The Bush administration’s propaganda curtain over Iraq is finally lifting. Colorful metaphors are sprouting everywhere, like blossoms of truth after a long winter of lies and deception.
· Gen. Anthony Zinni said on “60 Minutes” that the problem with the administration’s “stay the course” plan for Iraq is that "the course is headed over
Niagara Falls."
· General Joseph Hoar, a former commander in chief of US central command, told the Senate foreign relations committee, "I believe we are absolutely on the brink of failure. We are looking into the abyss.”
· Bob Herbert, writing in the New York Times, says, “…we all may be passengers in a vehicle that has made a radically wrong turn and is barreling along a dark road, with its headlights off and with someone behind the wheel who may not know how to drive.”
· Byron Williams, a pastor in Oakland, California, uses a medical metaphor: “What the president now has is an obstinate policy that is allergic to self-reflection.”
This administration came into office as the self-proclaimed “grown ups,” the mature, competent managers who would give the rest of us a demonstration of how things are supposed to be done. Instead, their failures in Iraq exemplify their record across the board. In a mere three and a half years, they have managed to screw up so many things so badly that whoever follows them will have to work day and night just to clean up their mess.
Interestingly, the most withering criticism of the administration isn’t coming from Democrats. It’s coming from Republicans, from retired military officers now free to speak their minds, even from former Bush administration officials. Mark Helprin, for example, is a former speechwriter for Ronald Reagan, now a contributing editor to the Wall Street Journal (not exactly a bastion of liberalism). Helprin writes that Abu Ghraib is "a symbol of the inescapable fact that the war has been run incompetently, with an apparently deliberate contempt for history, strategy, and thought." (Personally, I would add to that list “an apparently deliberate contempt” for justice, respect for other cultures and religions, and empathy for other human beings.)
Or take Gen. Zinni again, who collaborated with Tom Clancy, long a darling of the militarists in the administration, on a forthcoming book, Battle Ready. Zinni’s judgment on the administration’s handling of Iraq? "In the lead-up to the Iraq war and its later conduct, I saw, at minimum, true dereliction, negligence and irresponsibility; at worst, lying, incompetence and corruption.”
Say ‘Amen!’ Who would have believed that in less than one term of office, ANY administration could: Inherit a balanced budget, and turn it into annual deficits approaching half a trillion dollars? Shed American jobs in the millions? Replace well-paying, secure, rewarding work with marginal, low-wage service jobs? Alienate traditional allies? Undermine the United Nations? Withdraw from vital international treaties? Sully America’s reputation? Give the green light to torture and abuse? Fuel a global religious conflict? Spur the growth of terrorism? Make the strategically vital Middle East dangerously unstable? Botch the aftermath of military conquest in Iraq? Assault basic American rights with the wildly-misnamed “Patriot Act”? Shift the tax burden more and more onto the shoulders of the middle class and the poor?
And on and on. The Bush administration record is so thoroughly dismal, its actions so offensive to America’s core beliefs and values, that supporting it takes denial to an extreme never seen before in our country. Over and over, the same words have been used by Republicans and Democrats alike to describe this crew—words like “arrogant,” “obstinate,” “stubborn,” and “deceptive.” Let’s close with one more metaphor, from a friend of mine, writing from Virginia: “Arrogance and secrecy have spread through this administration like a cancer, and it’s eating out America’s core.”
© Tony Russell, 2004
Thursday, June 03, 2004
Wednesday, June 02, 2004
“Public Service Is a Public Trust”
“It looks like we’re about out of Chateau Ste. Michelle Chardonnay, John, and we’re having friends over for dinner tonight. Could you have your secretary call the Wine and Spirits Wholesalers and ask them to send over a few bottles of unsolicited gifts?”
“Sure thing, sweetheart. How many?”
“About eight cases should do it for now. Be sure and have her tell them that it will add to the ‘elegant ambience at the residence.’”
“Will do. Should I have her order some beer at the same time?”
“Gosh, thanks for the reminder. Yes, have her call Anheuser-Busch and tell them we’d like three unsolicited cases from them, too. And she could order some of those free expensive Cuban cigars you and your friends like, while she’s at it.”
“Who’s coming, anyway?”
“Oh, just the usual lobbyists. Dave and his wife couldn’t make it because he’s tied up supervising the remodeling at our summer cottage.”
“That’s a shame. We haven’t seen them since we all got those free lift tickets up in Vermont. Darned white of him to do all that remodeling work for nothing, out of the goodness of his heart.”
“It is, isn’t it? Maybe you could steer a state contract his way or something, just as a reward.”
“You know, I’ve been thinking the same thing. What’s the good of being governor if you can’t do something nice once in a while for your friends?”
“It’s like a religious obligation, isn’t it? ‘Do unto others as they have done unto you.’”
“We phrase it a little differently in politics. We say, ‘You scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours.’ Same idea, though. What do you have in mind to do afterwards?”
“There’s a big Michael Bolton concert in town, starting at 8. I thought that would be a great way to cap off the evening.”
“Might be kind of tough to get tickets at this late date.”
“Tickets? Since when do we need tickets?”
[Embarrassed.] “What was I thinking of? I’ll just have my secretary notify them that I’ll be attending the opening night ceremonies in my official capacity as governor with—what, my wife and six guests?”
“Make that eight guests. And don’t forget about next weekend.”
“Next weekend?”
“I thought we’d take advantage of that honorary membership they gave you to the Essex Yacht Club.”
“Sounds good to me. Is there anything else before I head back to the office?”
“Oh yes. What should I do about these four pairs of socks someone upstate sent as a gift?”
“I’m surprised you even asked! Return them immediately, with a note of regret that we want to avoid all appearances of impropriety. Public service is a public trust.”
© Tony Russell, 2004
“Sure thing, sweetheart. How many?”
“About eight cases should do it for now. Be sure and have her tell them that it will add to the ‘elegant ambience at the residence.’”
“Will do. Should I have her order some beer at the same time?”
“Gosh, thanks for the reminder. Yes, have her call Anheuser-Busch and tell them we’d like three unsolicited cases from them, too. And she could order some of those free expensive Cuban cigars you and your friends like, while she’s at it.”
“Who’s coming, anyway?”
“Oh, just the usual lobbyists. Dave and his wife couldn’t make it because he’s tied up supervising the remodeling at our summer cottage.”
“That’s a shame. We haven’t seen them since we all got those free lift tickets up in Vermont. Darned white of him to do all that remodeling work for nothing, out of the goodness of his heart.”
“It is, isn’t it? Maybe you could steer a state contract his way or something, just as a reward.”
“You know, I’ve been thinking the same thing. What’s the good of being governor if you can’t do something nice once in a while for your friends?”
“It’s like a religious obligation, isn’t it? ‘Do unto others as they have done unto you.’”
“We phrase it a little differently in politics. We say, ‘You scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours.’ Same idea, though. What do you have in mind to do afterwards?”
“There’s a big Michael Bolton concert in town, starting at 8. I thought that would be a great way to cap off the evening.”
“Might be kind of tough to get tickets at this late date.”
“Tickets? Since when do we need tickets?”
[Embarrassed.] “What was I thinking of? I’ll just have my secretary notify them that I’ll be attending the opening night ceremonies in my official capacity as governor with—what, my wife and six guests?”
“Make that eight guests. And don’t forget about next weekend.”
“Next weekend?”
“I thought we’d take advantage of that honorary membership they gave you to the Essex Yacht Club.”
“Sounds good to me. Is there anything else before I head back to the office?”
“Oh yes. What should I do about these four pairs of socks someone upstate sent as a gift?”
“I’m surprised you even asked! Return them immediately, with a note of regret that we want to avoid all appearances of impropriety. Public service is a public trust.”
© Tony Russell, 2004
Saturday, May 29, 2004
“Life Ends at Birth”
I was talking with a friend who is heavily into the “pro-life” movement.
“Weren’t you once called the ‘anti-abortion’ movement’?” I asked.
“Gosh,” she said, “that was years ago. I’m surprised anybody even remembers that any more.”
“What was the reason for the change?” I wondered.
“Well, partly it was just a matter of changing people’s perceptions of us. We wanted to be seen as bringing a positive message, not a negative one. We’re for something, not against something. And then, nobody wants to be lumped in with all those ‘anti’ groups. The grape boycotters, the anti-globalization crew, the anti-apartheid bunch, etc.”
“’Pro-life’ certainly does sound positive,” I agreed. “And pretty all-encompassing. It must be a challenge to match the movement’s actions with its rhetoric.”
“What do you mean?” she said.
“Well, you know. Life! I mean, nobody could be pro-life and for the death penalty, for example. That lays it out pretty plainly, doesn’t it? ‘Life’ versus ‘death’? If a person is pro-life he couldn’t be pro-death, could he?”
“Oh, sure he could,” she responded. “Take the President. He’s strongly pro-life, and he signed execution warrants for over two hundred people when he was governor of Texas.”
“What about war, then?” I asked. “Nobody knows how many people have been killed in the latest Gulf War—maybe twenty-five thousand or so. And that war is a poster child for stupid wars—illegal, unnecessary, brutal, giving rise to more terrorism, more hatred, more instability. Surely a person couldn’t be pro-life and support a war where thousands and thousands of lives have been squandered.”
She said uneasily, “This administration is staunchly pro-life. We support them wholeheartedly.”
“Well, I was wondering if you were going to expand your line of bumper stickers and billboards?”
“Like what?”
“I was thinking of bumper stickers like ‘I’m 4 Life. Stop the War.’ Or ‘Vote Pro-Life. End the Death Penalty.’ And maybe, in addition to those pictures of fetuses with captions like ‘Abortion Stops a Beating Heart,’ you could put up billboards with children cut in half or decapitated by cluster bombs, and captions like ‘Cluster Bombs Stop Beating Hearts.’”
“We’d really rather not go there,” she said. “With abortion, you’re talking about innocent life. With the death penalty, some of those people executed have committed crimes—vicious ones. And some of the people killed in war are really bad guys.”
“Let me see if I get this straight, then. When you say you’re ‘pro-life,’ you’re actually only talking about fetal life. ‘Life’ essentially ends at…”
“Birth.”
“Gotcha.”
© Tony Russell, 2004
“Weren’t you once called the ‘anti-abortion’ movement’?” I asked.
“Gosh,” she said, “that was years ago. I’m surprised anybody even remembers that any more.”
“What was the reason for the change?” I wondered.
“Well, partly it was just a matter of changing people’s perceptions of us. We wanted to be seen as bringing a positive message, not a negative one. We’re for something, not against something. And then, nobody wants to be lumped in with all those ‘anti’ groups. The grape boycotters, the anti-globalization crew, the anti-apartheid bunch, etc.”
“’Pro-life’ certainly does sound positive,” I agreed. “And pretty all-encompassing. It must be a challenge to match the movement’s actions with its rhetoric.”
“What do you mean?” she said.
“Well, you know. Life! I mean, nobody could be pro-life and for the death penalty, for example. That lays it out pretty plainly, doesn’t it? ‘Life’ versus ‘death’? If a person is pro-life he couldn’t be pro-death, could he?”
“Oh, sure he could,” she responded. “Take the President. He’s strongly pro-life, and he signed execution warrants for over two hundred people when he was governor of Texas.”
“What about war, then?” I asked. “Nobody knows how many people have been killed in the latest Gulf War—maybe twenty-five thousand or so. And that war is a poster child for stupid wars—illegal, unnecessary, brutal, giving rise to more terrorism, more hatred, more instability. Surely a person couldn’t be pro-life and support a war where thousands and thousands of lives have been squandered.”
She said uneasily, “This administration is staunchly pro-life. We support them wholeheartedly.”
“Well, I was wondering if you were going to expand your line of bumper stickers and billboards?”
“Like what?”
“I was thinking of bumper stickers like ‘I’m 4 Life. Stop the War.’ Or ‘Vote Pro-Life. End the Death Penalty.’ And maybe, in addition to those pictures of fetuses with captions like ‘Abortion Stops a Beating Heart,’ you could put up billboards with children cut in half or decapitated by cluster bombs, and captions like ‘Cluster Bombs Stop Beating Hearts.’”
“We’d really rather not go there,” she said. “With abortion, you’re talking about innocent life. With the death penalty, some of those people executed have committed crimes—vicious ones. And some of the people killed in war are really bad guys.”
