Monthly Archives: August 2007

End of your empire

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This is not the end of the American Empire by a long shot. It’s the end of YOUR share in it.
 
Bush & Co, the Carlyle Group for example, and fellow owners of private capital, our oligarchs if you will, are pulling away from the station. They don’t need you or I anymore. The apparatus is in their hands, the control of money and the control of the weapons. The most powerful arsenal in the world is now protecting them. The rest of us, once stakeholders, join the downwardly mobile working class.

It’s hard to feel sorry for the American middle class, ejected at the eleventh hour from the gravy train. What was necessarily our right to claim the world’s bounty, gleaned from the health and happiness and lives of the poor, its rightful and needful inheritors? It’s not like we had been doing our best to invite everyone on board to share in earth’s resources equitably. Now at least we’ll get the share we deserve, the leftovers we thought good enough for everybody else. Exploitive capitalism lives on. For want of capital to invest ourselves, we are no longer members. We join the same side of the wall as the Mexicans and the Palestinians, the globalized masses.

Capitalism’s intellectual apparatchiks surround us from the TVs, newspapers, think tanks and college campuses. Are they your peers, in income level and security, as they maintain the fiction of your continued prosperity? When you finally face the impenetrable wall where you used to believe you had access to your ruler, the government that used to administrate communal affairs at your behest, you’ll see their smiling faces atop that wall, perfectly satisfied to keep you out.

Now the trouble is, where do we look for a break in that wall? We won’t get very far shouting HEY, YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO SHARE THAT LOOT WITH US!

There’s still a belief that truth and a sense of propriety could overcome the courtiers and Praetorian guard. But truth about what? WMD? Black-box voting? Nothing yet has seemed egregious enough. The folks behind the 9-11 Truth movement, seemed to know that all along. A few very brave people are still hoping their truth will win out.

Operation Quagmire, 1994

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You know, the times come around and around and around… So this has been resurrected, I give you: Dick Cheney, advising NOT to invade Iraq.

Video Surfaces of Cheney, in 1994, Warning That An Invasion of Iraq Would Lead to ‘Quagmire’
By E&P Staff
Published: August 12, 2007 10:20 AM ET

NEW YORK It’s not the first time that citizen “investigative journalists” have uncovered some embarrassing, or telling, nugget from the past that apparently remained buried for years. But it has happened again with the posting of a now wildly popular video on YouTube that shows Dick Cheney explaining in 1994 that trying to take over Iraq would be a “bad idea” and lead to a “quagmire.”

The people who put it up come from a site called Grand Theft Country, the on-screen source appears to be the conservative American Enterprise Institute, and the date on the screen is April 15, 1994. That looks right, by the age of Cheney.

Posted on Friday, it had received over 100,000 hits by this morning, after being widely-linked around the Web. The transcript of this segment is below.

Cheney had helped direct the Gulf War for President George H.W. Bush. That effort was later criticized for not taking Baghdad and officials like Cheney had to explain why not, for years. Some have charged that this led to an overpowering desire to finish the job after Cheney became vice president in 2001.

Here is the transcript. The YouTube address is at the end.
*

Q: Do you think the U.S., or U.N. forces, should have moved into Baghdad?

A: No.

Q: Why not?

A: Because if we’d gone to Baghdad we would have been all alone. There wouldn’t have been anybody else with us. There would have been a U.S. occupation of Iraq. None of the Arab forces that were willing to fight with us in Kuwait were willing to invade Iraq.

Once you got to Iraq and took it over, took down Saddam Hussein’s government, then what are you going to put in its place? That’s a very volatile part of the world, and if you take down the central government of Iraq, you could very easily end up seeing pieces of Iraq fly off: part of it, the Syrians would like to have to the west, part of it — eastern Iraq — the Iranians would like to claim, they fought over it for eight years. In the north you’ve got the Kurds, and if the Kurds spin loose and join with the Kurds in Turkey, then you threaten the territorial integrity of Turkey.

It’s a quagmire if you go that far and try to take over Iraq.

The other thing was casualties. Everyone was impressed with the fact we were able to do our job with as few casualties as we had. But for the 146 Americans killed in action, and for their families — it wasn’t a cheap war. And the question for the president, in terms of whether or not we went on to Baghdad, took additional casualties in an effort to get Saddam Hussein, was how many additional dead Americans is Saddam worth?

Our judgment was, not very many, and I think we got it right.

