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South Africa's Repo Men

Up to five hijackings daily in Cape Town

The redistribution of wealth…

"We'd like to repeat our call for everybody to remain extremely vigilant. It's right in our intimate suburban home territory. All of us are going to have to start looking at security." Democratic Alliance MP Dene Smuts

I recently cited the story of three hijackers crushing a neighborhood woman to death with her car. They couldn't get the thing off her, so they strolled off in search of another. Today, Independent Online reports five hijackings on Wednesday and warns motorists to treat driveways, traffic intersections and business parking bays with caution.

Following a 209 percent increase in hijackings between 1996 and 2002, Cape Town police sources suggest they've doubled again in the past two years. In other words, up to five Capetonians may be hijacked on any given day. My concern is twofold. First, this "epidemic", as it's called, is not restricted to hijacking and, secondly, my area has been particularly hard hit. Of yesterday's five reported hijackings, two took place in the Kenilworth—Claremont—Rondebosch East area. While Capetonians needing cars seem less inclined than Johannesburgers to shoot their victims, a Claremont resident was shot Tuesday night.

Look, I realise this is not a train smash. People have long been warned to ignore traffic lights at night when driving in quiet areas. Hijacking's a way of life for some and a quick end for others. It fosters entrepreneurial zeal and grows the informal sector. With the public sector, responsible for policing, having been in terminal decline for years, informal business activities have been slow to take off. However, it seems they are now doing so with a vengeance and things stand to 'disimprove' over time.

While this is good news for the economy as a whole (particularly the motor vehicle industry, which charges South Africans up to twice the value of cars exported abroad for half the price), I must say I feel a bit chipped off when the police advise me to observe the following when arriving home.

• Drive slowly past your house and circle the block, especially at night.
  
• Turn off the radio before approaching your driveway.
  
• Avoid sudden movements during a hold-up.
  
• Undo your seat-belt before pulling in (in case an attacker thinks you're reaching for a gun).
  
• When attacked, don't reach for your cellphone (as above).
  
• Maintain eye contact with your attackers and note their appearance (for what?).
  
• Co-operate or die.
  

A couple of Sundays ago, at around 2 pm on a sunny afternoon, an Observatory couple's car seized up on the airport road. They called relatives and the Automobile Association (AA) by cellphone, locked the doors of their car and put on its hazard lights. Three guys smashed in the windows and the driver's head with a brick to get his phone. They left only when a passing motorist opened fire. The driver, his face caved in, was pissed off. Three police vehicles had breezed past as he and his wife awaited further attack or eventual rescue. Police recovered their cell phone, but made no arrests.

Police assurances of increased patrols on the airport road hold up to scrutiny. A week or two ago, three men and two women robbed Observatory's prestigious Wild Fig restaurant, fatally shooting a diner in the chest as they left. They fled onto the airport road and headed for Khayalitsha where the cops headed them off. The gang fired off all their ammunition before three took bullets. All were arrested and two appeared in court yesterday. Now, with Capetonians having been told of police patrolling that stretch of road, why use it to flee a crime scene? Either some entrepreneurs entering the 'plug and play' business are dumb, or they count on the cops to take as much notice of them as they did of the stranded couple.

The stranded couple, by the way, were fortunate. After recording their dismal afternoon drive, The Cape Argus reports:

"Last week robbers shot dead a man at the R300 intersection with the N2 - near the scene of yesterday's attack. The two incidents followed an attack on two traffic cops [these guys carry weapons] three weeks ago. A source said the officers had pulled off to the side of the road to monitor traffic and had been approached by two gunmen who threatened them. ... In another recent incident, a Khayelitsha woman, Shereen Mase, was hit in the face with rocks and left in critical condition after a gang ambushed her at the same spot as yesterday's attack."

Good grief. When things get to this stage, it means we're a) paranoid, b) at war, or c) both. I reckon the third option takes it and makes for an utterly depressing news media. Why? Because while all the billboards on the way home today screamed "How not to be hijacked", all the bloody paper could do is offer the platitudes of overpaid and over-fed bureaucrats, including Western Cape premier Ebrahim Rasool, DA MP Dene Smuts, and Western Cape MEC for Safety and Security Leonard Ramatlakane.

These people occasionally duck out from behind their security gated, electric-fenced, 4x4-sheltering tax havens to hightail it to the airport and another talk shop. They are self-serving fat cats unwilling to admit the situation's completely out of control and they certainly aren't going to do anything about it. Ramatlakane's right. The problem is poverty. Why the hell is nothing been done to alleviate a poverty as horrific as you'll find anywhere in Africa? Where are the food and work programmes? Why is the wage gap widening so rapidly?

I could live with an admission of impotence here, Leonard, really I could. It's this regularly regurgitated bullshit posing as 'measures you can take to ensure your safety' that gets up my nose and hacks me off. I refuse to live in a gated suburb or hide behind walls.

When everything reported to the cops is met with the bland question, "Are you reporting this for insurance or do you want us to do something about it?" you know your country's up the bloody creek. As a blogger, this is bad news. I have no desire to write of the shit in which I'm forced to swim but, should it continue to rise, how the hell will I be able to avoid doing so? Worse, I will no longer be in a position to dictate to others how they should run their countries and their lives. They will begin to deride and mock me, and eventually run me out of town. And I will be left alone to face a day ended by six or seven bullets rather than a good, strong cup of tea.

The good news? Hard on the heels of ZAR500 million being spent upgrading residential apartments around Cape Town's tourist traps, a further ZAR390 million is being pumped into up-market inner-city housing on the Waterfront. Premier Rasool remarked: "What you are doing is adding life to the CBD. One of the tragedies of apartheid is that it removed people from the city ... this is bringing people back to the city." ZAR1 million of the profits will go towards low-cost housing. That would buy a single-roomed bachelor apartment at the site where Rasool’s legacy of apartheid is being rolled back.

