Beyond & Back

Once you’ve seen a face melting in anguish, it stays with you -- especially when the face belongs to your friend. And he’s dead.

I witnessed this several years ago, and I can’t say that it was a pleasant reunion. Still, it did shake up whatever earthly, godless concepts I then held. Maybe I was hallucinating, but I’ve experienced some vivid hallucinations, and this was nothing like those.

My wife, kids and I were visiting an old friend of mine, Ginny, a wealthy older woman whose son I’d known in my teens, and who took me in for a time and made me part of her extended family. When he was 19, Ginny’s son Guy was accidentally shot in the pelvis with a .38 revolver. The hollow point bullet exploded and shredded his insides. He survived for a month before dying, and this sent Ginny into an emotional tailspin. Desperate to keep Guy around, she hired mediums, psychics and anyone else who told her they could talk to Guy’s spirit and keep it close by. I felt for Ginny, and tried to understand the pain that inspired her actions. But not for a second did I buy all the haunting stories I was being told, even though some came from Guy’s sister, Tami, who was, like me, extremely skeptical on this front.

Twenty years had passed since Guy’s death when my family entered Ginny’s house. The atmosphere felt strange. My then-two-year-old son was the first to sense this, and it hit him very hard. Giggling and smiling outside the house, he immediately became terrified once inside. My wife and I had never seen him act like this. We kept asking him what was wrong. He merely stared ahead, eyes frozen, lips quivering. He sobbed, and at times was short of breath. This went on for the better part of an hour. As the night went on, fear wore him down. He finally fell asleep in my wife’s arms.

For us, things sped up. The air felt electrified, a sensation I’d never before experienced. A sense of anger or rage was evident. Still, Ginny seemed calm. She was obviously used to this atmosphere, and I suppose it provided her some comfort. But my wife and I were getting antsy, and when Ginny offered us her bedroom for the night, we thanked her and retired, sleeping son in tow.

Upstairs, the sensations continued, but we talked about other matters, trying to keep our minds off what was becoming impossible to ignore. We slipped into Ginny’s large bed, our son tucked between us, turned out the light and fell quickly to sleep. I don’t know how long it was before the images hit me. Savage images. Images of people dying, moaning, crawling through a diseased landscape, flesh hanging on bone. Several faces decayed on the spot, Guy’s among them. The overall feeling was one of despair and severe anguish. It was horrific and stark, unlike anything I’d ever dreamt, assuming I was dreaming. Soon it became so unspeakable that I shot straight up in the dark, sweating, heart pounding. I turned to see my wife awake as well.

"Did you see that?" I asked.

"See what?"

I hurriedly filled her in, and while she hadn’t experienced any ghastly visions, she was suffering from extreme dread. The bedroom was filled with it. As ridiculous as it now seems, I felt no choice but to openly admonish Guy, who I assumed was responsible, and begged him to stop. Within a few minutes, the atmosphere lightened, the tension faded. I stayed awake for another hour, waiting for anything, before succumbing to a dreamless sleep.

Crazy? Tell me about it. If I hadn't witnessed it with my wife, I would've dismissed it as an aggressive fever dream (or try to, anyway). But I stand by it. And given the countless ghost stories I’ve encountered since moving to Michigan, my dead friend’s appearance was well within that spectral tradition.

One local guy I worked with told me of his time living near an Indian burial ground upstate, the area choked with angry spirits and energy. There are the runaway slaves who died in Michigan barns and basements before they could cross into Canada and to freedom, their residual agony left to haunt the living. A whole mythology exists about Michigan’s haunted lakes and lighthouses, the cries of drowning men still heard by those onshore.

I’ve never come across so much paranormal material as I have in this state, and this, added to my past experiences, has intensely piqued my interest in the topic.

The idea that the dead roam the Earth is nothing new. Every culture has its version of this, and in Western culture the works of Shakespeare, Dickens, and Proust are filled with varied images of the deceased. Paul Bowles wrote of an astral insight he experienced as a child, which so shook his concept of reason that he hurried to bury it. William Burroughs believed in different dimensions and explored various afterlife concepts. In his memoir, Alec Guinness recalled that upon meeting James Dean, a voice in his head told him that Dean would die in a car crash one week later, which he passed on to Dean, who laughed it off. Even non-believers like Stephen King have made creative and profitable use of the supernatural. Then there are all the horror-afterlife films and TV series that have explored every possible paranormal angle.

While I’ve enjoyed many of these ghostly treatments, I never took them seriously. Raised Catholic, I left the Church in my early teens, convinced there was no God, no spiritual realm, nothing save our active, at times overheated imaginations. The idea that life continued in some form after death frightened me. Would it never end? Were we to be conscious forever? Horrifying, I thought, and so I took comfort in atheism. Non-existence once the body failed was my Heaven. How could one be afraid of not being where one is not?

Influenced by sharper minds and merciless personalities, I became smug in my godlessness, and vicious when debating others on the subject. I’ve ripped apart gentle souls who believed in the Other Side, mocking their naiveté, their mental and emotional weakness. I could be quite a prick about it, actually. But, in time, contrary evidence began to emerge, and forced me to reconsider my hostile position.

My most recent paranormal encounter came a few months ago. A former neighbor, Wendy, had been telling me about an ongoing presence in her home. An older woman lived in the house next door to us before Wendy’s family did, and I rarely saw her. Nurses and some medical personnel came and went, so obviously the woman had health problems. To what degree I never knew. Then, over a series of days, her driveway and open garage began filling up with furniture, clothes, and other household items. The nurses stopped visiting. A moving van arrived to haul away the lot. Clearly, the woman had passed on.

Several months later, Wendy, her husband Kevin and their 2-year-old daughter Mikela, moved in. They were friendly and outgoing, and soon we got to know them fairly well. Then one night over wine, I asked them about the woman who lived there before them. Did they know anything about her? How she died? What was the house like when moving in?

Wendy wasn’t sure about the cause of the woman’s death, but she grinned and said, "I don’t think she ever left."

"How do you mean?"

Wendy explained that the first few nights in the new home were very active with spectral activity. None of it seemed hostile or malevolent, but according to Wendy it was consistent and very tangible, a feeling that perhaps several people were moving around them as if to let the new family know that they would not be alone. After this initial greeting, the activity ebbed and flowed but never fully waned. (Wendy and Kevin told me that one night, while watching TV, they both saw a white specter move through their kitchen before disappearing.) In time, Wendy’s daughter Mikela began seeing older women in her bedroom, and would describe their appearance without hesitation, right down to their pill box hats, the name of which Mikela didn’t know, but outlined in perfect detail.

Invisible friends, I thought. A child’s vivid imagination. Still, I recalled how immediately aware my son was of the dark energy in Ginny’s house, and I later read that younger children are more attuned to these vibrations as they have yet to develop a wall of denial and justification. Mikela’s experience wasn’t as harrowing as was my son’s (when I spoke to her about it, she never seemed frightened, taking it all in stride), but what if she did see something, or the traces of someone passed on? I decided to check this out for myself.

While researching a possible article about haunted Michigan sites, I got to know a local "ghost hunter," Charla, who spoke at length about her group's experiences (the majority of suspected "hauntings" they investigate turn out to be Earth-bound and easily explainable -- drafts, faulty wiring, chipmunks in the walls). She showed me the equipment the group uses and what each instrument does. After talking to Wendy, I phoned Charla and asked if I could borrow some of her equipment. She kindly said yes, and when I stopped by her office to pick up her electro-magnetic sensor and temperature gauge, she told me to stay clear of electrical outlets and appliances like a microwave or refrigerator. Any paranormal energy present would be masked by the waves emitted by those and other appliances. Charla advised me to keep an open mind, to be patient, and not to get too anxious should some kind of contact be made.

"Stay loose and have fun," she said.

That night, I arrived at Wendy and Kevin’s around 10:30 PM. I felt excited though very self-conscious, as though I should be wearing Ghostbusters garb. I really didn’t know what to expect, but the thought that I might encounter something from another dimension pushed me past any lingering doubts that remained in my mind.

Kevin, very laid back, smiled, as if he knew what was about to occur. While not as taken with the presence as was Wendy, Kevin had seen too much to deny what had become a given in their home. Wendy, on the other hand, was primed, and she suggested that some activity had already begun before my arrival. I took out the two pieces of equipment, along with a tape recorder with a newly-opened blank tape inside. I would keep the recorder running the entire time I measured for a presence, in the hope that I would capture some type of Electronic Voice Phenomena. Wendy suggested that we start in her bedroom upstairs, as that was the focal point for most of the activity.

I clicked on the temperature gauge; the room was a steady 70 degrees. The electro-magnetic sensor picked up some slight traces of energy, but nothing dramatic, and I assumed that perhaps a lamp or outlet was causing this. I set the tape recorder on the bed and got it running as Wendy talked about some of her experiences in the room. She said that while there were several manifestations of activity, the physical sense that someone was lying in bed next to her being one, the main action was a tapping sound that came out of her bedroom closet. My daughter, who baby-sits Mikela from time to time, told me about this -- that she’s walked through the upstairs hallway and heard loud tapping coming out of that room when only she and Mikela were in the house. I looked out the window next to the closet to see if there might be a tree branch that could be the source of the tapping. But only the narrow end of one branch could reach the house, and the sound it made as the wind pushed it was a high scratching one, not the strong, steady tapping and knocking I was told about.

I grabbed the tape recorder and placed it in front of the closet. Wendy and I left the room to see what the sensor could find in the hallway and down the staircase. As we moved downstairs the sensor’s needle spiked into the red field and stayed like that until we got to the corner of the living room.

"I’m getting something," I said excitedly. "What outlets or appliances are in this area?"

