knows he cannot take ownership of another as he wants to (witness the broken frenzy of his early sax solo and the extraordinary sex-dream with Alice at the close). But it is when he releases his wife that he finds himself. Only Laurent, who epitomises a disinterested violence, is capable of turning his passion and yearning for life to a callous indifference to death. As Madison's moment plays out, the movie's minor characters, lesser versions of the Mystery Man and Laurent, segue through his psyche as possible pasts, futures or aspects of himself.

It is with Laurent's end, at Madison's hand and with the help of the Mystery Man (death invited), that the instant of crisis and the film pass into the ephemeral realm of violence unrealised. His momentary lucidity over, Madison is left—for now and perhaps always—to continue his life as we are ours, travelling a Lost Highway, hounded by shape-shifting illusions of ever present and always elusive realities.

"At its best the movie is a visual poem about desire and jealousy. 'You'll never have me,' the Arquette character (Renee, Alice, someone else looking the same - I can't quite remember) says towards the end. The movie is about those desires that can't be quenched - the hunger to possess another person - and how they distort the mind."

Quentin Curtis, The Daily Telegraph, August 22, 1997

I bite my lip. | I buy what I'm told: | From the latest hit, | To the wisdom of old. | But I'm always alone. | And my heart is like ice. | And it's crowded and cold | In My Secret Life.

Leonard Cohen | In My Secret Life

marry me

alive and kicking since June 13, 1991...

kiss me pretty
in the morning
when the sun drips golden dew
and the rain that fails the night
leaves the concrete moist
after a night of licks
and sweatings

the sweat of the lonely
bandaged
pours into crystal eyes
when the night fades
you know the feeling of evening
against your hands

yes, we smite your innocence
the barbed-wire rust eaters
in your mouth
drink the turpentine
and feast on your thoughts

[dirty and obscene]

and lace strangles your girl in the cage
makes her beautiful and blue
what a lovely color for her eyes
oh god help me
make her blue

[my rope had snapped]

long before i realise she is not breathing
the dream i had the other night
stands in a jar
alone and fading

and the girl
she's lying on the floor
cold and pale
alive and well
in sickness and in health
till death do us part

an ode to the cigarette in your mouth
that glides along your lips
you run your fingers
down the velvet gown
of your lover
pressed against a wall

bodies entangled

leather words strap her to the bed
and many miles
we walk
to rescue
your violence

in red and white

and the girl still lying in her white
crusty floors to feed upon
my trigger pulled
and red colors
filled her eyes
let me suckle your pierced nipple
the baby in the womb of a whore

something had to turn out right

and she's lying on the floor
cold and pale
alive and well
in sickness and in health
till death do us part

Catt

Happy fourteenth birthday, Catt. We love you and we're extraordinarily proud of you.

Postcards from the Edge

Click to enlarge...

"It's blogger friends and people like RB that make me feel sane in this world we live in..."

michelle 'meg' goodrich

Yeah, I know, Team America ain't all American (Canadians have firm / mixed / confused [tick whichever applies] feelings about this), many are scattered across the globe, and not a few are nowhere to be found. It doesn't matter. The real stars seldom shine from any list of credits. There are many others, e.g. those on my blogroll, for example (there, on the left), without whose words, graphics and, sometimes, music I'd have been driven around the bend sometime during the past six months.

(That, in your opinion, I might be around the bend already is neither here nor there. From where I stand, we are only as far apart as we perceive each other to be. As the man said, "...don't think twice, it's alright".)

But, yes, meg says it all. Father Christopher (FC) has gathered unto himself a strange and diverse flock. While Sixpack Chopra, David Icke** and Dr. Phil McGraw retain a full and appreciative awareness of the world and those about them, FC's EGR Irregulars remain indifferent to the likes of Abraham Maslow, Ralph Waldo Emerson and flying lizards ruling the globe.