I tell you, it's not for a lack of money that we're driving ninety miles-an-hour down a dead-end street. From tomorrow, I will carry a large gun and, should I pass cars at the side of the road, I will open fire. It appears to be the right thing to do in a society where one is all that stands between civilization and anarchy...

"There is a whole plan to be integrated involving all spheres of government. The issue is development." WC Safety and Security MEC Leonard Ramatlakane

Finding Isis

Father Christopher balances the books...

I married Isis on the fifth day of May, | But I could not hold on to her very long. | So I cut off my hair and I rode straight away | For the wild unknown country where I could not go wrong.

A man has certain needs. I took mine to my Spiritual Guide and Mentor (SG&M), Father Christopher. Parking the American Airlines plane I'd hijacked out of Boston at Denver, I cadged a ride up Route 36 to Boulder with two locals, Bud and Otto. They were looking for someone.

"You seen a short, angry red guy on foot?" asked Otto. I told him I'd just got into town.

Sweeping down the rise to the Jesus Bunker (I had an early appointment with RageBoy), I noted Brother Marek working on the perimeter fence.

I thanked my two good Samaritans. It had been good of them to go out of their way for me. Otto didn't have anything to say and Bud was obviously tired. "Okay. Have a nice day, Uh, night. Night, day, doesn't mean shit. We got work to do," he muttered before spinning his wheels towards the hills.

I strolled over to Father Christopher's handyman. "How now, Brother Marek," I called. He was putting the finishing touches to a machine-gun emplacement focused on the main gate.

"Brother Mike, it's good to see you." The mad, laughing, sad-song poet of the mystic Polack night and I embraced. "What brings you this way?"

"Business and pleasure," I replied. "I come to take myself a wife or two."

"Excellent," laughed Marek joyfully. "Father Christopher will be most pleased. He's in the main house overlooking the Jesus Bunker."

"Yeah, I called ahead," I told him. "You seen RageBoy about? We've an appointment."

"Funnily enough, yes," replied Brother Marek. "I saw him heading out of the compound this morning. He told me he felt like a good hike. He's taken to hiking ever since..." He stopped, remembering something. "It did strike me as a bit strange. He was up all last night watching reruns of The Deer Hunter and, when he left, he seemed to be in a foul mood."

I was not surprised to hear it.

"Not ideal for strolling the mountains," continued Marek. "He was carrying one of Father Christopher's sniper rifles and kept muttering 'Bud and Otto. I'll kill the bastards.' Any idea who these people might be?"

"Nah. Probably fellow hikers."

"Yeah, I guess. He had three semtex vests with him as well. Probably headed for the snowline. Anyway, he's disappeared."

"It doesn't surprise me," I remarked, deciding to withhold my knowledge of RageBoy's shame.

We chatted a while, I slipped him some freshly squeezed potatoes, and left him to test the 30 mm cannon on some local New Age mushroom pickers who'd strayed too far. I walked up to the main house overlooking the Jesus Bunker and the hangar. I could see Marek had been busy. Father Christopher's Lear jet sparkled in the sun bathing the apron of the airfield running alongside the main bunker.

We set out that night for the cold in the North. | I gave him my blanket, he gave me his word. | I said, "Where are we goin'?" He said we'd be back by the fourth. | I said, "That's the best news that I've ever heard."

It was good to see my Spiritual Guide and Mentor again. Dispensing with the usual pleasantries, he waved the girls away, poured us some strong coffee, opened a pack of smokes, and cut to the chase. "So, Brother Mike, how's the Church doing in Africa?" he asked.

"Well, Father," I replied. "We've had them on Fair Lady for long enough now and are slowly introducing blogs. They'll be converts before long and we'll be raking in huge profits shortly after that."

"Outstanding. Now, you have a favor to ask of me?"

"Indeed I do, Father. As you know, we all have certain needs. Mine are simple. I'm about to take a surfing safari up the mighty Congo River and have need of feminine company. It'll be a long trip."

"The Congo River, eh? That's a lifetime trip, that one. Why so?"

"Well, it's one of tasks set me by Madame Levy prior to her honoring me with a commission in her army. I need to get to it as soon as possible."

"Good stuff. I tell you, this partnership with Madame Levy will reap huge dividends. What's the task."

"She needs me to find the perfect wave."

"That's a tough one. But the mighty Congo River is the right place to look. You'll need to take additional copies of Fair Lady for the locals, though. They'll smooth your way. And, of course, you'll feed us regular reports on your progress?"

"Of course. I'll use the satellite. It shouldn't be too difficult though. I know the River and have a fair idea of the best surfing spots. There's an excellent reef break just below the Stanley Falls outside of Kisangani."

"Just the place. It's off Shell Beach. I know it well. It is a most remarkable wave. Madame will be well pleased." He paused, a twinkle in his eye. "How's the expedition fixed for manpower?"

"Manpower's fine," I replied. "Everything's fine. We have all the supplies we need. It's womanpower I wanted to speak about."


RageBoy takes a hike...

I was thinkin' about turquoise, I was thinkin' about gold, | I was thinkin' about diamonds and the world's biggest necklace. | As we rode through the canyons, through the devilish cold, | I was thinkin' about Isis, how she thought I was so reckless.

