Airbrushing The Dead

It takes a deft hand to not only erase an active sponsor of genocidal violence, but also hide some 200,000 butchered human beings. Yet Guido Guilliart of the Associated Press did so in a single sentence:

"Indonesia invaded East Timor in 1975 and ruled the tiny half-island territory with an iron fist until 1999, when a U.N.-organized plebiscite resulted in an overwhelming vote for independence."

The ol' "iron fist" line. Seemingly descriptive, but in this case, incredibly vague. An honest, accurate account would read:

"Indonesia invaded East Timor on December 7, 1975, after receiving the green light from then-U.S. President Gerald Ford and Secretary of State Henry Kissinger, who visited Jakarta on the eve of the Indonesian invasion. Indonesia ruled the tiny half-island territory through terror and mass murder, killing some 200,000 Timorese, nearly a third of East Timor's population, thanks to several billion in military and economic support from the United States. This state of siege lasted until 1999, when a U.N.-organized plebiscite resulted in an overwhelming vote for independence. The Clinton administration continued to finance the Indonesian military as it committed more atrocities in a last-ditch attempt to stem Timorese independence. As U.S. Ambassador to Jakarta, Stapleton Roy, told reporters at the time, 'Indonesia matters, East Timor does not.' International pressure and outrage in Congress finally forced President Clinton to halt military aid on September 10, 1999."

Something tells me that if the Soviets or Saddam were financing these atrocities, especially over a 24 year period, their sponsorship would be mentioned. Indeed, we'd never hear the end of it. But knowing when to tell the whole story, if telling it at all, is one of the many tricks a journalist must learn in order to climb the mainstream ladder. An "iron rule," if you will.

Pointless

About half way through "Wild Man Blues," the docu about Woody Allen's jazz band touring Europe, I'd seen enough, ejected the disc. I've long been a big Allen fan, from his 60s stand-up to the many fluctuations of his film career, but the sourness and misanthropy he displayed in "Wild" was too much for me to take. I certainly hope he's not as bitter and petty as he's portrayed in that film; yet, when you look at some of his darker efforts and note the consistent bleak strands within, Allen probably is like that in life (reflected also in a Vanity Fair profile from Dec. '05). How else could he so accurately and artfully translate this to film? For him, a half-empty glass is unreasonably optimistic.

Watching "Match Point" reinforced this perception, though not unpleasantly so. When Allen is on his game, he sweeps you right into the narrative and smoothly carries you to its end. This is not to say that it's a completely comfortable ride -- the delusion, hypocrisy and cynicism of his characters would immediately repel any reasonable or sensitive person were they flesh; but as flickering images, they are irresistible to observe. And that Allen uses contemporary London as his location, a new backdrop for him, lends "Match Point" a certain freshness that would be missing were the film set in Manhattan. No one shoots New York like Allen, but he's pretty much wrung that great city out, so it's nice to see his story unfold elsewhere.

I won't reveal much of "Match Point" -- if you've seen it, you don't need my explication; if you haven't, it's now out on DVD, so grab one and watch. It's one of Allen's better films, though like much of his recent work, elements from earlier efforts appear, in this case, "Crimes and Misdemeanors," which to me is Allen's masterpiece. Characters are made to pay for the bad choices they've made, and in order to extricate themselves from potentially ruinous consequences, they choose to behave even worse. In Allen's world, one can do something or be part of something horrid, and while detection always looms, they usually get away with it, thanks to chance and luck. And that's what's so horrifying about these scenarios: the getting away with it. We know that people get away with murder in real life (when they're not simply celebrated for killing others), but it requires fiction to really make us understand the full implication of this, something Allen has down. There's no relief for the supposedly Not Guilty, not if they have any conscience or sense of personal morality. They escape jail only to be imprisoned in their mind. In "Crimes and Misdemeanors," Martin Landau's character rattles the bars in his soul to the point of a complete emotional breakdown, only to find, one sunny morning, that the bars are melting away. Distance from his crime allows rationalization to soothe his battered psyche, and in time he's free once again. Not only does he get away with it, he becomes happier and financially prospers, perhaps the most frightening development of all.