“Let me see if I get this straight, then. When you say you’re ‘pro-life,’ you’re actually only talking about fetal life. ‘Life’ essentially ends at…”
“Birth.”
“Gotcha.”
© Tony Russell, 2004
Sunday, May 23, 2004
“A Man Who Makes His Own Luck”
We were all sitting around the barbershop, conducting our usual grassroots political symposium.
“This prisoner-abuse thing is really gonna hurt Bush,” said Easy Ed. “It looks like him and Rumsfeld are in it up to their eyeballs.”
“The average man-in-the-street thinks it’ll hurt him,” said Bunson, “but it ain’t necessarily so.”
The barbershop grew quiet. You could have heard a hair drop.
“How do you figure?” Ed asked cautiously.
“Look at it this way,” said Bunson. “Bush was getting clobbered on ignoring all those warnings about terrorists—how they were planning attacks using airplanes. He got some of the warnings right before September 11, and then he took off for a month’s vacation. This business about Al Ghraib takes him off the hook.”
“Actually,” said Lum, “he was lucky that thing about ignoring warnings came up, because before that all people were talking about was his going AWOL from National Guard duty during the Vietnam war.”
“I see what you mean,” I said. “That National Guard thing was bad business. He was vulnerable on that that all right.”
“Naw,” said Lum, “you’ve got it all wrong. That National Guard controversy was actually a piece of luck,” because until that came up, everybody was focused on that lie in the State of the Union speech. The one about Iraq’s nuclear program.”
Ed jumped in to disagree. “Use your head!” he said. “That whole ‘sixteen words’ controversy was a godsend. It took people’s minds off those missing weapons of mass destruction. That was getting to be a real embarrassment. I mean, that was supposed to be the whole reason for starting the war.”
Bunson guffawed. “Are you crazy? That ‘weapons of mass destruction’ fiasco was the best thing that could have happened to him. It took everybody’s attention away from the Enron mess. Enron and Kenneth Lay bankrolled Bush’s whole political career. They were by far his biggest campaign backers, and half the people in his administration were dipping from the Enron honey pot.”
Lum disagreed. “That Enron scandal was just what he needed. Once that broke, people stopped talking about his pushing huge tax breaks for the rich when the economy was shedding jobs like needles off an old Christmas tree.”
“That uproar over the tax cuts and unemployment actually worked to his advantage,” claimed Ed. “People stopped talking about how his operatives and right-wingers on the Supreme Court stole the election.”
Bunson held up his hand. “Boys,” he said, “you’re acting as if these breaks just dropped out of the skies. But when you look at it, he’s a man who makes his own luck.”
© Tony Russell, 2004
“This prisoner-abuse thing is really gonna hurt Bush,” said Easy Ed. “It looks like him and Rumsfeld are in it up to their eyeballs.”
“The average man-in-the-street thinks it’ll hurt him,” said Bunson, “but it ain’t necessarily so.”
The barbershop grew quiet. You could have heard a hair drop.
“How do you figure?” Ed asked cautiously.
“Look at it this way,” said Bunson. “Bush was getting clobbered on ignoring all those warnings about terrorists—how they were planning attacks using airplanes. He got some of the warnings right before September 11, and then he took off for a month’s vacation. This business about Al Ghraib takes him off the hook.”
“Actually,” said Lum, “he was lucky that thing about ignoring warnings came up, because before that all people were talking about was his going AWOL from National Guard duty during the Vietnam war.”
“I see what you mean,” I said. “That National Guard thing was bad business. He was vulnerable on that that all right.”
“Naw,” said Lum, “you’ve got it all wrong. That National Guard controversy was actually a piece of luck,” because until that came up, everybody was focused on that lie in the State of the Union speech. The one about Iraq’s nuclear program.”
Ed jumped in to disagree. “Use your head!” he said. “That whole ‘sixteen words’ controversy was a godsend. It took people’s minds off those missing weapons of mass destruction. That was getting to be a real embarrassment. I mean, that was supposed to be the whole reason for starting the war.”
Bunson guffawed. “Are you crazy? That ‘weapons of mass destruction’ fiasco was the best thing that could have happened to him. It took everybody’s attention away from the Enron mess. Enron and Kenneth Lay bankrolled Bush’s whole political career. They were by far his biggest campaign backers, and half the people in his administration were dipping from the Enron honey pot.”
Lum disagreed. “That Enron scandal was just what he needed. Once that broke, people stopped talking about his pushing huge tax breaks for the rich when the economy was shedding jobs like needles off an old Christmas tree.”
“That uproar over the tax cuts and unemployment actually worked to his advantage,” claimed Ed. “People stopped talking about how his operatives and right-wingers on the Supreme Court stole the election.”
Bunson held up his hand. “Boys,” he said, “you’re acting as if these breaks just dropped out of the skies. But when you look at it, he’s a man who makes his own luck.”
© Tony Russell, 2004
Wednesday, March 03, 2004
“Faith-Based Science”
We were taking a break in my adult computer class, just shooting the breeze, when one of the women, Dwanella, said, “Did you see that the park superintendent at the Grand Canyon tried to keep their store from stocking a creationist version of the history of the canyon?”
“Why in the world would he do a thing like that?” wondered Willemena, a housewife trying to get ready to enter the work force.
“He claimed that they were legally bound to offer interpretive materials that had a sound scientific base.”
“What kind of heathen is he, do you suppose?”
“I don’t know, but I’m sure glad the administration set him straight.”
“Isn’t it great to have a President who actually believes the world was created in six days?” said Willemena enthusiastically.
“It is. I know that, with all these so-called environmental crises, like global warming, it’s reassuring to have a President who’ll tackle the tough scientific issues in a responsible way,” said Dwanella, with just as much enthusiasm.
I noticed that the other class members had been listening intently to this exchange.
Finally, Binkley couldn’t restrain himself. “I wonder if they’d stock my book laying out scientific proof that the earth is flat?” he said.
“You wrote a book too?” exclaimed Norvell. “I just completed one on Elvis sightings in national parks!”
“This is an incredible coincidence!” said Lou. “I have a book ready to go to print on how the Grand Canyon was created by alien miners who hauled millions of tons of rock from the site and deposited them in another galaxy!”
My cousin Grover had his ears perked up. “I wasn’t going to say anything,” he said, “but I can see I’m in the company of like-minded people. I’ve just finished a book on a new scientific method for dating fossils.”
“I didn’t know you were a scientist, Grover,” said Norvell.
“Got dual degrees in archaeology and anthropology from Bible college,” said Grover. “Mostly close reading in Genesis.”
“What’s your method?” asked Lou. “If it’s not too technical for laypeople.”
“I think it can put it in language the nonscientist can understand,” said Grover. “You gently remove all foreign matter from the fossil, scrub it with a toothbrush dipped in a paste made from water and baking soda, and when it dries, wrap it in pages from the Old Testament. Let it sit for six days, then unwrap the fossil, throw the fossil away, and read the Old Testament. The fossil will be just over 6,000 years old.”
“That sounds fascinating,” said Dwanella. “Do you think you can get it published?”
“I’m talking to somebody in Karl Rove’s office,” said Grover. “They have a strong interest in faith-based science at the White House. Especially in an election year.”
© Tony Russell, 2004
“Why in the world would he do a thing like that?” wondered Willemena, a housewife trying to get ready to enter the work force.
“He claimed that they were legally bound to offer interpretive materials that had a sound scientific base.”
“What kind of heathen is he, do you suppose?”
“I don’t know, but I’m sure glad the administration set him straight.”
“Isn’t it great to have a President who actually believes the world was created in six days?” said Willemena enthusiastically.
“It is. I know that, with all these so-called environmental crises, like global warming, it’s reassuring to have a President who’ll tackle the tough scientific issues in a responsible way,” said Dwanella, with just as much enthusiasm.
I noticed that the other class members had been listening intently to this exchange.
Finally, Binkley couldn’t restrain himself. “I wonder if they’d stock my book laying out scientific proof that the earth is flat?” he said.
“You wrote a book too?” exclaimed Norvell. “I just completed one on Elvis sightings in national parks!”
“This is an incredible coincidence!” said Lou. “I have a book ready to go to print on how the Grand Canyon was created by alien miners who hauled millions of tons of rock from the site and deposited them in another galaxy!”
My cousin Grover had his ears perked up. “I wasn’t going to say anything,” he said, “but I can see I’m in the company of like-minded people. I’ve just finished a book on a new scientific method for dating fossils.”
“I didn’t know you were a scientist, Grover,” said Norvell.
“Got dual degrees in archaeology and anthropology from Bible college,” said Grover. “Mostly close reading in Genesis.”
“What’s your method?” asked Lou. “If it’s not too technical for laypeople.”
“I think it can put it in language the nonscientist can understand,” said Grover. “You gently remove all foreign matter from the fossil, scrub it with a toothbrush dipped in a paste made from water and baking soda, and when it dries, wrap it in pages from the Old Testament. Let it sit for six days, then unwrap the fossil, throw the fossil away, and read the Old Testament. The fossil will be just over 6,000 years old.”
“That sounds fascinating,” said Dwanella. “Do you think you can get it published?”
“I’m talking to somebody in Karl Rove’s office,” said Grover. “They have a strong interest in faith-based science at the White House. Especially in an election year.”
© Tony Russell, 2004
Saturday, February 21, 2004
“Show Me the Numbers”
Patty pulls together our annual budget, and then we try to fit into it. It’s like my putting on the swimming trunks I wore in high school—an ugly picture. I was really stewing about this year’s budget, with the cost of everything going up and neither one of us getting a raise.
“How’s it look, Patty?” I asked.
She stopped chewing on her eraser for a minute. “Not too bad,” she said. “I think I’ve got it finagled so we can still eat.”
“That’s a joke, right?” I said nervously.
“There’s nothing humorous about this budget,” she grunted. “We’ll have to borrow some to make it work, but it could have been a lot worse. If I hadn’t had the White House budget for a guide, I don’t know how we could have done it.”
“Show me what you’ve got there,” I said.
“Okay,” she said. “First, under medical care, I’ve put the cost of our insurance premiums, as well as what we usually spend on co-payments and deductibles. That usually runs us in the neighborhood of $8,000, so I estimated $6,000.”
“If it’s likely to cost $8,000, why did you put in $6,000?” I asked.
“Well, that’s what the administration did with the costs for the new Medicare bill,” she said. “It makes the budget more manageable.”
“Oh, okay,” I said.
“Then I just set aside housing expenses—the mortgage, maintenance, repairs, home owner’s insurance, that kind of thing—until 2005. That way it doesn’t throw this year’s budget out of whack.”
“Can you do that?” I asked.
“Sure,” she said. “That’s what the administration did with the cost of the war in Iraq. They didn’t include it in the budget at all.”
“But don’t we still have to pay for housing expenses as we go along?”
“Of course,” she said, looking at me as if I were an idiot. “You don’t think the bank is going to sit there while we skip our payments, do you? We just don’t show any of it until next year. Got it?”
“Boy, I’m glad it’s you doing this,” I confessed. “It’s all too complicated for me. If you had asked me, I would have said there was something screwy about this budget, and we ought to be really worried about all those expenses you aren’t showing.”
“Well, I did have to cut some things,” she admitted. “The food budget is down, no braces for the girls’ teeth, no more dance lessons, church and charity contributions, trash disposal, museum membership, vet services, septic system cleaning, things like that. But I really upped money for the burglary alarm system, your gun collection, and a trip abroad.”
“At least you’ve got your priorities straight,” I said with relief.
“And think of the jobs we’re helping to create,” she said.
“I hadn’t thought of that,” I admitted. “The economy can use the help. What kinds of jobs are we giving a boost?”
“Bill collectors, gun dealers, and loan sharks.”
© Tony Russell, 2004
“How’s it look, Patty?” I asked.
She stopped chewing on her eraser for a minute. “Not too bad,” she said. “I think I’ve got it finagled so we can still eat.”
“That’s a joke, right?” I said nervously.
“There’s nothing humorous about this budget,” she grunted. “We’ll have to borrow some to make it work, but it could have been a lot worse. If I hadn’t had the White House budget for a guide, I don’t know how we could have done it.”
“Show me what you’ve got there,” I said.