Father Christopher roared with laughter. Rocking in his chair, tears rolled down his cheeks. "Ah, you Irregulars are so predictable. It's wonderful. And, of course, you've come to the right place. Our alliance with Madame Levy has given us extra resources. Lily and Rosemary have just joined us, as have Louise, Estelle and Camille. You might well be interested. She has also sent us Mrs. Henry and Maggie, but I have them working the scullery. You know the rest well enough though."

"Well, yeah..." I felt somewhat bashful. Here I was, about to ask my SG&M for advice and he was leaving me to flap in the wind and make up my own mind. But I know he understands me better than I do myself and I put my trust in his judgment.

"Well, yeah, actually Father, I had kinda made up my mind. I'd really like to take Carmela and Sweet Melinda off your hands a while." I could feel myself blushing.

My SM&G appeared dumbstruck. "What? Only two? What about Saint Annie, Angel, Sister Jacqueline, Johanna, Mother Mary, Angelina... all the others. Take, boy, take." From the bay window of the study overlooking the Jesus Bunker, his hand swept the entire complex. He's that kind of guy.

"Well, I would, but I know about you and Angel. I believe she's just got back from the coast and if there's any chance.... And, yeah, for that reason, Angelina... well, you know." I was stumbling. "Johanna is... well, she's..."

I fell silent. So did Father Christopher. His eyes grew sad. "Indeed. Yes. Dear, dear Johanna."

He perked up suddenly and swinging away from his monitor, began to interrogate me. "So, tell me, you seem pretty stuck on these two. Why?"

How she told me that one day we would meet up again, | And things would be different the next time we wed, | If I only could hang on and just be her friend. | I still can't remember all the best things she said.

I knew what he was up to.

"One plus one equals...?" I asked him, a mock-quizzical look on my face.

"Isis," he roared, his booming laughter filling the vast room. (It's an old inhouse joke—not that funny, but we don't mind.) "I and I," he intoned in mock Rastafari, before doubling up again. His laughing fit passed and he wiped his eyes. "Indeed, you have learnt well. But why Carmela and Sweet Melinda? They hate each other's guts. How do they complete the Isis equation? I had you pegged for Saint Annie."

"Well, it's kinda complicated," I started, before realizing it wasn't. And it certainly wouldn't be so to my SG&M. I blundered on in. "It's sort of more complicated and less complicated than it seems." Out of the corner of my eye I could see Father Christopher smile, but he did so benignly, understanding how difficult it is to open oneself, even to one such as he.

"It's just that the two of them complement each other so well. Saint Annie's more than cool, but she's like my sister, y'know. Sweet Melinda wasn't too difficult a choice after her. I mean, on her own, she'd be impossible. She's all the romanticism and sweetness and childlike sentiment any guy could want. I mean, y'know, we never grow out of a seventeen-year old kind of need for saccharine. But physically, she's perfect and her sugary subservience makes a mockery of her Nordic looks. I mean, God, she's what all guys look for at some time or another. She incorporates all the little-boy fantasies while retaining her ice-princess regalness."

I was blabbering, but my SG&M looked impressed. "Regality," he corrected me quietly. "Go on."

"Carmela's a completely different kettle of fish. So to speak. She's fucking dark and wild. She's manipulative and stark-raving bonkers. In fact, she was the most difficult to settle on because, quite frankly, I don't know if I can handle her. But without her, Sweet Melinda would make me throw up. While Melinda panders to all your fantasies of malleable women, she also makes you feel old. She smothers. Carmela's the opposite. Sweet Melinda's a sort of cool pink, but Carmela either burns fiery red or darkens to a thundercloud blue. So there you go."

I felt relieved at having got it all off my chest, but Father Christopher was intrigued and questioned me further. "So what's it about Carmela that made you decide you'd like to take her on?"

"Well, impulsivity can be a pain in the ass, but it's never boring. Funny, I got a ride here with two guys; Bud and Otto, and something Carmela always says popped into my head."

"Mm...?"

"She's always saying 'Look at 'em, ordinary fucking people, I hate 'em.' I know it's not very nice and all, but I know exactly what she means. And then, when she throws a scene, I know I love her because I understand exactly why she's doing it. She's uncontrollable and thoroughly out of control. How can you not love a woman like that? Besides, combining those qualities with Sweet Melinda's really turns me inside out."

"Isn't it a bit risky taking her up the mighty Congo River? How'll you get any surfing done?"

"You mean sex?"

"No. You'll just have no control over her."

"I've thought of that. Remember the trip we did up the Congo with the Maharishi in the good-old bad-old days? Well, I remember how hairy it got when we hit the Lualaba stretch. Y'remember, the war and all that shit? Bodies everywhere, us ripped and stoned, no medicines, getting blind drunk on Marek's cassava roots and night-time raids by machete-wielding savages?"

My SG&M nodded.

"Well, I reckon I'd rather have Carmela with me in situations like that than I would Sweet Melinda. For starters, Carmela's into herbs far more than she is into any floral shit. She makes a mean poultice." I nodded down towards the gardens surrounding the Jesus Bunker. "I mean, look at that fucking gazebo Melinda's put up. The gardens are great for sponsors' parties but, hell, that thing looks like a wedding cake."

It did too. Sweet Melinda had taken great care in designing it and surrounding it with roses of every hue. A water feature to the side complemented a rope swing from which, while eating an apple, she'd survey the mountains on hot summer afternoons in one of her thin cotton frocks. But she wasn't there. On its own, the damned thing looked like a horticultural confection, a candyman's monument to abysmal taste.

"It's very sweet though," I muttered, tearing my eyes from the ghastly thing. "Carmela tried to burn it down. When Brother Marek stopped her, she took an axe to it. Sweet Melinda just sighed and set to fixing and painting it."