Such subjects do not interest them for, when all is said and done, they have other fish to fry. At the moment, in a secret chamber deep beneath the Jesus Bunker, FC has Chris Locke (his scribe, stenographer and general factotum) overseeing the postcard project. In turn, Locke has RB and Brother 'Badabing' Marek working shifts, browbeating teams of Irregulars into sending hometown, snail-mail postcards to:

Michelle Goodrich
1772 Merced Way
West Sacramento, CA 95601 USA

RB is screening cards for unpatriotic, condemnatory and un-Christian content while Brother Marek is having Sweet Melinda stash all lewd, obscene, salacious and other materials in a filing cabinet over at the Peekaboo Love Clinic for later, constructive use. I also have it on Good Authority that Michael Schumacher, should he win the Canadian Grand Prix for Ferrari later today, will be dedicating his victory to Mandarin Meg (and will have Rubens send her a post card).

The long and short of it is this. Don't give me any shit; you have been warned. Like it or not, you are a part of Team America. Now go out there and 'do the other thing'. You are, after all, a blogger.

** Reliable sources tell me David Icke [pdf] is compiling an unauthorised history of the EGR Irregulars. It describes in detail The Battle for All That Is Good, Noble and Just preceding Father Christopher's usurpation of the Web from Dave Winer (see Revenge of the Sith), the Eternal Mystery surrounding the FC / Chris Locke / RB relationship, and the unseen role of Brother Marek, hotly tipped by EGR Irregulars (odds of 7-10 are being offered) to take over the reins of the Jesus Bunker when FC retires.

I am also told Icke's history is replete with flying lizards, but that none of them belong to George W. Bush.

All across the nation, such a strange vibration | People in motion | There’s a whole generation, with a new explanation.

Scott McKenzie | San Francisco

Base Oddities

"Let's just see how it goes..."

One pill makes you larger | And one pill makes you small | And the ones that mother gives you | Don't do anything at all | Go ask Alice, when she's ten feet tall

Heavy rain slants across the streetlight across main road. Another ambulance wails past the solitary hooker sheltering beneath the petrol station's warm neon canopy. The road's a slick black snake of hissing, red-eyed cars bathed in falling shards of electric-yellow light. I turn from the bamboo blinds covering the rain-spattered kitchen window, tell Tom Waits to shut the fuck up, and consider the weatherman's prediction of 20-25' swells off the cape. Things look decidedly bleak. I pull on my coat and make my way down to my local, The Sick Rose.

Father Christopher, the ubiquitous mug of coffee before him, is holding a corner together with his absent, brooding gaze. I break his line of sight and the walls crumble. Sliding into a chair, I order the same. He looks at me.

"You back?"

My Spiritual Guide and Mentor (SG&M) is, if anything, a complex man. He has occasionally, among many other things, been called obscure, but I have never found him to be so. His is a deep question, deserving contemplation and a considered answer.

"Unofficially," I reply glibly. "In the words of the immortal Weimeraner, let's just see how it goes."

FC takes a long pull from his cup, wipes foam from his mouth, glares at me and snorts. "Fuck you. There's no 'let's just see' about this. You're either in or out, on or off the bus. What's it to be?"

With a short, harsh laugh, I lean across the table, grab the back of his head and smack it hard onto the table. Thrice. My SG&M's eyes glaze and blood trickles from a cut above his right eye.

I sneer. "I have never been off the bus, you demented old louse."

Father Christopher's in a mellow mood. Our usual greeting ritual over, he wipes the blood from his forehead and smiles. "Uh, yeah, I know. So? What's up?"

"Y'know the final scenes in 2001: A Space Odyssey? The return to forever?"

"Yeah."

"Is it really like that?"

And if you go chasing rabbits | And you know you're going to fall | Tell 'em a hookah-smoking caterpillar | Has given you the call | Call Alice when she was just small

My SG&M eyes me suspiciously.

"Of course it is. We're all going backwards. But this is really about the mighty CRSS, isn't it? Give it time, my friend."

The mighty Congo River Surf Safari was a six-month venture undertaken over two years by a team of hardened EGR Irregulars determined to surf the world's largest waterfalls—known to exist at a secret spot on the great African river.

Logistics and support for the venture, underwritten by Father Christopher's Jesus Bunker, included an army under the command of Colonel Frank "Fang" Paynter, an aircraft carrier (the JBS Argot), a goodly supply of Kombinat!, unlimited ammunition, new surfboards and free copies of the South African magazine, Fair Lady.