Kevin was sitting nearby. "Nothing really. One outlet, but that’s away from where you are right now."

"Well," I replied, "there’s definitely some energy here. Can you feel it?"

"Oh yeah," said Wendy with a big smile. "It’s all around me."

It was all around me as well. It appeared suddenly, and like the energy I’d felt years ago in Ginny’s house, it was strong and tangible, but there wasn’t any dread or feeling of terror. It felt like fingers were running up and down my arms, and the sensor’s needle was now buried, buzzing loudly.

"Man, this is wild!" I said. "It’s like several people are touching me. I can feel a definite presence. I don’t know what to say."

"Are you still skeptical?" asked Wendy.

"Yeah, maybe a little. I don’t know."

Just then I felt a jab in the back of my neck.

"YOW!" I yelled, spinning around to nothing. "I just got poked by something. I mean, I really felt that!"

The whole scene became very weird. To Wendy and Kevin, this was business as usual. Another haunted evening at home. For me, it rattled my mind and sense of earthly reason. And the electric stroking continued as the sensor buzzed on.

I pulled out the temperature gauge: 71 degrees. I walked toward Wendy with the gauge still on, and the room’s temperature in that short space suddenly dropped four degrees. Just like that.

"There’s a cold patch here," I said.

"Oh yeah," laughed Wendy. "We get those all the time."

All this continued for maybe 20 minutes, maybe more. It all seemed unreal, but at the risk of seeming insane, I swear it happened. I felt fatigued, as though a lot of energy had been drained from me. I sat on the edge of a chair and slumped over. The electric sensations ebbed, then disappeared. I turned on the sensor one last time to see if there was any trace. Nothing. Just five minutes before, that area of the room was alive with electrical activity. Now, quiet.

Wendy, Kevin and I talked about this for a few minutes, with me trying to get my head around it. Then I remembered that I’d left the tape recorder upstairs. I ran up, saw that the tape had run out, grabbed the recorder and went downstairs and said my goodnights.

When I arrived home, my daughter was awake and instantly quizzed me. I told her everything, which didn’t surprise her, knowing what she did about the house. She asked if she could listen to the tape for me.

"Sure," I replied. "Just grab me if you hear anything strange."

She plugged headphones into the tape player, sat on the couch and began to take notes. About five minutes later she ran into my office.

"Dad! You have to hear this!"

She cued up the tape and handed me the headphones.

"Listen real close, just as Wendy is talking."

I hit Play and cranked up the volume. Wendy is telling me a story when a little girl is heard giggling loudly.

"Was Mikela in the room with you guys?" my daughter asked.

"No. She was asleep, across the hall in her room with the door closed. She wasn’t anywhere near us."

"Well, who’s that laughing? It can’t be Wendy, and it definitely isn’t you."

I didn’t know. I rewound and listened to that section of the tape maybe a dozen times, and every time, there was a girl clearly giggling over us.

My daughter reclaimed the player, sat down and listened some more. I went to the fridge for a beer, which I downed quickly as I pondered the girl. That tape had been freshly unwrapped before use, so it couldn’t be an old recording seeping through. The girl’s pitch and tone was younger and much higher than Wendy’s, and besides, Wendy was completing a sentence when the giggling occurred. Again, I searched for some rational explanation, but it eluded me.

My daughter yelled for me again.

"What is it this time? Singing? Yodeling?"

"No," she said, "it’s that knocking I told you about."

By this point in the tape, Wendy and I had gone downstairs. The room was vacant. Crickets could be heard through the window screen when suddenly a THUMP THUMP came through, then another THUMP THUMP. It sounded like someone was pounding a wood floor right in front of the recorder, only the room was entirely carpeted.

"That’s the sound you heard when you were babysitting?"

"Yeah. It was creepy. I never go in that room."

The tape yielded no more sounds or surprises. But what it did capture, in addition to my direct experience earlier that night, further altered my thinking about the paranormal. I’m becoming more convinced that another realm exists, but what it is precisely I don’t think anyone can confidently say, at least without seeming in another dimension themselves.

At bottom, I remain skeptical, as should you. As Woody Allen put in "Hannah And Her Sisters," no one really knows what will happen when the final moment arrives, so we should enjoy ourselves while we’re here. Still, speculating on the mysteries of the beyond is part of the fun. And it’s why so many people will never give up the ghost.

Happy Halloween.

Ass Kicked -- Conclusion

On yesterday's "Face The Nation," one of the Sunday shows where the elite talk to each other and hone their propaganda, DNC chairman Howard Dean admitted that even if the Dems take control of Congress next week, don't expect much movement on Iraq. After all, Dean said, Bush will still be in charge of the military, and will doubtless stick to his failed policy in the face of all counter-evidence and/or pressure. All the Dems will be able to do is set timetables and try to nudge Bush toward meeting them.

Hoo-haw.

Man, is there any weaker "opposition" party on the planet? The Dems are laughable, simply laughable -- or would be, if their cowardice and cravenness didn't contribute to more death and destruction. Here's a criminal president, poll numbers in a wet ditch, who's as ripe a candidate for impeachment as you could ask for, but if the Dems take control of the legislative wing of government, don't expect them to do anything hasty, or God forbid, politically just. The Dems are solely interested in power and control; and if this happens to fall into their laps due to the incompetence and venality of the Repubs, rather than from any innovative or courageous policy the Dems might fashion, then that's even better, since the expectations won't be as high. Just having a majority, however slim or inactive, will more than do, especially for those libloggers and radio hosts who will obediently toss the Party-approved confetti.

Bet you can't wait for '08!

As I said last week, I'm laying out my history with and against the Dems to show those of you who believe I'm merely an ideological hit-and-run artist that my frustration and anger have serious roots. We left off at 1992, the dawn of the Clinton era, which most American libs saw as a Second Coming -- of what, I was never really sure. Camelot? The Great Society? Jimmy Carter's support for state terror in Central America, southern Korea and East Timor? Clinton's victory in '92 was a heady time for those who lost their heads and have yet to reclaim them. It marked the moment when American liberalism finally conceded whatever ground it still held to the rightwing, and it has staggered along ever since.

When Clinton was re-elected in '96, it appeared to the credulous that the Dems were truly back after 12 years of Republican White House rule. Unlike Jimmy Carter, Clinton got a second term; but then, unlike Jimmy Carter, Clinton faced a weak Bob Dole rather than a robust Ronald Reagan. And besides, as in '92, it was Clinton who wore Reagan's pompadour, with Dole playing the dual role of Carter/Walter Mondale. The GOP had no shot that year, and they knew it, which is why they offered up Dole for ritual sacrifice. They were looking ahead to 2000, when the presidential field would be wide open, or at least open enough to push an under-educated political scion on a public they despise and fear. If one has any doubt that Repub elites have zero respect for those they seek to con and rule, you need not look any further than George W. Bush.

The same can be said of the Dems who, after the brief Bill Bradley charade, went whole hog with another privileged political son, Al Gore. In Gore, the Dems' move to the right was more or less complete, especially when Gore picked Joe Lieberman to serve a heartbeat away. This was The Ticket, libs and assorted progressives were told, and there would be no deviation. If you were left-of-center, the Democratic Party owned your vote, if not your full allegiance, and any rejection of what Party elites deemed as politically acceptable would not be tolerated.

I heard this a lot during the 2000 campaign, not only from Party hacks online and on TV, but from people I knew who worked for Dems on Capitol Hill. Eight years of Clinton made these wonks even more power-hungry; plus, they were pissed off and defiant after Clinton survived impeachment, and they craved some payback. I got into some pretty petty arguments with a few of my professional liberal friends when discussing the dreadful Dem ticket. But petty was nothing once I decided to support Ralph Nader.

I didn't jump on the Nader wagon overnight. As in '88, '92 and '96, I seriously considered boycotting the presidential circus in favor of watching the inevitable bullshit explosions as election day neared. But the more I read about Nader's run, the more drawn in I became. If the lib wonks were angry with how the Repubs treated their god Bill Clinton, then we who believed that the Dems weren't much better than the GOP, that is, when they weren't openly helping to enact reactionary policies, were insulted that Gore/Lieberman was being shoved down our throats. How much further right were the Dems supposed to slide before they were called on it? This, and the hostile, condescending comments made by those Dems I knew made my decision that much easier.

Besides, I was interested to see if Nader could grab the five percent of the vote needed to award the Greens federal matching funds, which would help to build a small, but potentially effective alternative party. Not that I was crazy about the Greens. Some of the meetings I attended and members I chatted with did little to lift my political spirits. The entire election seemed like a no-win situation, no matter how it went. But I knew a couple of old colleagues who worked directly for Nader, and they kept me inside the loop, which helped somewhat. And of course, there was Nader himself, who during that election gave some of the best and most stirring speeches of his public life. Plus, he told the truth about the fixed political system and the corporations that control it. That alone was inspirational, especially when set against the status quo droning of Gore and Lieberman's friendly patty-cake with Dick Cheney. Finally, there was a clear and unambiguous choice.

As the Nader campaign moved into the fall and attracted huge audiences nationwide, the long Dem knives really came out, and it was clear that Nader's poll numbers would be cut down by election day, through direct personal attacks and 'round the clock fear mongering. Still, I did what I could; and when Nader was booked for "The Late Show with David Letterman," the show's producers told Nader that he could bring on and read his own Top Ten list. A good friend of mine, working with Phil Donahue as a Nader adviser, phoned me and asked if I could come up with two Top Ten lists -- actually, 30 Top Ten jokes overall -- in less than 36 hours. I said yes, then pulled a serious all-nighter with the wife laying on the office couch, snoozing until I woke her to read out the latest batch. I met my deadline, and was told that the Nader camp loved the lists. Thing is, I couldn't stay awake to see if Nader used any of my jokes, as I was exhausted. I never did see his appearance, and was told that at the last minute, Nader wanted to answer the Dems' attacks on his candidacy. So much for my frenzied efforts. But Phil Donahue found it funny (Marlo, too?).