In "Match Point," Jonathan Rhys-Meyers isn't allowed Landau's luxury. His amoral ambition and appetite not only land him in a mental prison he cannot escape, but a physical one that he refuses to flee, namely, the wealthy family he marries into. By film's end, you see the suffocation in his eyes. He knows he's going to prosper, safely tied to big money and class privilege, but he sure as hell doesn't look happier. Indeed, he looks worse. He's well aware of the crime he's committed, and for him there's no personal justification, just emotional repression, and even that appears shaky. "Match Point" is less horrifying than "Crimes and Misdemeanors," but it lingers in the mind, reminding you that perhaps everything is random, morality is a delusion, and that the only point to life is grabbing what you can, any way you can, before the final night falls.

Many seem comfortable with this. Woody Allen, resigned to it. Me, saddened if it is so.

Ol' Reliable

In celeb-land, the famous and infamous constantly battle for airtime, lest the public forget who they are and what they bring to the screen. So it wasn't surprising to see our old anti-commie ally, Osama bin-Laden, pop up to spout off yet again about Crusaders, Zionists and jihad. That's his brand, his shtick, and like those who know what the public expects, Osama spreads it thick for followers and haters to chew on.

A key aspect to the War On Terror is visual, and here Osama has dutifully played his role. While there exists no new footage of him, sitting cross-legged and sternly waving his hand (Kalashnikov at his side), there's plenty in the media vault, and each new audiotape receives the-now familiar illustration. Indeed, this may be intentional on Osama's part, and it certainly serves the needs of US warmakers and their megaphones in the media as it reinforces the image news consumers are presumably comfortable with, and against which the talking heads can scream, sputter and shake.

Juan Cole, with whom I had a pleasant evening last week, feels that Osama's at-large status is yet another failure of the Bush admin, a dangerous one that needs immediate correction:

"Bin Laden has survived, and he is still taunting the US, and still attempting to polarize Muslims and Westerners. His tapes have far more influence and resonance than Americans realize. He needs to be caught and silenced, and US and Israeli actions that needlessly alienate the Muslims need to cease, as well. Otherwise, our world is willy nilly being seduced by the inferno of hatred at the core of al-Qaeda and its Christian and Jewish counterparts."

Juan is quite sincere, but does he seriously believe that Bush or Cheney have any real desire to capture Osama, much less silence him? Bush is on the record saying that he doesn't think much about this devil figure, though the specter of Osama continues to serve US interests, as is now obviously the case. Every serious production needs an antagonist, and with Saddam in the dock and Zarqawi somewhat media shy (or dead, or not), Osama's pretty much It at the moment. And even if Osama is captured or killed, the War On Terror will continue, as it is meant to, and a new Osama will appear to replace the old. Again, without an identifiable villain, the public might have to actually study the history of this conflict and dig beneath the stated claims and daily propaganda in order to understand what's really going on. More and more are doing so, thanks to the Web; but there remain plenty who are content with the crazed villain scenario, and the major media in hand with the government will continue to screen this until it is no longer useful, though, I'm afraid, it'll be very useful for some time to come.

SPEAKING OF JUAN: It appears that he's being smeared by John Fund of the Wall Street Journal, in a brazen attempt to scare off Yale in its efforts to hire Juan away from Michigan. If Juan relocates to the East Coast, just up the road from Manhattan, he might have more media access than he currently does in the Midwest, and that can't be tolerated by Terror War whores like Fund and his employers. Thus shit is flung and lies pumped out. Part of the process. Happened to Edward Said and continues to dog Noam Chomsky. Means that the bastards fear you.