I broke into the tomb, but the casket was empty. | There was no jewels, no nothin', I felt I'd been had. | When I saw that my partner was just bein' friendly, | When I took up his offer I must-a been mad.

"Lot of conflict there," interjected my SG&M softly.

"Yeah, but it's good, otherwise I'd go crazy. Imagine having to look after the prom queen while being attacked by a bunch of crazed pygmies. You need Carmela on a day like that. She'll take care of the little fuckers. Remember the time she wiped the floor with Dr. Phil at the Boulder Book Convention? Christ, the guy hasn't recovered. He's resorted to writing diet books and hanging out at gay bars."

Father Christopher chortled. "Yeah, he was out of his depth there. She has fire and smoke coming from her eyes, that one. He couldn't look at her. And no question got through. He's never been so humiliated."

"Yeah..."

"I mean RageBoy's done a good job raping and bombing him. There's no denying it. But to really take a man down, you need a woman to do it."

"Yup, she's tough. But she has a heart like molten gold. God, she can be so incredibly sensuous, sensual and soft. It's quite scary. In fact..."

"How's your back?"

"Still stiff, but improving. Now, Carmela's the one who's taken in all the animals. Sweet Melinda wouldn't touch them. How's the croc doing, by the way?"

My Spiritual Guide and Mentor gave me a run down on Carmela's Creatures, as they're called by the game park wardens. The crocodile, shot up by some CIA yahoos down in Salvador, was on the mend. The eagles had been set free. The tiger was nearly back to full mobility and the giant apes were off their drips and feeding well. The lioness had just given birth to another litter.

"A very caring girl," commented Father Christopher. "A bit wild, but very caring. And intensely loyal." He looked at me; meaningfully.

"I know," I answered. "I am a bit concerned about that. She and Sweet Melinda will travel on different boats most of the time. But when we hit the rainy season and the surf starts pumping, it won't matter. She'll be out with us. Sweet Melinda will keep cool on the beach. Mm... after a really long spell in the water, she smells like apricots."

I caught myself. Father Christopher is, after all, a man of the world and the chief reason for the girls' presence at the Jesus Bunker. I was already protecting my turf.

I picked up his body and I dragged him inside, | Threw him down in the hole and I put back the cover. | I said a quick prayer and I felt satisfied. | Then I rode back to find Isis just to tell her I love her.

My SG&M poured us each another strong coffee and we lit up a couple of cigarettes. "Now," he asked, "What happens when Carmela goes berserk? You know she does. It could jeopardize the whole venture and Madame Levy and I have a lot riding on this."

I'd prepared for the question but tossed my notes aside. "Don't worry about it, Father. Really, there's no need for concern. We're going up the Congo, not Carmela. If she goes berserk, there's nothing we can do. As likely as not, she'll end up swinging from trees and refuse to come back."

"But what will that do to you?"

"I'd be devastated of course, but it's our trip and it has to be completed. Madame Levy insists."

"If she gets hurt?"

"It's her problem. Besides, that's usually when she and Sweet Melinda make up. They become blood sisters for as long as Carmela's out of action. Carmela likes being cared for on occasion—in fact, that's why she goes bonkers—and Sweet Melinda lives to be needed. I know it sounds a bit sick but, as we're alone here, we both know it to be a female thing."

I paused. "I mean we're talking 'One plus one' here. The girls make themselves useful and I get to do what I need to do."

"It makes great sense."

"Yeah. You taught me well."

He took a long drag on his cigarette. "You want the aircraft carrier standing off the coast? We'll send the F.C.S Argo."

She was there in the meadow where the creek used to rise. | Blinded by sleep and in need of a bed, | I came in from the East with the sun in my eyes. | I cursed her one time then I rode on ahead.

It was my SG&M's way of saying, "Go for it." I'm not great when it comes to saying thank you. For some reason, it embarrasses me. But, by asking him for the carrier, several patrol boats, a Chinook, an Apache, a couple of Blackhawks, twelve Humvees, a few trucks, several dozen heavy machine guns, mortars, rocket-propelled grenade launchers, several sniper rifles, small arms, Kevlar wetsuits, spare surfboards and all the ammunition we could take, I tried.

Father Christopher understood my reticence and allowed me to steer the conversation elsewhere.

"Ya seen RageBoy?" I asked.

"Well, he has a suicide mission at two, but I gave him the morning off. Look, I know about this duel you two were supposed to have, and I thought I'd scotch it. RageBoy is a suicide bomber and he's damned good at it. McGraw's in town for a book signing and I need RageBoy down at the Table Mesa Shopping Center to take care of him. Anyway, since he's experiencing transport problems, I thought it a good idea to let him indulge his newfound love of hiking."

"You do realize he's up there in the hills with your sniper scopes, a bloody high-powered rifle, and three vests?"

"I do. You must forgive him though. He's very intense."

"Hmm... I dunno. He could come to a bad end. It happens sometimes. People just explode. Natural causes."

"He'll be fine. I'm thinking of giving him the old Beemer PorridgeBoy brought down for the wedding." Father Christopher chuckled and corrected himself. "The wedding that didn't happen. Poor old Locke is the one that always takes the fall for these things because he wears frilly aprons but the truth of it is that RageBoy was the one who chickened out."

"Really? I didn't know that."

"Well, yes, deep down he's an extremely sensitive chap."

"Yeah, what the hell. How is Locke, by the way?"

"He's recovering nicely although it was a terrible shock to him. He still sticks to the stenography room. Takes all his meals there too. His transcriptions have improved greatly, though. This one should be ready immediately."

She said, "Where ya been?" I said, "No place special." | She said, "You look different." I said, "Well, not quite." | She said, "You been gone." I said, "That's only natural." | She said, "You gonna stay?" I said, "Yeah, I jes might."