The last proved of immense use in garnering support among local tribes for our expedition.

The mission came to a premature end after a particularly vicious attack by Guatemalan pygmies below the Lualaba Stretch ended the life of Carmela, one of my female companions.

When the men on the chessboard | Get up and tell you where to go | And you've just had some kind of mushroom | And your mind is moving low | Go ask Alice, I think she'll know

"Come to think of it, we were surfing waterfalls long before tsunamis became the rage," I muse.

I drum my fingers on the table, take a swig of coffee and study my surroundings. Lord Randall is playing on the radio. I ask the barkeep—a natural-born killer who reaches for his AK47—to turn it up. Not taking his eyes off me, he puts aside the rifle and does so.

"What?" FC looks bemused.

"Sorry. I was just thinking.... We're always on somebody else's street, y'know? The thing to do is to keep travelling."

"Yeah."

Through the high window I can see the sky has turned to fire and the rain to a scarlet mist.

It feels good to be home—albeit unoficially, of course...

When logic and proportion | Have fallen sloppy dead | And the White Knight is talking backwards | And the Red Queen's off with her head | Remember what the doormouse said | Feed your head, feed your head.

Jefferson Airplane | White Rabbit

The Hate-filled Samoosa?

"Listen to me; listen to me; listen to me. I will kill you. I will kill you. You don't mean anything to me."

Abdul Hoosen

On June 4, 2005, Independent Online (IOL) reported knife-wielding Simon's Town cafe owner Abdul Hoosen, 67, being fined ZAR1,500.00 or thirty days' jail for unleashing a "...a tirade of anti-US hate speech..." against San Diego resident and visitor to South Africa, Russell Dicky, 36, who'd stopped in at his store to buy a samoosa.

IOL continues:

Dicky told the court he had picked up a samoosa and put it in a bag and said to Hoosen: "By the way, what's in the samoosa?"

He said Hoosen had looked at him for a moment and then said: "You Americans ask stupid questions."

"I said pardon me, and he said: 'You Americans are very stupid'."

Dicky said he then asked for his money back, but Hoosen came at him with a long, serrated kitchen knife.

[...]

Dicky said the knife had been at his throat. "I was edging out of the store but he was walking towards me. I was horrified and spellbound."

Dicky said Hoosen then started with hate speech.

"He went on about the United States and George Bush and Iraq."

more...

On December 26, 2004, a tsunami smashed into Northern Sumatra's Aceh province, killing 180,000 people. A further 40,000 died in at least 10 other countries.

On June 2, 2005, Tom Feeley of InformationClearingHouse posted a link to a Diario video smuggled out of Falluja by a body-clearing squad. Entitled Falluja — The Day After, it shows the systematic obliteration of the Iraqi city by U.S. forces during Operation Al-Fajr, i.e. 'the dawn' on November 8, 2004.

Yesterday, after chasing a comedically positioned advertisement for National Geographic's screening of Insidethe Mafia from the page, I read a New York Times article about a South African Airways jet approaching Kennedy International Airport scattering a dismembered stowaway's body parts across Nassau County.

Although the man's fall from grace damaged Pamela Hearne's home at 361 Louis Avenue in South Floral Park, South African Airways assures us the extraordinary landing made "...no impact on our in-flight crew and passengers."

On June 9, 2005, at a fish fry held at his home in Wilmington, Carolina, Second Lieutenant Ilario Pantano, 33, acquitted by a U.S. Marine Corp Article 32 Pretrial Hearing of murdering two Iraqi detainees, surrendered his commission to staunch supporter Congressman Walter Jones.

On April 15, 2004, Pantano and his men, a Marine sergeant and a Navy hospitalman, fired on a car near Baghdad, apprehending two men, whom they handcuffed. Charges against Pantano state he soon ordered the captives' cuffs removed to enable them to search their own car for hidden weapons or explosives.

He then told his men "to take up posts facing away" and shot both suspects more than 60 times "in the back with an M16A service rifle."

Pantano later told investigators the detainees began talking to each other. Unable to understand them, he ordered silence. They swung toward him and, fearing for his safety, he opened fire. He then placed the bodies "on display to send a message to the local people" and placed "a sign stating 'No Better Friend, No Worse Enemy'" above their corpses.