We all know -- shaken-not-stirred Kali do we know -- how that election ended. Not only were enough voters scared off from voting Nader that the Greens failed to get five percent, but Al Gore, who mysteriously found his populist tongue at the last minute, fell largely mute when the Florida ballot mess spilled forth. I lack the time and energy to once again contest the whole "Thanks Ralph" reaction from angry Dems, but I don't recall many sarcastic "Thanks Al" remarks coming from the same mouths. After all, it was Gore who, after timidly poking into Florida's results, handed the whole shebang to Bush, for "the good of nation." If there ever existed a sterling example of political insider conformity, it was Gore's surrender in Florida. He could have and should have fought to the last disputed ballot, but being born into political privilege and knowing the rules of elite engagement, Gore naturally acquiesced. Yet it is Nader who bears all the blame.

Four years, 17,894 "Thanks Ralph"s and one Howard Dean meltdown later, the Dems thought they found The Answer in John Kerry. A Vietnam combat vet who was slightly to the left of Al Gore, Kerry cast a wider, if not the widest, net, bringing in not only the Dem faithful but those who felt guilty about supporting Nader in '00. There were also those, like me and many people I know, who felt no guilt about exercising free political choice, but believed that another four years of Bush would be disastrous for the world, and we, grudgingly, supported Kerry's campaign. Not that we were unaware of Kerry's shortcomings and his own imperial concepts; but it seemed that Bush was unprecedented in his criminality, and replacing him with a lesser crook would help to slow the rancid tide until a broader opposition could be forged.

Pie in the exploding sky? No doubt. But other than abstaining, what choice was there? Nader ran again, only this time as farce, with no semblance of a wider political agenda. If one truly wanted to kick out Bush, Kerry was the only option, no matter how awful he proved to be.

Don't you love democracy!

I took the '04 election so seriously that I actually worked for the Kerry/Edwards campaign. I phonebanked, stuffed envelopes, drove people around, and spent time talking to Kerry operatives in the local office. Once again, I was reminded why I despise the Dems so. Most of these people were youngish white men seeking some kind of political career with the Dem party. All they cared about was winning elections. Talking actual politics, apart from Party-approved bullet points, proved fruitless as many of them had no idea what was going on in the wider world. Nor did they know much about the history of the party they chose to serve. On top of this, some of these guys were incredibly snide and short-tempered with the volunteers, the majority of whom were senior citizens. They set themselves up as political wizards to be blindly obeyed, rather than co-workers looking to oust Bush. I spent less and less time in those offices, though put in a full day on election day, trying to avoid any serious contact with these dweebs as a few came apart at the seams, openly worried that Bush would win.

Wasn't it Harry Truman, a Dem, who said something about heat in kitchens?

So there you have it -- my history working with and against the Dems. Perhaps my anger is all on me. Perhaps I'm being unrealistic about the possibility for serious political change in the US at this point in time. Perhaps the Dems are what we deserve, and deserve to get good and hard. If so, then I willingly concede my shortcomings in this area. But please remember that I spent a chunk of my life taking the same donkey ride as you more enthusiastic boosters. How you can still find something of value in being led around the same enclosed pen, year after year, escapes me. Personally, I find the whole set-up depressing, but a lot of you don't. Well, you're welcome to your fun, but please don't insist that the rest of us must share your enthusiasm. When your hallowed mule ends these wars, stops assaults on civil liberties, expands protection for the poor, and limits if not eliminates corporate influence on public elections and politics, then maybe we can talk. Until then, keep your ass to yourselves.

THE LATEST: Dem darling, Barack Obama, is carefully and critically appraised in the November Harper's by Ken Silverstein. Well worth a read, though you must have the print edition to do so. And, surprise of surprises, Obama's camp didn't take kindly to some of Silverstein's observations, and responded in kind. That, along with Ken's reaction, may be read online here.

The Inexplicable Origins of Honest Laughter

In addition to the Frugday video twist and shout, there are two additions to your Son's blogroll. Steven Poole I got to know when he did some guest writing at Crooked Timber, and as we exchanged pleasantries, I happened to notice that the Son was on his blogroll. Now, I may not hold some fancy framed degree from one of those elite educational institutions that everyone drones on and on about, nor do I swan about the higher echelons of polite society, monocle in place, martini in hand. But damn it, I do know one thing -- if someone links to you, and you enjoy what it is they do where you are linked, then by God you better return the favor and pronto, or else consider yourself one of those odd little squiggly bits that get lodged in the hip pocket of an old winter coat that you've dusted off in preparation for the change in season. So, I've added Steven's site, and in an effort to be even less squiggly, I've included Lance Mannion, another Son linker, as well.

Like me, Lance loves sketch comedy, so our linking is a natural. Politically, Lance is a bit softer on the Dems than am I, but the power of comedy love can overcome pretty much any ideological difference, even in a midterm year. Plus, Lance and I are among the 12 people who regularly watch both "Studio 60" and "30 Rock," so our affinity on that front practically screams out for mutual linkage.

Of the two mock "SNL" shows, I must say that I like "Studio 60" more than Tina Fey's "That Comedy Girl" effort. While the sketches within the show within the show are amazingly sterile (so much for Mark McKinney of The Kids In The Hall overseeing that part of it), Aaron Sorkin clearly has affection for old comedy, as seen in last week's episode, with references to Abbott and Costello and the World War II-era musical/comedy revue "Tars and Spars," which featured a young Sid Caesar. If the mock sketch comedy is gonna suck tile, then I suppose obscure comedy references will have to suffice. Still, if Sorkin's going retro on that front, how about conversations about Fred Allen, Ernie Kovacs, Pigmeat Markham, John Bunny, Lucille Kallen, Bob Schiller, Nat Hiken, Thelma Todd, and Raymond Griffith? If nothing else, the "Studio 60" staff will be extremely knowledgeable about their comedy ancestors, even if they cannot conceive a decent contemporary sketch.

I sincerely doubt that Tina Fey, or anyone associated with "30 Rock" (with the possible exceptions of Alec Baldwin and Lorne Michaels), would know anything substantial about the above comics and writers. Fey's show is so lightly written that it merely drifts from scene to scene, unconnected to anything intellectually solid. In fact, for a project that's supposedly Fey's personal showcase, Fey herself is pretty beside the point. Baldwin and Tracy Morgan own "30 Rock" and bring to life whatever life is to be wrung from those weak scripts. I suspect that wasn't the idea going in, but who knows. And apart from me, Lance, and assorted comedy geeks here and there, I don't see what audience "30 Rock" is trying to reach. I did smile at the "parody" of the dorky writer and his sketch where guys in bear suits fight a robot; but this has been parodied before on "The Simpsons," and for Fey to jab at this kind of comedy is a bit disingenuous, given the nearly-identical bits she oversaw as head writer on "SNL." Perhaps she's purging herself of those comedy toxins. Next week: oral sex double entendres?

And speaking of "SNL," tomorrow's edition will be hosted by the first-rate English comic actor Hugh Laurie. This is a first for Laurie's generation, which includes Emma Thompson, Robbie Coltrane, Ben Elton, Rik Mayall, Ade Edmonson, Dawn French, Jennifer Saunders, Rowan Atkinson, and of course Laurie's long-time comedy partner, Stephen Fry. None of these talents has appeared on "SNL," which is probably a good thing, overall. The styles of comedy are too disparate, and in most cases, it's the Brits who are funnier and more inventive than the bears-fighting-robots crowd. Given the present sorry state of "SNL," I cannot imagine what shit they've shoveled onto Laurie's lap, but we'll know tomorrow night. I shouldn't watch, but I will, as the potential for extremely bad comedy is too great to pass up. Schadenfreude is one of my weaknesses, as well as my drag queen name.

Here are some non-"SNL" Hugh Laurie bits, the first few with Stephen Fry:







And then Laurie and Fry, along with Rowan Atkinson, Tim McInnerny and Tony Robinson, in the final episode of "Blackadder Goes Forth," which took place in a frontline trench during World War I. Ben Elton's and Richard Curtis's script is savagely funny, absurd, and in the end, quite sad, as the reality of mass slaughter approaches the main characters. One wishes that a new "Blackadder" series set in Iraq would be produced, though it would be tough to keep the laughs coming in that God-forsaken setting. But then, as O'Donoghue put it, making people laugh is the lowest form of comedy.







And while we're on the topic of Brit comics on bad American TV shows, here's a little gem I found -- the Monty Python team (minus John Cleese) on "AMerica," ABC's precursor to "Good Morning, America." This aired April 25, 1975, when the Pythons were still unknown to much of the States. They are promoting the American premiere of "Monty Python and the Holy Grail," which they use as an excuse to overtake the studio. But note the terse expression on news anchor Peter Jennings's face. It's clear that he doesn't find the Pythons terribly amusing, especially given that he's reporting on the North Vietnamese about to enter Saigon, from which the US withdrew only 10 days before. There's an eeriness to those news segments about Southeast Asia, at that moment still reeling from years of US bombing. And of course in Cambodia, the Khmer Rouge was just getting started on their rural project, the extent of which could not have been known at the time of this broadcast. But we here in the future know all about it, and it makes the Pythons appear clueless and callous, an unfair judgment given the context of their appearance. After all, what will the YouTubers of 2027 say about "30 Rock" when setting it against the mass killing of its time? Impossible to know, but just the thought that people twenty years from now might actually watch a show that few are currently watching is sad enough. Get a life, future people!