Before I left for Denver International to supervise the loading of provisions for the Great Congo River Surfing Expedition, I ambled down to the garden to see how Sweet Melinda's roses were doing. The high mountain air had been kind to the roses, but I was startled to see lavender flourishing between the rose trees. Rounding the gazebo, I virtually stumbled over Sweet Melinda dressing a wound inflicted on the lissome Carmela's left calf by a rose thorn.

Both girls looked breathtakingly beautiful and my heart ached. I felt a slight twinge in the lumbar sacral region of my back as well. Word had obviously reached them from the main house (one of Locke's tunnels, no doubt), but I ignored their flirtations.

I had brought my needs to Father Christopher and they had been met, so I decided to head for the airport before being lured into pre-nuptial bliss. As I climbed into the Beemer borrowed from Father Christopher, I heard a muffled explosion disturb the cold, quiet air. It came from near the snowline high above the Jesus Bunker.

Although I was preparing to set off to the mighty Congo River, there to find the perfect wave and the honour of being offered a commission in the army of Madame Levy, I did spare a thought for RageBoy. Earlier that morning, I had received a mail from him asking to be my aide-de-camp on my receipt of my commission and I am considering his request.

Isis, oh, Isis, you mystical child. | What drives me to you is what drives me insane. | I still can remember the way that you smiled | On the fifth day of May in the drizzlin' rain.

Bob Dylan | Isis

Coming Soon...

A Question of Honour

RageBoy and me... outside the Jesus Bunker at dawn... for the heart of Madame Levy. Jacta alea est. Be there.

Fahrenheit 9/11—Based on a True Story

"Using intelligence provided by Iraq's interim government, US forces dropped two tons of bombs on a suspected militant safehouse in Fallujah, killing at least 10 people, officials said."

Multi-million dollar weekend takings shows Michael Moore's FoxyNews network to have strong support. Having raised "infotainment" to new lows, the thinking man's Sean Hannity and his supporters look set to storm Congress in the not-too-distant future.

Okay Bruce, I think our friendship can take this. The thing is, I just don't get it. Perhaps it's because I'm not what Brian and your president refer to as "an Amurkan". Perhaps it's something else. Either way, enlighten me. Reaction to this thing, F9/11, smells like a publicity machine's version of the WWF's Summer Slam.

Why are you so keen on it?

I agree (without having seen the movie) with the statement: "Moore has made a film suggesting the Bushies are anti-democratic warmongering profiteers and the wars on Afghanistan and Iraq are complete fuckups, mass murder for money, oil, and power lust, covered over in transparent lies enabled by the media."

I agree with the statement and the sentiment. For these things, the American people should drag George W. Bush before a properly constituted international war crimes tribunal. What does he get instead? Yeah, you guessed it: a bunch of people praising a mockumentary entitled Fahrenheit 9/11.

What is making normally sober-minded people so desperate to cast this film as a serious piece of journalism? It's not journalism. It's a mockumentary. Journalism needs tight editing to ensure accuracy. Filmmaking uses tight editing for effect and Moore makes no bones about it. This movie—based on fact—is all about effect. And its effect is timed to coincide with the July 4 weekend. It will prove as fleeting as any media moment we've endured these past three years and will be forgotten long before November.

Period.

I can just see our intrepid reporter (most of whose material is freely available many thousands of miles from the war zone) intoning a la Pilger: "500,000 Iraqis died during the filming of this documentary" and having it received as a profound statement. It's the sort of propagandist crap at which he excels and you know it.

Now, we know there's a place for such stuff and Moore, who is a smart guy, has stated his target is Bush. F9/11, to me, bears this out. So, what's he doing? Playing catch up? Lending a liberal respectability to infotainment? He's not doing a good job. Even the story lead-ins quoted above and below (picked from Google's news page) do a better job of spreading the Bush Gospel than Moore does to counter it (my embolding—just look how these guys use words).

I don't get to see much of Sean Hannity or Rush Limbaugh but, from what I have managed to pick up, the right has been doing "news as entertainment" for donkey’s years. Is it a good thing now that U.S. liberals have learnt to play the same game? I think not. John Pilger's been doing this stuff most of his career, but he maintains a veneer of respectability throughout.

Does Moore come anywhere close to making Bush look as vindictively pathetic as Pilger does Richard Bolton and Douglas Feith during formal interviews? I doubt it. I further doubt Michael Moore's film will sustain itself to counter the day-to-day barrage of burble emanating from the likes of Britain's The Sun:

Usually it's hard to get emotional about a 20-ton chunk of granite. But the lump lowered into place on the site of New York's World Trade Centre is very special. Ground Zero will always be a reminder of history's most horrific act of terrorism. The cornerstone of the new Freedom Tower is an act of faith. It's a message to the men of evil that they cannot win.

What do we (out here in the world) see? We see Michael Moore as an unlikely small fish in a very large pond, about to disappear (with a grin) into the nearest banking hall. We see the world thrown, by professional spinmeisters, into a media-manipulated cycle of never-ending war and we see Americans responding to it by spending 90 minutes at the movies.

Has Disney rotted the American psyche to such an extent? Has everything been commoditized to the point where, if it's not crammed into 90 minutes, it doesn't exist? And, if it does exist, it does so only for an hour-and-a-half?

Do people really not know what is going on? If so, why? I see no black ink striking offending paragraphs from the pages of the New York Times. You've a free press and 200,000,000 Americans have Web access. If it hasn't been broadcast on the networks, the material used in F9/11 has been available (in far greater scope and detail) on the Web for a long time.