The Madness of King George

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bush_coronation.jpgEscaping tyranny by sailing to the New World was a temporary fix. A ghost has come back to haunt us. We have another King George.

In the past six years, George Bush has sought to accumulate all governing powers into one place, his grubby hands. Bush has repeatedly violated the Constitution’s command that the President “shall take Care that the Laws be faithfully executed,” by breaking many and refusing to enforce others. The Constitution grants Congress the power to make laws; after both houses pass a bill, the President can only sign it or veto it. Bush, however, takes a different tack. He has vetoed just three bills, then quietly attached “signing statements” to more than 1,000 congressional laws, indicating his intent to follow only those parts with which he agrees. He flouts the law every chance he gets. Usually with a stupid grin on his face.

The King’s latest blatant power grab, the Protect America Act 2007 (PAA), revises the Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Act (FISA). FISA was passed in 1978 in response to Tricky Dick and the FBI’s unlawful surveillance of critics of national policy and other political enemies. FISA required that a panel of judges grant permission to an administration to spy on individuals within the U.S. Surveillance would only be allowed if the judges could be convinced that the communications to be monitored were exclusively those of foreign powers and that there was no substantial likelihood that an American would be overheard. FISA was designed to protect us from the government, not the other way around.

Not surprisingly, this new act takes the power to approve spying out of the hands of the judges and gives it the the Attorney General. Currently the highly esteemed Alberto Gonzales. An old friend of the King’s. A known lackey. It also requires telephone companies to collect data and turn it over to the Feds. And, of course, grants them immunity from lawsuits. Our brave and noble Congress passed this bullshit legislation with nary a whimper. Behavior we’ve come to expect from our “representatives.”

King GeorgeProtect America, my ass. To say that this shocking theft of our freedom is to save us from terrorists, from Al Qaeda, is a frank lie. Terrorists are well-trained. They move with stealth. They have face-to-face meetings. They don’t call each other’s cell phones and chitchat about the latest and greatest plans. Our government is well aware of this. No, PAA is directed at us. The American public. Especially those of us who slander the dictator.

King George is simply a tyrant.

Getting beyond TOO FAR

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PetaI was very heartened to catch sight in the Indy of a local protest against KFC Kentucky Fried Cruelty, organized by PETA, the People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals. I didn’t know there was an active chapter in Colorado Springs. I’ll try to be in contact.
 
Another friend wasn’t so excited. “Sometimes, he told me, I think PETA goes too far.” I had to agree.

But I’m convinced that sometimes you have to go TOO FAR. In fact I’m not sure we don’t ALWAYS have to go that far. And looking at our own efficacy, including that of PETA’s, perhaps we are not going FAR ENOUGH!

PETA is being maligned with the same character assassination used to sideline America’s unions. Labor too greedy, the corporate press told us. Fat cats and layabouts, wanting high wages for nothing, going TOO FAR. Never mind that the unions gave us every work regulation we enjoy today, the public believed the media slander. The multinationals and their media broke the power we had to bargain collectively. Globalization will finish the job. TOO FAR my foot.

Might I ask: what about the systemic dehumanization being pushed on us? When will you decide that what they’re doing goes TOO FAR? I’d love to see somebody watch a video capturing the mistreatment of animals by our food industry –brought to us through the great efforts of PETA– and recoil in horror at what they see. Let them decry THAT’S GOING TOO FAR!

Nostalgia–playground of the emotionally distant

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distance1.jpg
I checked myself in at 6 a.m. I was alone, wearing a fluid dress that hugged the contours of my round belly, overnight case in hand. I sensed that the woman behind the desk felt concern for me. She looked at me and showed visible relief that my left hand bore a diamond ring.

“When will your husband arrive?”

“Pardon me? Oh, I’m not sure. Soon, I imagine,” was my bright reply.

At 4 p.m., having walked the halls alone for hours, pushing my IV cart, I was finally ready to deliver. Dave showed up in the nick of time to witness the birth of his namesake, and promptly fell asleep in the father-to-be chair. The baby’s umbilical cord was wrapped tightly around his neck. I watched my doctor’s face as he strained to move the restrictive cord, to allow my little David James to fill his lungs. Ironically, the only sound in the room, as we held our collective breath, was the sound of Dave’s snoring.

After my sweet baby was safely delivered, the nurses woke Dave and asked him if he’d like to cut the cord. Groggily he replied, “Ah, no thanks. You can take care of that.” More sympathetic looks my way.

