Laugh While You Can

So the US state has voted to increase its power over the governed. They can spy on and torture anyone who's a "threat" to their holy interests. Of course, they always could and did, to varying degrees; but now they're out of the closet, proud and unashamed of their condition.

Surprised? You shouldn't be. This is who we are. Oh yes, there are angwy wibwals out there, mourning the "real" America that appears lost. I don't know what movie they've been watching for the past 40 or so years (not to mention the classics from long before), but judging from their astonished reactions, it looks like it was directed by Frank Capra or perhaps the early Spielberg, with the young Mickey Rooney, Kristy McNichol and Haley Joel Osment waving American flags, washing down caramel corn with sidewalk-bought lemonade as Ray Charles, in a glittering Old Glory tux, sings "America The Beautiful" while the spirits of Abraham Lincoln and John F. Kennedy hold hands, gaze from the clouds and smile over the proceedings.

Well, that film is pulled and back in the can. Get ready for coke-fueled Scorsese, baked Tarantino, or Rob Zombie with a blockbuster budget.

Yeah, the shit is covering the fan, or to paraphrase Burroughs, we now see what's at the end of every fork.

But I'm not gonna dwell on this today. There'll be plenty of time (let's hope) to do that, and I will, with my characteristic goodwill and boundless optimism. But Friday is Fun Day at the Son, and fun for me is comedy, primarily the sketch form. I was planning to wait another couple of weeks before sharing my thoughts on "Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip," but Lance Mannion weighed in after only two episodes, so I guess the topic's open to the floor, stained though it is with the blood of anonymous detainees (stop that! STOP THAT!).

I can't say that I'm the biggest Aaron Sorkin fan alive. I enjoyed "Sports Night" when I caught it, and I've watched maybe 15 minutes of "The West Wing." Friends tell me that I'd like that show, but I find it hard to sit through liberal fantasies about the US Presidency, and the "Wing," from my brief exposure, was decidedly that. Which is fine. Liberals need their fantasies, for without them they'd probably go completely insane, and we can't afford extended lunacy 'round these parts. But now Sorkin's training his eye on "Saturday Night Live," looking for the dramatic angle, as well as celebrating the "better" features of network television. And that, so far, is what "Studio 60" is really about: celebrating TV.

Hell, I don't blame Sorkin. TV's made him rich and has given him hours upon hours of airtime to air his concerns, his hopes, his dreams. I'm sure every plasma in his home is coated with kiss-marks. And I respect the fact that at one time, at least, Sorkin was ingesting psilocybin mushrooms (for which he was busted in 2001), suggesting that he has seen things thru the third eye, and recognizes, in theory anyway, how the universe is really structured, and how human behavior is largely at odds with this natural order, when not waging total war on it. (The clarity experienced at the mushroom peak both heightens your spirits and breaks your heart.) I'm sure he and I would have a pleasant conversation.

Based on the first two shows, I confess to liking "Studio 60" more than I probably should, but truth be told, it's the "SNL" premise that keeps me in the room. "SNL" has been a part of my life in one form or another since I was 15, when the show premiered. Yes, I'm one of those farts who was around for the first season and remembers, in real time, the major impact "SNL" had on the culture, and on me, as you've probably noticed by now. Every time I think I've outgrown the show, I go back, secretly hoping to be inspired once again. But it's hard to be inspired by the cheap concepts and candy-assed "political" material that has defined "SNL" for the past several seasons. Plus, the "SNL" premise has been done, and done better, by other sketch shows. At this point, "SNL" is like Liberace in his late-Vegas phase, playing innocuous, crowd-pleasing favorites while younger, smarter, angrier musicians are pounding their instruments in smaller dives. The show will never be, can never be, what it once was. It had three good periods, and those days are long gone.

The trick for Sorkin and crew is whether or not they can write funny or even edgy mock-"SNL"-style sketches for "Studio 60." Judging from the Gilbert and Sullivan parody at the end of last week's episode, I'd say that the comedy geniuses played by Matthew Perry and Bradley Whitford have some more all-nighters to pull before "Studio 60," the show itself and the show within it, is worthy of serious attention. A few mushrooms wouldn't hurt, either.

Now, for the real deal.

It's impossible to select a single bit from "Mr. Show," partly because most of its concepts flowed into each other, a la Python, but mostly because there are simply too many first-rate sketches to choose from. A couple of weeks ago, I said that "SCTV" was perhaps the best English-speaking sketch show to date, and it's certainly up there. But so is "Mr. Show". It blended absurdity, surrealism, physical comedy and political satire that had actual teeth, something that "SNL" long ago abandoned. This piece, broken up in two parts, contains all of the above. Plus, it's really fucking funny (especially Tom Kenny's Lincoln). And any resemblance between David Cross's angry performance artist and yours truly is merely an illusion . . . or is it?????





Comedy Central gave "Exit 57" only two seasons, but that also gave us Stephen Colbert, Amy Sedaris and Paul Dinello, who went on to create "Strangers With Candy", a show so precise in its comic depictions that it actually hurts to watch in extensive doses. It's no surprise that Colbert is an accomplished comic actor, as his current talking head persona proves. Here he is with Sedaris and Dinello, the three of whom forge a balanced and very funny chemistry.



I was never that crazy about Dana Carvey when he did "SNL". I thought his characters were too cute and his comedy too light. But when Carvey snagged his own prime time gig on ABC, that assessment changed. "The Dana Carvey Show" came and went, but it had some great moments while it lasted. Of course, the writing staff, which included Robert Smigel, Dave Chappelle, Louis C.K., Dino Stamatopoulos (a "Mr. Show" writer), Stephen Colbert and Steve Carrell (the latter two also performed), had a lot to do with that. Here's one of the better pieces, with Carvey doing his Regis Philbin as totally beholden to David Letterman, Jan Hooks playing Kathie Lee Gifford, whose anti-evolution song is perhaps the sketch's highlight, and Colbert in a small role as Michael Gelman the producer.



And of course, "Fridays". I was hesitant to include this, since this piece displays an early "Fridays" weakness -- cheap drug jokes. Even when I saw this live at the age of 20, I didn't think it was all that great, as I preferred the show's stranger material. But any honest appraisal of "Fridays" must include such sketches, and this one, and the ones that followed, proved very popular with the audience. I mean, the Three Stooges on drugs? In 1980? Slam dunk. Plus, the "Fridays" writers were notorious for their chemical intake (no shock when you see what the writers looked like in the show's closing credits), so this kind of premise was inevitable. Watching this again a quarter century later doesn't offend my sensibilities as it did in my purist comedy youth. It's just a silly sketch, with Bruce Mahler as Moe, Larry David as Larry, and John Roarke doing a pretty inspired Curly, which is saying something, as I've always been a Shemp man. Hmmm. Shemp on hemp? Where's my time machine . . .

Screech

Foul mood this morn. Must have been my dream about my late Uncle Don, still in his wheelchair, being pushed across a busy city street by my Aunt Terry. Half way across his chair falls sideways, spilling Don to the pavement, cutting his forehead. I watch all this from the sidewalk, then rush into the street, dodging cars, and help my dear Uncle back into his seat. Terry's crying. Says her wrists gave way. She's old. She's sorry. I push Don onto the opposite sidewalk and ask where he's going.

"To my room upstairs," he says, pointing up to a tan-brick hotel, its entrance right next to a bar where older gay men and their young escorts lounge, drink, look at us with bored expressions.

"Why are you in your chair?" I ask him.

See, right after Don died, several years ago, he came to me in a very vivid dream. He had both legs (one had been amputated about a decade before his death) and was standing in his kitchen, all smiles. He told me everything is wonderful. That death doesn't really exist, at least not in the way our mortal minds can grasp. All he could say is that after you pass, you exist on a plane where you are the imagination of yourself, which is why he had his legs back. He told me not to fear death, and that he'll see me when I get there and show me how it all works.

He also thanked me for the Kaddish I wrote and read at his funeral, and that he was sorry I was so sad while reading it. True. Don was like a second father to me, in many ways, was a father to me. When I got the word that he died, I sat and wrote in longhand a prayer for the dead. The thing surged right from me. I changed maybe one stanza when rereading it. I then typed it out on an old manual I still have, and after reading it before family and friends, painful emotion building to a crest, I folded it and stuffed it next to Don in his casket, kissed his forehead, told him I loved him, returned to my seat and began crying like a baby, my sweet sister Jennifer holding me in her arms.

"Why are you in your chair?"

Sly grin. No reply. The cut is gone.

"Is this a sign? What are you telling me?"

Nothing.

Then I woke up, on edge before my Cafe Bustelo.

An hour later, drive the teen to the gym. She wants me to play The Ramones. Love it that my kid loves The Ramones, but not quite what my mood demanded. I play "I Wanna Be Sedated" anyway, her fave, drop her at the entrance where a peroxide blonde middle-aged woman pulls a tennis racket out of a Lexus boasting a Bush/Cheney bumpersticker, which normally means nothing to me, especially at this late date (her embarrassment, not mine), but in my rattled nervous state pisses me off. Wanna roll down the window and yell "How's that Iraq thing going, ma'am?" or something nastier like "You fascist bitch!" But that would be anti-democratic. That woman has every right to flaunt her political affiliation. Who knows, maybe she's a pro-choice Repub.

Yeah. Sure. Maybe.

Pulling away, I slip a Magnetic Fields CD into the player, the perfect music and lyrics for what ailed me.

From the madding crowd
Pointing up at clouds
Summer turned to fall
Pictures on the wall

So you said goodnight
But you meant goodbye
Now our love has died
This is why I cry

Got turned on to the Fields by a gay bartender who flirted with me and poured me free martinis after I finished cleaning the boutique mall next door. I'd sit alone at the bar and write about that day's toil, the people I had to deal with, the bullshit that never ended. About being in creative exile, anonymous in the Midwest, scrubbing toilets. The bartender would play a Fields compilation, and offered to burn a copy for me, which he did. But you have to be in a certain state of mind to really appreciate their stuff.

I don't cry anymore, I go out the door
And I usually keep on walking
I will sit in the bar where the cocktails are
But I really don't feel like talking

I lie around and let the darkness fall
'Cause I've got a sense of perfection
And nothing makes much sense at all

All the umbrellas in London couldn't stop this rain
And all the dope in New York couldn't kill this pain
And all the money in Tokyo couldn't make me stay
All the umbrellas in London couldn't stop this rain

And I was.