I tangled with Fund a couple of times, twice in the same day at a media conference in Brooklyn. On a panel dealing with the Drug War and the press, I took apart a ridiculous Wall Street Journal editorial titled "Bad Acid," in which Woodstock hippies were described as murderous long-haired Nazis who forced people to trip and barred short-haired men from dancing to Sly and the Family Stone. As the audience laughed at each fantastic sentence, Fund, seated nearby and increasingly embarrassed, stood up and said, "I had nothing to do with that editorial!" Later, on a panel about how human rights were covered by TV news, I listed numerous instances of torture and executions that rarely, if ever, made it onscreen. As I talked about the hell on earth in places like East Timor and Guatemala, Fund could barely contain his glee, at times openly laughing at so much human misery.

Years later I ran into him again, when we were both guests on Alan Colmes's radio show in Manhattan. He was still the smug jerk he was before, only heavier in the gut, and he dominated the show, talking on and on and on to the delight of Colmes who, as you know, makes his living prompting rightwingers and playing their straightman. Fund and I did agree on the virtues of homeschooling, and we shared some arcane media trivia, but for the most part he blabbed about whatever moved him, which included bombing smaller countries. I sat back and thought, "I gave up comedy for this?"

Crazy Talk

It's nice to see that Time's Joe Klein has lost none of the pomposity he proudly displayed back in the day, when our public buffoons were a little less gaudy in their idiocy (the pre-Fox News period). Klein's smugness and occasionally wild remarks (recall that he predicted that blacks would riot after seeing Spike Lee's "Do The Right Thing") earned him a seat at elite media roundtables. And the revelation that he was the Anonymous who typed "Primary Colors," his novelistic account of the first Clinton campaign, sealed his political insider status for keeps. The beauty of this arrangement is that you can say pretty much anything you like, so long as media gatekeepers consider it "reasonable" or "insightful."

So what's passing for insightful reason this month? How about nuking Iran? Or, better still, saying that you think nuking Iran is a viable option, or maybe not, given that you are crazy and incapable of rational assessment? As Klein himself put it recently, responding to a caller on Jim Bohannon's radio show:

"And I do believe that [nuking Iran] should be an option. But let me tell you what I actually believe about this. First of all, it should be an option and I think it doesn’t do us any harm for the Iranians, if they are going to go around saying crazy things, to think that we might act crazily as well."

Think that'll get Klein barred from future talk shows and media panels? Are you crazy?!

Klein describes himself as a "raging moderate," whatever the hell that means. But assuming that, as a moderate, raging or not, Klein cares about the Earth's environment (which has become, at least rhetorically, a moderate concern), then advocating a nuclear assault on Iran, even as an "option," is simply irresponsible if we are to build a better, greener world. Nukes are environmentally unsound, for obvious, radioactive reasons. So if you're gonna suggest slaughtering tens/hundreds of thousands of people, then why not consider the old German model of mass extermination? Yes, there's that sticky Nazi legacy thing which still upsets a lot of people. But remember, 9/11 changed everything, and we simply must push past old emotions in order to confront new dangerous realities. If there is some way to march Iranian citizens into human abattoirs operating 24/7, then we achieve the mass murder we desire while sparing the planet further contamination. And as an added bonus, the remains of those dead Iranians can be reduced to powder, bagged, and sold as organic compost. So not only do we eliminate the Iranian threat, we strengthen the environment as well.

But that scenario might be a bit too rational for Joe Klein. As a highly-paid pundit, it's his job to say the things crazy people would love to say, if only they were given access to the corporate media. But you have to know how to talk crazily, how to keep your crazy ideas within the mainstream fold. Otherwise, anybody could go on TV and radio and say anything they wanted. And for a free society, that would be positively unhinged.

Sucked Back In

Well, that was brief. But then, you didn't seriously think I'd be gone for several months, did you?

Actually, I did. After weathering a few hours of post-blog wistfulness, I felt artistically and emotionally free. No longer did I have to read 5-6 newspapers a day. Nor was blog scrolling a daily requirement. I soon settled into the fractured narrative of my new book, randomly switching from typewriter to longhand as Beethoven blasted from my speakers (the man smashed his pianos long before Jerry Lee Lewis). I could and largely did ignore the insanity swirling about us -- not that I was completely disengaged, but enough to sink into a different, deeper creative mindset. A welcome if sometimes turbulent change of pace. And then I was summoned back.