Well, you know what? I didn’t care. I don’t care. I experienced the joy and pain of bringing David into the world. I remember every minute of it. I was there, fully connected, acutely aware. I have no need to live it again. I’m happy he is here with me every day, playing his trumpet, running cross country, reading books, listening to his iPod, challenging me with his edgy sense of humor.

If you ask Dave about his experience, he will relate to you a similar story. You’ll hear about the endless hallways, the escape to the lunchroom, the scary epidural, the last-minute name change, the cord incident. He can probably tell you the Apgar scores…the struggle over the decision whether to circumcise or not. His face will likely be covered with tears as he “relives” the pain and beauty of David’s birth.

He wasn’t there. My companions were the nurses, my doctor Fred Brown, my parents and siblings. Nostalgia is often synonymous with absence. With unknowing. A lost chance to experience life and love.

But it most definitely makes the heart grow fonder…..

There is no war, Iraq is at peace

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Peterson AFB counter-protesters August 2007
There had been a few harassing phone calls to the organizers of the SISTERS WITNESS AGAINST WAR event this week, so the counter- protesters who showed up were not entirely unexpected. It has been ages since we’d seen the other side on the sidewalk however. (Even this year’s Pridefest was unmarred by the usual picketers.) The Gazette reporter arrived just as all the sisters were wrapping up unfortunately, so the only photographs of the Peterson Hiroshima vigil in the Gazette will be of this crew.

The noisy counterpoint to our silent vigil had an interesting take on Iraq, and shouted to us that we were misrepresenting the truth to the soldiers driving in and out of the base. “There is no WAR! The war is OVER! Iraq is at PEACE! Our troops there are PEACEmakers! Support the TROOPS!”

Counter-protesters close-up

The Gazette won’t have the photograph of the sisters, filling both sides of the Peterson entrance:

Click for a larger view

Grandpa’s kind eyes

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He was a quiet man who twitched and hesitated as he spoke.
I don’t remember his words, only the sounds between them
and the tone which gave away, if not his disapproval
then most often his uncertainty.
But his actions were always kind, filling us with pancakes
doting on my grandmother, moving around the house
like a friendly ghost.
Only his eyes had something else to say
and you were drawn to them like a soft light in a dark room
hoping they would reveal something more.

He was an old man with a twitch who seemed to vanish in
and out of the rooms he occupied. He had very little physical presence.
The only times I ever saw him move quickly was in his church
popping up and down during prayers
making sure he was the first on his feet
or the first on his knees. He did it as if he needed to convince his god
that he could follow directions and maybe even lead the crowd
if he was quick enough.

I never noticed that he had ever been a younger man.
I never even saw him as a father to his children.
He never even left me wondering who he was,
until he was dead.

Now I have only the things he left behind to know him.
His children have kind eyes like him and walk quietly.
At his funeral his life history did not show up on their lips
only in boxes in the basement for me to find.

His photos reveal a very present man. A man that may have had
a sense of humor, that may have had something to say, a man
who may have loved deeply. But in his photos I also see my grandfather
tilting his head saying maybe not.

Sioux Falls South Dakota

Grandfather’s virility

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Art and Jean Hough
I like this picture of my grandfather. He passed away this summer and my sister and I looked through old family albums to choose a few photographs that might tell of his life.

Neither of us knew much about Grandpa’s youth, even about his character as my mom’s father. We’d only ever seen him as granddad to endless bursts of grandkids. He made his famous pancakes on sundays. His voice seemed always intoned with a cautionary chiding. “Oh, you wouldn’t want to do that.”

I remember riding with Grandpa in his old Nash Rambler with carpet samples in the back, running errands about town. He might have talked about the furniture store he once had, I don’t remember. His kindness was unwavering. It never occurred to me that a grandparent could be otherwise.

So in preparation for the funeral my sister and I were let to fashion a remembrance of our grandfather from photographic whole cloth. My sister is an art director who is very adept at manipulating a mood. We’d be enlarging originals, many of our relatives had never seen, or seen clearly, into prints which could recreate fiction. From hundreds of pictures we could mold an arresting romantic figure which we hoped they’d recognize.

Indeed we found a shot of Grandpa and his young fiancée posed on the front fender of a touring car, pointed toward the barren hills of Bonnie and Clyde, a sunny day, the two smiling, perhaps self-consciously at each other.

There’s another of Grandpa alone, wearing an apron, standing over the kitchen sink. Doing the dishes we presumed, but the dark shadows and soft sunlight coming through the lace lent the scene the suggestion that Grandpa could turn around any second with an engagement ring.