Five minutes after dropping the teen, she calls my cell. Her ride to school isn't coming, so I need to come back and get her in an hour. Pointless to drive all the way home, so I decide to kill time at Barnes and Noble, which was just ahead.

Now, this was truly a foolish decision on my part. But again, I wasn't thinking clearly. I stumble in, hair uncombed, wrinkled t-shirt, sports jacket, cargo pants. And as soon as I enter I'm hit by a big Mitch Albom display. Seems he has a new book out, "More Inane Thoughts To Comfort You While I Take Your Money." Big seller, I'm sure. Must drive the other sportswriters into furious envy.

Walking through the New Arrivals section you see more of the same -- make fast money, be a better inner-child, why liberals should be tortured and hanged, why conservatives really hate America, etc. Genre fiction, all of it. And right in your face. And while we're on the topic, is there any clearer evidence of how full of shit Americans are when it comes to self-perception than all this hue and cry about torture? Online libs (and a few conservatives) are wringing their hands over the idea that True Americans don't support torture; that this barbarous practice does not reflect American values. Oh, grow the fuck up and read some history. You don't have to go very far back. Start with the Trail of Tears and work from there. And you might want to research about how rape in prison is considered a form of penal punishment. We are a brutal, sadistic people. Always have been. Work to change the system, not the rhetoric that lends this system more cover.

Barnes and Noble should be selling sheets, blankets, decorative pottery and lawn supplies, not books. The store's whole layout is anathema to literacy, imagination and creative effort. Customers browse in a daze, like they're looking for a pair of Dockers rather than Dickens, Thackeray, or Poe. Bookstores should be smaller, books stacked this way and that, dusty cramped aisles with wooden floors and old armchairs in the corners. A place you can sink into, that becomes more comfortable when it rains.

On this, I'm a reactionary. Fogey barely covers it.

When Carl Solomon, for whom Ginsberg composed "Howl," went mad and was put away, one of the visible symptoms was his stabbing books with a knife. I always liked that, for some reason. The direct intensity that requires is not easily dismissed. Yes, there are more constructive ways to express one's intensity, but stabbing a book eliminates ambiguity. It hints at Dada, yet is purer than that. It inspired Ginsberg to wail and riff like no poet before him. And if ever a place inspired me to stab books, it's Barnes and Noble.

Left, picked up the teen, took her to school. On the way home, popped in "Pet Sounds." The black fog began to lift. "You Still Believe In Me." "Don't Talk (Put Your Head On My Shoulder)." "God Only Knows." "I Know There's An Answer." "Caroline No." In that order. Nothing like sleighbells, bicycle horns, harpsichord, and dogs barking, along with the beautiful composition and Brian Wilson's searching vocals, to make this man feel better. And just think -- tomorrow is Friday, and that means I get to write about and share videos of my favorite sketch comedy. I might even smile before today is done.

War By Other Means

This is a war universe. War all the time. That is its nature. There may be other universes based on all sorts of other principles, but ours seems to be based on war and games. All games are basically hostile. Winners and losers. We see them all around us: the winners and the losers. The losers can oftentimes become winners, and the winners can very easily become losers.

William S. Burroughs
"The War Universe"

Football fever is in full flame, and in Ann Arbor, with the Wolverines undefeated and ranked sixth nationally, the locals are pounding their chests and drunkenly barking at the clouds. This happens no matter the condition of Michigan's team; but in good times like now, these behavioral patterns intensify, become bolder, stranger.

You see it all over town, but living near the Big House (the stadium), every home game Saturday turns my neighborhood into a blue and maize tribal procession, the big M serving as a swastika or iron cross. Overstatement? Come over sometime, say two hours before kick-off, and watch with me the actions of these boozed-up, lard-assed lunatics for whom Michigan football is a sacred and holy symbol. Yes, other campus towns have this too. I'm sure plenty of related tales can be told about Columbus, Ohio, Tallahassee, Florida and Lincoln, Nebraska (East Lansing, too, where the locals seem terribly fond of setting fire to couches and cars). But this is where I live, and this is what I must endure.

Now, I happen to like football, the NFL more than the NCAA. I grew up watching it and played it for a brief time. One coach tried me out at half-back, since I was fast and could quickly cut and change direction. But I could never fully understand the plays. They were like advanced geometry to my dyslexic mind. Thus I'd miss blocks or end up running into the back of a lineman instead of hitting the hole. So coach made me a free safety, which I liked, since all I had to do was hit receivers hard. Part of this was minor payback to those jocks who just years before made my life miserable, and how I loved to build up steam and fly, helmet first, into their ribs and back. But mostly, playing defense tapped my inner-psycho, and I would get all revved up waiting for someone to break through the line and get past the linebackers. If I could punish them, I would. With pleasure.

It all came to an end during a team scrimmage. When playing against your teammates, you aren't supposed to hit with sadistic purpose. At least, that's what I understood. But I noticed during a certain drive some hitting that seemed a bit more animated than normal, with the usual trash-talking thrown in. I figured that the green light was on, and when, in the middle of a pass play, I saw no blockers covering the QB's turned back, I ran untouched past the offensive line and nailed the QB square in the rear numbers, causing him to fumble, which the defense recovered. He was slow getting up, rubbing his back and groaning. But coach was quick to get in my face.

"What the fuck was that, Perrin? Are you nuts?"

"Huh?"

"You trying to injure our only decent quarterback?"

"But I . . ."

"You're done. Get off this field. Turn your equipment in."

And that was it for my formal football career. I still played in sandlot games, three-on-three slugfests where no one wore pads or helmets, though hit as if we did. But suiting up in a locker room and running onto a real field with yard markers and referees was over. No matter. I was better at baseball (shortstop/relief pitcher) anyway.

As I've aged and broadened my political and cultural understanding, I see what American football really is -- a fascist game for the authoritarian-minded who believe they're in love with war. As I've noted here before, sports radio really pushes this mindset, encouraging listeners to be grunting, cliché-spouting nationalist assholes, which many listeners happily become. It's easy, takes little thinking, and makes them feel part of some mystical warrior tribe. And also means that politically, they are utter reactionaries, chewing on Old Glory as their pupils dilate and spin like pinwheels. I hear this everyday. Why, you ask? I love sports. Pitiful, but true.

The boy, on the other hand, isn't as enamored of the games as is his old man. He likes basketball to a degree, and will soon be in a hoops camp at school. He certainly has the height, as he's one of the tallest kids in his class. But he doesn't have the crazy competitive heart. He simply enjoys shooting the ball and hearing the net swish. For him, basketball is more an aesthetic exercise than a substitute for tribal conflict. The boy hates confrontation, is a gentle soul, and prefers laughter to producing agony in others. In a sane country, this would be perfect and beautiful. In present-day America, it's an invitation to get bashed.

I can already see this to a degree in some of his jockier classmates. A year away from middle school, the taunting's begun, the cliques are being formed. This is completely alien to the boy. He doesn't understand the point to this kind of grouping, although he doesn't allow it to faze him or get him down. At least not yet, and hopefully not ever. He's already standing out by not buying into these clannish divisions. The wife worries about his feelings, as do I, but the kid must go through this, alas. At least he has unified parents in whom he can confide. I had dick when I was his age. It was either conform or be beaten, and I went through both, repeatedly, as I was essentially told by my divorced parents that I was on my own. And so I was -- a frightening period that I tried to survive by becoming crazier and more violent than my tormentors. In the end, it worked, sort of; but it fucked with my head well into adulthood.

The beefy, dopey boys who taunt my son and exclude him from playground games often wear Michigan garb, bought by parents devoted to the greater Wolverine tribe. So this poisonous shit is taught early and with open eyes. In seven or eight years, these kids will be eligible to fight, die and be maimed in the imperial wars that will still be waged, doubtless with terrorist blowback serving as the endless pretext. It's tragic to see those boys conditioned for what awaits them, assuming they'll march unthinking toward such a savage fate. Perhaps in time they'll get past the tribal mindset that limits them. My son would be happy to help, I'm sure.

READ: This Robert Lipsyte piece on a similar theme. I've always liked Lipsyte's sports writing, one of the few sane observers we have, but then, he also gave my book "American Fan" a rave in the Sunday New York Times, so I'm probably a touch biased.

Marginal

Far from going tit-for-tat over a relatively minor point, I'd like to thank Marc Cooper for raising a blogging issue that doesn't get enough attention, namely, how many readers does an "effective" blog make? See, Marc was miffed with a few of my comments from Friday, and told someone who posted my remarks at his site that it didn't matter what I said about anything since the Son probably, at best, has 50 readers. A cheap dismissal based on nothing serious, but a dismissal I've seen dispensed regularly on the Web, meant to shame or embarrass anyone speaking out, since only those with robust readerships have anything important to say.

Marc's not the first to suggest that I'm ranting in the mirror. I've received similar putdowns since I kickstarted this thing, and even before, when followers of James Lileks, upset with my take on their idol, deluged me with mail, bluntly informing me that I could never reach Lileks's heights, that my critique was purest envy of my betters, I was a loser, etc. etc. Tying all this together was the predictable, "Who cares what you think!", which of course, if taken seriously, would mean those people wouldn't bother writing to or about me in the first place. I would be ignored, and there's nothing a writer hates more, right?

I bring this up not in defense of my humble tappings or of those who like what I do, but simply to say that it doesn't matter how many people read you. Any audience is a good audience. Indeed, expressing yourself to a small, interested group of people is far more worthwhile than shouting party-line clichés and platitudes to an anonymous mass. Sites like Daily Kos and Firedoglake have, on first glance, an impressive number of comments, suggesting that their correspondents are reaching The People. But when you actually read thru some of those threads, the majority are single-sentence Dem dittoheads who occasionally burst into flame should anyone show up to disagree with their host's sentiments, or worse, diss the Holy Clintons. These sites, and others like them across the spectrum, serve as echo chambers for those who need daily ideological reinforcement and related comforts of the hive mind. And this makes those sites absolute bores to read, since each post's conclusion is known before the opening sentence is finished. If that's what it takes to attract more than 50 readers, then come forward and fill up the front rows, 'cause I ain't gonna shout to the cheap seats.