The slogan was a direct quote of his commanding officer, Lieutenant General James Mattis.

On February 1, 2005, General Mattis told an audience gathered in San Diego (Russell Dicky's hometown), "Actually, it's a lot of fun to fight. You know, it's a hell of a hoot. It's fun to shoot some people. I'll be right upfront with you, I like brawling."

"I'm glad that justice has been done..."

Russell Dicky

Suggested Samoosa filling: Source The Complete Asian Cookbook

1 tablespoon oil or ghee • 1 clove garlic — finely chopped • 1 teaspoon fresh ginger root — finely chopped • 2 medium onions — finely chopped • 2 teaspoons curry powder • 1/2 teaspoon salt • 1 tablespoon vinegar or lemon juice • 8 oz steak or lamb — minced • 1/2 cup hot water • 1 teaspoon garam masala • 2 tablespoons fresh mint or coriander leaves — chopped • oil for frying

Heat oil in a saucepan and fry garlic, ginger and half the onion until onion is soft. Add curry powder, salt and vinegar, mix well. Add minced steak and fry over a high heat, stirring constantly until meat changes color. Turn heat down and add hot water. Cover pan and cook until meat is tender and all the liquid has been absorbed. Towards end of cooking, stir frequently to prevent meat from sticking to base of pan. Sprinkle with garam masala and chopped mint or coriander, remove from heat and allow to cool. Mix in reserved chopped onion.

Note On June 16, 2005, Colombian artist Fernando Botero opens an exhibition in Rome's Palazzo Venezia. Botero's works include 50 studies of the torture by U.S. occupation forces of Iraqis at Baghdad's notorious Abu Ghraib prison.

An Open Sky

After all
the prayers
have been said,
and the tears shed
and the uncomfortable silences,
when we cannot respond,
endured
there remains
the soft, tender sorrow
that time does not heal.

And in that sorrow,
Fatah,
an opening
to the genuine sadness
of being alive ---
open to
the absolute necessity
of letting go
of everyone
and everything
we love.

we can close off
this deep sadness
or open
our tender hearts
so wide
that our heart
becomes as an
open sky ---

no borders,
nor boundaries,
just
an open sky.

Rumi, from Andie's Web

Joint Ventures

Fuuuuck, dude!"

Leafing through Polemic Mbongi's standard, African Myth and Legend — Tales for the Post-modern, I stumbled across the following.

A monkey is sitting in a tree smoking a joint. A lizard walks past, looks up, and asks the monkey, "Hey! What are you doing?"

The monkey answers, "I'm smoking a joint. Come up and have one."

The lizard climbs up next to the monkey. They smoke a few joints. After a while, the lizard tells the monkey he is thirsty. His mouth is 'dry'. He decides to go down to the river to drink some water.

Down at the river, the stoned lizard loses his balance and falls into the water. A crocodile sees this. He swims over to the lizard and helps him to the side. He then asks him, "What's the matter with you?"

The lizard tells the crocodile he was smoking a joint with the monkey. Stoned and thirsty, he fell into the river. The crocodile decides to check out the lizards's story. He walks into the jungle and finds the tree. The monkey is finishing another joint.

The crocodile looks up at him and calls, "Hey! You!"

The Monkey looks down at the crocodile. His eyes widen.

"Fuuuuck, dude! How much water did you drink?"

Indeed. While we in the Department sometimes refer jocularly to Polemic's work as Postcards from the Edge, we know it to be a seminal work, relegating the likes of Credo Mutwa (Africa's Six-pack Chopra) and other frauds to a necessary obscurity.

Mbongi's book contains wisdom for the world. But does the world listen? No, of course not.