Many of you who wrote in once I went on hiatus were very supportive, and while you wanted me to continue, you said you understood my reasoning and left it at that. Others felt that it was a mistake for me go away at this time, as if the present state of affairs is somehow worse than it was, say, six months ago. Personally, I think that you can toss a coin over your shoulder pretty much any time of day and hit something squalid, violent, corrupt or obscene. In today's sociopathic America, anything, sadly, is possible. So writing about this or that today or next month wouldn't make that much of a difference. But some of you disagreed, and wanted the Son back on its feet sooner than later.

Finally, there's the wife. She was solidly opposed to me pulling the plug from the get-go, and reminded me of this daily. She too couldn't understand why, after building a solid readership, I would capriciously walk away from the whole thing, trusting that you would all come back in late August. Pointless and dumb. Plus, there's no reason why I can't keep blogging while composing the book. One feeds the other, and each benefits from the various rhythms, tones, and loud annoying noises that pour outta my skull. So, after a long pep talk and plans for creative expansion, I was convinced. And here I am, for good and ill.

I'll try to post something every day, though most likely it'll be a few times a week. I can't predict from day to day how I'll feel or what mood I'll be in. But your support is most appreciated, and truly touches me. The Son ain't no pantomime or front for political hacks -- it comes straight from the gut, a crude attempt to make sense of the brutality of our shared existence. No escape, it seems.

So, while I map out what blasts I have in mind, here are a few things for your perusal.

Came across this site by accident (assuming that "accidents" exist), but it appeals to my Hummer-hatin' heart. While flipping birds at these gastrocities, these substitute penises for suburban assholes who think they're really fucking cool tooling around, looking down on lesser rides, is encouraged, it's a touch too mild for my taste. Some Fight Club-type vandalism would be better, though in time, these things will be rusting on the sides of countless roads, dead symbols of yet another American mania, the pathetic need for power over others while isolated in a personal bunker. Once the fuel runs out, or becomes too expensive to justify these vehicles, that's it. First Hummers, then, hopefully, NASCAR.

Here's a tight little history lesson for the kids, inspired by "Schoolhouse Rock" (as well as Robert Smigel's "TV Funhouse" attack on corporate media, "Conspiracy Theory Rock," which you can watch here.) Based on Noam Chomsky's book of the same name. Ah, if only we had films like this when I was in school!

And speaking of Smigel, this is perhaps my favorite "Fun With Real Audio." And a child with a security blanket shall guide them . . .

Intermission

Well, faithful readers, gawkers, visitors and trollers, we've reached the mid-point (at least that's where I think I am) of this little exercise called the Son, and that means I'll be taking some time off, perhaps months, as I try to finish the book I'm currently writing. While I'll miss the immediacy of this form, I simply don't have the time and energy to simultaneously blog and compose my tome, which requires my full attention. If I was paid to blog, was part of a group where I could post once or twice a week, or was backed by Time/Life or Conde Nast, that would be different. But I do this thing for free in my spare time. I've given my best, more or less, over the past year or so, but now that nervous energy must go into something larger and hopefully more lasting than these online blasts. So off I go to note cards, paper, pencil, pen and my black Underwood manual typewriter. Don't know when I'll return. I might trim down the archives to forge a Best Of, as there are several posts I'm quite proud of. And if some seriously stupid shit starts raining down (always a possibility), I may pop back briefly to scream and release my immediate anger and anguish. Barring that, I'm outta here till the manuscript is completed.