Kicking The Ass -- Part I

Whenever I knock liberals in general, and Dems specifically, those among the faithful who respond say that I live in a fantasy world, that I'm a Naderite, that I'm an overgrown campus radical who never got enough Lenin, that I hate democracy, that I don't understand how the Two Party System works. To them, the Star Spangled mule, for all its stumbling about, is the only progressive ride in town. And we who throw rotting fruit at the poor thing are not only being selfish and cruel, we're setting the mule up to be crushed by the rampaging elephant, which humanity can no longer afford.

And yabba yab. You know the narrative.

Still, I won't protest too much about these and other characterizations. It comes with the turf when opining. But with the 11th hour wailing from online & talk radio libs about how the '06 midterms might be -- no, are -- the most important elections in our very lifetimes (be sure to cross yourself before you vote!), perhaps it's time to show you loyal mule riders how I arrived at my present position, such as it is.

As noted here before, I grew up in a largely apolitical home, though my mother, around the time she and my father divorced, got active in Indianapolis Republican campaigns (she worked for Richard Lugar's successful mayoral run and was a big fan of him as Senator, until recently, when she informed me that Lugar is now a "socialist"). When I went to live with my father, his second wife was a dye-in-wool Kennedy liberal, and my exposure to her politics had an effect. In the 1980 presidential campaign, my first, I supported Ted Kennedy's challenge to Jimmy Carter's incumbency. While Kennedy won the New York primary, which seemed huge at the time, he fell way short of toppling Carter from the Dem ticket. Faced with a Carter/Reagan contest, a lot of young disaffected libs like myself ended up in John Anderson's camp, the liberal Repub who thought Reagan was a disaster for the GOP. I worked on Anderson's campaign with plenty of enthusiasm, though no one in our office thought Anderson had a shot (and if I had to do it over, I would've supported Barry Commoner of the Citizens Party). We simply could not work for Carter who, in his drift to the right, reinstated draft registration, which didn't effect me since I was already in the Army. But it was the principle of the thing, and we believed that Carter was caving in too much to Reagan, while at least Anderson put up a fight, however symbolic.

In 1984, I was living on Manhattan's Upper East Side with an older, sexy actress and part-time model who was a Southern Dem through and through. By this point in time, I had witnessed first-hand the Sanctuary Movement, which operated an underground railroad of sorts, getting Salvadoran and Guatemalan refugees into Canada, and was increasingly involved in Central American issues, as well as nuclear disarmament activism (I'd done door-to-door canvassing for SANE/Freeze on Long Island and in New Jersey -- and was chased out of more than a few yards). Needless to say, supporting Walter Mondale or Gary Hart was the furthest thing from my mind, though I did have friends who worked on Jesse Jackson's campaign, who at least made some critical mention of Reagan's death squad policy in the Americas (when not sticking his foot in his mouth via "Hymietown"). Being militantly atheist, I couldn't get with a preacher running for president, no matter how much I agreed with Jackson's positions.

Once Mondale locked down the Dem nomination and picked Geraldine Ferraro as his historic running mate, my lib girlfriend went Mondale mad. We had Mondale/Ferraro stickers all over our apartment, and she insisted that I wear a big red, white and blue button promoting the ticket, which I didn't want to do, since the Dems were complicit in mass murder in Central America. This caused considerable tension between us, which affected our, er, "intimate" relationship. This was too much for me to endure, as I was insanely hot for her. And so, I wore the button during the last weeks of Mondale's doomed campaign, and voted, as promised, for the Dem ticket, which lost New York state. It was the first and only time I voted with my dick. It was worth it in the short run, even though she dumped me about five months later.

In 1986, I worked for Mark Green's New York Senate campaign against Al D'Amato, though I wondered at the time how seriously Green took the election. He was stable during the debates, but lacked a killer instinct and allowed D'Amato to walk all over him. Also, in private, Green was pretty unbearable, his egomania and clear careerist ambition overshadowing what many of us felt were more pressing issues, like Central America, South Africa, abortion rights and the drug war. Green made all the right noises, yet never seemed to follow through with any substance. And of course, he was flattened in the general election.

By 1988, I had had it with the American political system, and with the Dems especially, who made no attempt to impeach Reagan over Iran/contra, which I found scandalous and spineless. To make matters worse, the Dems nominated Michael Dukakis, who would not rule out an American invasion of Nicaragua. But then, he wouldn't have the hypothetical killer of his wife, Kitty, executed either, so some "progressive" tendencies were ostensibly present. Nevertheless, Dukakis ran a horrible campaign against a very beatable George Herbert Walker Bush, and this drove those Dems I knew nuts. Still, they remained loyal to the mule, even though the stupid animal kept running into walls and kicking at air. And, in return, Dukakis had his ass stomped by an emaciated pachyderm. One of the sorriest spectacles I've ever witnessed.

In 1992, I was briefly taken with Jerry Brown's campaign. Although I had many problems with him, Brown spoke about the undemocratic nature of major campaigns, and lambasted the role of corporate money in deciding them. He made Paul Tsongas and Bill Clinton look like the party hacks and corporate shills they were, and for a moment it appeared as if the Dem primaries might actually mean something, especially after Brown beat Clinton in Connecticut. But Brown's suggestion that if he snagged the nomination he would consider Jesse Jackson as his running mate hurt him in mainstream circles. And just before the New York and Wisconsin primaries, ABC News and "Nightline" reported that drug parties were taking place in one of Brown's residences, even though he wasn't present for the fun. This "story" came and went after Clinton narrowly edged out Brown in both states, and it was suspected that pro-Clinton operatives planted this "news flash" in order to give their candidate the extra help he needed to stave off Brown's strong showing. There was no hard evidence that these parties existed; and naturally Brown, as anti-drug as you could get, angrily denied them. Yet, Clinton got the edge he needed, and went on to win the nomination.

It was then I first saw that Clinton was an amoral hustler who would do anything to grab power, which he shamelessly did. But what really floored me, though it shouldn't have, was how many left-liberals were deeply in love with him. It made no sense to me, especially with Clinton using Reaganite appeals to win votes. As I repeatedly told my lib friends who swooned at the mere mention of the man from Hot Springs, it was Clinton, not Bush, and certainly not Ross Perot, who was Reagan's true political heir. Serious Clintonites didn't run from this assessment, but many fawning libs tried to play this down, no matter how obvious it was. And when cornered, all they could say was that, yes, maybe Big Bill is running a Reagan Lite campaign. But that's where the votes are! Once he gets in, he'll have no need for that cover and will be free to unleash the true progressive within!

Well, we saw how that worked out -- or not, depending on one's level of Clintonphilia. But if Bill Clinton was/is what his lib followers insist he was/is, there would have been no need for Aaron Sorkin's fantasy Clintons played by Michael Douglas and Martin Sheen. Why pretend if the reality was as wonderful as liberals maintain?

That's all I have time to tap out today. I'll conclude this post early next week, just as midterm mania reaches its peak. Besides, there are Friday videos to select. Must keep matters in proper perspective.

If I May Be So Brief

A quiet, lull day today. The boy's at home, under the weather, which continues to be gray, cold, and remote, much like many of the natives who've grown up with this shit. I'm not feeling 100% myself, and a quick read of the morning headlines does not help. Plus, the Tigers got shut-out. Blaaah to it all.

In moments like this, comfort can be found in John Coltrane's music. So here's "Afro Blue," from the early-60s TV show "Jazz Causal," hosted by the writer Ralph Gleason who, sitting at McCoy Tyner's piano, looks like Dennis the Menace's dad popping by the studio on his way home from work. Rounding out the scene are of course Jimmy Garrison and Elvin Jones.

Rightwinging It

Finally caught "Mr. Conservative," the HBO bio-pic about Barry Goldwater, over the weekend. If you, like me, enjoy American political history, then this film is a must-see. Not that it's flawless or free of schmaltz: like most American profiles, "Mr. Conservative" tends toward the melodramatic in order to heighten its appeal. And when shown the private Goldwater, we discover that the grizzled rightwinger was a softie in many ways, had respect for the Hopi and Navajo of Arizona, and was, as his sons put it, a "gadget freak," constantly tinkering with various mechanical inventions. Goldwater also found it hard to convey his love for at least one of his sons, Barry Jr., who mists up when recalling the old man's icy demeanor.

I sincerely found that last part rather touching; it was one of the few personal recollections that rang true for me. The majority of revelations in this film are somewhat hagiographic, and soon we are given the impression that the US lost out by not electing Barry Goldwater as president in 1964. Even Robert MacNeil, who covered the Goldwater campaign for NBC News, admits that in retrospect, President Goldwater would have done a much better job at running the country than did Lyndon Johnson. And it is here, as well as in much of the favorable political assessments by the Washington Post's Ben Bradlee, his wife Sally Quinn, James Carville, John Dean and George Will, that we see, in living color, the ultimate insider fix of the American system.

Far from being too way-out for "rational" Americans, Goldwater was just ahead of the political curve. If JFK hadn't been assassinated, the '64 race might have been closer than it was. Kennedy and Goldwater were friends, and each looked forward to a campaign where they would travel across the country together and publicly debate their differences. This would've elevated Goldwater considerably on the political stage. But after that deadly day in Dallas, and facing a ruthless LBJ running on JFK's memory (and this film reminds us of what a cut-throat campaigner Johnson was), Goldwater had no chance to win that election. But his defeat re-energized a rightwing movement that eventually culminated in Reagan's 1980 victory (though by 1987, some of the original Goldwaterites denounced Reagan for becoming too chummy with Mikhail Gorbachev -- Howard Phillips called Reagan a "dupe" for "Kremlin propaganda"), and now lies dying in Iraqi sand and expanded domestic state power, a point that is made in the film by John Dean.