Nobody is able to claim "they did not know". Because this is so, I'm far keener to assess Americans reactions to George W. Bush four-year reign of terror than I am to assess their response to Michael Moore's ninety minutes of fame.

Look, Matt Taibbi is correct. "Say what you want about Moore, but he picked himself up and did something, something approximating the role journalism is supposed to play."

I do not doubt that Michael Moore has 'done something'. But, for this the man is eulogized? What disturbs me is that he is not the norm.

Again, Taibbi is on the button: "Everyone in the commercial media, and that includes Hitchens, knows what his real job is: feeding the monkey. We are professional space-fillers, frivolously tossing content-pebbles in an ever-widening canyon of demand, cranking out one silly pack-mule after another for toothpaste and sneaker ads to ride on straight into the brains of the stupefied public."

For "Hitchens", substitute "Moore" but bear this in mind. Like him or not, the vile Hitchens is a polemicist of infinitely higher caliber than Michael Moore who, as Hitchens is quick to infer, should mix it with the Hannitys and Limbaughs. In fact, Hitchens's review is queasily good and Limbaugh is quick to point out that "More people hear this show in a 15 minute period than saw Moore's movie on its opening weekend..."

If reaction to F9/11 is what the Bush Doctrine has most to fear, I'd say the U.S. president could get away with proclaiming himself emperor. The hysteria surrounding this movie comes across as groupthink at its most dangerous. It's a case of "Do your bit for your country and the world. Go see a movie, support Michael Moore, and feel righteous."

It doesn't wash.

Otherwise, the film sounds quite good.

NY Begins Construction of Freedom Tower

"The cornerstone of a new skyscraper that will one day soar over ground zero has been unveiled, a symbolic step for victims' relatives and a chance for Manhattan to reclaim its broken skyline." USA Today

An Alternative View

Criticism of the above post added July 8, 2004

Bruce Partridge, the famed Atlantan blogger who makes The River flow, has taken time out to trash my above entry by e-mail. That's after doing so in the comments feature below. As a journalist who cares little for anything remotely "fair and balanced", I suppose I should take umbrage and wipe the blogs with Bruce, a liberal-pinko-commie terrorist who'll get his comeuppance spending Christmas in an Atlanta concentration camp.

But, what the hell, he has seen the movie and is entitled to his principles. For what it's worth, they're principles I admire and he uses them to balance my take-down of Michael Moore and his film. Bruce is fair and balanced and he counters every point I make with a valid counter point. Because of this, and because there are two sides to every story, I asked him if I could summarize his mail and append it to this post.

I didn't wait for a response as I had to get this in before work, so I hope I do justice to what is a thoughtful rejoinder.

For my entry on F9/11, I use a couple of quotes to illustrate the pervasive rot trotted out second nature by the U.S. media. Partridge gets straight to it, addressing the first piece of propaganda issued by Associated Press. He points out, quite correctly, that it's written from within the media-manufactured socio-political context that Fahrenheit 9/11 seeks to obliterate. Nothing like going for the jugular at the outset eh, Bruce?

As for my scene-setting introductory paragraph, in which Moore's rabid fans march on Capitol Hill (there to ensconce their hero in public office), Partridge offers an off-hand "Would that it were so." Can I argue with that? Moore in office? Hell, I wouldn't want to argue with that. Most anything's better than Bush and the likes of Moore are infinitely better than the dirt-brains currently cluttering the Beltway or beating at the White House Door.

I then equate Moore to Hannity and Limbaugh. This upsets Bruce because "...the level of dishonesty in their rhetoric is so far from equal." Stay upset, Partridge, they've been around longer than Mikey and know what it takes to succeed. I'm not a great fan of 'moral equivalence' or whatever it would take to measure the quantity and quality of mud slung or rolled in. I more readily accept that one should point out that, in F9/11, on TV, and in public life, Michael Moore retains his obvious humanity. The Limbaughs, Coulters and Hannitys of the infotainment circus do not.

How could they. They had none to begin with.

I'll also readily agree with Bruce that, if Moore is playing catch-up, he's doing so in a market ripe for exploitation. Like it or not, Moore's business (making movies) is either about giving the audience what they want or making them believe they want that which you're giving them. Infotainment might be fast-food data poison, but if Americans want it, why should the right hog manufacturing rights? Besides, Hannity is trailer-trash humor. At least Moore is capable of both nuanced humor and cogent argument, no matter how circumstantial his evidence (and most of it is more than circumstantial).

Denigrating the movie by associating it with the general media's reaction to it? Okay, that's unfair. As Bruce asks, what did I expect of the media? Well, let's not start... Why is he so keen on the film? Simple. It's a "...powerful anti-war, anti-war-cheerleading statement, based on a true story." As for it being a mockumentary ("What's wrong with that?" asks Bruce), it does offer (or hide) good journalism "...in the sense that there is information here, some of which can be read in NYT, much of which has never been presented, and none of which has ever been put out with the questions/interests of everyday people as its foundation."

Fact is, as far as Bruce is concerned, this thing is unique. "This ain’t Sam Smith, John Pilger, or Greg Palast, it’s Michael Moore, and that’s OK." What does Moore deliver? A "...powerful anti-war, anti-Bush, anti-media movie..." I think part of Moore's attraction for Bruce, and his need to refute my entry, derives from the way Moore actually engages his characters and his audience. I can't argue with that. "Hey, it’s not what Moore says, it’s who he talks to. Poor kids, peace activists, senior citizens, recruiters, military officers, and Lila Lipscomb. Plus authors, FBI agents, ex-congressmen..."

Backatcha, as it were. Humphhh...