Since bringing the Son to life, I've received many requests from smaller sites (yes, there are smaller sites than mine) and bloggers who are just getting started to exchange links, and this I've done on occasion. But for the most part I tell them to keep writing and try to build their own, personal audience. There's no point in linking if you have yet to find your voice or blog angle. Like the early days of stand-up, new bloggers need a place to fail, to bomb, to experiment and crash without a lot of readers watching. If you go back and look at the first few months of the Son, you'll see me trying to find the right balance and tone, while posting some pretty awful stuff in the process. I don't know how many readers I had back then, probably less than 50, but that's okay since there was little for them to chew on. It took me about a year to work most of the kinks out, and it's only been in the past 6-8 months that I feel like I've found my groove. Now my posts are linked to sites large and small, and I'm comfortable with that since I'm comfortable, more or less, with what I produce.

Bottom line -- write for yourself first, because if you can't stand what you do, then there's no point in pushing it on others (unless you're a sadist, in which case I respect your lifestyle choice). Some of the best work is done in the margins, and don't let those obsessed with numbers tell you otherwise. Kick open your door and rant, scream, stomp, cry, sing, persuade, criticize, analyze, throw rocks and blow kisses. Take full advantage of this opening while it lasts, and fuck those who say you've nothing to add.

For those curious, my weekly numbers, which double whenever I appear at Counterpunch or This Modern World (and nearly tripled during Israel's assault on Lebanon), are roughly the same as Partisan Review's monthly circulation circa 1938, when the likes of James Agee, Dwight MacDonald, Mary McCarthy, Paul Goodman and Clement Greenberg published there. That's a readership I can definitely live with.

Fliday Fun

Does it get any better than this? Since Hugo Chavez pushed Noam Chomsky's book, "Hegemony or Survival," at the UN the other day, Noam's tome shot up the Amazon charts, further maddening reactionaries and Decent Libs alike, while stirring the deepest envy of any author honest enough to admit it. (Hey Hugo -- ever hear of Michael O'Donoghue? No? Well, then...) Cruising the Web yesterday provided yours truly with many laughs, which culminated in a semi-hysterical breakdown of sorts, but more about that later. Bottom line, I simply love how Noam drives so many of these jerks crazy. You know who they are. No need to link the bastids.

As for Chavez, his address, or rant if you prefer, rankled those who deserve a full long rankling; and apart from the theological rhetoric, I thought much of what he said was absolutely true. What, the US isn't a violent superpower intent on subjugating poorer, weaker countries and generally bullying anyone it can? It doesn't rob what parts of the planet it can grab and squeeze dry? For such a "free" country, it continually amazes me how supposedly "smart" people find all this shocking news, if not slanderous fiction. It's a tribute to our indoctrination system that Chavez's speech was seen by many opinion benders as extremist and insane. Because only a dictatorial madman with a singing cuckoo popping out of his head would openly claim that the US acts in the interests of those who control the mechanisms of state.

Of course, the demonization of Chavez wouldn't be complete without the contributions of stateside libs, and Marc Cooper and Charles Rangel filled the bill most adequately. Marc, as we know, hates Chavez with all of his bitter heart, which is fine -- we all need something or someone to loathe, I suppose. Passes the time between meals. But I was somewhat surprised that Marc, who also dislikes Noam Chomsky, didn't take the opportunity to bash him as well. I mean, Hugo the Thug was waving Noam's book in front of the world, a book doubtless filled with lies, slanders and Holocaust denial, as well as love letters to Milosevic and Pol Pot. Any sniper worth his aim could see this was a natural two-for-one, and yet Marc fixed his sights on Chavez alone, though he fired wide right. (Squeeze the trigger, Marc, don't pull it.) And, as always, anyone who doesn't share Marc's view of Chavez, or anybody else he despises, is a trained, clapping seal. Marc has used this image so often that I suspect he suffered some kind of zoo- or circus-related trauma as a kid. I understand. For me, it's squirrels. For Marc, seals. The devil assumes many guises.

Charles Rangel did his best to show Chavez how an "opposition" party operates in a Free Country. As he put it, in his Ralph Kramden voice:

"I want to express my extreme displeasure with statements by the President of Venezuela attacking U.S. President George Bush in such a personal and disparaging way during his remarks at the United Nations General Assembly.

"It should be clear to all heads of government that criticism of Bush Administration policies, either domestic or foreign, does not entitle them to attack the President personally.

"George Bush is the president of the United States and represents the entire country. Any demeaning or public attacks against him are viewed by Republicans, Democrats, and all Americans as an attack on all of us."

You tell 'em, Chuck! United we stand! Children are our future! Refrigerate after opening!

What was that again about trained seals?

Now, regarding my earlier reference about a semi-hysterical breakdown. It went like this:

All week long I've been on a razor's edge of dark emotion, as evidenced by my post from Wednesday. By yesterday morning, I was on the verge of something explosive, but I couldn't really put my finger on how this would play. Reading the reactions to Chavez/Chomsky got me laughing, as I said, but it was a disturbing laughter, more akin to a lunatic release than to anything enjoyable. And it wouldn't stop. So I ceased all political surfing and went to Tom Green's site, looking for something serious to laugh at. I hadn't gone Green in some time, and I discovered that Tom (who once sent me a very nice email about the Son) does a nightly talk show out of his living room, broadcast on the Web. Brilliant. No commercials. No censorship. Do whatever you want. Very Green.

Last week, he interviewed Crispin Glover, who despite his rather odd trappings is quite intelligent and can talk at length about film (Glover and I spent a long dinner on a film set in Hoboken discussing Kubrick), which he did with Green. But he also spoke about the corporate stranglehold on creative expression, and how rigid narratives are routinely crammed down the throats of film consumers. Not breaking news, but Glover gave it his own entertaining spin. (Go to Green's homepage, click "On Demand," then click "Tom Green Live Episodes." Worth watching, though you may want to fast fwd past Green's obsession with his swollen ankle.) But when he and Green began talking about their work appearing on YouTube, Glover mentioned a video he shot back in 1990 to promote his album, "The Big Problem Does Not Equal The Solution. The Solution Equals Let It Be." The vid is titled "Clowny Clown Clown," which I don't remember ever seeing, but the title alone sent me straight to YouTube to watch it. About 10 seconds in, the cascade began as laughter erupted. I'm talking full body convulsions. It's not that "Clowny Clown Clown" is the funniest thing I've ever seen, but it was perfect for where I was, and triggered the release of all that I've carried this week. By the vid's middle, I was helpless, my laughter uncontrollable. I was hyperventilating and quivering in my seat. Then tears streamed down my face as I began to cry -- at least it seemed like I was crying. I couldn't really tell. I was probably weeping and laughing simultaneously. After all, they are different shades of the same emotion.

In any event, there I was, a blubbering, cackling heap as the insane circus music from Glover's vid enveloped me. Once it ended, I kept laughing, so much so that the teen, who was trying to read in the front room, demanded to know what the hell was going on. She said that I sounded like a pre-pubescent boy being tortured, a fairly accurate observation, as usual for her. And as I started to calm a bit and explain the situation, more laughter and crying suddenly poured out, and I fell to my knees as the teen looked on, shaking her head, rolling her eyes.

"You are truly disturbed. You know that?" she said.

"Sweetie, you don't know how deep it goes," I replied, gasping.

It took about an hour for me to fully regain whatever composure I possess. And I felt renewed. Clean. The poison was drained -- for that moment, anyway.

Here's "Clowny Clown Clown." I doubt that you'll react as I did, but if you do, just go with it. You'll feel fresher in no time.



And here's a very funny clip of Glover at a public reading. Explains itself. Sorta.



And what Fliday Fun would be complete without requisite clips from sketch shows?

Here's the great Daymon Wayans introducing Homey the Clown on "In Living Color." Apparently, there's a Homey the Clown movie in development, which might make Crispin Glover happy, or whatever he was in that "Clowny" vid.



Here's one of my favorite pieces that "SNL" ever broadcast, featuring the young Fred Savage and The Glue himself, Phil Hartman. Great sketch on all levels. Enjoy.



And of course, I must push yet another "Fridays" bit on you, this one from the show's first season, with Mark Blankfield, Brandis Kemp, and Michael Richards.



Yeah, I know, geek city. Geeky geek geek.

Pants On Fire Dept.

Found the following video courtesy of my friends at Counterpunch. A must watch, whether or not you or anyone you know plans to enlist.



Yes, military recruiters lie. Oh sweet sparkling Buddha, how those motherfuckers lie. My recruiter told me all sorts of exciting tales, the places I'd see, the people I'd meet. Fortunately for me, I went in a few years after the US was kicked out of Vietnam, so the possibility of a new war seemed remote. Once in boot camp, all my Drill Sergeants could talk about was going to war, how we were gonna invade Cuba as a first step to "cleansing" Central and South America of communism. At one point, we were roused from our bunks in the middle of the night for an "emergency formation" and told that Soviet troops were being sent to Cuba and that we would soon see combat in the Caribbean. A few grunts cheered, while I felt sick inside. "I knew it!" I thought to myself. "I fucking knew it!" This charade lasted for a few hours until we were informed that this was an exercise to give us the sensation of going to war.

Of course, I was completely uneducated politically, as were most of us in the platoon. Little did any of us know that we were entering the era of imperialist war by proxy. The reality of US troops invading any country at that point was minimal. That would change within a decade's time, as we now see.

I'm glad this video exists, and I've done my small part in spreading the word. A year or so ago, my nephew expressed a desire to join either the Army or Marines. When I caught wind of this, I told him that he would most likely be sent to Iraq, and that if a recruiter told him otherwise, the guy was full of shit. While not harping on the geopolitical realities of US foreign policy, I did make it clear how the War on Terror is the biggest lie of all, and for him not to fall for any of it. Being an Army vet gave me a little extra cred on this front, so my advice was taken seriously. My nephew decided not to enlist, and is now studying to be a chef.

Food, not bombs. I've always liked that slogan.

Squirrels In My Head

Like me, I'm sure the first thing you thought after learning of the military coup in Thailand was, how extensive is John Mark Karr's involvement? Doesn't it seem just a bit too tidy that he was "extradited" under cover of the JonBenet circus just months before the Thai military took control? Something tells my spider sense that Karr's a bigger fish than he lets on; and while he "coincidentally" is offered probation in his misdemeanor child porn case in California, his compatriots in Thailand's lucrative pedophile industry are working the puppet strings, ousting an elected government, and setting in motion the next profitable stage of Southeast Asian political corruption and child sex slavery . . .