Throughout "Mr. Conservative," Goldwater is described, and sometimes gently admonished in relation to the Civil Rights movement, as a staunch libertarian. In many respects, this was so, especially with his dim view of the religious right, and his later embrace of abortion and queer rights (his openly gay grandson talks favorably about their relationship). Goldwater seemed to seriously believe in the right to privacy, and it's suggested that he would oppose legislation like the Patriot Act and the Military Commissions Act, which is certainly feasible. But unlike the young libertarians of the 1960s, Goldwater was fully behind the US assault on Vietnam, and even called for the use of nuclear weapons as a form of de-forestation, so US pilots could get a better look at what they were bombing. On this front alone, it's probably a good thing that he lost to LBJ, though given Johnson's murderous aggression, the difference is thinly split. Still, whatever LBJ's numerous war crimes, he wasn't crazy enough to start a world war over Vietnam. John McCain says that Goldwater told him that if he, Goldwater, had been president, McCain wouldn't have languished in a North Vietnamese cell. McCain agreed -- he would've languished in a Chinese cell instead.

While not the main focus of the film, Goldwater's libertarianism, and those he influenced, would have been interesting to further explore. Acolytes like Karl Hess, a Goldwater speechwriter during the '64 campaign, followed his anti-statist beliefs right into the antiwar movement of the late-1960s. Indeed, Hess, became a figurehead himself to those young rightists who saw nothing "conservative" about supporting the bombing of Vietnam, nor of the military draft that kept the war going, a form of "slavery" that more and more of them denounced. The rightwing youth movement eventually split over Vietnam and the draft at the Young Americans for Freedom national convention in St. Louis in 1969. The larger reactionary wing, which followed the pro-war line set down by the group's co-founder William F. Buckley, were appalled by the YAF's libertarian wing, which not only loudly opposed the war, but burned a draft card on the convention floor to emphasize their antiwar position. Karl Hess, in support of these students, challenged Buckley to a debate about the war in front of the entire YAF, a challenge that Buckley dismissed. Too bad -- it would've been an entertaining, informative spectacle to witness, and would've added to the political tumult that shook the national scene at the time. And while Buckley might've won on style points, Hess would've riddled Buckley with far more substantive arguments, which is why, I suspect, Buckley didn't take the bait. It's one thing to wrestle liberals and lefties on a quiet TV set, or call Gore Vidal a "queer" within earshot of Howard K. Smith; it's quite another to go hand-to-hand with someone who worked closely with Goldwater and risk losing face before a raucous, divided crowd of young rightwingers.

To me, rightwing politics of the 1960s (which also included George Wallace) are just as fascinating as the various leftwing challenges to the status quo of the same period -- in many respects, more so. "Mr. Conservative" offers a mere whiff of what Barry Goldwater set in motion, and the reactions he inspired. The film, worth seeing for the 1964 campaign footage alone, is an apolitical celebrity portrait that reinforces the dominant political system instead of examining how it came to be. In other words, it's as American as you can get.

Limits Of Denial

More mayhem, chaos and mass murder in Iraq over the weekend, brutality so redundant at this point that even mentioning its redundancy is redundant. Every day we read another headline of 44 killed here, 37 bombed there, 15 US soldiers killed the other day with more dying today and tomorrow. And on and on it goes. Bush, of course, is stubbornly oblivious -- indeed, criminally so, as he pushes his arrogant and stupid policy, to borrow from US State Department official Alberto Fernandez. It appears that Bush is going to grind out this disaster up to the minute when he relinquishes his control, handing his successor a rotting, bloody corpse before he heads out the door and into a lucrative private life.

For us out here, however, there is little it seems we can do, or desire to do, for that matter. I've harped on the general inaction by the majority of Americans in reaction to this daily outrage, as well as the determined effort to remain as oblivious as Bush. Still, I wonder if averted eyes and hands cupped over ears seriously works anymore. A vast number of Americans have no fucking clue about the modern Middle and Near East, much less its recent history, but this doesn't necessarily mean that the endless reports of barbarism and despair aren't seeping into people's unconscious. There seems to me a growing ugliness and unease in Americans, more so than usual, though there are other factors to consider, like the economy, which in my part of the country is in shitty shape. White collar jobs are being eliminated or compressed, and the blue collar world struggles as it usually does. Add a seemingly endless war into this mix and people begin feel the pressure. I see this nearly every day. It breaks your heart when not contributing to a low level of fear and anxiety.

Take the note that the boy brought home from school late last week. I can't go into great detail, but his school and another one nearby have received written threats. Local police are investigating, and the school's administration urges calm, but I'm sorry, this is pretty unsettling. Now, it might well be some young assholes playing "domestic terrorist," like that dipshit kid in Milwaukee who "planned" to detonate dirty bombs in various NFL stadiums. Then again, it might not. The school is essentially locked down during the day, and care is taken when the kids go out for recess. Our son hasn't said anything to us about it, nor we to him, so I don't know how aware he is of any conceivable threat. But after what happened to those Amish girls in Pennsylvania, let's just say that I'm not feeling all that secure at the moment. There are a lot of privately-owned weapons in Michigan, owing to the state's huge deer hunting industry. It wouldn't take much for some lunatic to walk into a local school and start killing kids. Again, I'm probably overreacting, and I hope that's the case. But as I've said before, this is an especially violent, desperate time. And receiving notes about possible threats from the hand of my young boy does little to soothe this old man's nerves.

Unlike Bush, we the average people cannot afford to live in denial, to the extent that denial is even viable anymore. Like so much else in American life, pretending that things are swell is increasingly reserved for those who can buy their way out of the nightmare. The rest of us must experience it with open, bloodshot eyes.

Healthy Distractions

Before we get to our weekly video hoedown, let me again thank all of you who helped out this week. If I haven't contacted you personally, it's nothing personal. I'm swamped with other things as it is, and the amount of mail I received was staggering, but bracing, so just know that I'm deeply touched and will continue to crank out whatever it is I'm cranking out. Such is my condition.

I'm sure you've seen Billmon's self-criticism in the face of Riverbend's online return. I agree with his take, and have uttered similar feelings in this space. For all the critical words we tap out, the butchery continues in our name, fueled with our bucks. Blogs cannot stop imperial war nor torture. That takes political pressure of a kind that doesn't currently exist on Capitol Hill. It takes an angry citizenry fed up with the bullshit and bloodshed, and out here in mall-land, you just don't see it. Polls may say that a majority of Americans oppose the Iraq war, but as I've asked so many times before, when was the last time you heard someone in your neighborhood, at your kids' school, at the farmer's market, at the video store, say anything remotely direct and passionate about what's going on? Hell, Bush just signed one of the most horrific bills in this country's history, but where's an effective opposition? At least Billmon is saying something, as are a good number of bloggers. But there's only so much awareness we can raise. If the general public wants to sleep through this nightmare in the hopes that they'll wake up to sunshine and bluebirds, how are we supposed to rouse them?

At the risk of appearing to aid this national slumber, I present to you this week's video offerings, culled in the dead of night, my office illuminated solely by my screen. As always, there are sketches, but I've mixed in some other items because I'm in an impish, rakish mood. For all you know, I could be wearing a little green elf costume, dancing around my desk, playing the Pan flute, chortling at these visual delights. But if this were the case, you probably wouldn't want to know about it. Right? Right.

As a follow-up to yesterday's rather bitchy post, here's Bill Murray, along with Chevy Chase, returning to SNL to shill for "The Quotable Caddyshack," a film that was written, as Murray reminds us, by his brother Brian "and two other guys." Yeah -- what were their names again?



Here's another "Exit 57" sketch I really like. It peels away the phony friendly banter that parents too often engage in. And there's a hint that some attempted swinging is going on off-camera, another suburban past time that is usually kept hidden, unless it can be used to make serious dough via a pay-per-view website. In my single days, I knew a couple of married couples who were into this, and I may write about their strange behavior down the road. Until then, enjoy Paul Dinello, Jodi Lennon, Amy Sedaris and Stephen Colbert as they let their feelings flow.



Much has been said and written about William Shatner's interpretations of popular songs. But nothing compares to just watching the man in action, and here he is making Elton John's "Rocket Man" his own. And being introduced by the song's composer, Bernie Taupin, is an added bonus, though it would be interesting to know what Taupin thought of Shatner's performance. To me, Kirk outbeats the Beats.



In the early days of this blog, I posted a link to Crispin Glover's infamous Letterman appearance. But that was long before I went YouTube; and since many of you reacted favorably to my more recent Glover posting, and in honor of the wife, who for my birthday bought me Glover's classic CD, "The Big Problem Does Not Equal the Solution. The Solution = Let It Be" (which makes my son happy and drives him nuts simultaneously -- "This is a disturbing album, Dad"), here again is that very funny appearance (vid quality is so-so). Call me an old man throwing rocks at those damn kids in my yard, but who does stuff like this anymore?



Okay. Now I'm going little boy on you.

When I was a kid attending Catholic school, there was nothing cooler than a group of boys who called themselves the Green Hornets. The ABC show was airing at the time, and of course you could buy or send away for all sorts of "Green Hornet" merchandise. The Hornet boys all had these great rings that featured the animated Green Hornet that appeared during the show's opening credits:



So I figured that if I got a ring of my own, I could join the Hornets, which I desperately wanted to do. It took weeks to convince my Mom to buy a Hornet ring, and when she finally relented, I thought I was in. During lunch recess the next school day, I made my move and flashed my ring to the group.

