Like a lot of bloggers, I have a habit of skimming about 5 newspaper headlines, 10 magazines, and a score of op-eds before actually getting anything done at work. And here I am now, typing away at my own stab at witty commentary as the clock on the corner of my screen edges towards 11:40 am.
Never mind that. I look at the New Republic website just about every day, and just about every day I am disappointed by the milquetoast, self-effacing nattering about what's wrong with Democrats, why Republicans have their act together, and why, when it comes to our chances in the upcoming elections (or any forseeable one anywhere) we should be as expectant of disappointment as the average French existentialist writer would have been in Gaullist Paris circa 1967. And these weenies write this as the president has become so desperate for friends that, instead of the usual solitary brush cutting and mountain biking accidents, he's actually reading Camus on his 5th vacation this year to his Crawford ranch. You want French Fries with that, Mr. Pres?
This stuff is so good, you can't even make it up. Yet, the New Republic, in its ever-earnest attempt at fairminded consideration of all the facts, points-of-view and utterly safe contrarian opinions has gone just a little too far this time. It's proven to be the ultimate existentialist publication-- lacking in any ideological heading on the compass, deferring any emotional grounding in a point of view for some greater meaning of being; to be both nothing and everything.
Hey TNR people: in politics, unlike certain literary interpretations of the meaning of life, this everything-and-nothing strategy is just plain nothing.
In a magazine representing a center-leftist point of view, I find an article titled, "A defense of Ann Coulter" where the author relates her own experience working on an assembly line in some "deep red" state. In bonding with the endearing yet provincial conservatives, she comes to some realization about the emotional necessity of someone who, though she rails rabidly and distastefully against her own points of view without mercy, is in fact filling an understandable and necessary role. My interpretation: The author makes the case that someone who spends her time defending Joe McCarthy when she isn't being crass is somehow performing a public service.
Well pardon my French, but what kind of merde de toro is this?
How can a magazine that claims to have a political point of view come to the rescue of someone who repeatedly and vociferously calls them traitors, cowards, and dare I say? Liberals. (thunder clap, horses winney here) She doesn't need your chivalry, and is not interested in being sportsmanlike. Let the National Review and the Weekly Standard waste column-inches on her, if they'll even go near it. Chances are, they're too busy making real stands on issues through lean, poignant analysis of the day's events. That's what partisan journalism is good for. It makes me ashamed that I'm now guilty of the same kind of criticism of Democratic institutions and the overrespect for our enemies' points of view, but there is something wrong-- if not with the message, then with the weak delivery. Let's try and recover here...
TNR: If you don't like her, ignore her. She likes getting a rise out of you almost as much as she likes it when you come to her defense. You're fitting snuggly into the tired old yarn of the sad woman with the black eye who tells you she deserved it, or the kid who gets pummeled by bullies and believes he had it coming. Justice will prevail only when your attitude changes. You can't change theirs by being nice.
The old, unwise shotgun marriage between Republicans and Democrats has been through counseling, taken separate vacations, and had their affairs on the side. The kids are out of the house and now it's time to call it quits. Time to be partisan, guys. Time not just to demand half, but to take the bastards for all they are worth. Get on with it, lick your wounds, hire the best attack dog lawyer daytime TV commercials have to offer, and make your case.
Many people who are worried about where America and the world is going are counting on you. Make a stand for once in your life, you ivy league know-it-all weenies.
And now for a personal message:
Franklin Foer, editor-in-chief of TNR, this is for you. When we were kids back in DC 20+ years ago we used to hang out in the alley behind our houses, remember? It was us, the scrawny Jewish brainiacs. And it was them, the weird pasty redneck kids (Chippie, Robbie...) Remember how they would chase us up and down that alley? Envision a 2x4 with a rusty nail in it, gripped firmly in your clammy hands. See the twins close in you, patiently circling their prey. Channel some of that rage now, please! There's a war on.
Looking over the comments on TNR's site in response to this article, there's a mix of thoughtful arguments for or against the writer's point of view, intermingling with a sizeable number of "I'm cancelling my subscription" type-comments. Frankie, if I were actually a subscriber, I'd post this message on TNR's site, and cancel it myself.
For crying out loud, you're the editor-in-chief of a major political weekly... the biggest, gnarliest 2x4 a guy like you or me could ever hope to have.
Take a swing, Frankie. People are pissed.
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
Friday, August 11, 2006
This Month in Boy's Life: Recipe for Liquid Warfare
When we were teenagers, the Anarchist Cookbook was the coveted Holy Scripture of Mischief. Its hundred-odd pages of plain ASCII text floated around pre-internet bulletin boards, and ended up in backpacks next to Spanish textbooks, bologna sandwiches and nunchucks (sp?). The cookbook posessed sacred knowledge, from the mundane "how to scam a Coke machine into giving up all its quarters", to the divine "how to melt an engine block with iron filings and tin foil". It contained the recipe that Tim McVeigh used on the federal building in Oklahoma City during my junior year.
I was never BBS-savvy, nor did I take mischief as seriously as some, but I always recognized that the Cookbook represented all that was powerful about knowledge to a certain demographic. It was the key to bucking the "system" that felt so repressive, back before drinking and smoking were legal for us, before they stopped carding us for rated R movies, before girls gave us the time of day; when parents, teachers, and even strangers seemed to have so much sway on what we did.
For greasy kids in trench coats, even having a copy was enough to feel influential when in fact their powers were limited to the infinite but imaginary reality of their favorite role playing game. The Cookbook, strangely enough, had no advice on girls. Tells you a thing or two about its authors.
Nowadays, even writing about it has probably got my blog flagged on some NSA list. Talk about strangers having sway. It's enough to make you feel like a kid again. Just for the record, NSA: I'm not a terrorist.