“Okay,” she said. “First, under medical care, I’ve put the cost of our insurance premiums, as well as what we usually spend on co-payments and deductibles. That usually runs us in the neighborhood of $8,000, so I estimated $6,000.”
“If it’s likely to cost $8,000, why did you put in $6,000?” I asked.
“Well, that’s what the administration did with the costs for the new Medicare bill,” she said. “It makes the budget more manageable.”
“Oh, okay,” I said.
“Then I just set aside housing expenses—the mortgage, maintenance, repairs, home owner’s insurance, that kind of thing—until 2005. That way it doesn’t throw this year’s budget out of whack.”
“Can you do that?” I asked.
“Sure,” she said. “That’s what the administration did with the cost of the war in Iraq. They didn’t include it in the budget at all.”
“But don’t we still have to pay for housing expenses as we go along?”
“Of course,” she said, looking at me as if I were an idiot. “You don’t think the bank is going to sit there while we skip our payments, do you? We just don’t show any of it until next year. Got it?”
“Boy, I’m glad it’s you doing this,” I confessed. “It’s all too complicated for me. If you had asked me, I would have said there was something screwy about this budget, and we ought to be really worried about all those expenses you aren’t showing.”
“Well, I did have to cut some things,” she admitted. “The food budget is down, no braces for the girls’ teeth, no more dance lessons, church and charity contributions, trash disposal, museum membership, vet services, septic system cleaning, things like that. But I really upped money for the burglary alarm system, your gun collection, and a trip abroad.”
“At least you’ve got your priorities straight,” I said with relief.
“And think of the jobs we’re helping to create,” she said.
“I hadn’t thought of that,” I admitted. “The economy can use the help. What kinds of jobs are we giving a boost?”
“Bill collectors, gun dealers, and loan sharks.”
© Tony Russell, 2004
Saturday, February 14, 2004
“Parallel Universe”
“Thanks for meeting with me, Dr. Zweistein. My editor thought that having a Nobel Prize-winning physicist in town was an opportunity too good to be missed.”
“It is my pleasure, Mr. …”
“Ace. Just call me Ace.”
“Fine. How may I help you, Mr. Ace?”
“Well, maybe you could just explain to me what your research was about. And could you kind of keep it simple? My last science course was in the 9th grade, and I got a ‘D’ then. After that I sort of majored in football and girls.”
“I see. I’ll do my best. Um, first off, my research is still ongoing, so your reference to it in the past tense is misleading. But that small detail aside, I would say, generally speaking, that the Nobel committee was intrigued by my pioneering work in an entirely new scientific field, where physics intersects with psychology.”
“Doc, that doesn’t say a whole lot to me. Could you break that down a little bit?”
“Certainly. My studies in physics early on were of a theoretical nature, dealing with the possibility of parallel universes. My interest in the political dimension was aroused by the complete mismatch between what we might call the ‘historical record’ –that is, the document trail, the photographic and audio archives, and the observations of a variety of participants—on the one hand, and the pronouncements of the Bush administration on the other. What I came to realize was that most of us, most of the time, live in what I have called ‘the real world,’ while the Bush administration does indeed operate in a ‘parallel universe.’ To find this tangible illustration of my physics theories was an incredible stroke of luck.”
“I’m not sure I follow you, Doc. Could you give me a ‘for instance’ or two?”
“Of course. Take the issue of the weapons inspectors in Iraq. Now, in the ‘real world,’ we know that those inspectors were there, working hard, and only left because the U.S. was preparing to attack. We have their reports, we have their names and credentials, we have lists of sites they visited and inspected. But President Bush said that one of the reasons he had to go to war was that Saddam Hussein wouldn’t let the weapons inspectors in. And Senator Pat Roberts, the chair of the Senate Intelligence Committee, said the same thing. Remember, these are people in the highest levels of government, briefed constantly on the latest developments, dealing with life-and-death issues. Now, what would a person in the real world conclude from Mr. Bush and Mr. Roberts’s statements?”
“Gee, I don’t know. I guess I’d have to say they were either totally clueless about what was going on, or they were so cynical they thought they could say anything and it wouldn’t come back to bite them.”
“Aha! That’s a typical layman’s response. But I began to see so many examples of this phenomenon that I told myself, ‘Surely no one in such responsible positions could possibly be that ignorant or that cynical. There must be an alternative explanation.’”
“I think I’m starting to see where you’re headed. Could you give me any more examples?”
“Easily. Take the questions about Mr. Bush’s National Guard service during the Vietnam War. Now in the ‘real world,’ it appears that Mr. Bush simply, as young people would put it, ‘blew off’ his obligation for about a year. His commanding officers say they never saw him; nobody can turn up anybody who says he was ever around. But he has pay stubs for some of the time, and an honorable discharge. How do you square those things?
“Well, before we started talking, I would have said that he never showed up, and he got paid and an honorable discharge because his connections pulled strings. But if I understand what you’re saying, he did fulfill his obligation—not in the ‘real world,’ but in that ‘parallel universe.’
“Bravo, Mr. Ace! Let’s look at one more example. This one is a little more complex—the
budget deficit. Mr. Bush says that the deficit is caused by having to respond to the terrorist threat after September 11, and by drops in income after the stock market fell. That’s the view from the parallel universe. In the ‘real world,’ –for example, in reports by the Congressional Budget Office—the picture is entirely different.”
“Different how?”
“Well, in the ‘real world,’ the primary cause was something that Mr. Bush didn’t mention at all. His tax cuts for the rich. The government’s revenue from individual income taxes was actually less in 2004 than it was in the year 2000. Can you imagine that? And that decrease accounts for almost 60 percent of the shift from a surplus to a deficit.”
“So somehow the way those tax cuts are killing the budget just doesn’t get into Mr. Bush’s explanation?”
“That’s right. But as a scientist, I must always ask ‘Why?’”
“Well, I’m no expert here, Doc. I guess I’d have to say, ‘It looks like the tax cuts were terrible policy, and he won’t admit it. He thinks we’re too dumb or apathetic to actually look at the budget.’”
“There you are again. But once more I told myself, ‘No President could possibly be so irresponsible as to deliberately cut revenues and then attempt to mask the effects.’”
“So if we rule out ignorance or cynicism or irresponsibility as explanations for things like these, we’re left with ….”
“Yes! This is where my ‘Parallel Universe Theory’ comes in! The ‘parallel universe’ looks like the ‘real world,’ but the rules of logic and evidence are totally different. They intersect at many points, so studying the areas where they touch and interact has been fascinating from a scientific viewpoint. Just fascinating.”
“How are the rules of logic and evidence different?”
“That’s the elegant part of my theory. Both worlds have the appearance of functioning logically. And in fact, they both do. But in the Bush world, logic flows in the opposite direction. Instead of starting with facts and working toward a conclusion, as things operate in the ‘real world,’ they start with the conclusion and work backwards to create the facts they need. ‘Facts’ and ‘evidence’ are created or disappear, based on whether they support the conclusion with which they began.”
“I think I’m getting it. So that’s the whole ‘Weapons of Mass Destruction’ thing!”
“You do get it! Right! They started with the conclusion—they wanted to go to war—and created the facts and evidence they wanted. Tons of chemicals. Nuclear weapons. Anthrax and botulism. Iraq was full of them—in the parallel universe.”
“And once they had the war, and our soldiers were on the ground, we were in the real world, where none of that stuff existed!”
“You do understand! It all works out in a way consistent with my theory!”
“Wow! Thanks, Doc. I can’t wait to get home and explain this all to Patty! She always accuses me of lying about where I go on Saturday nights, and here I’ve been entering a parallel universe!”
© Tony Russell, 2004
“It is my pleasure, Mr. …”
“Ace. Just call me Ace.”
“Fine. How may I help you, Mr. Ace?”
“Well, maybe you could just explain to me what your research was about. And could you kind of keep it simple? My last science course was in the 9th grade, and I got a ‘D’ then. After that I sort of majored in football and girls.”
“I see. I’ll do my best. Um, first off, my research is still ongoing, so your reference to it in the past tense is misleading. But that small detail aside, I would say, generally speaking, that the Nobel committee was intrigued by my pioneering work in an entirely new scientific field, where physics intersects with psychology.”
“Doc, that doesn’t say a whole lot to me. Could you break that down a little bit?”
“Certainly. My studies in physics early on were of a theoretical nature, dealing with the possibility of parallel universes. My interest in the political dimension was aroused by the complete mismatch between what we might call the ‘historical record’ –that is, the document trail, the photographic and audio archives, and the observations of a variety of participants—on the one hand, and the pronouncements of the Bush administration on the other. What I came to realize was that most of us, most of the time, live in what I have called ‘the real world,’ while the Bush administration does indeed operate in a ‘parallel universe.’ To find this tangible illustration of my physics theories was an incredible stroke of luck.”
“I’m not sure I follow you, Doc. Could you give me a ‘for instance’ or two?”
“Of course. Take the issue of the weapons inspectors in Iraq. Now, in the ‘real world,’ we know that those inspectors were there, working hard, and only left because the U.S. was preparing to attack. We have their reports, we have their names and credentials, we have lists of sites they visited and inspected. But President Bush said that one of the reasons he had to go to war was that Saddam Hussein wouldn’t let the weapons inspectors in. And Senator Pat Roberts, the chair of the Senate Intelligence Committee, said the same thing. Remember, these are people in the highest levels of government, briefed constantly on the latest developments, dealing with life-and-death issues. Now, what would a person in the real world conclude from Mr. Bush and Mr. Roberts’s statements?”
“Gee, I don’t know. I guess I’d have to say they were either totally clueless about what was going on, or they were so cynical they thought they could say anything and it wouldn’t come back to bite them.”
“Aha! That’s a typical layman’s response. But I began to see so many examples of this phenomenon that I told myself, ‘Surely no one in such responsible positions could possibly be that ignorant or that cynical. There must be an alternative explanation.’”
“I think I’m starting to see where you’re headed. Could you give me any more examples?”
“Easily. Take the questions about Mr. Bush’s National Guard service during the Vietnam War. Now in the ‘real world,’ it appears that Mr. Bush simply, as young people would put it, ‘blew off’ his obligation for about a year. His commanding officers say they never saw him; nobody can turn up anybody who says he was ever around. But he has pay stubs for some of the time, and an honorable discharge. How do you square those things?
“Well, before we started talking, I would have said that he never showed up, and he got paid and an honorable discharge because his connections pulled strings. But if I understand what you’re saying, he did fulfill his obligation—not in the ‘real world,’ but in that ‘parallel universe.’
“Bravo, Mr. Ace! Let’s look at one more example. This one is a little more complex—the
budget deficit. Mr. Bush says that the deficit is caused by having to respond to the terrorist threat after September 11, and by drops in income after the stock market fell. That’s the view from the parallel universe. In the ‘real world,’ –for example, in reports by the Congressional Budget Office—the picture is entirely different.”
“Different how?”
“Well, in the ‘real world,’ the primary cause was something that Mr. Bush didn’t mention at all. His tax cuts for the rich. The government’s revenue from individual income taxes was actually less in 2004 than it was in the year 2000. Can you imagine that? And that decrease accounts for almost 60 percent of the shift from a surplus to a deficit.”
“So somehow the way those tax cuts are killing the budget just doesn’t get into Mr. Bush’s explanation?”
“That’s right. But as a scientist, I must always ask ‘Why?’”
“Well, I’m no expert here, Doc. I guess I’d have to say, ‘It looks like the tax cuts were terrible policy, and he won’t admit it. He thinks we’re too dumb or apathetic to actually look at the budget.’”
“There you are again. But once more I told myself, ‘No President could possibly be so irresponsible as to deliberately cut revenues and then attempt to mask the effects.’”
“So if we rule out ignorance or cynicism or irresponsibility as explanations for things like these, we’re left with ….”
“Yes! This is where my ‘Parallel Universe Theory’ comes in! The ‘parallel universe’ looks like the ‘real world,’ but the rules of logic and evidence are totally different. They intersect at many points, so studying the areas where they touch and interact has been fascinating from a scientific viewpoint. Just fascinating.”
“How are the rules of logic and evidence different?”