The Med Effect...

kisses for nothing

lace and velvet kisses on the balcony
and the wind sweeps the cocaine off the banister and the razor falls to the ground
we s a y a few words in unison
and break down our doors
a kiss on the floor
two more strokes, a little more
for once i'm not being paid to love you
and the whispering in my ear
actually sounds real
like a china... porcelain... shattered mirror
you tell me the ugly truth about myself
i l o v e y o u
written on the concrete-diary floor
and the pages that exist in wonder and betrayal
lick the blood from your hands
when you awake, kind sir
holding me in your arms
a trigger be pulled
and we lie together
[h o l d i n g ♥ h a n d s]
a red sunset for lovers never parted

cathryn

Jesus. Kids... who needs 'em? My thirteen-year old has a steady boyfriend. He's been around several months. She writes this while he says little, plays a guitar, sleeps, smokes, keeps odd hours, dresses in black, listens to metal, sticks needles and pins through his head, and is extremely polite. To me... not to his parents. He has no long-term plans. I don't think he bothers much about the future. But it doesn't matter. Cathryn's mood is improving. I think the boy's good for her.

Credibility

"What will be the state of their union?" Cartoon by Steve Bell [Guardian]

"For diplomacy to be effective, words must be credible."

George W. Bush

The Official Story

The Interim Government, reversing a long legacy of serious human rights abuses under the previous regime, generally respected human rights, but serious problems remained. During the period of the report, the Government's human rights performance was handicapped by a serious insurgency in which a terrorist campaign of violence impacted every aspect of life with executions, kidnappings, torture, and intimidation waged against civilians, the Government and Coalition Forces. Although this insurgency may have had popular support in some areas, its core was former regime elements, foreign and domestic terrorists, and organized criminal gangs. On November 7, Prime Minister Iyad Allawi declared a 60-day state of emergency limited to Ramadi and Fallujah, in accordance with the July 6 IIG "Order of Safeguarding National Security." The state of emergency provides broad powers to impose curfews, close off entire towns and cities, take command of intelligence and security forces, and restrict assembly and movement. It remained in effect at year's end.

With the ongoing insurgency limiting access to information, a number of instances in the Report have been difficult to verify. However, there were reports of arbitrary deprivation of life, torture, impunity, poor prison conditions--particularly in pretrial detention facilities—and arbitrary arrest and detention. There remained unresolved problems relating to the large number of Internally Displaced Persons (IDPs). Corruption at all levels of the Government remained a problem. Some aspects of the judicial system were dysfunctional, and there were reports that the judiciary was subject to external influence.

U.S. Department of State | Country Reports on Human Rights Practices – 2004

The Media's Take

Iraq's interim government replaced the human rights abuses of ousted dictator Saddam Hussein with its own offenses — including torture, arbitrary arrests, bribery and death — according to an annual U.S. human rights report. The U.S. State Department's assessment, titled "Country Reports on Human Rights," examines conditions in 196 countries including Iraq, Iran, Russia, Ghana, Guatemala, China and North Korea.

The document, released Monday, said the violent insurgency undermined the government and civic life and promulgated a "continuing shortage of services and staples."

CNN | Report cites Iraq government abuses, progress

Bolton Unplugged

"You're a Communist Party member?"

Replying to Bolton's jab, Pilger explained to him the current politics of Britain: "Well, Labour Party—they're the conservatives." Pilger meant "conservative" as in supporting Prime Minister Tony Blair's embrace of the war in Iraq.

By now Bolton was walking away from Pilger, looking like he much desired a fast separation. With a mischievous (or, some might say, wicked) smile on his face, Bolton shot back, "You're a Communist Party member?"

That was the Kodak moment, and it was captured by Pilger's camera operator. On Planet Bolton, if you inquire too forcefully about civilian casualties, you must be a commie. The Cold War might be over. But at least one senior Bush aide is keeping its spirit alive.

Pilger's documentary, as far as I can tell, has not aired in the United States. I've only seen the scenes involving Bolton and Feith. So I cannot vouch for the entire film. But in a flash, Pilger captured on tape a brief but telling exchange. Call it Bolton unplugged, and it's mean and ugly.

David Corn | A No-Compassion Conservative?

Looking back, it will seem to future generations inexplicable why Americans were unable on their own, and in time to save themselves, to accept a rule of nature so basic that it could be mouthed by an actor, Lawrence Fishburn, in a movie, The Cotton Club.

"You've got to learn," the line went, "That when you push people around, some people push back."

As they should.

As they must.

And as they undoubtedly will.

There is justice in such symmetry.

Ward Churchill | "Some People Push Back"