"Get lost, Perrin. You can't join us."

Fucking Papists.

The Hornet ring retained its coolness for a brief time, but with no group to share it with, it soon became meaningless, and I tossed it. Still, "The Green Hornet" itself never lost its heat in my young mind. How could it? I mean, it featured the then-unknown Bruce Lee as Kato, who was the first American TV character to use martial arts, in Kato's case, gung-fu. Here's a few minutes from a longer episode I found. No need to get into the storyline, as that was always secondary to Kato kicking ass.



While searching for this the other day, I came across a fan film that updated "The Green Hornet," though in certain respects, it owes more to the 1940s serial version (which featured a young Keye Luke as Kato) than the 1960s TV show. But the fight scenes are beautifully choreographed (though terribly unrealistic -- the Hornet and Kato would be mowed down by automatic fire, but who's complaining?). And in this version, the Hornet himself employs martial arts as well. It's about bloody time.

Laughing Stock

When my bio of Michael O'Donoghue, "Mr. Mike," came out, most of the reviews fell between two critical guidelines: 1) a book about a humorist should be funny (author must match subject gag for gag); and 2) analyzing comedy ruins the joke. The first guideline was simply absurd and pointless, since I was writing about O'Donoghue's life and how it informed his humor, not all of it stellar or fully-realized. But the second guideline, when employed, exposed a lack of direct comedy experience in the reviewer. No one analyzes humor more than humorists and comedians. The very wording of a joke is carefully considered for rhythm and maximum punch. If you've ever sat around with comics after hours, you'd hear concepts and jokes broken down to their barest roots. Why certain words are funnier than others. Whether or not "cocksucker" can be ironic. And so on.

All this came back to me when I read Virginia Heffernan's New York Times review of "A Futile and Stupid Gesture: How Doug Kenney and National Lampoon Changed Comedy Forever." The book, written by Josh Karp, is mostly a bio of Doug Kenney, something few of us who follow comedy thought we'd ever see. That alone makes it worth reading. But the book also explores the vast cultural impact made by the Lampoon, and takes us into the bowels of the mag long after Kenney left for Hollywood. It's the first account that assesses the humor of someone like Ted Mann, a lesser-known but first-rate writer (Mann, too, ended up in Hollywood, working on shows like "NYPD Blue" and "Deadwood"). And it shows us, close up, the slow, inevitable death of the Lampoon, now embalmed online as a mainstream comedy marketing tool.

By way of disclosure, Josh Karp and I are friends, and we extensively discussed "A Futile and Stupid Gesture" while it was still in manuscript stage. Indeed, I probably know this book better than anyone other than Josh and his editor. And knowing it as I do, I can say without hesitation that Virginia Heffernan doesn't know what the fuck she's talking about.

In fact, I doubt that Heffernan read the book at all, or if she did, her comprehension is in need of serious repair. Her entire review is wrong on so many fronts that one can randomly scroll to any sentence and find something amiss. For our purposes, the following segments will suffice.

"So what did [Doug] Kenney and National Lampoon actually change? Well, for one, Kenney and his jerky clowns — in creating a magazine that begat a stage show, a television show ('Saturday Night Live') and a movie franchise — staple-gunned a certain kind of absurdist conceptual humor to gross-out jokes about puking, violence and masturbation. That worked well."

It's clear from the outset that Heffernan is unfamiliar with the early Lampoon. If she went back and read a few issues from, say, 1971, '72 or '73, she would immediately discover satires of classical literature and pulp fiction, high concept parodies of comic books, anti-corporate and anti-war assaults, as well as attacks on "rock and roll pigs" (O'Donoghue's specialty) and literal-minded counterculture types. Indeed, these treatments, and others like them, heavily outweigh any "gross-out jokes about puking, violence and masturbation," to the degree that jokes like that can be found. But then, this would require that Heffernan actually do some research for her review, instead of pulling random observations out of her ass. But then again, this is the New York Times we're dealing with here.

Heffernan continues:

"From the moment [Kenney] and his enigmatic Harvard classmate, Henry Beard, signed on with Matty Simmons, then merely the publisher of 'Weight Watchers' magazine, to take The Harvard Lampoon national, they seemed to enter into a stoned and never ending bull session. They cracked each other up, and though their knockout one-liners seem slightly less uproarious on paper, they considered themselves and their recruits — sharpies like Michael O’Donoghue, Brian McConnachie and Sean Kelly — to be comedy’s leading edge."

Well, as they say, humor is subjective, and Heffernan clearly dislikes the Lampoon brand. Fair enough. But if the Lampoon wasn't "comedy's leading edge" in those early years, then what was? Carol Burnett? Mad magazine? Cantinflas? One could nominate Monty Python, though at that time, the group was largely unknown in the States. Still, Python and Lampoon, while innovative in their own ways, mined extremely different comedic areas. George Carlin I can see, while Richard Pryor really didn't get rolling until '73/'74, several years after the Lampoon made its mark. Looking back to that period, it's difficult to find anyone who did what the Lampoon did on a regular basis, which is why it attracted the top flight talent of the time. To Heffernan, however, these "sharpies" aren't all that impressive. To the contrary, they seem to disgust her:

"More than 100 interviews went into the making of this book; so much tape-transcribing must have been miserable, to say nothing of listening to so many loudmouths tell their life stories. The sophomore pose Karp must have affected when listening to bumptious showoffs like Tony Hendra and Chevy Chase talk about their glory days was surely equally demanding; unfortunately, he reprises that naïveté in the voice of the book. In fact, Karp seems to have come away from talking to these old comics and hustlers, many of them famously bad company, without forming any opinion of them, except that to a man they were larger than life. That’s too much larger-than-life. Not everyone can be romantic, tragic, glamorous and brilliant — and yet almost everyone here is. For a gang that purported to hate pretense, it’s hard to think of a group more intent on self-exaltation."

Allow the hostility of that paragraph to sink in for a moment. Clearly, Heffernan has issues with the Lampoon crowd and aesthetic. Where this comes from is not fully addressed, but I'm guessing it doesn't stem from personal experience with the above-mentioned "loudmouths," "bumptious showoffs," and "hustlers" who are "famously bad company." Like Josh, I too spent a lot of time with many of these same people; and while a certain egocentric vibe definitely exists, Lampoon vets like Hendra, McConnachie, Kelly, Chris Cerf, George W. S. Trow, and Ann Beatts were entertaining, intelligent, engaging company, and I'm very happy to have talked with, and in certain cases, gotten drunk with these humorists. I knew Michael O'Donoghue a bit better than the rest, and though periodically a drama queen, he was also very smart, generous and warm. And of all the interviews I conducted, Chevy Chase was perhaps the most forthcoming and least self-conscious. You wouldn't know from all the bad movies he's made, but in private, Chevy's a pretty funny guy and extremely intelligent. Indeed, we still talk on occasion.

So, again, it appears that Heffernan's angry, dismissive tone is based on nothing other than her own bias, or perhaps something someone told her. If she had direct contact with any or all of those she trashes, it would be interesting to know what they did or said to set her off so.

But for sheer absurdity, nothing beats Heffernan's closing graf:

"And that’s where P. J. O’Rourke comes in handy. Along with the brilliant Bruce McCall, O’Rourke is probably the most resilient comedy writer to come out of the early National Lampoon. He saw through the anarchists’ narcissism, and has been satirizing it for years in 'Rolling Stone' and elsewhere. But the conservative O’Rourke was reviled by the Lampoon staff, who saw themselves as consummately left-wing — or disorganized, or real, or drunk, or something. For his pains, O’Rourke, who was more professional than they, and more reliably funny, won the indignation of his colleagues, whom he later left in the dust. If anyone 'changed comedy forever,' it was O’Rourke."

Talk about swinging for the fences!

Heffernan's ignorance on this front, coupled with her tone-deaf approach to comedy, is remarkable to witness. It's so unbelievably bad that it's almost beautiful. But let's remember that without Doug Kenney or Michael O'Donoghue, there would be no P.J. O'Rourke -- certainly not as a comedy writer. O'Rourke shamelessly copied Kenney and O'Donoghue, and did whatever shit work needed to be done in order to be close to them. Kenney didn't revile O'Rourke, and neither did O'Donoghue; each took the young writer under their wing to assist on whatever project they were assigned. To this day, O'Rourke credits those two mentors for his initial formation, and I seriously doubt that he would endorse Heffernan's dismissal of their talent and influence. (In a televised interview, O'Rourke rejected his questioner's insistence that he was one of the key movers behind the early Lampoon -- "I was in a room full of geniuses," replied O'Rourke.)

It is true that other Lampoon editors, namely Tony Hendra and Sean Kelly, were hostile toward O'Rourke, and this had as much to do with O'Rourke's rise in Matty Simmons' estimation as did his increasingly reactionary humor. Hendra and Kelly were astonished and disgusted by O'Rourke's editorial rise; and rather than submit to his rule, Hendra and Kelly left the Lampoon to co-create various humor projects of their own.

With his power fully consolidated, O'Rourke steered the Lampoon to the right. But his was not an Albert Jay Nock/Menckenesque maneuver -- it was a crude trashing of liberal sensibilities for the sake of easy shock and outrageousness. Under O'Rourke, the Lampoon gratuitously referred to "niggers," "spics," "faggots," "greaseballs," "sand jockeys," and "gooks." And not in any satirical or ironical way. This was simple name-calling and scapegoating, an in-your-face "We're better than you and we will destroy you" mindset (as O'Rourke himself put it in a Time profile). In due course, O'Rourke turned the Lampoon's guns away from elite and powerful targets and trained them on minorities, gays and women. In this sense, O'Rourke did indeed "change comedy," but not in the exalted way that Heffernan suggests. O'Rourke's Lampoon set the stage for campus knock-offs like the Dartmouth Review (which was even cruder and nastier in its humor), and the diversity-hating, corporate-hugging meanness of the 1980s, of which O'Rourke was a leading voice, in Rolling Stone, The American Spectator, and in his numerous books. Today, in Terror America, O'Rourke's legacy lives on in Ann Coulter, Michael Savage and Dennis Miller.