But before I go, some parting observations:

*Seymour Hersh's latest report about the Bush gang wanting to use tactical nukes on Iran has many people jumping out of their shorts. And for good reason. While I believe that Hersh was fed this in order to test the domestic political waters for such an attack, as well as letting Tehran in on these psychotic thoughts, I put nothing past this crazed administration. It all might be simple psy-ops, a continuation of US policy where potential enemies/targets are left to guess whether or not we're fucking nuts. ("Pick up the gun, punk. I said, pick it up!") But then, perhaps Bush/Cheney are going for broke as their poll numbers fall, Iraq continues to burn, Afghanistan remains a corrupt mess, and global competitors gain some extra traction. Still, I can't see it happening. But if it does, get ready for the next brutal phase of human suffering. And stock up on canned goods and bottled water.

*I was sent this transcript (with video attached, if you desire to hear the horseshit) of David Horowitz and Ward Churchill, now starring in a dog-and-pony show about the politics of academia, appearing on "Hannity and Colmes." Why anyone left-of-center would submit to that fixed forum is beyond me, but if you decide to do so, then hit back and hit back hard. There's no point to entering a dog fight if you're wearing a muzzle. Hannity's "argument" is extremely easy to counter. All that's needed is some energy and grit. Churchill tried to wave him off and avoid direct contact, tossing out general comments to keep Hannity at bay. If you don't want to battle idiots like Hannity, then don't do his show. Otherwise you look ridiculous.

What little I've read by Churchill didn't impress me, and I was extremely critical of his post-9/11 comments. He seemed pretty comfy with Horowitz at his side, and I suspect these two are closer in nature than they let on. Horowitz's relaxed smile was the give-away.

*I haven't said anything about the current uproar over immigration simply because I have nothing new to add. I've worked with Mexicans and Central Americans who may or may not have been in the States "legally" -- I wasn't privy to their personal situations -- but better or harder working comrades I've seldom encountered. When you're both on your knees scrubbing the lower sides of public toilets, the concept of "nationality" fades away in the face of shared labor. And as Gore Vidal wittily put it years ago, given that the US stole a huge chunk of Mexico as part of our territorial expansion, it makes sense that these lands are now filling up with the descendants of those we long ago displaced. The ebb and flow of populations is a human historical constant. Building walls is a static reaction; they are always fated to fall.

*My son, who's in fourth grade, has known for some time that the Earth's moon reflects rather than generates light. (He can't wait to try out his new telescope -- neither can I.) What then to say about those adults who, while attending a Bill Nye "The Science Guy" presentation in Waco, Texas, got upset over this:

"The Emmy-winning scientist angered a few audience members when he criticized literal interpretation of the biblical verse Genesis 1:16, which reads: 'God made two great lights — the greater light to govern the day and the lesser light to govern the night. He also made the stars.'

"He pointed out that the sun, the 'greater light,' is but one of countless stars and that the 'lesser light' is the moon, which really is not a light at all, rather a reflector of light.

"A number of audience members left the room at that point, visibly angered by what some perceived as irreverence.

"'We believe in a God!' exclaimed one woman as she left the room with three young children."

Wanna bet this woman has a Bush/Cheney bumpersticker on her ride?

*Speaking of the boy, he's recently discovered Laurel & Hardy. I found some old tapes I made many years ago, and as I began screening them, my son walked by and asked who those two funny-looking men were. I gave him a brief bio, then we sat together and watched "Helpmates," a classic from 1932, where the boys try to clean Ollie's house after a raucous party, lest his wife come home and discover the mess.

"Man," said the boy a few minutes in. "They can't clean without wrecking everything!"

I nodded. "That's Laurel & Hardy, son. They're poetically inept, even though they mean well."

The boy kept laughing as things got worse. Exactly what Stan and Ollie would've wanted. Imagine your work still connecting long after you've gone. Another human constant. A beautiful one.

Memory's Soundtrack

Glad to see Sandra Bernhard's got a new show, "Everything Bad and Beautiful", at the Daryl Roth Theatre in Manhattan. Burning sass in a savage time. Nothing like it, or like Bernhard, for whom I completely fell when I first saw her in "The King Of Comedy" making a bound and gagged Jerry Lewis squirm with her ballistic night club act. My devotion was then forever won with "Without You I'm Nothing," the 1990 film which remains a personal fave. What I love about Bernhard is her utter and complete confidence, especially when she sings -- yet hints of insecurity emerge, as though she knows there are more glamorous performers with smoother voices and killer looks, but this accelerates her intensity, forcing you to immediately choose whether or not you can handle the full ride. A lot of people can't, and openly find Bernhard to be too abrasive, off-putting or disorienting. To me it's music falling from the cool night sky.