Will F9/11 have lasting effect? To my mind (and because the average U.S. citizen appears to have none), a movie released in July will be erased from memory by November. Yeah, well, Yankees may be dumb but they're not stupid. Bruce tells me the DVD will be released November and, unlike this neck of the woods, most people in the States are in a position to watch DVDs. Why keep it in memory if you can save it to disk? Indeed. Why? It'll be around at the end of the year.

But this is where, for a foreigner, things get interesting. Bruce says "...much of [this material] has never been presented." He further avers that the movie is generating praise because it allows Americans to see "...real people talking about the war, they’re seeing a little bit of what the war looks like, and plenty of other things they should have seen on the news..." Given what I think of the U.S. media, why am I not surprised they don't see these things on network TV?

Again, Partridge delivers: "We don’t have a free press; it’s completely beholden to the corporate dollar. We do have the Internet. Unfortunately, that ain’t nearly enough." It ain't and, as he points out, we do not live in a perfect world "...that would see Bush and other war criminals in the dock. Would that America withdrew troops and sent out diplomats, would that power didn’t corrupt and absolute power didn’t corrupt absolutely."

Why's this guy not working for Michael Moore? Sorry, I forget. He is. And he accuses me of "...attacking the American public..." rather than the schools, the media and the world we live in. God, they don't come more patriotic than that. Mind you, such patriotism is so rare and irrefutable, it's bloody refreshing.

Does Bruce hold out much hope the movie will achieve what it sets out to do? In large part, yes. But, as far as he's concerned, it's not up to the movie to do that. It's up to the American public to eject Bush from the White House in November. After that? Well, I guess that's when the struggle really begins...

Back Pain

Over the years, I've not lent great sympathy to people suffering backache. I should have paid more attention to their pain. These things tend to rebound on one and now, I too have backache. It's in, so the Web tells me, the lumbar sacral region. Nobody, beyond my wife, feels awfully sorry for me.

I've been suffering this private hell for two or three days now and, as it slowly dissipates, I feel I should speak of my agony. I should also apologise to all those I've dismissed with a hearty smack to the midriff and a cheerful "Get over it; It'll go away." Although a stripling barely out of my mid-forties, a fear that this ghastly ache might return has pressed heavily on my mind.

Why? Because, until this morning, I had no idea what might have caused it.

This morning, I was lying in the bath. That's where I do my thinking. The dearth of thought evident here on my blog should make that much obvious. Anyway, like the proverbial bolt from the blue, a stray thought hit me.

"It's a sporting injury," I yelled out to my wife.

"What?"

"My backache. It’s a sporting injury."

"But you do no exercise," she replied, her tone reflecting caution.

"I'm a bloody athlete," I answered.

"No, you're not," she shot back. "You do nothing all week and we did the same together this past weekend."

"Exactly," I retorted. "It's doing it with you that's injured my back."

That shut her up.

I sat up, shocked. "What do you mean, I'm no athlete?"

"Well, in the exercise... the formal running, jogging-type sense."

She was flustered.

"Mm…" I muttered, sinking back into the water.

"A sporting injury?" I could sense she was teasing me. "Is that what you call it?"

"Well," I replied. "I'll call it whatever you like, but if you think I'm going to tell the world I injured my back doing nothing with you..."

"Okay, so it's a sporting injury."

"Exactly."

I was pleased to get that one out of the way and continued contemplating my pain. It then occurred to me that this debilitating injury forcing me to move like an aged cripple might be permanent.

I sat bolt upright. Pain shot through my legs.

"Jesus Christ! What do we do if this doesn't go away?"

"It will go away. You said you were feeling better."

I was becoming irritated. "Yes, but I'm young. What happens if something like this happens to me in my late fifties or early sixties? Damn. You know what that'll mean?"

Wendy doesn't do her thinking in the morning. "What?"

"I'll have restricted movement."

"I'll look after you."

"Thanks, Babe."

She would too. Of course, it wouldn't be the same but... I sank back into the water and my thoughts. This was more serious than I thought. Its implications were enormous.

"You realise, of course," I called out, "That if you die before me, I'm going to have to find myself a young Swedish nurse named Britta or Elka or something?"

"Why?"

"To overcome my backache and take care of my sporting activities. She'll need to be nubile."

"Okay. I'll be dead. I won't have to watch."

That was good to hear. A short silence followed. I felt a certain panic. One gets used to having one’s sporting needs met and it becomes difficult to imagine leading a sedentary lifestyle. At least I now know why we athletic types tend to remain in good shape. A good exercise regimen never hurt anybody and I’m all for continuing it well into my dotage. I began considering Britta's (or Elka's) minimum qualifications and physical attributes.

"Think of all the single people out there. What do you think they do?"

"Variety's the spice of life."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Nothing. It’s what they say."

"Yeah, but a person needs good, regular, relaxed sporting activity."

"Sporting activity?"

"You know what I mean."

"Mm..."

"Well, what do single people do?"

"They date."

"Sheez, what a drag. You mean they have to go through the whole process time and again...?"

"Uh-huh."

"God."

I got back to thinking.

"It's the bloody Americans," I called out.

"What?" she replied.

"They're to blame. They cause all the single people. It has to do with globalization and the death of the family. Working mothers, long hours, lousy salaries, divorce. It's their fault. Iraq too."

"Oh, God."

"No, I'm serious. Think about it. Look at our suicide rate. What do you think causes it?"

"The Americans?"

"No. Not enough sport. People are strung out. Backache from years spent in front of PCs also leads to unhealthy lifestyles. It's what they call a vicious cycle."

"Circle."

"Vicious circle?"

"Uh-huh."