There’s a picture of the two of them sitting in a modest living room, he on the armrest actually, leaning back and against his wife, both of them glowing with happiness. Above them hangs a picture of an angel, which a cousin noted, had always hung above one of the later bedrooms.

These were the standouts to me, in thinking about which might be my favorite, but I chose another. I have no idea whether it catches an authentic side of Grandpa or not.

Someone mentioned that Grandpa and Grandma were once featured in a magazine article about a typical young family or some such sort. Grandpa worked for Montgomery Wards and they moved each year, Grandma giving birth at each relocation. It was thought that this picture might have come from that photo shoot. The composition is unusual I think, a kitchen chair on the sidewalk in front of your home. But this picture reflects something I can imagine having been in Grandpa’s character. He was a dandy.

There’s his wife, looking uncomfortably like a sidekick, and Grandpa seated in her presence; not merely unchivalrous, but self-satisfied and unguarded. I accidentally cropped his shoes when I scanned the pictures in the hasty late hours before the showing, but I assure you the body language was consistent, a nattily dressed first fiddle, head of household, master of the manor. I think it’s very evident in his pose, and I wonder if he knew it wasn’t true.

My grandfather on my father’s side, a fiery nordic who died when I was younger, cut a formidable figure around the house. You had to be quiet when you got too near Gudfar, unless he was laughing, and it seemed that activities were scheduled around his nap schedule. In any case, I didn’t find out until much later in life that he didn’t wear the pants in that family.

Oh, he was the oppressive dominant male, certainly the decider, but the guidance was Gudmor. She brought wisdom to the table, and certainly the emotional wisdom. Gudmor was always quick to cry when family visits ran short, something I could not conceive my stern grandfather would ever do. Gudmor was also the person to whom everything mattered, and so the not-uncommon better half. This was nothing that I saw in my youth, it had to be told to me later. Sure enough I see my own personailty reflect that heritage.

So I wonder, about Grandpa Hough, if I mightn’t have gotten something of a similar predisposition from him? It would make sense, wouldn’t it, that my parent’s attraction might be based on the similarity of their expectations for each other?

I’m sure that my grandfather, the snappy dresser, was also the beneficiary of having a very strong wife. And suddenly I can see that in all the pictures. My memories of my grandparents, even their eulogies, recount the two as inseparable, indistinguishable after so many years, from one another, but it seems to me that Grandma was the action-taker. She made the rules and prompted the activity. I have plenty of memories of Grandma. I think what Grandma wanted mattered most. I’m not sure Grandpa had an opinion most of the time. I think it was his wife, the more engaging, more communicative, clear-headed, stronger half.

So here’s a picture of my grandfather, fingering his hat like it’s a nobleman’s cane, like it’s lighter than air in the hands of someone made to feel at the top of his game. Let to feel, most certainly.

Both my grandfathers survived their spouses. But by only a couple years. Grandpa Hough moved in with his son, regained his health for a short time, but never did come into his own. I wonder if he ever had.

Sisters speak out about all US war zones

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Loretto CommunityThey come together from different states, Benedictines, Dominicans, the Loretto Community, the Sisters of Charity, the Sisters of Mercy, the Sisters of St Francis, Pox Christi, the Christian Peacemakers, even a nun visiting from Guatemala, to pray a silent vigil at the gates of Peterson AFB in remembrance of the two greatest war crimes ever perpetrated, Hiroshima and Nagasaki.

Not only against the use of nuclear weapons, but all weapons, and not just to sit idly by in prayer. The sisters asked for inspiration and guidance to address the violence our country is directing in Iraq, Afghanistan, the Philippines, Latin American and Colombia.

The heaviest words were for Iraq. Here is the latter part of the prayer ceremony:

We ask forgiveness for our complicity
in the violence now unleashed in the world
and we repent of the violence in our hearts.