I also love how Bernhard weaves autobiographical material through a mad variety of pop culture & political references. Nothing is too cheesy or overtly obvious to use, and it shows how much the larger culture informs if not shapes our consciousness as we grow, later becoming the soundtrack to our memories. I happen to be in this very place at the moment, mostly for authorial reasons, but also to bridge the chaotic scenes from my past, put them in rough context, soothe some of the jangled nerves that have long tormented me. So news of Bernhard's newest stage offering, in which, apparently, she sings, rants and coos about her life up to now, is perfectly timed for what I'm composing. If I didn't look so frumpish in a sequined gown and beehive wig, the final effect would be even more dazzling.

Last weekend, I visited places that I hadn't seen in ages. It's interesting how direct physical exposure to a house, neighborhood or school not only clarifies memories that have started to fade or otherwise shift, it gives you an immediate, if fleeting, sensory reminder of how you felt at a specific moment in time. Standing in front of Francis Bellamy 102, the elementary school I attended (which is a block from the cul de sac I flew around as a kid), I reconnected with the confusion and dread I often experienced back then, when I would act up in class, stand on top of my desk and sing, draw giant fish on the chalkboard once the teacher left the room, then either get paddled by the school's principal, or punished later at home by my Dad, who was often called in to deal with his rebellious son. (Dad hated spanking me, and only did it a few times, but it never affected his appetite, whacking my bare ass with one hand while eating a bologna sandwich with the other.) This reconnection lasted maybe thirty seconds, yet I was completely transported, the six/seven-year-old boy trembling with anxiety once again.

Similar direct emotional sensations were felt throughout the weekend, some happier than others, but all of it under a wistful cloud. Driving down the long rural road that leads to the house where I lived with my Dad and Stepmother from 12 to 16 was especially overwhelming, as I still dream about that two-lane blacktop lined with acres of wood, abandoned corn fields and a few farm houses. The north side of the road remains as it was 30 years ago, almost eerily unchanged. The south side, sadly, is choked with prefab houses, the farm homes long ago torn down. Our old house is still there, sitting on 2 acres of yard, the swimming pool my Dad had built now corralled by a wooden fence. But where there was once fields as far as you could see (part of which I accidentally burned down when I was 12 -- two fire trucks needed to extinguish the flames filmed by local TV news, my broadcast debut, as it were) is completely covered with more prefab housing, many of the yards littered with garbage, rusting swingsets, abandoned refrigerators. The man who lives there makes his living repairing small engines in the garage I spent hours in, messing around with old tools, working on my cross-over dribble with an ABA basketball, playing with Rock 'Em Sock 'Em Robots. He was extremely gracious as I told him about my time there; and while I dropped plenty of clear hints that I would love to see the inside of the house, primarily the cold basement where my bedroom was located (another regular dreamscape), the guy had no intention of letting me take a nostalgic tour. Still, I hadn't set foot in that garage since 1976; and that alone flooded my senses so thoroughly that it was an hour before my head returned to the present. I can't imagine how I would've handled the basement, the scene of so much activity, happiness and anger.

I was helped along my retro-journey by the numerous CD compilations burned by my friend Luke. Most songs on the discs have specific meanings set in specific times, while others establish general moods that capture certain periods. In this I share Sandra Bernhard's love of and intense connection to the music of one's past. In a way it's limiting to have old pop/soul/punk singles serve as guideposts when touring old haunts, using a stranger's musical expression to lend meaning to one's earlier life. But it can't be avoided, and would be ridiculous to ignore. One of the steady constants of our commercialized existence, alas. Nostalgia may be a prison, but memory can never be caged.