My head's about to go Scanners. Too much raw shit clogging the pipes. I confess to you my travails, such as they are, because I know you are a forgiving crowd and will immediately understand. There will be no polished essay today. Nothing close. Just me scraping the crap out of my skull. If you seek erudition, insight, analysis keen, cutting and quick, go someplace else, go to anyone willing to tackle the important issues and moral questions. I got nothing.

Well, there's this . . . last night, the wife and I had a spirited to & fro about the rise in youth evangelical activity, and whether or not the US is gonna be permanently saddled with and led into endless disasters by the truly crazy faithful. She believes that many of these kids who flock to Christian colleges and listen to that dog puke Christian "rock" will eventually lose much of their fundamentalism as they age. Also, the nuttier these evangelicals become, the more they'll alienate the larger population and thus, hopefully, provide an opening for a progressive alternative.

I'm glad the wife feels this way. Honestly, I do. If I was married to someone as bleak and on edge as I presently am, I suspect that I'd go completely insane, chasing the squirrels that vex me so with a hammer, staring into the bathroom mirror for hours as my features fluctuate and take squirrel-shape causing me to chase myself with a hammer, among other, squirrel-related manifestations of my tortured tree-climbing soul. Still, I had to disagree with the wife's optimistic argument. I think that America as a concept, a country, a culture, is well past the point of no return, and things are only gonna get worse from here. Americans, overall, are in materialistic denial, free from knowing their own history much less the history or location of those areas of the world we assault militarily or rob economically. So yes, my non-American readers, the stereotype of the ignorant, belligerent, violent American is closer to reality than you can ever know. Imagine having to live in the middle of this madness while paying for the privilege. It does a man's heart no earthly good, I'll tell you that.

Rooting this national lunacy is of course our growing evangelical population, and trust me, they are really something else. I know plenty in my immediate family. They are narcissistic, arrogant and afraid. They believe in National Destiny under the Big Guy's personal stars-and-stripes tutelage. Many of them still like Bush and believe him to be guided by God. As I told one incredulous relative, if Bush is God's Chosen One, then perhaps we should check Hell's brochure for any special deals down the line, 'cause Heaven is going to be far worse than Lucifer's crib, no doubt teeming with white winged squirrels, buzzing you for eternity.

My present state of mind wasn't helped by watching several scenes from "Jesus Camp," the new film docu about the open indoctrination of children by psychotic so-called Christians. I don't think I could stand watching the whole thing, not in one sitting, anyway, and not without being drunk. I'm not a big fan of child abuse, but apparently there's an audience for it, as online ads for the film suggest. Plus, think about those parents who allow their kids to go through shit like this:



There's also a scene where the kids pray at the foot of a cardboard cut-out of George W. Bush. I wish, dear Lord in Heaven do I wish, that all of this is one big parody, a Spinal Tap for Scripture. But it's not. You and I both know it. In America, crazy people are as common as strip malls. And if "Jesus Camp" teaches us anything, it's that these people aren't born, they're bred. Look at the faces of those poor kids. Their undeveloped emotions and desires locked in veal crates, awaiting the slaughter. If God isn't dead, then He's in the back room, puking His guts out.

I used to find all this amusing long ago. As I'm sure I've mentioned once before, old friend of mine, Dave, was the only remaining secular-minded person in his immediate family, the rest having been born again as Pentecostals. His parents were very nice and hospitable whenever we came to visit, and you could actually debate certain religious issues with them in a friendly, serious way. But once in church, their personalities changed dramatically, hard to avoid when everyone else around them was wailing, crawling and running about. Dave convinced me to join him at one of these services. Naturally, we smoked a joint before going in, which was a mistake, given the weed's potency and the spectacle we were about to witness firsthand. So we sat in the back and tried to hold it together as the congregation was whipped up by a yelling preacher, backed by organ, tambourines, and drums. Once the first worshipper ran into the aisle, waving his hands over his head and speaking in tongues, the floodgates opened, and soon dozens of people were doing the same, the sound of quickly-uttered gibberish crashing against the music and the preacher's screams into the mike. What at first seemed comical swiftly became nightmarish, and before long I had to exit to get some air and readjust my senses. Good thing I hadn't dropped acid. They'd still be peeling me off the church ceiling.

Suffice it to say, I don't find this funny anymore.

Again, I hope my wife's positivity proves correct, because my visions are too fucking awful to ever be real. At least, I pray that's so.

Reasoning

Pope Benedict's citing of a Byzantine text stating that Islam and Mohammad are "evil and inhuman" led to the predictable street scenes, effigy burnings, calls for righteous reprisals, which in turn inspired Western libs and reactionaries to claim higher ground while using Muslim outrage to justify their own support for war, culture clashes, pseudo-racist put-downs, and so on. In short, fundies of all stripes, secular and non, were nourished. Reinforcement of hatred is vital in keeping our war world aflame, and a random tour of various online sites shows that this essential link is not only understood, but employed at every opportunity.

Of course, one must remember that the vast majority of Muslims did not spill into plazas, screaming for infidel blood. If that were the case, then I seriously doubt that the self-inflated humanitaroids at Harry's Place would be so glib in mocking them, which they did, in Li'l Gween Football manner, over the weekend. If a billion-plus, unified, violent Muslims were genuinely looking for some direct payback, these humanitaroids would be the first to flee to whatever hiding place they could find, sticking cooking pots on their heads and murmuring to themselves about the Perils of Reason, when not simply sobbing in culture shock. Like those they feebly attempt to satirize (if that), Harry's crowd, by and large, affects the potential victim pose, finding the worse possible pix and graphics, no matter how marginal, to bolster this stance.

Run a photo like this:




And you've got the set-up you need to act like a brave defier of clerical fascism. It's a popular game with numerous Western adult-boys -- Online Culture Warrior -- one that anybody can play, once you've learned the proper code words, dismissals and overall tone.

In the real world, there are various political trends developing within Islam, some of which are indeed authoritarian and violent, but others that are not incompatible with secular concerns and living. I'm currently reading as much as I can about these developments, mostly for my own education, but also in preparation for a possible upcoming debate with a prominent blogger and writer. More on all this as it progresses.

Funny, though perhaps not in a ha-ha sense, how it's the Pope who's made to apologize for religious insensitivity, if not bigotry, in this current case. Usually, it's the Catholic Church that demands contrition when it feels slighted or slandered by critics. Most organized religion is like this, alas, which is why it has done and continues to do such harm to the species, especially now, in our world of monotheistic overreach and destruction. Tribalism soaked in the blood of the One True God can never offer a positive future, and those who consider themselves Islamic militants are hardly alone in this wretched enterprise.

This recent flare-up reminded me of a similar controversy from nearly 14 years ago. At the end of her a cappella version of Bob Marley's "War," Sinead O'Connor stunned a "Saturday Night Live" audience into silence by ripping up a picture of Pope John Paul II. Here it is, as it appeared live on a very unhappy NBC, October 3, 1992:



O'Connor got immediately slammed from all corners, religious and political, as well as receiving numerous death threats. It certainly didn't help to advance her career. In New York, the reaction was especially harsh, which I remember quite well. I was editing a small Manhattan weekly at the time, and you couldn't escape the outraged din in both print (the New York Post whipped this up with relish) and on TV. I didn't listen to talk radio at the time, but I'm sure O'Connor got trashed there as well, doubtless with WABC leading the charge.

The following week, I wrote a front page editorial defending O'Connor's televised action, briefly outlining by own Catholic past and the reasons why I broke with the Church. The editorial's headline, "Sinead Eats Pope!", was meant to be a play on the Post's often wild covers. But it angered many readers, as did my rejection of local Catholic anger. Several days after the issue hit the streets, I got a phone call from a man with a heavy, agitated Noo Yawk accent. He asked if I was the one who wrote the editorial.

"Yeah. That was me."

"Well then, you know what? I got a bullet for you. I'm about a block away from your office and I'm coming up. What do you think about that?"

This wasn't the first death threat I'd received (I got my share during the first Gulf War), but it did rattle me. I asked if the man was a Catholic. He was. So I worked that angle, using my own experience with the Church, to talk him down a bit. He must have expected me to hang up or shout insults at him, because when I spoke to him as someone with real concerns, he softened somewhat and calmed down. He was still upset with O'Connor and my defense of her, but he could see that I wasn't out to deliberately or casually defame Catholics or the Pope, even though I opposed the Church hierarchy and many of its reactionary beliefs and edicts. Finally, we agreed to disagree; and when I asked him if he really did have a bullet with my name on it, he answered, "Oh yeah."

Thankfully, I never heard from him again.

It's true that there are those faithful who cannot be reached or reasoned with. But there are plenty of believers who can and will listen. That, to me, is going to be the real struggle for those seeking peaceful, just solutions to this madness, which is the real enemy.

You Like To Watch

Taking it light today, for if we in fatland can't relax and get mad gleeful, then what's the point of our dominance?

If you haven't been exposed to the culture jammer/artist Banksy, then do so now. His recent placing of a Guantanamo prisoner figure at Disneyland was wonderful, and I hope the kids got a good long look before riding on the Big Thunder Mountain Railroad. Sadly, park officials didn't appreciate Banksy's attempt to humanize their corporate fantasy space ("We put the mandatory in family fun!"), and removed the figure, presumably to a windowless cell, where park mascots Dopey and Goofy beat the stuffing out of it. You just don't fuck with The Mouse.

And speaking of Disney's rodent king, here's a fab clip of Sparks playing "Mickey Mouse" on "Saturday Night Live," May 15, 1982. This was at the end of the show's seventh season, one of the more interesting ones, creatively. Producer and head writer Michael O'Donoghue was fired midway through the year, but "SNL" retained the services of Nelson Lyon and Terry Southern. Unfortunately, Southern had a rough time, unable to get most of his material on, that is, when he bothered to write anything at all. Most times he added touches to other writers' scripts, most often Nelson's, who penned some first-rate sketches. This performance by Sparks gives you a taste of what "SNL" was like that year, with keyboardist Ronald Mael prefacing the song with some facts about mice as host Danny DeVito looks on. As unique as Sparks' sound was (and is), they had to be seen to be fully appreciated, the interplay between Ronald and his lead singer brother Russell Mael providing the band's theatrical edge.