Forgive us, we pray

For initiating war         Forgive us, we pray
For believin in untruths         Forgive us, we pray
For resorting to torture         Forgive us, we pray
For wasting resources         Forgive us, we pray
For shattering innocence         Forgive us, we pray

For trampling diplomacy         Forgive us, we pray
For the death of US military in Iraq         Forgive us, we pray
For the Iraqi civilians killed         Forgive us, we pray
For trusting in weapons         Forgive us, we pray
For exporting arms         Forgive us, we pray

For needing to dominate         Forgive us, we pray
For failing to trust         Forgive us, we pray
For failing to act         Forgive us, we pray
For valuing oil over life         Forgive us, we pray

For failing to love         Forgive us, we pray
For our arrogance         Forgive us, we pray
For our pride         Forgive us, we pray
For our silence         Forgive us, we pray

Change our hearts

That we learn compassion         Change our hearts
That we practice mercy         Change our hearts
That we embrace nonviolence         Change our hearts

That we may act in justice         Change our hearts
That we love tenderly         Change our hearts
That we do your will         Change our hearts
That we will be peace         Change our hearts

Nuclear missiles in Colorado

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The location of 150 missile silos in Colorado, Wyoming and Nebraska

A rash of MINUTEMAN III nuclear missile silos sit ready to launch from the corners of Colorado, Wyoming and Nebraska. These 150 represent less than a third of the arsenal the US has trained on the rest of the world, poised with hair-trigger response, to lead a preemptive attack. Below is a detail of Flights N and O, silos grouped to launch together. N-8 has been the site of repeated vigils.

The N-group and O-group of Minuteman III missiles

Anticipating future nostalgia

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upside-down.jpgMy little Devon, age 9, took this picture of us yesterday at Elitch Gardens. She looked like a tiny ant on the ground, positioning herself to capture the shot she wanted.
 
I love having a nascent historian in the family. Years from now we’ll look at her photos and relive the moments that passed so quickly as to escape our notice. Like this one.

Columbia Savings revisited

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subprime.jpgTwo memorable things in my life were tied to Columbia Savings. The first was the explosion of the space shuttle Challenger. I was a recent college graduate working for a large international accounting firm, KPMG Peat Marwick. I remember sitting in a conference room, clad in a conservative business suit, already on hour 5 of an 18-hour workday. These were the days before the Internet; we still relied on the Big 3 to provide us with news. One of the higher ups came into the room, solemn look on his face, and turned on the television. The ten of us sat there and watched hope gone awry….seven lives gone due to an improperly sealed O-ring.

A few years later, the “Feds” came in and took the CEO, the CFO, and several others out of the building in handcuffs. It was a scary sight. These were our friends…our role models. What the hell? What was going on?

The S&L crisis changed the American way of life. Without an extensive legal or financial background, you may not understand how. But, trust me, rules were changed. I worked for the next several years with the Resolution Trust Corporation (RTC), the branch of the government created to ensure that we would all enjoy a safe financial future. They were a bunch of dumbshits who had absolutely no chance of being hired by Peat Marwick, or any other reputable company. Like so many, the government is a safe haven for idiots who crave authority.

Moving on. Despite the noble efforts of the RTC, the country is facing another financial crisis. As interest rates have gone down over the past several years, a new brand of leech has been unleashed on the unsuspecting public. The mortgage broker. We are in a housing crisis due to the prevalence of SUBPRIME loans. Let me explain. In the past, a family had to meet certain requirements in order to obtain a mortgage. They had to earn enough income, own assets, show that they would be able to meet ongoing financial obligations. Banks and S&Ls had strict underwriting requirements. They extended credit and collected interest in return. Borrowers had to be a PRIME candidates to qualify for a mortgage loan.

Today, the mortgage industry has gone wild. There are zillions of mortgage brokers who can find ANYONE a loan. They shop around for a third tier underwriter who is willing to lend the money. The broker receives a large commission. The underwriter receives an origination fee and various other payments. Neither care if you are in over your head. They will offer you an initial rate of 2 or 3% with adjustable rate mortgage (ARM), and convince you that rates won’t go up much. You can afford it. Buy that bigger house. Once the deal is inked, the lender simply takes the cruddy mortgage portfolio and sells it to the next prick in line, greedy for the soon-to-be usurious interest payments.

For the past two years, mortgage rates have increased. Over a trillion dollars of ARM loans are due to reset in the next 18 months. Homeowners’ adjustable payments have gone from $400/month to $600 to $1500. With no end in sight. Foreclosures are at an all time high. Too bad for the idiots, you say? Well, I would normally agree with you. But let’s hope that you don’t have a house to sell. As the banks divest themselves of the properties they’ve foreclosed on, real estate prices will be driven into the ground. The lenders will have to write off trillions of dollars of bad loans, likely rendering many of them insolvent. Huge investment funds tied to subprime loans will become worthless. Many Americans will lose their homes, their market investments, and their ability to obtain future credit. I’m predicting another bail out that will cost the taxpayers billions.