Doug Kenney, on the other hand, displayed a more textured approach. Far from being the fart, puke and jerk off specialist of Heffernan's imagination, Kenney wrote about class relations and possessed a deep hatred for official narratives and the hypocrisy that propels them. "Animal House" (co-written with Chris Miller and Harold Ramis) exhibited much of this scorn, as did, to a lesser degree, "Caddyshack" (co-written with Ramis and Brian Doyle-Murray). Kenney wasn't pleased with the latter film. In fact, he hated it so much that it helped (along with cocaine) to send him into a self-destructive spiral that may or may not have contributed to his death in 1980. His falling off that Hawaiian cliff prevented us from ever knowing how Kenney would've affected the 80s humor that O'Rourke anticipated and helped to usher in. But in the end, Kenney's sensibility, along with O'Donoghue and the early Lampoon overall, made a serious comeback in the work of Jack Handey, George Meyer, Robert Smigel, "The Simpsons," "King of the Hill," "South Park," "Family Guy," as well as "The Daily Show" and "The Colbert Report." Heffernan may not find any of these people or productions funny or worth her attention. But to say that P.J. O'Rourke made all this possible is laughable in the extreme, though I will give her credit -- Heffernan saved her best joke for last.

WATCH: This little clip from "Caddyshack." Doug Kenney and Bill Murray collaborated on this monologue, in which you will not hear one fart or masturbation line. Must have been an off day.

War Games

Crisp spiral pass against intense blue sky. Red, orange and gold leaves flutter and fall as the ball lands in the boy's outstretched hands.

"Touchdown!!" he yells, spiking the ball on the driveway/end zone.

My son doesn't like to watch football on TV, and really doesn't understand its allure. Too violent and war-like for his taste. But he loves playing catch in the front yard; and his long legs and long arms make him a natural wide receiver. Yet, as you know, he lacks the killer instinct required for this game, and prefers the fantasy of scoring last-second TDs to the cheers of invisible fans.

I really enjoy this too, the old QB, barking out signals and audibles, hitting my receiver for six while barely avoiding a sack and ten-yard loss. I'm just as into it as is the boy, probably more so, for this takes me back to his age, when there were two professional football leagues, and I always rooted for the smaller, newer one. Back then, I doubled as both QB and receiver, throwing to myself, making my receiver-side dash and dive for the ball. I played whole games that way, with the AFL always beating the NFL, and always at the last minute. It was John Hadl to Lance Alworth, Daryle Lamonica to Fred Biletnikoff, Len Dawson to Otis Taylor, and of course Joe Namath to Don Maynard and George Sauer, with Matt Snell coming out of the backfield. While I took it far more seriously then than my son does now, I was, like him, fantasizing about a warrior game at a time when a real war was raging overseas.

I knew about Vietnam, but nothing substantive. I'd overhear TV news reports about the latest fighting, the cities Saigon and Hanoi mere buzzwords to my young ears. No one in my family really talked about the war. My mother was very much for it. My earliest political memory is of her putting a pro-Nixon bumpersticker on her car in 1968. My father never gave his opinion about what was happening in Southeast Asia, though he was young enough to have fought there. His having kids and getting married while still a teen saved him from the draft, and I don't think he wanted to dwell on what others his age were facing in the tall grass and mud. (Later, in the mid-70s, when I was in high school, Dad hired a bunch of Vietnam combat vets to work as bouncers at his nightclubs. These guys hung around our house quite a bit, came over for cookouts and pool parties, and it was then I began to really understand what Vietnam was all about, at least from an American perspective.) To me, it was all background noise. What really mattered was my fantasy sports games, which I played without having the slightest idea about those Vietnamese kids my age who were running for their very lives, and in countless cases, not making it.

Now, here we are, some 40 years later, and the same savage shit is going on. Only this time it's much worse, with our awareness of the brutality more immediate. Back then, it didn't take much to ignore the mass killing and torture, as there were more filters, and Americans of that generation weren't used to opposing imperial war from the get-go. Today, it takes a lot more effort to pretend not to know, which doesn't stop a lot of Americans from trying. Still, it can't be escaped, only denied.

My son is aware of Iraq, though not in any graphic or geopolitical sense. He just knows that people are killing and dying every day, and it bothers him. He asks me from time to time why it's happening and what will it take for it to end. I fudge the first part to a degree, since he's got enough to deal with preparing for middle school. I don't lie, but I don't reveal all that I know. As for how to end it, well, there I'm as lost as him. Concepts and scenarios abound, but we who pay attention are aware that this nightmare is nowhere near over; that further aggression is being planned and war-gamed as I type. If there's light at the end of the tunnel, it's blocked by a rising pile of bodies.

"I wish I could tell you how it ends, son," I say, "but I can't. It may still be going by the time you reach college."

He frowns; then says, "Well, at least we can still throw the football!"

Outside we go, immersed in bold, beautiful fall colors.

"Hit me Dad! I'm wide open!"

I sidearm a quick pass to escape the fantasy blitz. The boy reaches for the ball, tips it in the air with his right hand, runs under it as it bounces off his shoulder, onto the ground and back into both hands. He celebrates anyway.

"Touchdown!"

I smile as he dances in the leaves.

HOW IT LOOKED: Here's the first twenty minutes of Super Bowl III's second half. Pretty quaint by today's standards. And note the low-key approach to the game, which back then was seen by most as a post-season exhibition that promoted the NFL-AFL merger starting in the fall of 1970. All that changed with this game (called by the late, great Curt Gowdy, the voice of the AFL), as the New York Jets stunned the football world by beating the heavily-favored Baltimore Colts, 16-7, on January 12, 1969.

Dig the period commercials, as well as Bob Hope, there to promote an NBC special and the incoming Nixon administration. I watched this game alone in my Uncle Jim's basement. The adults were upstairs, playing cards. Nobody cared about this except me, twirling a football in my hands, experiencing what I often fantasized in my backyard.

Thank You

To everyone who came forward over the past few days, and to those who continue to do so. It is amazing and most humbling. Frankly, I'm a bit flabbergasted by the number of you who find worth in what I do. I really don't know what more to say than simply thank you. And added thanks to my friends Louis Proyect, Doug Henwood, and Jon Schwarz, who spread the word. In a vulnerable moment, it's nice to know who your comrades are.

So, dear friends and assorted Son watchers, we will return to our regularly scheduled programming in due course. The wicked world awaits.

Begging For Laughs

Guilt consumes me today. Guilt and a lingering pain in my lower guts. A major source of this is me still trying to get my head around those recent fatality estimates from Iraq. I read somewhere, by someone (don't recall as I've been all over the place in the past 24), that if we were to apply those Iraq death stats to the US, it would translate into something like 7.5 million dead Americans, per capita. Dunno if this is true, as math was my worst subject (thus killing my dream to be an astronaut), but if it's not seven and a half mil, it's gotta be in the millions, easily. And given how many Americans flip out at the slightest inconvenience, the retail killings alone would be mind-blowing. Imagine all those who own firearms suddenly free to do what they want to anyone who displeased them or got in their way, and no government force to stop them. A libertarian's dream, no doubt.

The other source of my guilt is that I must pull out the begging bowl and ask for donations. Things are very tight here in Son land. I won't go into all the particulars, but trust me when I say that the next month is gonna be a real nut-cruncher all around. My blue collar job, the one I work at night, may soon be gone or diminished in such a way that I might as well toil for minimum wage. In a sense, I'm kinda relieved, as I'd like to move back to the writing world I once inhabited and did well in. I'm trying to nail down a regular book reviewing gig with a major West Coast paper, but that shit takes time. Plus, a lot of editors, when they read my manias posted here, aren't in a terrible rush to hire someone like me. The beauty of blogs is that you can say anything you damn well please, no matter how fucked it is. That's also the downside, especially when looking for "regular" employment.

Anyway, I need whatever any of you can give. I have thousands of new readers who've just discovered the Son, and you keep coming back. If you find any worth in what I do, please help me through this rough patch. Unlike a lot of blogs, I write essays. I try to dig as deeply as I can into any given topic, though sometimes, like yesterday, my disgust and anger keeps me kicking dirt at the surface. That happens. I wear this blog on my sleeve. I don't hide behind an online persona or attitude. I give you what I can as honestly as I can, which at times makes me look like an idiot raver, but that's part of the ride. I've come to love this space and the people who read my musings. This is one of the best writing gigs I've ever had. A few extra bucks would make it even better.

I'm planning other things, including bringing ads to the Son. But for the short term, the PayPal button is there, if you are so inclined.

Okay. Enough groveling. Let's try to share the joy of laughter. It's Friday the 13th, after all.

I'm not a big Matt Stone/Trey Parker fan. I respect what they do, but their "Fuck everybody!" stance gets stale real fast, as in the overrated "Team America." But I did like the "South Park" movie, which remains one of the funniest things I've ever seen on the big screen. And this following clip about 9/11 conspiracies is equally as good.