Earlier that same season, on Halloween night, 1981, the LA punk band Fear ripped thru what is perhaps the most memorable set in "SNL" history. And to lend this segment the proper punk club feel, O'Donoghue and John Belushi brought in various skinheads and slammers from the DC scene. As several eyewitnesses have told me, Fear controlled Studio 8H for the brief time they were on, and this freaked out Executive Producer Dick Ebersol, who thought a riot was erupting on live TV. You can see Ebersol in a white suit toward the end of the clip, trying to direct the slamdancing and stage diving, before he ran back to the control room and ordered that Fear's mikes be cut, which they were at the beginning of "Let's Have A War." The show then went directly to a short film, while Ebersol apparently threw a tantrum backstage.

Why can't TV be like this all the time?



We now jump back to January 26, 1980, when Terri Garr hosted "SNL," and the B-52's made their American TV debut. This was the first time I saw them play, and what a kick ass performance it was. Oh, the warm nostalgia I feel when watching bands from that era. A truly great period in pop/rock music, with rap just around the corner.



My favorite Paul Thomas Anderson film remains the majestic and moving "Magnolia" -- indeed, one of my favorite films, period. But I do have a soft spot for PTA's "Boogie Nights," which contains some wonderful performances and riveting moments. Like most of PTA's work, "Boogie Nights" deals with betrayal, tragedy and redemption, and in the scene below, Mark Wahlberg's Dirk Diggler is about to reach the end of his rope. John C. Reilly, Thomas Jane, and Alfred Molina help to create a crazy tense mood, one that feels quite real, especially if you've ever been in a situation similar to that (and I have, complete with handguns, though no one ever tried armed robbery, at least when I was around). Note the look on Wahlberg's face when Rick Springfield's "Jessie's Girl" comes on. The epitome of a lost, crushed soul.



Watch these clips again and again. They're good for you.

Beyond Tears

Afghanistan appears fucked -- fucked up, fucked over, fucked for fuck's sake. Of all the sad, tragic stories currently being played out, Afghanistan is clearly one of the worst.

Recall that Afghanistan was to be the showcase for the War on Terror, the place where the swamp was drained, pavement laid down, and a New Tomorrow allowed to flourish. It was supposedly "bombed out of the Stone Age" as one blinkered propagandist glibly put it; and while it was indeed bombed, and bombed, and bombed, the Stone Age has proven to be quite resilient, as the majority of Afghans continue to scrape by and perish in one of the world's most miserable environments.

Yes, the Taliban has something to do with this, though they didn't create these wretched conditions, but took advantage of them, with barbarous results, as we remember. Still, the Taliban won't go away -- not only are they getting stronger and regaining lost ground (and appear to have some measure of popular support), but they are now openly boasting about becoming more brutal, and point to the Iraqi insurgency as their model. From Scott Peterson's article in the Christian Science Monitor:

"'The shift has taken place,' warns Hekmat Karzai, head of the Center for Conflict and Peace Studies (CAPS) in Kabul, which analyzes terrorism trends. The Taliban still have local concerns, he says, but embrace global jihad as never before and believe in encouraging a 'clash of civilizations.'

"'Taliban commanders talk of jihad in Fallujah in the same terms they speak of jihad in [the eastern Afghan province of] Kunar,' says Mr. Karzai. 'They think: "Just as they are battling there, we are battling here."'

"Figures tabulated by CAPS indicate a recent 60 percent increase in attacks across Afghanistan, from 85 in July to 136 in August. Police have borne the brunt, with deaths jumping more than fourfold in that period. Civilian deaths have tripled, with 92 losing their lives in August.

"'The world is small now, and just as McDonald's is being globalized ... so can violence be transmitted from one place to another,' says Waheed Mozhdah, a Taliban-era Foreign Affairs Ministry official, and author on the Taliban.

"'The tactics have been imported from Iraq: suicide bombers, remote-controlled roadside bombs,' says Mr. Mozhdah. 'These things we didn't have in the [past] jihad, and they have been very effective....' "

So it seems that, among other awful effects, our invasion of Iraq has helped to worsen the situation in Afghanistan, if such a thing is even possible. And judging from Christian Parenti's recent Nation report from Kabul, that's exactly what's happening, the hearts-and-minds approach, to the degree it was ever seriously attempted, now abandoned in favor of an upsurge in general bombing. Parenti links to an illuminating article about Captain Leo Docherty, a former aide-de-camp to the commander of the British taskforce in southern Afghanistan. After witnessing what he believes to be a "pretty shocking" turn of events, Docherty quit the army, disgusted with NATO tactics:

"Having a big old fight is pointless and just making things worse . . . All those people whose homes have been destroyed and sons killed are going to turn against the British. We've been grotesquely clumsy — we've said we'll be different to the Americans who were bombing and strafing villages, then behaved exactly like them."

So, as in Iraq, we are helping to create a new generation of jihadists, who naturally are more violent and more effective than their predecessors. For those who love war and can't get enough of human suffering, I'm sure this is good news. Meantime, the rest of us must continue to watch this slide into further destruction and chaos, assuming people haven't already tuned out what was once advertised as the Good War.

We are told that we cannot leave Afghanistan until a "stable democracy" is established, though what that is and how it'll ever be erected, especially in a land of such extreme poverty and endless war, is never realistically defined. Kabul is the only spot in the country with any wealth, but that, as has long been the case, is being held in private hands while refugees live and die in squalid conditions.

Stability? Give me a fucking break.

In his account of Afghanistan written for Vanity Fair, Sebastian Junger met up in the field with US Army Captain Josh McGary. Describing McGary's attempt to reach out to a group of Afghan villagers (via an interpreter), Junger quotes him as saying:

"Your government has sent me food and supplies to feed this valley for five years. It sits in Baylough, but I can't get it here, because they shoot at us. Do they not want you to eat? I can bring the food here, but I need you to talk to these men in the mountains. Ask them what they fight for—why? If they want us to leave Afghanistan, the fastest way is to stop fighting. Believe me, we're ready to go home. I have a four-year-old son, and he asked me if he can go to Afghanistan sometime. I want to bring him here to see a strong Afghanistan, all the tribes united under Islamic law. That's what's in my heart. So please, if you see those men in the mountains, tell them what's in my heart."

I'm certain, in the final instance, that Afghans will live, united or not, under some kind of Islamic law. Given their history and culture, this seems unavoidable. That a US Army officer confesses that this, too, is his wish, contradicts all the "democratic" rhetoric to the contrary. Either he's being manipulative in the short term, which suggests that conning the locals is our best bet to win them over; or he's being straightforward and honest about the long term, in which case one wonders what kind of unity "under Islamic law" would be considered a victory, and how it would differ from previous incarnations.

As I've noted before, many Americans in daily life avoid discussing Iraq. Afghanistan? Good luck broaching that at the farmer's market.

Boo. Yeah.

On Fox Sports radio last night, there was the standard, by-the-numbers reverence for 9/11 -- not as a tragedy in the larger context of geopolitical violence, but as a special case, something without precedent in world affairs, a holy symbol of sorts. I know that most if not all of the corporate media engaged in this yesterday, but sports radio gives this emotion an added tribal kick, since most sports fans are tribalistic to begin with. So it doesn't take much to get the listeners revved up on this front.

Before previewing the two NFL Monday night games, host Andrew Siciliano, who boasts one of the smoothest voices in the biz, though his glibness barely covers the yawning emptiness of his world view, requested that the cable news channels stop showing footage of the planes crashing into the Towers, of people jumping to their deaths, of the Towers crumbling to dust over and over and over again. Everybody knows what happened five years ago, and the images are burned into our memories, so there's no need to constantly screen this horror. After hearing this, I knew that some jock-stoked patriot would phone in to slap Siciliano, and there he was, the first caller. "I'm a Marine who served in Afghanistan and Iraq," he stated with a hardened edge to his voice, "and I don't think we've seen that footage enough." Mr. Marine chided Americans for being "selfish" and soft (I half expected him to tell the nation to drop and given him 20), and that if we only saw the "hatred in the eyes" of those Arab "animals," then we'd better understand why we must continue to wage war until these "animals" are wiped out.

Predictably, Siciliano backpedaled, gushing his praise for the military and the flag, and thanking Mr. Marine for his dedicated service and desire to kill kill kill. Siciliano still wanted a moratorium on 9/11 footage, but he understood and respected those like the caller who needed this footage to justify their homicidal mindsets.

I know it's a lot to ask for in the Land of the Free, but just once I'd like to hear someone counter lunatics who demand we share their bloodlust with some salient facts about the present conflicts, and those on the horizon. Not that it would sway them in any significant way, but it would remind them that if they took their own rhetoric about "defending liberty" seriously, then they wouldn't insist on such psychotic, and in the above case, racist conformity. But then, there are plenty of people in uniform, vets as well, who are more comfortable with fascist reasoning, and who view the military as some kind of celestial order, far beyond the understanding or appreciation of mere civilians. It's a tiresome but effective tactic, and media chatters like Andrew Siciliano will knuckle under it every time.

With this in mind, I dust off and present again a post of mine from last January 11:

"Surf any site where endless war and nationalist frenzy are celebrated, and chances are good that you'll bump into this:

"It is the Soldier not the reporter, who has given us Freedom of the press. It is the Soldier not the poet, who has given us Freedom of speech. It is the Soldier not the campus organizer, who has given us the Freedom to demonstrate. It is the Soldier not the lawyer, who has given us the right to a fair trial. It is the soldier, who salutes the Flag, who serves beneath the Flag and whose coffin is draped by the Flag, who allows the protester to burn the Flag.

"Columns of drums beat as a solemn white male voice -- Bruce Willis? -- recites each line, indicting those who fail to fall to their knees at the sight of a camo-painted Hummer, or the image of George Bush in his flight suit, or a cluster bomb cleansing some Haji-infected neighborhood.

"Pretty stirring stuff. Gets the wood nice & stiff. Only thing is, it's bullshit."

The rest.

