...going into Iraq was, in effect, punching our fist into the largest hornet's nest in the world. As in Vietnam, our military superiority is neutralized by political vulnerabilities. The borders are wide open. We operate quite predictably on marginal military intelligence. The adversary knows exactly where we are at all times, as we do not know where he is. Their weaponry fits an asymmetrical war, and they have the capacity to blend into the daily flow of Iraqi life, as we cannot. Our allies—the good Iraqi people the president likes to talk about—appear to be more and more ambivalent about the idea of a Christian, Caucasian liberation, and they do not seem to share many of our geopolitical goals.
- Final thoughts on Bush’s war from David Halberstam, from The History Boys in the August edition of Vanity Fair
Perhaps I should begin with the latter of the triumvirate first, i.e. things that make me, you know:
My honeymoon in Viagra Falls ("Slowly I turned, step by step, inch by inch..."); my wife’s grilled pizzas on organic whole wheat dough with basil pesto made from our home-grown basil, with garlic, caramelized Vidalia onions, local heirloom tomatoes, and a combination of Piave Stravecchio (an Italian raw cow’s milk cheese) and Parmigiano Reggiano (Originating in the Middle Ages in the regions of Parma and Reggio, this is a nutty, fragrant unpasteurized cow's milk cheese.), and all of the variations of a theme and other varieties of grilled pizzas that she makes (and all of the things she does, accept for leaving the caps off of all the lotions she uses, bottles standing about the house like headless sculptures); and, finally, reading. This last activity, of course, puts me squarely, using the lexicon of Ann Coulter, in the faggot camp of (far) left-leaning citizens (or traitors) who read, and are therefore subversive and very, very unmanly. What is worse is that I’ll read anything; from junk mail catalogues to Lawrence Weschler’s Vermeer in Bosnia.
Since I’ve already digressed almost beyond hope off topic(s), I’ll spare everyone the perusal of my current reading list. However, since Digby brought it up rather eloquently in this post, I thought I would suggest a few other writers to read for an existential look at the tragic reality of war; the actualized metaphor of hell on earth. Digby referenced "Joseph Heller and James Jones and Erich Maria Remarque and countless others...", and some of those "others" whom I would recommend are, Thom Jones’ The Pugilist at Rest, Chris Hedges’, War is a Force That Gives Us Meaning, Vladimir Arsenijević’s In The Hold, and Emiko Ohnuki-Tierney’s, Kamikaze Diaries: Reflections of Japanese Student Soldiers, et al. Although there have been a few, film makers are now offering salient documentaries like Charles Ferguson’s, No End In Sight; as the Village Voice puts it, "No End in Sight is certainly a film about failure, perhaps the ultimate film about failure. Or maybe a film about the ultimate failure?" I have a question: why are the deaths of American military not on the front page of every newspaper everyday? For example, I read Juan Cole’s Informed Consent everyday (along with Antiwar.com) to find these facts. Witness this headline:
8 US Troops Killed
100 Casualties in Karrada Bombing
KRG MP: US Oil Interests Driving Iraqi Legislation
Shouldn’t this also be front and center in the New York Times and the Washington Post?
Another thing: It seems that Pat Tillman was an avid reader and fan of Noam Chomsky. After his tour of duty in Afghanistan, Tillman was even going to meet, with the M.I.T. professor and author. Now we are hearing that Mr. Tillman’s reading may have contributed to his death, now being investigated as possibly murder. On Pat Tillman’s behalf I would suggest the latest transcribed lecture by Professor Chomsky, entitled,
Imminent Crises: Threats and Opportunities:
But rejection of the popular will in Iraq goes far beyond the natural fear of democracy on the part of the powerful. Simply consider the policies that are likely to be pursued by an independent and more or less democratic Iraq. Iraqis may have no love for Iran, but they would doubtlessly prefer friendly relations with their powerful neighbor. The Shi’ite majority already has ties to Iran and has been moving to strengthen them. Furthermore, even limited sovereignty in Iraq has encouraged efforts by the harshly repressed Shi’ite population across the border in Saudi Arabia to gain basic rights and perhaps autonomy. That is where most of Saudi Arabia’s oil happens to be.
Such developments might lead to a loose Shi’ite alliance controlling the world’s major energy resources and independent of Washington, the ultimate nightmare in Washington—except that it might get worse: the alliance might strengthen its economic and possibly even military ties with China. The United States can intimidate Europe: when Washington shakes its fist, leading European business enterprises pull out of Iran. But China has a three-thousand-year history of contempt for the barbarians: they refuse to be intimidated.
It’s a long piece, but worthy of your time and Pat’s memory.
Coitus Interruptus: also known as withdrawal or the Pull-Out Method, and I am all for it. Coitus interruptus may also more generally refer to any extraction of the penis prior to ejaculation during intercourse. This method has been widely used for at least 2,000 years and was used by an estimated 38 million couples worldwide in 1991 (courtesy of Wikepedia). Isn’t just common sense to pull out now, before we blow our entire wad on the Middle East and spawn something evil that will eventually devour us? I mean, we could pull out, pee, and be free to go back in later.
Schadenfreude: pleasure taken from someone else's misfortune. Need I mention Alberto Gonzales? Of course, there has been little opportunity to enjoy any schadenfreude since, when a Scooter Libby gets sentenced to prison and schadenfreude does its synaptic dance, Bush comes along like a spider and commutes his sentence to life on the web. Too many times the Congressional Democrats have offered the possibility of a glorious schadenfreude by bringing down this corrupt administration, or ending the illegal and immoral war in Iraq, only to have my freude schadened, slipping out like a flaccid noodle. Some day a real rain will fall...along with the entire Bush Administration, and we can all wear our schadenfreude tee-shirts (white with taxi cab yellow lettering: Schadenfreude) and our coprophagiatic grins like the idiots we truly are.
What to read? Ah, here’s one: The Exception, by Christian Jungersen:
‘Don’t they ever think about anything except killing each other?’
Roberto asks. Normally he would never say such a harsh thing.
The truck with the four aid workers and two of the hostage-takers on
the tailgate has been stopped for an hour or more. Burnt-out cars block
the road ahead, but it ought to be possible to reverse and outflank them
by driving through the small, flimsy shacks on either side.
‘What are we waiting for? Why don’t they drive on through the
crowd?’
Roberto’s English accent is usually perfect, but now, for the first
time, you can hear that he is Italian. He is struggling for breath. Sweat
pours down his cheeks and into the corners of his mouth.
The slum surrounds them. It smells and looks like a filthy cattle pen.
The car stands on a mud surface, still ridged with tracks made after the
last rains, now baked as hard as stoneware by the sun. The Nubians
have constructed their greyish-brown huts from a framework of torn-off
branches spread with cow dung. Dense clusters of huts are scattered all
over the dusty plain.
Roberto, Iben’s immediate boss, looks at his fellow hostages. ‘Why
can’t they at least pull over into the shade?’ He falls silent and lifts his
hand very slowly towards the lower rim of his sunglasses.
One of the hostage-takers turns his head away from watching the locals
to stare at Roberto and shakes his sharpened, half-metre-long
panga. It is enough to make Roberto lower his arm with the same measured
slowness.
Iben sighs. Drops of sweat have collected in her ears and everything
sounds muffled, a bit like the whirring of a fan.
Rubbish, mostly rotting green items mixed with human excrement,
has piled up against the wall of a nearby cow-dung hut. The sloping,
metre-high mound gives off the unmistakable stench of slum living.
Oh, this is good.