“That’s the elegant part of my theory. Both worlds have the appearance of functioning logically. And in fact, they both do. But in the Bush world, logic flows in the opposite direction. Instead of starting with facts and working toward a conclusion, as things operate in the ‘real world,’ they start with the conclusion and work backwards to create the facts they need. ‘Facts’ and ‘evidence’ are created or disappear, based on whether they support the conclusion with which they began.”
“I think I’m getting it. So that’s the whole ‘Weapons of Mass Destruction’ thing!”
“You do get it! Right! They started with the conclusion—they wanted to go to war—and created the facts and evidence they wanted. Tons of chemicals. Nuclear weapons. Anthrax and botulism. Iraq was full of them—in the parallel universe.”
“And once they had the war, and our soldiers were on the ground, we were in the real world, where none of that stuff existed!”
“You do understand! It all works out in a way consistent with my theory!”
“Wow! Thanks, Doc. I can’t wait to get home and explain this all to Patty! She always accuses me of lying about where I go on Saturday nights, and here I’ve been entering a parallel universe!”
© Tony Russell, 2004
Tuesday, February 10, 2004
“Return of The Emperor’s New Clothes”
It’s not true that everyone admired the emperor’s new clothes. Oh, Fox News ran nightly specials with its correspondents praising the emperor’s fashion judgment. The Wall Street Journal declared that he had “grown into his new garments.”
But occasionally a boy or girl would glance up from a computer screen and say, “What are you all talking about? He’s as bare as the day he was born!” Adults were shocked at the young people’s cynicism. “Every generation seems worse than the last,” they would complain, and throw up their hands.
And in the Senate, venerable Sir Robert would rise to point out that, despite all the hoopla about the emperor’s clothes, one could still tell the size of the Jockey cup he needed, and could still see the scar where he had had his appendix removed. When Sir Robert began to speak, however, the other nobles would yawn, stretch, and look at their watches. “Let’s go read the polls,” they would say, and walk out of the chamber, leaving Sir Robert talking to empty seats.
The emperor’s friends and staff attacked the critics of his clothes. “Jealous,” they said, “and unpatriotic as well. Those garments are made out of our nation’s flags and sewn with threads of gold.” They trotted out tailors who swore they knew where the thread and material had come from. “The evidence for the existence of these garments is massive and undeniable,” they trumpeted. The Prime Minister of an ally declared, “These new garments are fantastic! I must have a set for myself!”
The bill for the new garments was astronomical, but the emperor was unconcerned. He decreed that taxes on the nobles be radically reduced. The peasants cheered, although the burden of paying the kingdom’s bills now fell more heavily on their shoulders.
The emperor’s brother, Prince Neil, and his uncle, Lord William, made their fortunes as “consultants” to companies that worked on the clothes. Billions of dollars of no-bid contracts went to the vice emperor’s old firm, which cleaned, maintained, and repaired the imperial garments; transported them from place to place; and fed the army of tailors at work on them.
Nonetheless, the emperor seems less inclined now to parade his new clothes. “I was given bad advice on the selection of material and on piecing the sections together,” he explains. Only this week he announced that he is creating a committee of inquiry to determine how his tailors could have made something so shoddy.
Of course, the emperor had commissioned the new garments. He and his vice emperor had demanded a certain design and specific materials. They had refused to wait for the royal inspectors to examine the pattern and cloth. “We can’t wait,” they had declared. “The emperor is throwing a big party; it’s been in planning for years.” When some of their tailors and seamstresses had looked at the material and complained, “There’s nothing here to work with,” they had been dismissed, or told to be quiet and get busy spinning and sewing.
There has been no single moment when a child exclaimed, “But he’s not wearing any clothes!” and the whole charade collapsed. Enlightenment has been slow. In fact, 45% of the empire refuses to believe to this day that a “born again” emperor would wear nothing but his birthday suit in public. Millions still look at his goosepimpled skin and see silk and ermine, with golden thread gleaming so brightly it blinds their eyes. One partisan declared, “Of course he’s dressed in new clothes. The proof is the weather. If he were trotting around naked in this freezing cold, he’d catch his death of pneumonia!” Imperial spokesmen have announced that coughing, sneezing, and wheezing heard coming from the palace are caused by allergies. “He’s allergic to criticism,” they explain. “He always has this reaction.”
© Tony Russell, 2004
But occasionally a boy or girl would glance up from a computer screen and say, “What are you all talking about? He’s as bare as the day he was born!” Adults were shocked at the young people’s cynicism. “Every generation seems worse than the last,” they would complain, and throw up their hands.
And in the Senate, venerable Sir Robert would rise to point out that, despite all the hoopla about the emperor’s clothes, one could still tell the size of the Jockey cup he needed, and could still see the scar where he had had his appendix removed. When Sir Robert began to speak, however, the other nobles would yawn, stretch, and look at their watches. “Let’s go read the polls,” they would say, and walk out of the chamber, leaving Sir Robert talking to empty seats.
The emperor’s friends and staff attacked the critics of his clothes. “Jealous,” they said, “and unpatriotic as well. Those garments are made out of our nation’s flags and sewn with threads of gold.” They trotted out tailors who swore they knew where the thread and material had come from. “The evidence for the existence of these garments is massive and undeniable,” they trumpeted. The Prime Minister of an ally declared, “These new garments are fantastic! I must have a set for myself!”
The bill for the new garments was astronomical, but the emperor was unconcerned. He decreed that taxes on the nobles be radically reduced. The peasants cheered, although the burden of paying the kingdom’s bills now fell more heavily on their shoulders.
The emperor’s brother, Prince Neil, and his uncle, Lord William, made their fortunes as “consultants” to companies that worked on the clothes. Billions of dollars of no-bid contracts went to the vice emperor’s old firm, which cleaned, maintained, and repaired the imperial garments; transported them from place to place; and fed the army of tailors at work on them.
Nonetheless, the emperor seems less inclined now to parade his new clothes. “I was given bad advice on the selection of material and on piecing the sections together,” he explains. Only this week he announced that he is creating a committee of inquiry to determine how his tailors could have made something so shoddy.
Of course, the emperor had commissioned the new garments. He and his vice emperor had demanded a certain design and specific materials. They had refused to wait for the royal inspectors to examine the pattern and cloth. “We can’t wait,” they had declared. “The emperor is throwing a big party; it’s been in planning for years.” When some of their tailors and seamstresses had looked at the material and complained, “There’s nothing here to work with,” they had been dismissed, or told to be quiet and get busy spinning and sewing.
There has been no single moment when a child exclaimed, “But he’s not wearing any clothes!” and the whole charade collapsed. Enlightenment has been slow. In fact, 45% of the empire refuses to believe to this day that a “born again” emperor would wear nothing but his birthday suit in public. Millions still look at his goosepimpled skin and see silk and ermine, with golden thread gleaming so brightly it blinds their eyes. One partisan declared, “Of course he’s dressed in new clothes. The proof is the weather. If he were trotting around naked in this freezing cold, he’d catch his death of pneumonia!” Imperial spokesmen have announced that coughing, sneezing, and wheezing heard coming from the palace are caused by allergies. “He’s allergic to criticism,” they explain. “He always has this reaction.”
© Tony Russell, 2004
Tuesday, February 03, 2004
“Security Comes With a Price Tag”
Our Friday night bridge club met at the Cobbs’ this week. We pulled into their place at five after eight, and Patty let out a gasp. “What have they done?” she said. She was staring at a bulldozed strip between the parking lot and their gate. Not so much as a blade of grass stuck up from the frozen dirt.
“Webb must have been working on his perimeter defense,” I said. “Created a little no-man’s land.”
“But I loved that patch of woods,” lamented Patty. “That pretty little creek, and all the shade where the wildflowers grew in the spring. Spring beauties, violets, trillium, wild irises . …”
We climbed out of the car and headed for the tall block wall surrounding their compound. Searchlights swept the air, and I could hear their guard dogs snarling; the other card players must have got there just ahead of us.
“Have you emptied your pockets?” worried Patty. “You know what happened with Hazel and Ray.”
“I checked ‘em twice,” I said. “How about your purse?”
When we reached their steel gates. Patty grabbed the phone from a niche in the wall, punched in some numbers, and said loudly, “Stella, it’s us, Alpha Condor and Beta Zebra. Do you read me?”
“What’d she say?” I asked, when she hung up.
“She said she’d call me back in a minute on a secure line.”
A minute later, the phone rang. Patty picked it up. “Okay, Ace,” she said when she was finished. “Listen to me carefully for once. The gates will open in thirty seconds. They’ll only be open for five seconds, so don’t poke along the way you do. Once we’re inside, walk directly to the house on the sidewalk. The dogs won’t bother you if you stay on the walk. If you step off the walk, on the other hand ….” I got the picture.
We made it to the front door and stuck our thumbs in the identification device. I surveyed the house. It sure looked different from the way it had a few years ago. Bars over all the windows. Searchlights mounted on the roof. Gun ports every few feet along the walls.
“Home sweet home,” I said.
“Now Ace, don’t you start,” Patty said warningly.
Just then the door opened. “Ace, Patty, it’s so good to see you!” said Stella.
“Would you put your keys, your purse, and any other metal objects on this tray and set it on the conveyor belt,” said Webb, as he waved a wand over my person, then did the same to Patty.
“Good to see you too, old buddy,” I said. Patty glared and sent a command via marital telepathy: Behave yourself.
“What happened to your arm, Webb?” I asked, staring at the blood-soaked gauze wrapped around his forearm. His face flushed.
“Webb was shoveling the snow off the walk for you all, when he slipped on a patch of ice,” Stella said brightly. “He fell off the walk, and one of the dogs went for his throat. But he got his arm up, just in time.”
“That looks pretty ugly,” said Patty. “Shouldn’t you have a doctor check it?”
“I’m afraid we had to drop our health insurance,” said Stella. “We just couldn’t make the payments anymore. All those electronic gizmos, the electric bill for the searchlights, the food for the Dobermans, the dozer work… it all adds up.”
“I’ll bet it does,” said Patty. “I don’t see how you manage to keep it all up.”
“Well, you know that bumper sticker,” laughed Stella. “We’ve spent our children’s inheritance. Plus all of Webb’s retirement. This place is mortgaged to the hilt.”
“No health insurance, no retirement, and up to your ears in debt. You must be worried sick,” said Patty sympathetically.
“Security comes with a price tag,” said Webb.
“Yeah, insecurity,” I said.
“How are Hazel and Ray?” asked Patty, trying to change the subject.
There was an awkward silence. Then Webb said, “Officially, we don’t know who you’re talking about.”
“But unofficially,” said Stella, “they’re doing fine. Hazel’s lost twenty-five pounds on the soda crackers and water. She says she’d like for us to hold her until she gets down to a size six. Ray gripes about being awakened every forty-five minutes for interrogation, but you know Ray. He’s not happy unless he has something to complain about.”
“Why don’t you just let them go?” I said. “I know Ray was carrying a pocket knife. But lots of guys do. They’re handy. Cut the string on packages, make shavings to start a campfire, all kinds of stuff.”
Webb snorted. “So much for your security IQ,” he said. “I guess you didn’t know they just got back from the Middle East. I have reason to believe he was attending a terrorist training camp.”
“But they went with their church group on a tour of the Holy Land,” I yelped.
“A dummy organization, set up to funnel funds to terrorists,” scoffed Webb.
“Their daughter called me yesterday from Colorado,” said Patty. “She’s worried sick that she hasn’t heard from them for a month.”
“Sorry, but we can’t release any information on the prisoners,” said Webb.
“What about a lawyer?” said Patty. “Shouldn’t they be able to talk with somebody?”
“This is a whole new ballgame,” said Webb. “In the face of the terrorist menace, all the rules have changed.”
“Which rules are those, Webb?” I asked. “The Golden Rule? The rules of hospitality? The Bill of Rights? I thought those were all still in effect.”
“Patty,” said Stella, “would you mind setting out the bridge mix and plugging in the coffee pot? Otherwise, I’m afraid these men will talk politics all night.”
© Tony Russell, 2004
“Webb must have been working on his perimeter defense,” I said. “Created a little no-man’s land.”
“But I loved that patch of woods,” lamented Patty. “That pretty little creek, and all the shade where the wildflowers grew in the spring. Spring beauties, violets, trillium, wild irises . …”
We climbed out of the car and headed for the tall block wall surrounding their compound. Searchlights swept the air, and I could hear their guard dogs snarling; the other card players must have got there just ahead of us.