خمسة سنون

Nothing gets the blood moving quite like a good conspiracy theory, at least for me. Not that I believe in any of the great conspiracies, mind you; nor do I reject the possibility that perhaps a few might be true. People, especially those in power who desire a larger, tighter grip, conspire all the time. But the conspiracies emanating from the terrorist assaults five years ago today are particularly rich, and to those, like myself, who love dramatizations of secret government agendas like "The X-Files" and its darker cousin, "Millennium," the various scenarios that have been whipped up since 2001 offer plenty of bizarro intrigue. Makes the second sniper on the grassy knoll look like he fired a Super Soaker.

In the days leading up to this Fifth Anniversary, there have been some robust exchanges on several lefty discussion lists about whether or not the Bush administration was either behind the 9/11 attacks, or simply allowed them to happen in order get the green light they needed for expanded war. Of all the debunking of this mindset I've read, the most direct and sensible reply came from Louis Proyect, who runs the Marxmail list. Responding to a critic who asks that he look at the tape of WTC 7 collapsing hours after the Twin Towers fell, and whether this raised any suspicions in his mind, Lou responded:

"In fact, I just did. It falls in exactly the same manner as the Twin Towers. So, if you draw that kind of conclusion from the video, you'd certainly have to believe that all 3 buildings were brought down by explosives planted there in advance. This is quite an amazing conspiracy when you stop and think about it. You have Arab men who spend more than a decade going through the religious/ideological process that Zarqawi and bin-Laden went through but it was really a clever ruse. They were not really jihadists but Arabs who had come to love the USA so deeply and with such conviction that they were willing to kill themselves to give George W. Bush the excuse he needed to invade Afghanistan in order to topple the Taliban and protect American oil companies' interests. Never mind that the [Financial Times] reported that these companies were hoping for a Taliban victory against the remaining warlords so that the country would be stable enough to invest in. Now in league with these phony jihadists was a NYC real estate developer who plotted with the CIA to destroy his own building. He has absolutely no background in this kind of skullduggery but it doesn't matter. When his government called upon him to step forward, he did like a true patriot -- even though he would be an accomplice to mass murder. Then, as part of the conspiracy, you have hundreds of passengers over Pennsylvania and Washington, DC who did not really die that day. They were spirited away to some secret location, ostensibly against their will, where they are being kept in captivity, fed, clothed and entertained. So you have this vast conspiracy involving thousands of operatives, from trained demolitions experts, NYC real estate developers, fake jihadists, who were kept secret from elements of the government not in the plot. Despite this, not a single whistle-blower has stepped forward even though the Bush administration over the past 3 years has inspired practically a book of the month club for ex-officials spilling the beans.

"Remarkable, truly remarkable."

I can't add much to Lou's reply. Besides, what conspiracy exists that's bigger or more deadly than the one on daily display -- US foreign policy? All the supposedly clandestine activities (and I concede that some exist) cannot match what is out there for those willing to see, study and analyze. The present savage state we're in began decades before 9/11, and is the toxic weed grown from Western imperial policy. And far from "learning" anything about our past conduct or why we were hit five years ago, in many cases we've only gotten worse.

This morning, while driving the teen to school, I tuned into the local Air America station, curious to hear the "progressive" take on this anniversary. What I got was some syndicated show (which in the 15 minutes I had it on, did not identify itself) that employed Pink Floyd instrumentals as backdrop, with a "parapsychologist" named Howard Bloom conflating the Shi'a in Iran with Osama bin Laden and the Wahhabi version of Islam. When asked what we must do to stem a militant Islamic nuking and/or take-over of the United States, Bloom called for immediate, "pre-emptive" war. He didn't say on whom, but given his little comparison above, I think it's pretty clear he means Iran, and by extension, if Bloom is at all serious, Hezbollah and the Shi'a of southern Iraq.

That'll quiet things down, eh?

"It's 1936," Bloom informed listeners, and we must do now what we didn't do back then -- attack the Nazis. If we had launched a war on Germany in 1936, we would have "saved 40 million lives." Of course, this is a magical statement, given that a US military attack on Germany three years before it invaded Poland would've run directly against Western capitalist interests of the period; and I doubt that many American industrialists would've signed on. But that's history, and history has no real place in the conspiratorial mind. As entertaining as these theories can often be, they can also be very destructive when taken seriously by those with the means and will to destroy. We've seen some pretty awful results so far (Iraq anyone?), and when listening to the newest round of warmongering, it's clear that slaughter, torture and general insanity will be with us for quite some time. No secret about that.

Lost City

The day following my Tarrytown encounter was spent in Manhattan, and a beautiful contrast it was. It takes me all of 15 minutes to plug back into the city's pulse, and then it feels as if I never left. You never fully appreciate and understand that which shaped you until you are away from it, especially for long periods of time. And as I walked though those many neighborhoods and specific locations of my younger days, familiar scents and sites triggering sense memories, I soon realized that I am a ghost.

My New York is dead and me with it. Shuffling past the building where I lived in the summer of '85, St. Marks and Avenue A, I saw how worn it now is, nearly invisible against a louder, brighter East Village. My East Village was dingy, at times dangerous, especially when you went to some performance space on Avenue C, which back then was a free-fire zone. It's all commercialized now, filled with tourists, and I finally understood what older New Yorkers used to tell me about their city of the 50s and 60s, and how it's all gone to hell, they don't recognize it, the bloom is off, etcetery, etcetery.

We have the city for our time, and soon it belongs to someone younger.

I was happy to see so many young people theatrically dressed, the city their stage, a self-conscious show. Happily, there was no pseudo-punk or hippie look, which is largely the domain of young people in the Midwest. These kids had a look I couldn't immediately tag, which is good. In fact, there were so many different looks that I couldn't begin to label them, much less try to singly define. Again, good.

In my day (leans back, arms outstretched, fists clenched, head looking up) pretty much everyone dressed in black, or at least in something dark. This was in the post-punk period, and there was a heavy weary hipster vibe going on, which for me, right out of the Army, living in a heroin neighborhood (with several shooting galleries in our building), was very attractive. In those first 16-18 months, I met numerous kids from all over the country, many from very small towns, who came to Manhattan to breathe and be themselves. I suppose that's what I'll always treasure about my years there. It was the first time in my life when I felt completely free. And now it's past.

Death By Film

Libloggers are in a tiff over ABC's 9/11 film, "How Clinton Brought The Towers Down," or whatever it's called. My friend Jon Schwarz seemed puzzled that ABC's parent Disney would rather lose money with an anti-liberal flick about that dreadful day than make buckets of cash with Michael Moore's "Fahrenheit 9/11." Now, Jon usually wraps irony within irony, so maybe he's not really puzzled; but in case he is, he need only look to MSNBC's dumping of Phil Donahue's top rated show on the eve of the Iraq invasion to see that in certain cases, the corporate media doesn't care about money, not if their patriotism is in question (i.e., avoiding rightwing pressure campaigns). Besides, another division will easily make up the difference with some kind of "reality" schmuck bait, so in the end, the networks and their parent companies essentially lose nothing.

For me, the far more interesting cinematic offering is "The Death of A President," which premieres this Sunday at the Toronto International Film Festival. I knew nothing of this film until I landed in New York last week, and saw this simulated photo of a stricken Bush splashed across the Post and Daily News:




Naturally, this sent our domestic Phalange into the usual hysterics, rallying around their ever-sinking figurehead, howling about "irresponsibility" and leftwing "hatred." This same crowd favorably views the real world cluster bombing of civilians, but suddenly gets nauseous when faced with fictional violence -- or in this case, a photo and plot description, since none of them has actually seen the film. Not that this ever matters, especially with so much media space to fill. And self-righteous flag-draped outrage from angry, offended nativists always hits the spot and plays well with those who voluntarily watch cable chat, at least until the next pedophile claims to have killed JonBenet.

In a world of assassinations and general terror, imagining what would happen should the President of the United States be taken out makes perfect artistic sense. Indeed, I'm surprised it took this long for this film to appear. Like those who are denouncing it, I haven't seen "DOAP" (though I look forward to viewing it), so I'm not sure how they portray a post-Bush America. But I have a pretty good idea how this country would react if Bush were killed, especially by a Syrian-born sniper. We are conditioned from our earliest days in school to revere our "father leader" (as Oliver Stone referred to Kennedy in "JFK"), and with the Liberal Media in place to reinforce this conditioning and apparent need to worship power, we would be drowned in self-pity and calls for further aggression. The rightwing would become even crazier, while "decent" liberals would fall to their knees to honor the office, if not the man himself, and call for a period of national mourning and a moratorium on dissent. Emotional authoritarianism would be the order of the day, and woe to those who failed to comply. In short, "9/11 II: The Patriots Act."

Personally, I think making the assassin a seemingly All American-type like Timothy McVeigh would provide a more dramatic and interesting narrative. Recall that in the immediate wake of the Oklahoma City bombing, there were those who reflexively blamed Arabs, and when it became clear that this was payback for Waco (and the growing militarization of the state overall), commentators strove mightily to make it seem that McVeigh was simply nuts, and doubtless racist as well, and did what they could to play down the anger and fear that existed in certain domestic circles, and still exists, perhaps more acutely so. In the America First/Constitution party world, Bush is reviled and considered a traitor to the Republic. Having his fictional character felled by someone from the heartland, an Army sniper who sharpened his skills in Iraq, let's say, would lend a deeper complexity to the film, and would show that not every presumed threat prays to Mecca several times a day. This would also highlight the overall madness of our present existence, where no tidy or even remotely happy conclusion is in the offing.

Of course, all of this presumes that greater America would want to see such a film. In our fragmented and alienated land, anything's possible, especially if the marketing is imaginative and somewhat daring. But the larger media and the Phalangists who help keep it in line would launch an all-out assault on such a film, just as they will when (if?) "Death of a President" finds a stateside distributor. To be expected: those who peddle fiction are most sensitive to its application. Make believe belongs to True Believers only, or so they want us to truly believe.

Deliberate, Conscious Filler

Busy with various things in the offline world, so apologies for the dearth of posts this week. I'll be back tomorrow, but until then, allow me to employ the busy blogger's best friend -- YouTube!