2 For Tues

In lieu of original composition today (as I'm somewhat on the run), I offer two bits for you loyal readers.

The first:

Q: What's your assessment of the war in Iraq?

A: Utter debacle. But it had to be from the very first. The reasons were wrong. The reasons of this administration for taking this nation to war were not what they stated. (Army Gen.) Tommy Franks was brow-beaten and ... pursued warfare that he knew strategically was wrong in the long term. That's why he retired immediately afterward. His own staff could tell him what was going to happen afterward.

We have fomented civil war in Iraq. We have probably fomented internecine war in the Muslim world between the Shias and the Sunnis, and I think Bush may well have started the third world war, all for their own personal policies.

Q: What is the cost to our country?

A: For the first thing, our credibility is utterly zero. So we destroyed whatever credibility we had. ... And I say "we," because the American public went along with this. They voted for a second Bush administration out of fear, so fear is what they're going to have from now on.

More from Eric Haney, a founding member of Delta Force, here.

Then, in rebuttal to Haney's comments, we have these dweebs (courtesy of Crooks and Liars).

Such is the state of Repub rock (celebrating Zell Miller?). Bet Lester Bangs would've had fun with it.

Carroll's Critics

While blissfully away from blogs and the Web over my long weekend, I missed the brief, but nasty, Jill Carroll online war. As you know, Carroll was released last week, and is now back in the States. Once far away from her former captors, she disassociated herself from statements she made while at gunpoint or still under threat, and denounced her kidnappers for the murderous criminals they are. This later clarification appears to have quieted some of Carroll's rightwing critics, who, while expressing "concern" over her ordeal, were nevertheless wary of Carroll's lack of pro-invasion/occupation spirit. Also, the fact that Carroll actually walked the walk in Iraq sans weapons or military escort might explain the sheepishness of such swivelchair commandoes like National Review's Jonah Goldberg, who waddled in to smack Carroll before the full context of her remarks were revealed, then waddled away, saying he was sorry and that Carroll should be left alone, etc. Even in the deepest recesses of his thick skull, Goldberg must realize that he (along with Corner-mate John Podhoretz) lacks a tenth of Jill Carroll's courage, and this probably bothers him more than he could ever publicly admit, to the extent that he understands the very concept.

What's truly rich about the kneejerk rightwingers is that Carroll, to my knowledge, has never, of her own free will, laid verbal wreaths at the feet of reactionary Islamic elements with the same gusto as did many Reaganites in the 1980s. Even her coerced statements while still captive fall well short of the fawning words American rightwingers bestowed upon the Afghan mujahideen as its deranged followers threw acid in the faces of uncovered women, launched murderous attacks on schools that taught girls how to read, and tortured and killed not only Russian civilians, male and female alike, but established crude prisons where Russian captives lived "lives of indescribable horror" (Washington Post, January 13, 1985). For all that and much more, these violent Islamic zealots were dubbed "freedom fighters" by Ronald Reagan on down. To this day, nearly five years after 9/11, many of those who enthusiastically supported Osama Bin-Laden and friends feel no need to recant or rethink their previous views. Charles Krauthammer certainly doesn't, having long ago justified his pro-Bin-Ladenist stance as "patriotic"; nor does David Horowitz, who recently as last summer still referred to these backward fanatics as "the resistance." (And in a nifty bit of magical thinking, Horowitz credits his old chums for bringing down the Soviet Union, thus "liberating" a billion people. Why investigate the inner-workings of the crumbling Soviet state and the varied nationalisms stirring within it, when you can simply thank those who continue to torture and kill anyone who violates their extreme religious laws? Compare Horowitz's ramblings to William Blum's review of that period of Afghanistan's history to better appreciate the former's idiocy.)

Jill Carroll's saga shows us, yet again, the wretched double standard that defines much of American political culture. It'll be interesting to hear what Carroll has to say about her harrowing experience, assuming she decides to do so. And if she does, but fails to take a Patriotically Correct line, then expect further assaults on her character by those who lack any vestige of same.