“Have you emptied your pockets?” worried Patty. “You know what happened with Hazel and Ray.”
“I checked ‘em twice,” I said. “How about your purse?”
When we reached their steel gates. Patty grabbed the phone from a niche in the wall, punched in some numbers, and said loudly, “Stella, it’s us, Alpha Condor and Beta Zebra. Do you read me?”
“What’d she say?” I asked, when she hung up.
“She said she’d call me back in a minute on a secure line.”
A minute later, the phone rang. Patty picked it up. “Okay, Ace,” she said when she was finished. “Listen to me carefully for once. The gates will open in thirty seconds. They’ll only be open for five seconds, so don’t poke along the way you do. Once we’re inside, walk directly to the house on the sidewalk. The dogs won’t bother you if you stay on the walk. If you step off the walk, on the other hand ….” I got the picture.
We made it to the front door and stuck our thumbs in the identification device. I surveyed the house. It sure looked different from the way it had a few years ago. Bars over all the windows. Searchlights mounted on the roof. Gun ports every few feet along the walls.
“Home sweet home,” I said.
“Now Ace, don’t you start,” Patty said warningly.
Just then the door opened. “Ace, Patty, it’s so good to see you!” said Stella.
“Would you put your keys, your purse, and any other metal objects on this tray and set it on the conveyor belt,” said Webb, as he waved a wand over my person, then did the same to Patty.
“Good to see you too, old buddy,” I said. Patty glared and sent a command via marital telepathy: Behave yourself.
“What happened to your arm, Webb?” I asked, staring at the blood-soaked gauze wrapped around his forearm. His face flushed.
“Webb was shoveling the snow off the walk for you all, when he slipped on a patch of ice,” Stella said brightly. “He fell off the walk, and one of the dogs went for his throat. But he got his arm up, just in time.”
“That looks pretty ugly,” said Patty. “Shouldn’t you have a doctor check it?”
“I’m afraid we had to drop our health insurance,” said Stella. “We just couldn’t make the payments anymore. All those electronic gizmos, the electric bill for the searchlights, the food for the Dobermans, the dozer work… it all adds up.”
“I’ll bet it does,” said Patty. “I don’t see how you manage to keep it all up.”
“Well, you know that bumper sticker,” laughed Stella. “We’ve spent our children’s inheritance. Plus all of Webb’s retirement. This place is mortgaged to the hilt.”
“No health insurance, no retirement, and up to your ears in debt. You must be worried sick,” said Patty sympathetically.
“Security comes with a price tag,” said Webb.
“Yeah, insecurity,” I said.
“How are Hazel and Ray?” asked Patty, trying to change the subject.
There was an awkward silence. Then Webb said, “Officially, we don’t know who you’re talking about.”
“But unofficially,” said Stella, “they’re doing fine. Hazel’s lost twenty-five pounds on the soda crackers and water. She says she’d like for us to hold her until she gets down to a size six. Ray gripes about being awakened every forty-five minutes for interrogation, but you know Ray. He’s not happy unless he has something to complain about.”
“Why don’t you just let them go?” I said. “I know Ray was carrying a pocket knife. But lots of guys do. They’re handy. Cut the string on packages, make shavings to start a campfire, all kinds of stuff.”
Webb snorted. “So much for your security IQ,” he said. “I guess you didn’t know they just got back from the Middle East. I have reason to believe he was attending a terrorist training camp.”
“But they went with their church group on a tour of the Holy Land,” I yelped.
“A dummy organization, set up to funnel funds to terrorists,” scoffed Webb.
“Their daughter called me yesterday from Colorado,” said Patty. “She’s worried sick that she hasn’t heard from them for a month.”
“Sorry, but we can’t release any information on the prisoners,” said Webb.
“What about a lawyer?” said Patty. “Shouldn’t they be able to talk with somebody?”
“This is a whole new ballgame,” said Webb. “In the face of the terrorist menace, all the rules have changed.”
“Which rules are those, Webb?” I asked. “The Golden Rule? The rules of hospitality? The Bill of Rights? I thought those were all still in effect.”
“Patty,” said Stella, “would you mind setting out the bridge mix and plugging in the coffee pot? Otherwise, I’m afraid these men will talk politics all night.”
© Tony Russell, 2004
Thursday, January 08, 2004
“Safety and Shame”
Joe Lieberman and John Kerry have been lambasting Howard Dean for saying that the capture of Saddam Hussein “did not make America safer.” Their attacks are shameless, but, in politics, shame takes a back seat to survival.
Why “shameless”? Because, given the information that is now part of the public record, Dean’s comment is so obviously true.
Look at it logically. America would be safer if three conditions were in effect. The first would be if Iraq had actually possessed chemical, biological, or nuclear weapons, and the means to deliver them. But Iraq had neither the weapons nor the means. After eight months as masters of Iraq, the U.S. has nothing to show of either. The evidence—or lack of it—is indisputable.
America would be safer if Iraq had networked with al-Qaeda in launching the September 11 attack. But there was no such connection. Saddam Hussein was not involved in that attack. Even Mr. Bush now admits that.
America would be safer if Saddam Hussein had, from his hiding places, exerted command control over forces bent on attacking the United States. Instead, he was on the defense, running from hidey-hole to hidey-hole, without so much as a cell phone.
This whole bloody, expensive, disastrous war was built on lies, and on
demonizing Saddam. Saddam Hussein was a cruel despot, yes. One armed and supported for years, in fact by the U.S. government and the CIA. Like Noriega and Osama bin Laden (earlier demons), Saddam Hussein was one of our guys, even when he was torturing and assassinating people, gassing Kurds, and all the rest of it. But a menace to the U.S. at this point? No way.
If Saddam was not a real threat, removing him makes us no safer than we were before. That’s elementary logic.
Except when your campaign is in desperate straits.
So Lieberman and Kerry are willing to lend the administration’s lies some credibility, surrender on a central issue in the unlikely event either wins the nomination; and hand Republicans a club to use on the likely Democratic nominee—all in order to gain ground in the polls. Dean’s comment, they claim, shows he “lacks the experience” to lead the country in foreign affairs. For many voters, however, their responses only underline that they have been tainted by their own Washington experience.
Lieberman may believe what he says, which isn’t necessarily a virtue. Kerry clearly knows better. He has been busy explaining to reporters that he authorized the President to go to war because the President deceived him. The President lied about his willingness to consult with others, Kerry has said, as well as about using war only as a last resort. And he has said that he and other senators were briefed by the administration with intelligence—later proven to be concocted—which seemed to document the immediate threat posed by Saddam Hussein. I took the high-minded, bipartisan route of loyalty, he says in effect, and was used like a fool.
But Kerry can’t have it both ways. He can’t excuse his vote authorizing the President to go to war against Iraq by claiming he was deceived, and then attack Howard Dean by acting as if those lies were all true. And if he or Senator Lieberman should win the Democratic nomination, what would they have left to run on? In their search for a way to wound Dean, they will have already conceded the most contentious issue of the campaign to Mr. Bush.
© Tony Russell, 2004
Why “shameless”? Because, given the information that is now part of the public record, Dean’s comment is so obviously true.
Look at it logically. America would be safer if three conditions were in effect. The first would be if Iraq had actually possessed chemical, biological, or nuclear weapons, and the means to deliver them. But Iraq had neither the weapons nor the means. After eight months as masters of Iraq, the U.S. has nothing to show of either. The evidence—or lack of it—is indisputable.
America would be safer if Iraq had networked with al-Qaeda in launching the September 11 attack. But there was no such connection. Saddam Hussein was not involved in that attack. Even Mr. Bush now admits that.
America would be safer if Saddam Hussein had, from his hiding places, exerted command control over forces bent on attacking the United States. Instead, he was on the defense, running from hidey-hole to hidey-hole, without so much as a cell phone.
This whole bloody, expensive, disastrous war was built on lies, and on
demonizing Saddam. Saddam Hussein was a cruel despot, yes. One armed and supported for years, in fact by the U.S. government and the CIA. Like Noriega and Osama bin Laden (earlier demons), Saddam Hussein was one of our guys, even when he was torturing and assassinating people, gassing Kurds, and all the rest of it. But a menace to the U.S. at this point? No way.
If Saddam was not a real threat, removing him makes us no safer than we were before. That’s elementary logic.
Except when your campaign is in desperate straits.
So Lieberman and Kerry are willing to lend the administration’s lies some credibility, surrender on a central issue in the unlikely event either wins the nomination; and hand Republicans a club to use on the likely Democratic nominee—all in order to gain ground in the polls. Dean’s comment, they claim, shows he “lacks the experience” to lead the country in foreign affairs. For many voters, however, their responses only underline that they have been tainted by their own Washington experience.
Lieberman may believe what he says, which isn’t necessarily a virtue. Kerry clearly knows better. He has been busy explaining to reporters that he authorized the President to go to war because the President deceived him. The President lied about his willingness to consult with others, Kerry has said, as well as about using war only as a last resort. And he has said that he and other senators were briefed by the administration with intelligence—later proven to be concocted—which seemed to document the immediate threat posed by Saddam Hussein. I took the high-minded, bipartisan route of loyalty, he says in effect, and was used like a fool.
But Kerry can’t have it both ways. He can’t excuse his vote authorizing the President to go to war against Iraq by claiming he was deceived, and then attack Howard Dean by acting as if those lies were all true. And if he or Senator Lieberman should win the Democratic nomination, what would they have left to run on? In their search for a way to wound Dean, they will have already conceded the most contentious issue of the campaign to Mr. Bush.
© Tony Russell, 2004
Friday, December 19, 2003
“A Mental Health Survey”
“Well, folks, as you know, we’ve been commissioned to conduct a mental health survey following reports of widespread depression and a rather disturbing rash of suicides among U.S. troops in Iraq. Congratulations on being selected to design and implement the survey. To kick things off, why don’t we just brainstorm on issues we might want to include in our survey. Dave?”
“Uh, Ed, could you give us some idea of the scope of the problem here? How many suicides are we talking about, anyway?’
“Good question, Dave. This seems to be the situation: Most of the suicides have actually taken place after the President declared an end to major combat operations on May 1. There have been seventeen suicides, officially, which is about three times the usual rate, but even that may be inaccurate. Dozens of other deaths are being investigated. Over five hundred soldiers were evacuated recently because of mental health concerns. Yes, Mark?”
“Do we have any preliminary data to work with, Ed?”
“We do have a starting point, Mark. Stars and Stripes did a survey of about 2,000 troops in Iraq, and nearly half said their morale was ‘low’ or ‘very low.’ A third also indicated that their mission was ‘not clearly defined’ or ‘not at all defined.’ Almost as many said the war in Iraq was ‘of little value’ or ‘of no value at all.’”
[Voice from audience] “Excuse me, but is it really that hard to figure out why the troops in Iraq are depressed? Aren’t the causes clear enough?”
“Would you please raise your hand, Lola, rather than shouting out like that?”
“I’ve been waving my hand. You just won’t call on me.”
“You’re imagining things, Lola. I’d like to have everyone’s input, even including yours.”
“What!? Why ‘even including mine’?”
“If you must know, Lola, questions have been raised about your loyalty. I had to assure my superiors that you would be a team player.”
“A ‘team player’? What’s that supposed to mean? I’m a psychologist, not a football player.”
“Lola, our mission is to help safeguard the mental health of troops who are defending our freedom and helping build a model for democracy in the Middle East. We have received a rather sizable grant, which will help sustain your employment, as well as mine, for the next several years. I hope I can assume that you will support our troops?”
“Of course I’ll support them. That’s my job as a psychologist—to support people in their struggle to become mature, responsible, autonomous human beings. But you’ve got troops who thought they were going overseas for a month, and they’re stuck there for at least a year. Attacks on our forces are averaging more than thirty a day. They’re hot, scared, bored, lonely, tired, angry, and homesick. They’ve been lied to by their President, exposed to radiation from their own munitions, turned into target practice every time they leave base, and spit on and shot at by people they thought they were liberating. They don’t see any end to the war in sight. Why wouldn’t they be depressed? If they were happy, I’d be really worried.”