The following two clips are from SCTV, perhaps the greatest English-speaking sketch comedy show ever. The first bit comes from the initial season in 1976, when Harold Ramis was part of the cast. Ramis plays Sir Kenneth Clark who appears on the long-running "Sammy Maudlin Show." But before Sir Kenneth comes out, there's a surprise visit from funnyman Bobby Bittman, Eugene Levy's lounge comic creation.



And here's Bittman in a public service announcement for the library. Who better to push reading?



Next, from the first episode of "Fridays" in 1980, the beginning of a running gag featuring Larry David, one that made it all the way to "Seinfeld." The video quality is so-so, but you'll get the idea.



Finally, Fiona Apple. Because one cannot live on laughs alone.

Kammouflage

The serious Noamophobe never rests, for there's always someone, somewhere, who'll favorably cite Chomsky, and thus they must be proven wrong and painted as a dupe or worse for even considering such a stance. I'm sure it's a tiring task, but thanks to Technorati, Ice Rocket, and good ol' Google, the Noamophobe can be everywhere online, almost at once.

I've had my run-ins with a few 'phobes -- scuffles, really. Nothing terribly intense. As I've noted here before, I knew Noam for a time, back in my political youth when the US-backed slaughter in Central America was the pressing issue. He was warm, approachable and pleasant. He taught me much about the need to put one's critical intelligence to use where it's most needed. I still have dozens of long letters from him in the days before email, and one of my favorite memories is of Noam and I, along with a few anarchist editors from Canada, drinking beer and talking about the various anarchist traditions which I was then beginning to learn. I've had my disagreements with him, and have sometimes felt that he was too obstinate when dealing with criticism. But overall, I'm glad to have had the direct access I did. I wouldn't trade it in for anything.

While recounting my recent "debate" at Tarrytown, I mentioned a brief exchange about Noam that took place in a car between me and Morton Klein:

"[W]hen Noam Chomsky came up, Mort denounced him for writing a preface for a Holocaust denier's book (the infamous Robert Faurisson affair). Instead of letting that go, I immediately corrected him, informing him that Chomsky actually wrote an essay about protecting free speech, no matter how crazy or vile, and that the state shouldn't be allowed to determine or legislate historical truth. The essay was given to Chomsky's friend in France, Serge Thion, who did indeed place it as the opening to Faurisson's book. But this essay was in no way a defense of Faurisson's views, only of his right to publish whatever he wanted without being prosecuted for historical deviationism, which he was at the time.

"'Hmmm,' said Mort. 'I didn't know that.' He paused, then stated with forefinger raised, 'Then Chomsky should denounce that man who put it in that book!'

"'Well," I replied, 'that's his choice, not yours.'"

And that was it for Noam, Faurisson, Holocaust denial, and the rest. The remainder of the piece dealt with the lead-up to and actual "debate" itself, but this clearly was of no interest to the Noamophobic Oliver Kamm, who, after seeing that one paragraph, set down his binoculars and tapped out his usual drivel about the sinister Professor from MIT, while of course knocking my idiocy for defending an immoral man. The standard fare. Hardly new. Till now, I hadn't encountered much of Kamm's stuff. What little I've read came to me via others critical of his takes; and at Crooked Timber, I've come across his many self-flattering comments in various threads. Kamm takes himself veddy seriously. He's quite the Intellectual, as he'll readily remind you, though you must hack your way thru tangled prose and sentences to find what meaning he attempts to impart. I suppose that's what Great Thinkers do -- make you work for it. But beyond all these trappings lies an inexhaustible hatred of Noam Chomsky, and that, it seems to me, is what truly defines Kamm. He appears quite comfortable in this capacity, 'else he wouldn't commit so much time to it. Right?

Anyone defending Chomsky must either be deluded or concealing something, at least that's the gist I get from Kamm when he casts doubt on my anecdote above. My conversation with Klein, "which I suppose we must take at face value," may not have taken place at all; but then, "it makes no odds to" Kamm either way, which if true, why raise it to begin with? I think the answer's pretty plain, in a passive/aggressive sense. You'd think that my naming every person in the car, along with their affiliation with the event or to me personally, would put me on thin ice were I fabricating the discussion. I mean, how hard would it be to simply look them up and ask them if what I wrote was accurate? Kamm's not going to do that, because he knows I have witnesses who'll back me up, but he simply can't resist slinging a little shit my way, if only to lubricate his subsequent smears.

"Perrin is talking nonsense," Kamm declares in response to my assertion that Noam's essay "was in no way a defense of Faurisson's views, only of his right to publish whatever he wanted without being prosecuted for historical deviationism, which he was at the time." According to Kamm, this was not so. Through his eyes, Noam, if not explicitly endorsing Faurisson's denial, was entirely too soft on Faurisson's views, certainly too soft for Kamm's exacting, manly standards. Noam's quote, which by now is tattooed to the frontal lobes of Noamophobes everywhere, "As far as I can determine, [Faurisson] is a relatively apolitical liberal of some sort," still drives them nuts, over a quarter century later. I've long suspected that Noam wrote that with this precise intention in mind -- a kind of mindfuck for those who insist that everyone be as Outraged and Correct as they continually claim to be. If so, it was a brilliant tactic, as the 'phobes continue to squirm and sputter on cue. In any event, Kamm links to the original essay, and it's worth a read. See if you can see what Kamm claims to see. No squinting allowed.

Kamm then gets legal on me. "Further, Perrin's assertion that 'the state shouldn't be allowed to determine or legislate historical truth' is, while true, irrelevant to this case. Faurisson was prosecuted not by the state, but in a civil case by two anti-racist organizations." Yes, but where was the civil case tried? I imagine in a French court, which I presume is connected to the French state, as was the judge, I'm guessing. Kamm makes it appear that Faurisson was taken to task in some kind of ideological small claims court, no big deal, really. Why the fuss? Oh sure, Kamm says that the case "ought never to have been brought, in my view," but it was, and was heard by those in the French legal system, which again, I suspect, has state ties. Lest it seem that Kamm, too, is getting soft on Faurisson, he quickly adds that "Faurisson was not being prosecuted merely for holding odious opinions. (He was also, incidentally, convicted on separate charges of incitement to racial hatred and slander - both charges were correct and the prosecutions justified)."

So, Faurisson was indeed being prosecuted for his opinions, something that Kamm finds "justified." Slander is one thing, and open to interpretation. I'm willing to believe that Faurisson engaged in this, as did many against him (along with direct physical attacks on his person). But "incitement to racial hatred" is a much more ambiguous "crime," at least here in the States, where one may say all manner of rude and awful things and not be taken to trial. I know that in England, where Kamm lives, there are different standards for public speech; and clearly this is also the case in France. It would be instructive to know what Faurisson said or wrote that was considered "incitement to racial hatred." Did he directly call for Jews as a group or specific Jewish critics to be tortured or murdered? Did he lead any angry racist mobs? Or was he convicted on this charge solely because he believes that Nazi gas chambers are a hoax? As someone pleased with the end result, perhaps Kamm will enlighten us.

"Finally," Kamm goes on, "note Perrin's evasive use of language in this sentence: 'The essay was given to Chomsky's friend in France, Serge Thion, who did indeed place it as the opening to Faurisson's book.' Perrin seems to think that this disposes of the charge that Chomsky wrote a preface to Faurisson's book. Of course it doesn't. The salient issue is what Chomsky intended his friend to make of this essay."

Well, the bottom line is that Noam's essay became the preface to Faurisson's book. The question is: Did Noam sit down with this specific intention in mind? Or did he, as he has long claimed, write a defense of Faurisson's basic human rights and allow Thion to do with it as he pleased, having brief second thoughts before relenting? Since neither Kamm nor I were there at the time, we can't honestly say. I don't know if Kamm has ever met Noam, much less spent significant time with him, but I have, and I tend to believe the latter. Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe Noam lied about the whole thing. But given the hysterical reactions to this essay which continue to this day, I don't know why he would bother lying about it. Indeed, if Noam intentionally meant for his essay to appear in Faurisson's book before he wrote a word, it wouldn't undermine the libertarian case for Faurisson's rights -- it would strengthen it. For if one truly believed that Faurisson's opinions should be protected, then any serious defender wouldn't shy away from making the case right next to the reviled text. This of course would open one to all manner of abuse, as we've seen. But defending the rights of the indefensible has never been a terribly chic or popular position, occasional rhetorical flourishes aside.

After all this, Kamm tells us that "No responsible critic claims that Chomsky is a Holocaust denier. Nor is Chomsky an antisemite." In order to cover his ass, Kamm states this twice. This is progress. It wasn't all that long ago that after mentioning Chomsky's name to someone unfamiliar with his body of work, but familiar with his bad reputation, the response would be, "Doesn't he deny the Holocaust?" I'm sure this still happens. So two snaps to Kamm for at least acknowledging the truth on this front. But if Kamm knows that Noam isn't a Holocaust denier or a Jewish anti-Semite, then what is his real beef with Noam when it comes to Faurisson? That he doesn't say or do what Kamm (and his friends) demand he say or do? That he doesn't pound his chest in the appropriate manner? If Kamm is being honest when conceding that Noam doesn't share Faurisson's views, then what we have here is criticism most provincial. And childish. ("Mom! Chomsky won't denounce Faurisson the right way!") But then, a lot of Western intellectual culture is provincial and childish, when not simply destructive. Oliver Kamm evinces this tendency most reliably. It's how the Noamophobes roll.

One Step Beyond

The complexities, manias, and sorrows of the Middle East have driven many people insane, and in the years of debating and discussing this issue, I've encountered my share (though some would say that I, too, am nuts, and sometimes I feel that's true). But last Wednesday night, I hit the lunatic jackpot. And while I try to never throw words like "lunatic" casually around, in this case it applies -- indeed, it may be an understatement.

As you know, I took part in a debate about the present chaos in the Middle East at the Tarrytown Music Hall. I was teamed with Nada Khader of WESPAC, a Westchester peace group, and we were set to argue against Morton Klein of the Zionist Organization of America, and Sidney Zion of the New York Daily News. I was a relative outsider to the other three: Nada is Palestinian and has seen the effects of Israeli occupation and aggression in Gaza; Klein and Zion are Jewish-Americans who staunchly side with the Israeli rightwing. Me, I'm just an American goy who became interested in this topic during Israel's blitzkrieg on Lebanon in 1982. I was raised to believe that Israel was a tiny, vulnerable nation fighting to breathe in a toxic wasteland of Arab hatred and violence. This image was shattered in '82, as it was for many people, and I've been putting the pieces back in a more realistic pattern ever since.