Now, let's go back to "The Ben Stiller Show" which, while short-lived, was consistently well-written and acted. It also served as a lab of sorts for "Mr. Show", as Bob Odenkirk, fresh from the writing staff of "SNL", was able to display the on-screen comedic talent that Lorne Michaels felt wasn't right for his franchise, talent that would fully blossom on HBO alongside "Stiller" writer and bit player David Cross. Here Odenkirk plays Charles Manson as "Lassie", with Janeane Garofalo as the smiling 50s Mom, and Andy Dick as the repressed 50s Dad. Great stuff. And oddly enough, no Ben Stiller.



Further back we go, to October 25, 1975, the third episode of "NBC's Saturday Night", hosted by Rob Reiner. Andy Kaufman lip-syncs "Pop Goes The Weasel", which, like his Mighty Mouse routine, is not only brilliantly simple and pure, it's an adult extension of what Kaufman did in his bedroom as a kid. Recall that Kaufman actually auditioned to be in "SNL"'s original cast, and if you've seen his screen test (which I'm trying to locate online), it's clear that he didn't take the opportunity very seriously, clucking out a goofy version of the "Superman" TV show's opening narration in a weird, pseudo-Southern voice. But then, knowing Kaufman, maybe he was serious. Only his partner Bob Zmuda could say for sure.



While we're digging Andy Kaufman, it would be nice to see the complete phony "Fridays" sketch in which he broke character on live TV and caused a near-riot onstage. All I can find is this video summation of the incident, complete with the pertinent clips. As you'll see, the floor crew thought this was real. Only Michael Richards, producer John Moffitt and head writer Jack Burns were in on the gag, and when Burns picks a fight with Kaufman, the techies react as if it is actually going down.



And speaking of "Fridays", here's my favorite character from that show: Michael Richards as Battle Boy. With Melanie Chartoff as his little sister, and Maryedith Burrell as his screaming mother. The interesting thing about this clip is how much it resembles National Review editorial meetings. Ever wonder why Jonah Goldberg looks a little dusty?

Bullets In Heads

655,000.

You've seen this number, or figures close to it, all over the Web. You know what it is, and you know what it means.

We're all implicated. We're all covered in blood.

Naturally, there are deniers. To be expected. Many Americans are in denial about a good number of things, US foreign policy in particular. It amazes me, though it shouldn't, that to this day there are those Americans who cannot, will not, believe that we slaughtered millions in Southeast Asia. I've run into the incredulous on panels, and I've encountered them in private. For all the lip-smacking and arm-waving about Mahmoud Ahmadinejad's Holocaust denial, there's plenty of comparable moral blindness on our end, the major difference being that Ahmadinejad, so far as I know, had no hand in operating or supporting Nazi death camps. Americans can't say the same about those we've exterminated either by hand or through tax dollars and political support.

Southeast Asia.

Central America.

The Middle East.

Iraq.

Weeks ago, I linked to a story on the culture jammer Banksy placing a hooded Abu Ghraib figure in front of a Disneyland ride. A minor gesture about major crimes. I don't know what kind of effect that had on those who saw it, but I'd rather have something like that put up and quickly taken down than not have it up at all. We should have countless kindred displays nationwide, if only to remind, startle, sicken, sadden or anger our fellow citizens who choose not to think about what's going on in their name. It's not the same as working to end our murderous and corrupt foreign policy, but it's something. I may very well create my own local version of Banksy's concept, and if I do, you'll see it plastered here.

That's about all I can type today without smashing my keyboard. I'll try to find some sketches tonight so that tomorrow we can share a few Friday laughs -- until the next round of numbers comes in.

Nukie

"That's where the next war will be. And that's where I will be."

The butterbar grinned, his index finger stabbing the Korean peninsula on the office wall map.

"Not Central America, sir?" I asked, having just begun my reading about El Salvador and the recent revolution in Nicaragua.

"No Perrin, it's gonna be Korea. We have unfinished business there, and this time we're gonna roll those bastards all the way back."

I knew little about Korea, apart from the standard story taught in high school -- how America helped the freedom-loving Koreans repel an attack from their evil northern cousins. And the funny thing was, I was nearly sent there as part of my first tour of duty.

While in AIT, which is where you go after boot camp if you're not in Special Forces, I waited for my active duty assignment, spending most of my time playing pool at the rec hall or going to whatever movies were playing nearby (try watching Milos Forman's "Hair" in an audience of grunts -- makes "The Rocky Horror Picture Show" crowd seem like well-mannered ladies and gentlemen). I had been told that I would be considered for a reportorial spot on Stars & Stripes, and I passed all the tests, complete with essay, required for that gig. I liked the idea of working as an Army scribe, but soon was told that I was on a waiting list, and would have to take whatever job best suited my skills until an opening popped up. When my orders came, they seemed from left-field.

"Korea?!" I practically screamed, sitting on my bunk. "I don't wanna go to Korea!"

West Germany I was ready for, and would have embraced. But Korea wasn't remotely on my radar. A base staffer, a Spec. 5 who spent two years stationed in Seoul, tried to calm me down.

"No man, it's great. Your money goes a long way there. You can buy really great stereo equipment for nothing. And every payday, the Mama-sans bring their daughters to the base gate. They're pimpin' their girls to us so we'll marry them and then the whole family can move to the States. Some guys buy this shit and marry 'em. But you don't have to do that to get some fine Korean pussy. It don't cost much, either."

He smiled.

"Yeah, I liked Korea."

To a 19-year-old Private from the Midwest, cheap stereos and abundant Asian pussy didn't seem like a bad deal. But before I could ease into the idea, my orders changed, and I was kept stateside.

Had I gone to Korea as planned, I would have been there in support of Chun Doo-hwan's military regime, and only 170 miles from the Kwangju student uprising and subsequent massacre in May, 1980. Oh, that would've been an interesting moment in my young life, and in a way I'm sorry I wasn't there. It would have accelerated my political awareness, which was just beginning to emerge. And it would have prepared me for war-hungry loons like the Second Lieutenant mentioned above, who, if he's still in uniform all this time later, might soon get his wish.

The hysteria over North Korea's nuclear testing is no surprise: countries not under our thumb nor on our payroll aren't allowed to have deterrent capability. How are we supposed to bomb and/or invade them when they can hit back and hit hard? At bottom, this is what the present "crisis" is really all about. Of course, an isolated regime run by a man exhibiting questionable emotional stability is not something the sane wish to see wielding genocidal weaponry. But enough about Bush. What of Kim Jung Il? Well, as much fun as it is to view this little tyrant as the global Dr. No rogue of "Team America" fame, the fact remains that his acquisition of nukes was pretty much inevitable, especially as it was facilitated by some of our War on Terror allies. In this war world, arms proliferation is big business, which means it's business as usual. Kim is simply following the script that other countries have long since personalized. India. Pakistan. Israel. And of course, us. Also, North Korea is doubtless under a serious nuclear shadow from its south, and added to Bush's war cries since 2001, it is only natural that Kim's regime would want some nukes of its own. All in all, what is currently being played out shouldn't shock anyone who's been paying attention. We knew this day was coming, and now it's here.

So what happens now? Condi Rice says that the US has no intention of attacking North Korea, while the North's Foreign Ministry is telling Bush to back off or face "a series of physical corresponding measures," whatever that means. It's not as if North Korea is in some kind of superior position to overtly launch attacks. That would be national suicide. Covert measures? Anything's possible. There's a lot of hatred for the US out there, and it's not just from Islamic militants and latter-day Stalinists. But given North Korea's place in the global food chain, it's fair to assume that its saber-rattling rhetoric is just that -- unless, of course, serious hostility breaks out along the DMZ. Then what happens is anybody's guess.

The fact that China is openly peeved with its now-nuclear neighbor suggests that the global order of which China is a major part wants to clamp down on Kim's ambitions as effectively as it can. If North Korea were a willing geopolitical subordinate, one who could help with whatever dirty work needed to be done, then I doubt that its nuclear development would raise comparable alarm. After all, Israel has nukes, doesn't allow inspectors into its weapons facilities and sites while launching devastating attacks against its neighbors, and there's no call from global elites for sanctions or blockades. Why? Because Israel plays an important role in support of Western power and policy. Does anyone honestly think that if Israel acted as it does in defiance of those who call the shots, it would hold its present special status?

(Speaking of weapons testing, it appears that Israel is trying out something new in the weapons lab known as Gaza. All perfectly acceptable, of course.)

Perhaps, as this madness unfolds, I'll go deeper into the history of the various Korean conflicts, which for our purposes dates back to Japan's occupation of Korea beginning in 1910. But I have no stomach for any of that now, especially with Iran, Turkey and Egypt waiting in line for their nuclear arsenals. In other words, while tracing and pondering timelines, the possibility for real world destruction continues apace. We live in a savage time, and it takes a certain personal savagery to deal with it without losing your mind. Or maybe not, as the Guardian's Simon Jenkins shows:

"If this relaxed view [accepting Kim's nukes and coaxing him into the club] is not viable in North Korea's case (as opposed to Iran's), there is only one sensible alternative. It is not to drag out a conflict through economic sanctions to eventual war, but to curb North Korea's ambition in the simplest possible way. Sophisticated air power, useless in counter-insurgency, has a role in the 'coercive diplomacy' of non-proliferation. Israel used it effectively against Iraq's nuclear plant in 1981 and the US repeated the exercise with Operation Desert Fox in 1998 (though Bush and Blair later refused to believe it had worked). If Kim is the unstable menace he appears, his bomb-making capacity and missile sites should be removed at once with Tomahawk missiles. Fewer people would die that way than with any other pre-emptive response."

"Fewer people would die that way"? Yeah, I'm sure that the North Korean military wouldn't respond to a US missile attack. I wonder if Jenkins would write this if he were living in Seoul. Something tells me "no," but then again, Jenkins's personal savagery may be further developed than mine.