“Yes, well, we’re all aware of your political agenda, Lola…”
“Mine! You mean if you go along with this invasion and occupation, you don’t have a political agenda? Depression and low morale are perfectly normal responses to being used, abused, screwed, and stewed. So why don’t we turn our efforts to where they might do some good, and check out the mental health of the people who put the troops there in the first place—Bush, Cheney, Rumsfeld, Wolfowitz, that whole crew?”
“Are you out of your mind? You want to do a mental health study of the President and his closest advisors?”
“Of course. You know yourself that, from the standpoint of a mental health professional, these are people who look to be in serious trouble! They’re aggressive, secretive, paranoid, cast aside normal social constraints, demand their own way, are incapable of cooperating with others, and feel they have a divine mission to stamp out evil. If you had people like that living next door, you’d be scared out of your wits! These are people who went on for months, all over TV, claiming they had conclusive evidence that Saddam Hussein had tons of nuclear, chemical, and biological weapons he was ready to use on the U.S. Every piece of that was unreal! They claimed it was indisputable that Saddam Hussein was involved in the attack of September 11. That was unreal! They claimed Jessica Lynch was a female Rambo. That was unreal! They claimed troops killed 54 Iraqi combatants in a major skirmish. That was unreal! What’s the mental health status of somebody who’s out of touch with reality and lives in denial?”
“Does anybody else have any suggestions on the survey…?”
“I wasn’t finished! What’s the mental health status of somebody responsible for starting a completely unnecessary war who has the blood of hundreds of U.S. soldiers and thousands of Iraqi civilians on his hands, and sleeps like a baby? Who has body bags flown in at night to remote portions of airfields, so the public won’t have images that make real the cost of the war? Who jets onto an aircraft carrier and declares ‘Mission accomplished,’ while Iraqi society collapses into chaos?”
“Ladies and gentlemen, I was afraid it would come to this. Please pardon the interruption [gives a signal] while the men in white coats escort her away.”
© Tony Russell, 2003
“Uh, Ed, could you give us some idea of the scope of the problem here? How many suicides are we talking about, anyway?’
“Good question, Dave. This seems to be the situation: Most of the suicides have actually taken place after the President declared an end to major combat operations on May 1. There have been seventeen suicides, officially, which is about three times the usual rate, but even that may be inaccurate. Dozens of other deaths are being investigated. Over five hundred soldiers were evacuated recently because of mental health concerns. Yes, Mark?”
“Do we have any preliminary data to work with, Ed?”
“We do have a starting point, Mark. Stars and Stripes did a survey of about 2,000 troops in Iraq, and nearly half said their morale was ‘low’ or ‘very low.’ A third also indicated that their mission was ‘not clearly defined’ or ‘not at all defined.’ Almost as many said the war in Iraq was ‘of little value’ or ‘of no value at all.’”
[Voice from audience] “Excuse me, but is it really that hard to figure out why the troops in Iraq are depressed? Aren’t the causes clear enough?”
“Would you please raise your hand, Lola, rather than shouting out like that?”
“I’ve been waving my hand. You just won’t call on me.”
“You’re imagining things, Lola. I’d like to have everyone’s input, even including yours.”
“What!? Why ‘even including mine’?”
“If you must know, Lola, questions have been raised about your loyalty. I had to assure my superiors that you would be a team player.”
“A ‘team player’? What’s that supposed to mean? I’m a psychologist, not a football player.”
“Lola, our mission is to help safeguard the mental health of troops who are defending our freedom and helping build a model for democracy in the Middle East. We have received a rather sizable grant, which will help sustain your employment, as well as mine, for the next several years. I hope I can assume that you will support our troops?”
“Of course I’ll support them. That’s my job as a psychologist—to support people in their struggle to become mature, responsible, autonomous human beings. But you’ve got troops who thought they were going overseas for a month, and they’re stuck there for at least a year. Attacks on our forces are averaging more than thirty a day. They’re hot, scared, bored, lonely, tired, angry, and homesick. They’ve been lied to by their President, exposed to radiation from their own munitions, turned into target practice every time they leave base, and spit on and shot at by people they thought they were liberating. They don’t see any end to the war in sight. Why wouldn’t they be depressed? If they were happy, I’d be really worried.”
“Yes, well, we’re all aware of your political agenda, Lola…”
“Mine! You mean if you go along with this invasion and occupation, you don’t have a political agenda? Depression and low morale are perfectly normal responses to being used, abused, screwed, and stewed. So why don’t we turn our efforts to where they might do some good, and check out the mental health of the people who put the troops there in the first place—Bush, Cheney, Rumsfeld, Wolfowitz, that whole crew?”
“Are you out of your mind? You want to do a mental health study of the President and his closest advisors?”
“Of course. You know yourself that, from the standpoint of a mental health professional, these are people who look to be in serious trouble! They’re aggressive, secretive, paranoid, cast aside normal social constraints, demand their own way, are incapable of cooperating with others, and feel they have a divine mission to stamp out evil. If you had people like that living next door, you’d be scared out of your wits! These are people who went on for months, all over TV, claiming they had conclusive evidence that Saddam Hussein had tons of nuclear, chemical, and biological weapons he was ready to use on the U.S. Every piece of that was unreal! They claimed it was indisputable that Saddam Hussein was involved in the attack of September 11. That was unreal! They claimed Jessica Lynch was a female Rambo. That was unreal! They claimed troops killed 54 Iraqi combatants in a major skirmish. That was unreal! What’s the mental health status of somebody who’s out of touch with reality and lives in denial?”
“Does anybody else have any suggestions on the survey…?”
“I wasn’t finished! What’s the mental health status of somebody responsible for starting a completely unnecessary war who has the blood of hundreds of U.S. soldiers and thousands of Iraqi civilians on his hands, and sleeps like a baby? Who has body bags flown in at night to remote portions of airfields, so the public won’t have images that make real the cost of the war? Who jets onto an aircraft carrier and declares ‘Mission accomplished,’ while Iraqi society collapses into chaos?”
“Ladies and gentlemen, I was afraid it would come to this. Please pardon the interruption [gives a signal] while the men in white coats escort her away.”
© Tony Russell, 2003
Sunday, December 07, 2003
“Great Moments in History: The Gettysburg Address”
Note: A number of sentences and phrases below are taken from Charles Krauthammer’s column “Why Bush Stays Away,” in the December 8, 2003, issue of Time, in which he presents a pandering “explanation” of why President Bush avoids attending funerals of soldiers killed in Iraq. They are put into a different historical context for the sake of instructive parody.
The White House, October, 1863 –
“Well, Charles, that about wraps it up. Mrs. Lincoln will be expecting me shortly. Is there anything else that needs attention before I leave for the day?
“Just this invitation, sir. It’s from the committee in charge of opening the new cemetery at Gettysburg next month. They’d like for you to deliver a speech at its dedication, if you’re available.”
“Of course I’m available. Almost four thousand of our Union soldiers died there, and the least I can do is acknowledge their sacrifice with my presence and a few words.”
“Sir, begging your pardon, but are you sure that’s wise?”
“What do you mean, Charles?”
“Permit me to speak bluntly, sir. During wartime, a President cannot take on the role of Mourner in Chief. It would be a strategic error to amplify and broadcast the pain of those losses by making a great public show of sorrow, presided over by the President himself.”
“Charles, these men were our sons and brothers. They died for something larger than themselves, and I, as President, represent that Union of souls for which they sacrificed their lives. Turning my back on them would be a shameful act.”
“Sir, these rebels have only one way of winning: by making our casualties so painful that we decide to give up. They know that our weakness is a profound concern for the individual. Despite what you feel in your heart, you, as Commander in Chief, must not permit yourself to show that you bleed. You are required to show, yes, a certain callousness.”
“I would have thought it an occasion to show a certain compassion.”
“If you do, sir, it will only encourage them to think their strategy is succeeding, and give them yet more incentive to keep killing our soldiers until it does.”
“Do you really think that will be the effect, Charles?”
“Yes, sir, I do. You care. Of course you care. But a steely callousness is what is called for here. That is what great Presidencies are made of.”
“So you think it best to decline the invitation?”
“I do, Mr. President. The world would little note nor long remember what you might say there, but it would never forget your resolve to prosecute this war while ignoring the suffering it entails.”
“Very well, then, Charles. Please write them that, because of prior commitments, I regret that I will be unable to attend. Suggest that they contact Secretary Stanton, to see if he can speak in my stead.”
“Yes sir. Shall I send it to their Washington office?”
“No, send it to their Gettysburg address.”
© Tony Russell, 2003
The White House, October, 1863 –
“Well, Charles, that about wraps it up. Mrs. Lincoln will be expecting me shortly. Is there anything else that needs attention before I leave for the day?
“Just this invitation, sir. It’s from the committee in charge of opening the new cemetery at Gettysburg next month. They’d like for you to deliver a speech at its dedication, if you’re available.”
“Of course I’m available. Almost four thousand of our Union soldiers died there, and the least I can do is acknowledge their sacrifice with my presence and a few words.”
“Sir, begging your pardon, but are you sure that’s wise?”
“What do you mean, Charles?”
“Permit me to speak bluntly, sir. During wartime, a President cannot take on the role of Mourner in Chief. It would be a strategic error to amplify and broadcast the pain of those losses by making a great public show of sorrow, presided over by the President himself.”
“Charles, these men were our sons and brothers. They died for something larger than themselves, and I, as President, represent that Union of souls for which they sacrificed their lives. Turning my back on them would be a shameful act.”
“Sir, these rebels have only one way of winning: by making our casualties so painful that we decide to give up. They know that our weakness is a profound concern for the individual. Despite what you feel in your heart, you, as Commander in Chief, must not permit yourself to show that you bleed. You are required to show, yes, a certain callousness.”
“I would have thought it an occasion to show a certain compassion.”
“If you do, sir, it will only encourage them to think their strategy is succeeding, and give them yet more incentive to keep killing our soldiers until it does.”
“Do you really think that will be the effect, Charles?”
“Yes, sir, I do. You care. Of course you care. But a steely callousness is what is called for here. That is what great Presidencies are made of.”
“So you think it best to decline the invitation?”
“I do, Mr. President. The world would little note nor long remember what you might say there, but it would never forget your resolve to prosecute this war while ignoring the suffering it entails.”
“Very well, then, Charles. Please write them that, because of prior commitments, I regret that I will be unable to attend. Suggest that they contact Secretary Stanton, to see if he can speak in my stead.”
“Yes sir. Shall I send it to their Washington office?”
“No, send it to their Gettysburg address.”
© Tony Russell, 2003
Tuesday, December 02, 2003
“Turning Those Numbers Around”
White House Press Office, December 2, 2003—
“Boss, I’ve got a great idea. You know how public support has been slipping for the war in Iraq…”
“Are you referring to the rebuilding of Iraq as a model democratic state, Ron? The war is over. We won. ‘Mission accomplished,’ as the President said.”
[Hastily] “Right, right. Anyway, you know how those poll numbers keep dropping…”
[Testily] “Ron, I can assure you, I am fully aware of the slippage to which you refer.”
“Well, this idea I have might be just the thing to turn those numbers around.”
[Skeptically] “Shoot.”
“Okay. You remember how there was a lot of opposition to the invasion of Iraq… sorry, the preemptive strike on terrorists…initially, but Colin Powell’s speech to the UN changed the picture almost overnight? He laid out that long rationale for the war, and people called his arguments ‘compelling’ and ‘irrefutable.’”
“I certainly do remember, Ron. How sweet it was, to have all of those liberal columnists writing about their conversion experiences the next day. Continue.”
[Warming up to his subject] “So what I was thinking was that we could take those arguments Powell made, compress each point into a thirty-second sound bite, and run a series of ads—just flat out blanket the air waves with the real reasons we’re in Iraq. He’s so dignified and solemn and… and… believable. We’ll remind people that there were convincing reasons for the war, and those reasons still hold good, even if the aftermath is a little rockier than anybody could have predicted.”
“Ron, I have to hand it to you. You may be on to something.”
[Swelling with pride] “I knew you’d like it, Boss. I went ahead and worked up some samples, so you could get a feel for what I had in mind. If you’ve got a few minutes, I can show them to you.”
“Very enterprising, Ron. Let’s take a look at what you have. What’s the first one?”
“The first one is about those documents that were hidden in that Iraqi scientist’s house in Baghdad. We were careful to get the part where Powell said they were ‘dramatic confirmation’ of our intelligence about hidden material.”