This liquid-explosives-on-airliners affair remined me instantly of those greasy kids. The comicbook style of evil with which Al Qaeda continues to shock and amaze the world could only come from a kindred soul to those boys.
Look at the damage:
BOTH towers of the World Trade Center are destroyed, along with part of the Pentagon by running in to them with hijacked commerical jets. Thousands killed.
Trains are simultaneously targeted during rush hours in Madrid and London. Hundreds killed.
Plots are foiled for detonating dirty bombs, blowing up the Brooklyn Bridge, and assassinating our leaders.
The Shoe Bomber, Richard Reid ensured that we'd have to go through security barefoot for the foreseeable future. Congratulations, Dick! Imagine all the athletes' foot and plantar warts chalked up as petty collateral damage to his explosive Reeboks.
More trains in Bombay. Hundreds more killed.
And now, the 24-odd conspirators being rounded up in London have ensured that carry-on luggage contain only dry items, that flying be even less enjoyable than it was. Here's a plot to blow up at least 10 transatlantic flights full of everyday people using mysterious cocktails of mouthwash and Aqua Velva with IPod detonators.
Whether they pull it off or not, the question I've been asking since 2001 is just plain, "why?"
Hamas and Hizbulah are far more understandable than this. Side with them or not, they have a specific enemy, specific demands, and specific grievances. They are men with wives and kids, fighting on a real battle front.
Compared to those groups, Al Qaeda seems like the undirected, self-destructive anger of a very sullen, disturbed fifteen year-old. They'll stop at nothing just to be noticed, to be important, even at a terrible price. It's a completely self-absorbed mindset to the end, terminating in oblivion over the Atlantic, or into the side of a building.
The boyish fantasy of 72 virgins sitting on a cloud waiting for them on the Other Side shows unequivocally just how desparately these guys need a girlfriend.
The Cookbook of Forbidden Knowledge continues to float through the ether. As long as the trenchcoat set stays fifteen and virginal, they'll crave these ludocrous capers as personal justice for the unnamed wrongs of the world.
To torture a metaphor, our grizzled, manly leaders don't know what to do when the neighbor's lanky kid throws a tantrum and sets fire to our lawn. Having always been part of the cool crowd, always been winners; they just can't relate. All they can do is throw punches or put the kid in a full nelson. But the kid just doesn't listen. His parents are never home, and when they are, they either don't care, or they're afraid of the kid themselves. What can be done?
I was never BBS-savvy, nor did I take mischief as seriously as some, but I always recognized that the Cookbook represented all that was powerful about knowledge to a certain demographic. It was the key to bucking the "system" that felt so repressive, back before drinking and smoking were legal for us, before they stopped carding us for rated R movies, before girls gave us the time of day; when parents, teachers, and even strangers seemed to have so much sway on what we did.
For greasy kids in trench coats, even having a copy was enough to feel influential when in fact their powers were limited to the infinite but imaginary reality of their favorite role playing game. The Cookbook, strangely enough, had no advice on girls. Tells you a thing or two about its authors.
Nowadays, even writing about it has probably got my blog flagged on some NSA list. Talk about strangers having sway. It's enough to make you feel like a kid again. Just for the record, NSA: I'm not a terrorist.
This liquid-explosives-on-airliners affair remined me instantly of those greasy kids. The comicbook style of evil with which Al Qaeda continues to shock and amaze the world could only come from a kindred soul to those boys.
Look at the damage:
BOTH towers of the World Trade Center are destroyed, along with part of the Pentagon by running in to them with hijacked commerical jets. Thousands killed.
Trains are simultaneously targeted during rush hours in Madrid and London. Hundreds killed.
Plots are foiled for detonating dirty bombs, blowing up the Brooklyn Bridge, and assassinating our leaders.
The Shoe Bomber, Richard Reid ensured that we'd have to go through security barefoot for the foreseeable future. Congratulations, Dick! Imagine all the athletes' foot and plantar warts chalked up as petty collateral damage to his explosive Reeboks.
More trains in Bombay. Hundreds more killed.
And now, the 24-odd conspirators being rounded up in London have ensured that carry-on luggage contain only dry items, that flying be even less enjoyable than it was. Here's a plot to blow up at least 10 transatlantic flights full of everyday people using mysterious cocktails of mouthwash and Aqua Velva with IPod detonators.
Whether they pull it off or not, the question I've been asking since 2001 is just plain, "why?"
Hamas and Hizbulah are far more understandable than this. Side with them or not, they have a specific enemy, specific demands, and specific grievances. They are men with wives and kids, fighting on a real battle front.
Compared to those groups, Al Qaeda seems like the undirected, self-destructive anger of a very sullen, disturbed fifteen year-old. They'll stop at nothing just to be noticed, to be important, even at a terrible price. It's a completely self-absorbed mindset to the end, terminating in oblivion over the Atlantic, or into the side of a building.
The boyish fantasy of 72 virgins sitting on a cloud waiting for them on the Other Side shows unequivocally just how desparately these guys need a girlfriend.
The Cookbook of Forbidden Knowledge continues to float through the ether. As long as the trenchcoat set stays fifteen and virginal, they'll crave these ludocrous capers as personal justice for the unnamed wrongs of the world.
To torture a metaphor, our grizzled, manly leaders don't know what to do when the neighbor's lanky kid throws a tantrum and sets fire to our lawn. Having always been part of the cool crowd, always been winners; they just can't relate. All they can do is throw punches or put the kid in a full nelson. But the kid just doesn't listen. His parents are never home, and when they are, they either don't care, or they're afraid of the kid themselves. What can be done?
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