The evening actually began in the late afternoon, when the event's coordinator, Scott Pellegrino, and I were driving around Manhattan, waiting for Mort Klein's train to arrive from Philadelphia, where he lives and works. We picked up Steve Rendall, an old friend of mine who works for FAIR, then went to Penn Station to get Klein, who was standing on the corner, large black satchel in hand. Not knowing what to expect, Steve and I sat in the back seat and allowed Klein to ride shotgun. I figured that it would be harder for him and me to argue in the car if he had to keep turning around to talk; plus, Scott is a smooth talker who can relate to just about anyone, and I knew that he'd keep Klein occupied and entertained, which he more or less did.

As we raced up the Henry Hudson toward Tarrytown, many items were bounced around, mostly apolitical ones, but given the make-up in the car, that would last only so long. Having read several items at Mort's ZOA website, I knew that he was far to my right, but this perception was really hammered home once he started in on politics. Among the many things he uttered (having worked on George McGovern's '72 campaign, Klein informed us that the former Senator was a serial adulterer, something that did surprise me), he insisted that the US government, far from being an unconditional supporter of the Israeli state, actually drags its feet and does whatever it can to slow or trip up the Zionist enterprise, a source of recurring frustration for him and his allies. He also claimed that AIPAC, perhaps the best known Israeli lobby of which Mort is an advising member, is too far-left for him.

"AIPAC is leftwing?" I asked in sincere confusion.

"Oh yes," Klein replied, looking at me as if my question came from downsized Pluto.

He went on, telling us that "I hate Jesse Jackson and I hate Al Sharpton"; and when Noam Chomsky came up, Mort denounced him for writing a preface for a Holocaust denier's book (the infamous Robert Faurisson affair). Instead of letting that go, I immediately corrected him, informing him that Chomsky actually wrote an essay about protecting free speech, no matter how crazy or vile, and that the state shouldn't be allowed to determine or legislate historical truth. The essay was given to Chomsky's friend in France, Serge Thion, who did indeed place it as the opening to Faurisson's book. But this essay was in no way a defense of Faurisson's views, only of his right to publish whatever he wanted without being prosecuted for historical deviationism, which he was at the time.

"Hmmm," said Mort. "I didn't know that." He paused, then stated with forefinger raised, "Then Chomsky should denounce that man who put it in that book!"

"Well," I replied, "that's his choice, not yours."

And that was that as we pulled into beautiful Tarrytown, the sun glittering on the Hudson River at the town's edge.

We entered the Music Hall and were greeted by its manager, who showed us to our dressing rooms backstage. The place is majestic, smelling of old wood and seats sat in countless times since the late-19th century. A large table with four mikes sat onstage next to a podium. The sound technician and lighting person were running about, making final adjustments. We had about an hour till showtime, and Mort excused himself to get coffee and prepare for battle. Steve and I found an old pub down the street and had a beer, catching up on each other's lives. While Mort was tense in his private world, I felt completely relaxed as I settled into a familiar debate mindset, soothed even more by a tasty cold Heineken.

Returning to the Music Hall, I finally met my debate partner, Nada, a small, serene woman who spoke softly but very directly. Then the event's moderator, Ron Kuby, arrived, tanned, energetic, and never at a loss for words, as those who listen to his WABC radio show know well. Ron possesses piercing eyes, and when he addresses you, his vibe is instantly shared. As the audience filed in and the show was about to begin, we had to hold for Sidney Zion, who was parked at the bar, waiting for a friend of his to arrive. When Zion finally came backstage, you could smell booze on him, but I thought nothing about it as I shook his hand and introduced myself. That would soon change.

After a 15-minute delay, we were all introduced and brought on stage. Originally, we were to be seated Nada, Mort, me, Zion. But Mort feared being flanked by Nada and myself, saying that we would be able to see his notes. I asked what he thought that either of us would do with his notes -- crib his arguments? But Klein insisted that he and Zion be seated together, with Nada and me at the other end of the table. So before any of us said a word into a mike, we had to be segregated by outlook. This spoke volumes about our opponents' views of those who differ with them, as well as what their concept of a "democratic" Israel should look like.

We each were given five minutes for opening remarks. Nada began with a carefully-worded but strong indictment of Zionism's impact on Palestinian lives. "Oh boy," I thought to myself. "Here we go."

No sooner had Nada completed her statements when Mort kicked into high rhetorical gear. He spoke loudly about "Arab hatred" of Jews, and how "the Arabs" taught their children this hatred. He whipped out a Palestinian poster showing a kid wearing jihadist gear and holding a rifle. He then produced a large map of the Middle East and ranted the usual nonsense about how Israel has always fought "defensive" wars. Through it all, it was "the Arabs!" this and "the Arabs!" that. I wondered how well my arguments would be received if I shouted about "the Jews!" every twenty seconds. But clearly, Mort saw nothing wrong with his presentation.

Kuby then came to me. "First of all," I announced, "I'd like to say that I'm happy to be part of this little love-in." This received the laughs I hoped to get in order to calm the already-charged atmosphere. I then referred to Mort and told the audience that he and I rode up to the gig together, and that despite our differences, he seemed to me like a nice guy. "It's clear that we're gonna bump heads tonight, so I want to warn you Mort -- I have a metal plate in mine." More laughs and an incredulous query from Kuby.

"Dennis, you have a metal plate in your head?"

"Yes. It's from a wrestling accident years ago. I was wearing a mask. That's all I want to say about it."

I then got serious and referred to Israel's long involvement in southern Lebanon, an involvement that stemmed from pre-state Zionist designs on the region. Israel in Lebanon is nothing new, I said, and hoped that we could explore the historical and political reasons for this.

Now it was Zion's turn, and I focused more on his tone rather than his exact words. Zion was loud, belligerent, and appeared to have a seething hatred of Arabs. He then dismissed Nada's "bullshit," and called her a stupid "little girl." Much of the audience booed him on this point, and Zion yelled right back at them. The evening's mood had been definitively set.

From here the "debate" went south in a hurry. Whenever Nada or I tried to make a point or respond to Klein and Zion, one of them, or sometimes both, would interrupt, yelling into the mike in order to drown us out. It was then I noticed that Zion had a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black Label Scotch stashed under the table. In the moments when he wasn't bellowing, he poured himself drink after drink, getting more hammered as the night wore on. And of course the more hammered he got, the more abusive he became.

By now it was nearly impossible to speak without disruption. As I tried to trace the Zionist narrative from the 1920s to now, citing Ze'ev Jabotinsky and David Ben Gurion, Zion went nuts, screaming from his Scotch-reeking mouth, "What the fuck are you talking about?!" and informing the audience that "this son of a bitch is a goddamned liar!" though Zion offered zero proof that this was so. I tried my best to ignore him (tough to do, as Zion trash talked me off-mike as I spoke, suggesting that I wanted to see Jews murdered, etc.) and talk to the audience, which was getting more stirred up by the minute, heckling and shouting back at the stage, mostly at Zion, who naturally told them to shut up and drop dead. I said that if anyone doubted me, they could go online and find these early Zionist documents for themselves. Simply Google the names I mentioned and check the sources that pop up.

Zion yelled, "What is this, a computer class?! What the fuck's going on here?!" He then fell momentarily silent so he could serve himself another drink.

Ron Kuby admitted that he'd lost control of the debate, even though Nada and I did our best to stay within its parameters. It was Klein but especially Zion who were running wild, freely ranting whenever they felt the urge, and openly conceding that they were disrupting Nada and me, and that we had it coming. There was a brief period of time when Nada and myself simply fell silent and watched Zion and Klein argue with the audience. And this was before the Q& A!

A long line formed in the left aisle of the Hall as audience members waited for their turn to speak directly to us. Soon it became clear that most of the questions and criticisms were aimed at Klein and Zion, which they couldn't believe. "Is this audience full of Arabs?!" Zion drunkenly shouted. "We've been set-up!"

In fact, several of their critics were Jewish, including an older man who said he was an Israeli from Haifa who took serious issue with Zion's raving. He followed up a point I'd made earlier about Israel's alliance with Christian Phalangists in southern Lebanon, and how this brutal occupation helped give rise to Hezbollah. ("Brutal?" Zion shouted at me. "Are you fucking crazy?!") The Israeli man noted that Lebanese Christian rightists were in league with the German Nazis during World War II, and how shameful it was for Israel to be associated with them. Zion was so loaded at this point that he thought the man called Israelis Nazis, which of course he hadn't. But reality meant nothing to Zion as he screamed at the man, "Fuck you Jew-boy!" As the man quietly returned to his seat, Zion kept yelling, "Don't you walk away from me, Jew-boy!", undeterred by the audience's open outrage.

I was able to squeeze in one more point before this abortion of an event came to a close. Klein opined that the Gazans deserved to be shelled by Israel since they elected Hamas as their leadership. If you put terrorists in power, he said, then you can't complain when the Apache helicopters swoop down. I immediately responded that if Mort's point applied to Israel as well, then Israelis can't complain about car bombs or rockets since they've put a succession of former terrorist leaders into high office, including the war criminal Ariel Sharon.

"How dare you compare a man like Arik Sharon to a murderous bum like Arafat!" Zion sputtered, though I don't remember mentioning Arafat.

"I don't compare them at all, Sid," I said. "Sharon's killed far more people than did Arafat."

This got applause, which of course sent Zion into further hysterics about the "Arab" audience.

Mercifully, after nearly two-and-a-half hours, the zoo was shut down. I was saddened and surprisingly exhausted as I went backstage to take a leak. When I opened the bathroom door to exit, Zion stood right in front of me and yelled, "Oh, there he is! There he is!" I walked past him without making eye contact and returned to the theater to talk to those who stuck around, including the Israeli man abused by Zion. I was lauded for keeping my cool throughout the evening, which was nice, but did little to cheer me. Then I was informed that a pro-Israeli audience member, who opposed our arguments, had told Nada that not only did we win the debate, but that he thought that Zion and Klein were plants in order to make Jews look crazy. This made me laugh, the first real release I experienced that night. The sorry thing is, people like Zion and Klein are all too real, and the policies and attitudes they espouse are no joke, a reality that is beyond debate.