"That's what I said. Do you know, I'm surprised I talk to the buggers. We subsidize their lifestyle, get divorced, drunk, shoot ourselves and get backache. Yet none of them are even remotely aware of it. It’s a bloody disgrace."

"Why don't you tell them?"

"God, no. They'd think me unfriendly."

But she'd set me to thinking. On leaving for work this morning, my back did feel better. Climbing into the car, I forgot the pain (and its cause). It was the rush-hour traffic that brought on this post. By the time I returned home this evening, my back was killing me. Capetonians are the worst drivers in the world, but I now know why. Irregular sporting activity and backache is driving them completely insane.

And you bloody Americans are to blame for it. You callous bastards.

Sounds like...

...Brian Moffatt, who voices the opinion of many non-Amurkans, works in South Africa (read his brilliant take down of the Canadian press), and Niek Hockx is feeling the effects of a long, cold European summer.

Madame Levy's Army

If it pleases Madame, and should Madame have an army, I'd like to join it. I'm sure Madame would have no difficulty convincing me there is something for which I should lay down my life.

Further, I am of the conviction Madame wants me in her army and has been trying to solicit my enlistment. Madame links 'Zimbabwe' to 'Zimmerman', a clear reference to yours truly. She then goes on to use Neil Young's Pocahontas to pay tribute to Marlon Brando. Although this last indicator of Madame's wishes does not constitute a clear reference to yours truly it is, like much of Young's (and Madame's) work, a haunting song.

With the utmost respect for Madame's judgement, I cannot see my application being turned down. This being the case, I humbly request, if it suits Madame, that I be offered a commission as well.

Your officer and servant.

PS: I've sent this off, but I don't know if it'll reach Madame. If any bloggers out there have any idea where I might find an office recruiting people to Madame Levy's army (should she have one), please contact me immediately.

PSS: The usual suspects, who've been buzzing about her blog like flies for weeks, can now take a hike. I've arrived. There's nothing to see here... Move along you...

Rearranging Faces

As Shelley Powers nudges aside Burningbird to add her full name to her weblog and syndication pages, I find myself busy at the other end of the identity spectrum. On Friday, I finally changed my Blogger settings to reflect the name of this weblog.

My blog has worked towards its name. It has, over two-and-a-half years, found itself. And it's found itself to be YBLOG ZA, a weird enough name for sure. To me, it means far more than the inversion of my name, the word 'blog', a question posed, its call-sign capitalization or a country code.

I've published (yeah, that's what Blogger calls it) as Mike Golby from the get-go. I've no problem with my name or what passes for 'a lack of anonymity'. As far as I'm concerned, no matter how much you read me or of me, my anonymity is guaranteed. I am not my writing and my writing is not me.

Like hyperlinks, names are signifiers shaping, with myriad other things, one's identity. Similarly, our blogs signify something. But that which they signify is not wholly or solely us. For that reason, our blogs are unique in themselves and deserve appropriate names. Like us, they generally end up finding themselves.

Blogs, names, identities. These things form points of departure rather than points of arrival. If they do point to pieces of us, then they point only to small pieces, very loosely joined.

My Red Badge of Courage

With mid-year school holidays siphoning thousands from the early morning rush hour, I find I have an extra half-hour in bed each day. This morning, revelling in a lazy start, I decided medals should be awarded to all parents who, for fifteen years or longer, have lugged kids to and from school. Why the medals? To keep me, and others like me, going. Having three kids, whose births span eleven years, I still have five years of hauling to do. If, at age twenty-one, somebody had told me, "You're going to spend an equal amount of time... In fact, you're going to spend the most productive twenty-one years of your life giving kids rides to or from school," I would've given parenthood more thought. And, come to think of it, 'lifting' is but one 'symptom' of someone suffering parenthood. There's all the shit that goes with it. There's....

Oh, good grief... Okay, much like WWII, Vietnam or any other war, it's no use trying to explain it to those who've not been there. But medals and a memorial are in order. Or a chocolate. Or something. Surely?

Masterclass

Schumacher and Barichello Trump Renault at Magny-Cours

Schumacher claims seventh victory at Magny-Cours

MSNBC reports: "Michael Schumacher won the French Grand Prix on Sunday for his ninth victory in 10 Formula One races this season, holding off a strong challenge by the Renault team. ... On a clear, sunny day after rain threatened the previous two days, Schumacher won again with pit-stop strategy, taking the lead on the 33rd of the 70-lap race on the 2.74-mile Nevers-Magny Cours circuit."

With Schumacher (90 pts) beating Renault's Fernando Alonso (33 pts) to claim his seventh victory in the French GP and 79th in his Formula One career (his sixtieth with Ferrari), team-mate Rubens Barrichello (67 pts) snatched a brilliant third place and a podium finish from Renault's Jarno Trulli (46 pts). With the British Grand Prix at Silverstone a week away, Jenson Button leads the non-Ferrari contingent with 48 points, just ahead of Trulli.

Canada's CBC Sports Network, describing Schumacher as "the best Formula One driver ever", puts Ferrari's (and Schumacher's) victory at the exacting French circuit in appropriate perspective: "The German posted brilliant lap after brilliant lap and at lap 58 held a 22.2-second margin over Alonso. The Ferrari pit crew made no mistakes on a 5.8-second stop and Schumacher returned to the track with a comfortable lead."

Note Hmm... I see Blogger's back up. This is a test post of sorts. Having just reverted to painfully slow hole-in-the-wall blogging, Blogger's downtime demands that I learn to exercise a long-forgotten patience. I'm not down to speed yet (and fat graphics are definitely a luxury I can ill afford), but I'm getting there.