“Uh, that’s probably not a good one to use, Ron. Turns out those were just old and irrelevant files left over from a uranium enrichment program way back in the 80’s. The program was a flop, and everybody knew about it anyway.”
“Is that right? Okay, let’s scratch that one. The next one here is the satellite photos of those industrial sites where chemical and biological weapons were being produced, and of decontamination trucks associated with chemical weapons. Not only does this nail the Iraqis, but it shows we get good value from our high-dollar high tech intelligence effort.”
“Uh, that one’s a little iffy too, Ron. I’m afraid those decontamination vehicles turned out to be water trucks and fire trucks. Those sites he mentioned, as well as some others, have been visited over 500 times since we took control, and nobody has found any contraband, or any sign that stuff has been moved.”
“Gee, I’m sorry. How do you find out about all this stuff, Boss? Never mind, this next one’s really gonna get you. It’s about anthrax. Anthrax--that stuff scares me just thinking about it. Powell said the Iraqis could have produced up to 25,000 liters of anthrax. The clip I used includes the part where he says none of it has been ‘verifiably accounted for.’”
“The problem with that, Ron, is we still haven’t found any of it. The Iraqis claim they destroyed it. Three weeks before the invasion, they gave soil samples to the UN weapons inspectors from a site where they said the anthrax had been destroyed, along with a list of witnesses to the destruction. But the war began, unfortunately—or maybe fortunately—before those witnesses could be interviewed.”
“No sweat, Boss. There are still plenty more we can use. Here’s the part where he talks about those trucks used as mobile biological weapon labs.”
“Skip that one, Ron. It turns out those were actually used to pump hydrogen into weather balloons.”
[Doggedly] “Perfectly understandable. Anybody can make a mistake. How about this next clip, where he talks about that nerve agent, VX? The Iraqis made four tons of it. When Powell says that a single drop on your skin will kill you in minutes, and then looks directly at the camera and says ‘Four tons’ again, it’ll make your blood run cold.”
[Pause] “Uh, the thing is, Ron, that Powell didn’t tell quite the whole story there. Almost all of the VX was destroyed, under the supervision of UN weapons inspectors, during the 1990’s. So the ‘four tons’ is perhaps a trifle misleading. Weapons inspectors verified that VX actually had been dumped at the site where the Iraqis said they’d disposed of it, and any made before 1991 would have degraded into uselessness. Since we became masters of Iraq, we haven’t found a drop.”
[Discouraged] “This is a little harder than I thought, Boss. Do you want to see the rest of these?”
“I’m not sure. What’s next?”
“A really dramatic one. Here’s where he says that the weapons inspectors found a dozen chemical warheads that might be just ‘the tip of the iceberg.’”
[Embarrassed silence] “Um, one thing the general didn’t happen to mention, Ron, was that those warheads were all empty. They were still in their original crates, and dated back to the 1980’s. Evidently they were just some old things that got overlooked in a storage area somewhere. Since we took over the country, we haven’t found any other chemical warheads.”
“Is this all classified information, Boss? How do you know all this stuff?”
“No, no, it’s not classified. In fact, the Associated Press did a story summarizing all of it back in August. It was written by an AP correspondent named Charles Hanley, who was in Baghdad when Powell was giving his speech. I guess the story didn’t get much attention.”
“It sure didn’t! You’d think if Powell’s speech got such big media play that a follow-up story shredding his evidence would get at least as much attention.”
“Bless your naïve little heart, Ron. What else have you got?”
“Let’s see here. There’s stuff on Saddam’s revived nuclear program, some more stuff on the aluminum tubes to be used for enriching uranium, and some other stuff on Iraq’s efforts to buy magnets for uranium centrifuges…”
“None of that nuclear stuff panned out, Ron. None of it turned out to be true.”
[Dumbfounded] “So Powell’s whole speech was just… just… just….”
[Considering] “You know, Ron, I’m having second thoughts. You watch as much TV as anybody else, and if you didn’t know that Powell’s points were all so--shall we say ‘dubious’?--then neither does any other average American. Secretary Powell does have an imposing presence. Let’s run those suckers! Who’s going to know the difference?”
© Tony Russell, 2003
“Boss, I’ve got a great idea. You know how public support has been slipping for the war in Iraq…”
“Are you referring to the rebuilding of Iraq as a model democratic state, Ron? The war is over. We won. ‘Mission accomplished,’ as the President said.”
[Hastily] “Right, right. Anyway, you know how those poll numbers keep dropping…”
[Testily] “Ron, I can assure you, I am fully aware of the slippage to which you refer.”
“Well, this idea I have might be just the thing to turn those numbers around.”
[Skeptically] “Shoot.”
“Okay. You remember how there was a lot of opposition to the invasion of Iraq… sorry, the preemptive strike on terrorists…initially, but Colin Powell’s speech to the UN changed the picture almost overnight? He laid out that long rationale for the war, and people called his arguments ‘compelling’ and ‘irrefutable.’”
“I certainly do remember, Ron. How sweet it was, to have all of those liberal columnists writing about their conversion experiences the next day. Continue.”
[Warming up to his subject] “So what I was thinking was that we could take those arguments Powell made, compress each point into a thirty-second sound bite, and run a series of ads—just flat out blanket the air waves with the real reasons we’re in Iraq. He’s so dignified and solemn and… and… believable. We’ll remind people that there were convincing reasons for the war, and those reasons still hold good, even if the aftermath is a little rockier than anybody could have predicted.”
“Ron, I have to hand it to you. You may be on to something.”
[Swelling with pride] “I knew you’d like it, Boss. I went ahead and worked up some samples, so you could get a feel for what I had in mind. If you’ve got a few minutes, I can show them to you.”
“Very enterprising, Ron. Let’s take a look at what you have. What’s the first one?”
“The first one is about those documents that were hidden in that Iraqi scientist’s house in Baghdad. We were careful to get the part where Powell said they were ‘dramatic confirmation’ of our intelligence about hidden material.”
“Uh, that’s probably not a good one to use, Ron. Turns out those were just old and irrelevant files left over from a uranium enrichment program way back in the 80’s. The program was a flop, and everybody knew about it anyway.”
“Is that right? Okay, let’s scratch that one. The next one here is the satellite photos of those industrial sites where chemical and biological weapons were being produced, and of decontamination trucks associated with chemical weapons. Not only does this nail the Iraqis, but it shows we get good value from our high-dollar high tech intelligence effort.”
“Uh, that one’s a little iffy too, Ron. I’m afraid those decontamination vehicles turned out to be water trucks and fire trucks. Those sites he mentioned, as well as some others, have been visited over 500 times since we took control, and nobody has found any contraband, or any sign that stuff has been moved.”
“Gee, I’m sorry. How do you find out about all this stuff, Boss? Never mind, this next one’s really gonna get you. It’s about anthrax. Anthrax--that stuff scares me just thinking about it. Powell said the Iraqis could have produced up to 25,000 liters of anthrax. The clip I used includes the part where he says none of it has been ‘verifiably accounted for.’”
“The problem with that, Ron, is we still haven’t found any of it. The Iraqis claim they destroyed it. Three weeks before the invasion, they gave soil samples to the UN weapons inspectors from a site where they said the anthrax had been destroyed, along with a list of witnesses to the destruction. But the war began, unfortunately—or maybe fortunately—before those witnesses could be interviewed.”
“No sweat, Boss. There are still plenty more we can use. Here’s the part where he talks about those trucks used as mobile biological weapon labs.”
“Skip that one, Ron. It turns out those were actually used to pump hydrogen into weather balloons.”
[Doggedly] “Perfectly understandable. Anybody can make a mistake. How about this next clip, where he talks about that nerve agent, VX? The Iraqis made four tons of it. When Powell says that a single drop on your skin will kill you in minutes, and then looks directly at the camera and says ‘Four tons’ again, it’ll make your blood run cold.”
[Pause] “Uh, the thing is, Ron, that Powell didn’t tell quite the whole story there. Almost all of the VX was destroyed, under the supervision of UN weapons inspectors, during the 1990’s. So the ‘four tons’ is perhaps a trifle misleading. Weapons inspectors verified that VX actually had been dumped at the site where the Iraqis said they’d disposed of it, and any made before 1991 would have degraded into uselessness. Since we became masters of Iraq, we haven’t found a drop.”
[Discouraged] “This is a little harder than I thought, Boss. Do you want to see the rest of these?”
“I’m not sure. What’s next?”
“A really dramatic one. Here’s where he says that the weapons inspectors found a dozen chemical warheads that might be just ‘the tip of the iceberg.’”
[Embarrassed silence] “Um, one thing the general didn’t happen to mention, Ron, was that those warheads were all empty. They were still in their original crates, and dated back to the 1980’s. Evidently they were just some old things that got overlooked in a storage area somewhere. Since we took over the country, we haven’t found any other chemical warheads.”
“Is this all classified information, Boss? How do you know all this stuff?”
“No, no, it’s not classified. In fact, the Associated Press did a story summarizing all of it back in August. It was written by an AP correspondent named Charles Hanley, who was in Baghdad when Powell was giving his speech. I guess the story didn’t get much attention.”
“It sure didn’t! You’d think if Powell’s speech got such big media play that a follow-up story shredding his evidence would get at least as much attention.”
“Bless your naïve little heart, Ron. What else have you got?”
“Let’s see here. There’s stuff on Saddam’s revived nuclear program, some more stuff on the aluminum tubes to be used for enriching uranium, and some other stuff on Iraq’s efforts to buy magnets for uranium centrifuges…”
“None of that nuclear stuff panned out, Ron. None of it turned out to be true.”
[Dumbfounded] “So Powell’s whole speech was just… just… just….”
[Considering] “You know, Ron, I’m having second thoughts. You watch as much TV as anybody else, and if you didn’t know that Powell’s points were all so--shall we say ‘dubious’?--then neither does any other average American. Secretary Powell does have an imposing presence. Let’s run those suckers! Who’s going to know the difference?”
© Tony Russell, 2003
Tuesday, November 25, 2003
“The Boy in a Bubble”
Like a lot of Americans, I’m a sucker for technology and strange diseases. So it’s fascinating to me that we have as our President a boy who lives in a bubble.
Because of my interest, Patty and I took a tour of the bubble last month when we were visiting friends who live near Washington. It’s a really popular tour, but we were lucky enough to get tickets. I say “we”; Patty wasn’t as thrilled as I was. As we were waiting for our tour group to get its turn, she said, “I don’t understand it. Why are we lining up with all these other people to see this guy? He’s sick. So why does that make him an eighth wonder of the world?”
“Patty,” I laughed, “this guy campaigned for the highest office in our democracy without ever setting foot outside this bubble. He came within half a million votes or so of being elected President. Now he’s ruling the globe from this bubble. Don’t you have any sense of history?”
She turned on me. “You act like you’re proud of it,” she said accusingly. “Suppose this disease doesn’t stop with him? Suppose it spreads?”
Well, what got into her? But before we could get into an argument, they announced our group was next, and we all surged ahead.
“Hello,” said our tour guide, stepping forward and reading from a script. “My name is fill in the blank—I’m sorry, my name is Lee—, and I’ll be your guide this afternoon. We have five minutes to examine the bubble and view the President. Feel free to ask any questions you would like during the tour, and I’ll do my best to get an approved answer for you.”
“Is it okay to touch the bubble?” a guy near the front asked.
The guide chuckled. “Touch it all you want,” he said. “It’s unbreakable.”
Everybody rushed to put their hands on it. The two women beside us oohed and aahed. “He looks so at home there,” said one. “So natural. Just like my husband, sitting in front of the TV, watching a ball game.”
“He does, doesn’t he?” said the other. “It’s funny. I kind of expected him to be real busy, with such a big government to run, and kind of worried-looking, with all those soldiers getting blown up and killed, and the government going so deep into debt.”
“Oh, no,” said the other. “I’ve read that he watches lots of sports on TV, works out for an hour or an hour and a half every day, and goes to bed at 9:30 every night.”
Women. They just don’t have any sense for the really interesting, technical stuff. “What’s the bubble made out of?” I called out.
I don’t think I was the first to ask; the guide was ready for that one. “It’s made from spun news,” he recited. “The spinning is state of the art, performed by public relations artisans using the most efficient party apparatus ever created. The spinning is nonstop, constantly renewing the surface of the dome. With extensive media cooperation, maintenance is around-the-clock.”
“How does he actually govern from the bubble?” asked someone.
“Most of the detailed work is actually done by his advisors, working in those two buildings connected to the bubble,” answered the guide. “He makes the major decisions, based on the information the advisors bring him.”
“Gosh, you can’t see anything inside those two buildings,” murmured one of the women beside us. “No windows, no cracks, and as black as the ace of spades. They give me the willies.”
The guide heard the first part of her remark. “Those buildings are impenetrable by any known ordinary means,” he said proudly. “They resist newshounds, court orders, the Freedom of Information Act, congressional oversight, and constitutional challenges. They’re the shape of the future.”
“What about the information his advisors bring him?” asked Patti.
“It undergoes an elaborate screening and filtering process,” the guide answered. “It has to pass the most rigid ideological scrutiny before it can be transmitted into the bubble.”
“Then he can’t be contaminated?” asked an elderly lady worriedly.
“It’s totally safe,” the guide reassured her. “Its ideological purity is close to 100%. The atmosphere inside the bubble is monitored constantly.”
“The bubble doesn’t look that strong,” said the guy up front. “How does it hold up when he travels?”
“First off, don’t worry about the strength of the bubble,” said the guide, rushing to reassure him. “It’s deceptive. It’s a lot stronger than it looks. And we don’t place it in harm’s way. He hardly ever gives a press conference, and most of his speeches are in front of carefully selected groups like right-wing think tanks and $2,000 a plate fundraising events. The risk that a well-lobbed question could penetrate the bubble in venues like that is almost nonexistent.”
“What about the trip to London he’s got coming up in November?” a tall African-American asked.
“We’ll be taking extra precautions then,” said the guide. “The bubble will be reinforced by a police cordon of over 5,000 officers. Organizers have canceled the open carriage ride down The Mall as well as plans for Bush to address Parliament. That way he won’t be exposed to the sight of protestors, or asked questions in Parliament.”
“Oh, look!” yelled out a woman excitedly. “He just switched to ESPN2!”
© Tony Russell, 2003
Because of my interest, Patty and I took a tour of the bubble last month when we were visiting friends who live near Washington. It’s a really popular tour, but we were lucky enough to get tickets. I say “we”; Patty wasn’t as thrilled as I was. As we were waiting for our tour group to get its turn, she said, “I don’t understand it. Why are we lining up with all these other people to see this guy? He’s sick. So why does that make him an eighth wonder of the world?”
“Patty,” I laughed, “this guy campaigned for the highest office in our democracy without ever setting foot outside this bubble. He came within half a million votes or so of being elected President. Now he’s ruling the globe from this bubble. Don’t you have any sense of history?”
She turned on me. “You act like you’re proud of it,” she said accusingly. “Suppose this disease doesn’t stop with him? Suppose it spreads?”
Well, what got into her? But before we could get into an argument, they announced our group was next, and we all surged ahead.
“Hello,” said our tour guide, stepping forward and reading from a script. “My name is fill in the blank—I’m sorry, my name is Lee—, and I’ll be your guide this afternoon. We have five minutes to examine the bubble and view the President. Feel free to ask any questions you would like during the tour, and I’ll do my best to get an approved answer for you.”
“Is it okay to touch the bubble?” a guy near the front asked.
The guide chuckled. “Touch it all you want,” he said. “It’s unbreakable.”
Everybody rushed to put their hands on it. The two women beside us oohed and aahed. “He looks so at home there,” said one. “So natural. Just like my husband, sitting in front of the TV, watching a ball game.”
“He does, doesn’t he?” said the other. “It’s funny. I kind of expected him to be real busy, with such a big government to run, and kind of worried-looking, with all those soldiers getting blown up and killed, and the government going so deep into debt.”
“Oh, no,” said the other. “I’ve read that he watches lots of sports on TV, works out for an hour or an hour and a half every day, and goes to bed at 9:30 every night.”
Women. They just don’t have any sense for the really interesting, technical stuff. “What’s the bubble made out of?” I called out.
I don’t think I was the first to ask; the guide was ready for that one. “It’s made from spun news,” he recited. “The spinning is state of the art, performed by public relations artisans using the most efficient party apparatus ever created. The spinning is nonstop, constantly renewing the surface of the dome. With extensive media cooperation, maintenance is around-the-clock.”
“How does he actually govern from the bubble?” asked someone.
“Most of the detailed work is actually done by his advisors, working in those two buildings connected to the bubble,” answered the guide. “He makes the major decisions, based on the information the advisors bring him.”
“Gosh, you can’t see anything inside those two buildings,” murmured one of the women beside us. “No windows, no cracks, and as black as the ace of spades. They give me the willies.”
The guide heard the first part of her remark. “Those buildings are impenetrable by any known ordinary means,” he said proudly. “They resist newshounds, court orders, the Freedom of Information Act, congressional oversight, and constitutional challenges. They’re the shape of the future.”
“What about the information his advisors bring him?” asked Patti.
“It undergoes an elaborate screening and filtering process,” the guide answered. “It has to pass the most rigid ideological scrutiny before it can be transmitted into the bubble.”
“Then he can’t be contaminated?” asked an elderly lady worriedly.
“It’s totally safe,” the guide reassured her. “Its ideological purity is close to 100%. The atmosphere inside the bubble is monitored constantly.”
“The bubble doesn’t look that strong,” said the guy up front. “How does it hold up when he travels?”
“First off, don’t worry about the strength of the bubble,” said the guide, rushing to reassure him. “It’s deceptive. It’s a lot stronger than it looks. And we don’t place it in harm’s way. He hardly ever gives a press conference, and most of his speeches are in front of carefully selected groups like right-wing think tanks and $2,000 a plate fundraising events. The risk that a well-lobbed question could penetrate the bubble in venues like that is almost nonexistent.”
“What about the trip to London he’s got coming up in November?” a tall African-American asked.
“We’ll be taking extra precautions then,” said the guide. “The bubble will be reinforced by a police cordon of over 5,000 officers. Organizers have canceled the open carriage ride down The Mall as well as plans for Bush to address Parliament. That way he won’t be exposed to the sight of protestors, or asked questions in Parliament.”
“Oh, look!” yelled out a woman excitedly. “He just switched to ESPN2!”
© Tony Russell, 2003
Friday, October 10, 2003
“Rush to Judgment”
Tampa Bay plays Indianapolis tonight on Monday night football, so of course when Weldon and I were having our morning health-food meal at the diner—two over easy, biscuits, hash browns, and sausage gravy—the topic was Rush Limbaugh.
“What do you think about Limbaugh’s comments about Donovan McNabb?” I asked.
He didn’t even pause to wipe the grease from his lips. “He panders to all the rotten little prejudices that infect American politics. Bashes the poor. Jeers at blacks and dark-skinned immigrants. Slanders Muslims. Ridicules women. Implies that they’re all inferior, and that, if they achieve anything, they get it because of special treatment. His remarks about McNabb were par for the course.”
“Is he really that bad, Weldon?” I asked.
“Have you ever actually listened to his show?” he said by way of reply.
I had to admit I hadn’t.
“You ought to try it sometime,” he said. “It would do you good. Like that dose of castor oil your mama gave you every once in a while. Not because you needed it, but just as a preventative. It’ll make you cringe. He badmouths anything that might indicate this country actually has a social conscience. Environmentalists, civil libertarians, people who work with immigrants or workers—he doesn’t go after them with a peashooter. He goes nuclear.”
“Why would anybody listen to something like that?”
“Because he’s so good at implying that people like him are really superior to all those others, and that there’s a leftist conspiracy to promote those inferior people and their inferior causes. His putdown of Donovan McNabb wasn’t some sudden aberration, some exception to his usual patter. And ESPN knew what it was getting when it signed him up. The problem for him this time is that he had an audience that knew he was full of baloney.”
“I read that he said on his radio show afterward that all the flack came because he was the guy who said it. That if it had been somebody else, nobody would have even noticed.”
“What a crock. He defames a decent human being and extraordinary athlete. Then, when he gets called on it, he’s the victim! Is that self-centered or what? He spews out half-truths, erroneous ‘facts,’ and free-floating opinions constantly, and his audience reacts as if he were preaching the Gospel. People defer to him so much he expects it as his due. Somebody finally stuck a pin in his balloon, and it’s about time.”
“Why in the world did ESPN hire him in the first place?” I asked.
“Let me paraphrase his putdown of one of the most respected quarterbacks in the NFL,” said Weldon. “I don’t think Limbaugh has been that good from the get-go. I think what we’ve had here is a little political concern on ESPN. I think the network has been very desirous that a right-wing commentator do well. They’re interested in right-wing politicians and right-wing commentators doing well. I think there’s a little hope invested in Limbaugh and he got a lot of credit for the performance of the conservative team that he really didn’t deserve. The attack on September 11 carried that team.”
“Do you really believe that, Weldon?”
“No, I think in some ways it’s as prejudiced as Limbaugh’s comments. First, because I doubt politics was a conscious factor at all in ESPN’s decision. TV is a greed machine. I think they crunched the numbers on the audience he might bring with him, and that was the bottom line. And second, Limbaugh is smart, he’s verbally adroit, and a master of stinging sarcasm. I can’t stomach his politics, but I will at least give the guy credit for being skillful at what he does. Too bad he couldn’t give McNabb the same respect.”
© Tony Russell, 2003
“What do you think about Limbaugh’s comments about Donovan McNabb?” I asked.
He didn’t even pause to wipe the grease from his lips. “He panders to all the rotten little prejudices that infect American politics. Bashes the poor. Jeers at blacks and dark-skinned immigrants. Slanders Muslims. Ridicules women. Implies that they’re all inferior, and that, if they achieve anything, they get it because of special treatment. His remarks about McNabb were par for the course.”
“Is he really that bad, Weldon?” I asked.
“Have you ever actually listened to his show?” he said by way of reply.
I had to admit I hadn’t.
“You ought to try it sometime,” he said. “It would do you good. Like that dose of castor oil your mama gave you every once in a while. Not because you needed it, but just as a preventative. It’ll make you cringe. He badmouths anything that might indicate this country actually has a social conscience. Environmentalists, civil libertarians, people who work with immigrants or workers—he doesn’t go after them with a peashooter. He goes nuclear.”
“Why would anybody listen to something like that?”
“Because he’s so good at implying that people like him are really superior to all those others, and that there’s a leftist conspiracy to promote those inferior people and their inferior causes. His putdown of Donovan McNabb wasn’t some sudden aberration, some exception to his usual patter. And ESPN knew what it was getting when it signed him up. The problem for him this time is that he had an audience that knew he was full of baloney.”
“I read that he said on his radio show afterward that all the flack came because he was the guy who said it. That if it had been somebody else, nobody would have even noticed.”
“What a crock. He defames a decent human being and extraordinary athlete. Then, when he gets called on it, he’s the victim! Is that self-centered or what? He spews out half-truths, erroneous ‘facts,’ and free-floating opinions constantly, and his audience reacts as if he were preaching the Gospel. People defer to him so much he expects it as his due. Somebody finally stuck a pin in his balloon, and it’s about time.”
“Why in the world did ESPN hire him in the first place?” I asked.
“Let me paraphrase his putdown of one of the most respected quarterbacks in the NFL,” said Weldon. “I don’t think Limbaugh has been that good from the get-go. I think what we’ve had here is a little political concern on ESPN. I think the network has been very desirous that a right-wing commentator do well. They’re interested in right-wing politicians and right-wing commentators doing well. I think there’s a little hope invested in Limbaugh and he got a lot of credit for the performance of the conservative team that he really didn’t deserve. The attack on September 11 carried that team.”
“Do you really believe that, Weldon?”
“No, I think in some ways it’s as prejudiced as Limbaugh’s comments. First, because I doubt politics was a conscious factor at all in ESPN’s decision. TV is a greed machine. I think they crunched the numbers on the audience he might bring with him, and that was the bottom line. And second, Limbaugh is smart, he’s verbally adroit, and a master of stinging sarcasm. I can’t stomach his politics, but I will at least give the guy credit for being skillful at what he does. Too bad he couldn’t give McNabb the same respect.”
© Tony Russell, 2003
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