Meanwhile, my best friend saw the potential in the industry, despite the fact that she knew nothing about mortgage banking, and earned $18,000. Last month.

Iraq Parasite invades Colorado Springs

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My landlady has had a growth under her arms. We thought it was a return of lymphoma, not so.
 
My landlady just got back from the doctor.
 
What she thought and feared, that it was a lymphoma, wasn’t.
 
It’s a microscopic parasite native to the Euphrates river basin.

Most of the people in the region are immune to it, well, duh, they’ve lived there 5000 years and longer.

But it’s been brought back by returning servicemen, they thought for a while that it was confined to the hospitals and the bases but IT’S ENDEMIC IN COLORADO SPRINGS NOW.

Good news is, it’s treatable.

Bad news, the Fucking Army has not told people about it.

“Oh, by the way we’ve brought back a deadly parasite, that kills PEOPLE and we ain’t gonna Tell nobody about it cause we can do shit like that”

The mite burrows into the skin, then finds a lymph node and spreads to the entire body.

Once it invades the lungs, it causes pneumonia, and it’s almost untreatable.

There have been fatalities. The Army isn’t admitting anything, the Federal Government isn’t kicking out any money for treatment of this shit they put on us.

I posted this on a national site.

I’m about to post it on my blog, somebody spread this as far and wide as we possibly can.

Police foreknowledge on St Patricks Day

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Raining on our parade April 17 Saint Patricks Day 2007
We used to joke around the fire at Camp Casey about whether we were being surveilled or infiltrated by agents or disruptors even, as has been done with historic regularity to opposition political groups and their organizers. Even to discuss it today with CPIS or PPJPC feels self-aggrandizing. We know ourselves that we do not pose such a threat that law enforcement would need to monitor our actions.

Let’s dismiss out of hand the idea that struggling activists in Colorado Springs would merit infiltration. So too wiretapping or bugging devices. Have we ever raised but a timid excuse-me to authority? Have we ever mobilized even more than a smattering of protesters ready to press our local leaders for accountability? We have not. We might grab the news on occasion, but in that respect we seem quite willing to telecast our intentions on the local news. To eavesdrop on us then would be redundant.

Alright then, how about email exchanges? Any need to monitor our email passing to and fro? Local ISPs handling the email could flag potential buildups of momentum. Is law enforcement in touch with them? Maybe, maybe not. Who wants to sort all that, or file the paperwork to get the analysis from Buckley.

At least an observer might want to watch our general mass mailings, for calls to arms. What about checking those weekly announcements at a minimum to see what we say we are doing?

And what about the websites? There are less than a handful of community websites which post and discuss upcoming actions. Would the police be looking at websites like this, or csaction.org, or ppjpc.org to try to sort out what’s up?

Police Chief Myers, in explaining the mishandling of St. Patrick’s Day, pointed the finger at the PPJPC and myself for duplicity in joining the parade. Myers explained that our websites made no mention of our intentions to march with the Bookmobile. Well, putting aside their erroneous conclusion, Myers’ statement confirms the answer to the last question: are the police checking in on us online? They say they do.

The police check the websites
If they had looked at our website, they would have seen what? Our calls for participation in the parade, our discussion of the parameters of the permit, our reservations, when we would be assembling, where we were parking, even the larger plans we had to conduct a peace rally in adjacent Pioneer Park. Those were plans we were still trying to juggle. I was hoping to gather onlookers from the parade route and have them join us afield for an impromptu peace rally. These plans were fully fleshed out and debated online, in multiple places. If the police studied our websites as they say they did, they would have seen our plans for that Saturday.

So even if the police weren’t infiltrating us, surveilling our meetings, wiretapping our phones, monitoring our communications, sifting our email, or reviewing our public announcements, they would have known from our websites that the PPJPC was marching with the Bookman, in green peace t-shirts, as we had done, announced and recruited for, online, the year before.

The police excuse of having been taken unawares on St Patrick’s Day, of being confronted with not knowing whether we had a permit, of stopping us in the parade route instead of earlier in the assembly area, begins to ring a little of falsehood.
Come to papa
The odds of us encountering a smiling Erwin Paladino of the CSPD, head head-cruncher of the 2003 anti-protestor police work, begin to look very improbable. The strategy then to throw us to the ground creating a scene, creating an obstruction themselves, making a lesson out of dealing with people stubbornly clinging to their rights, begins to look a little premeditated.

That is, if you believe the police are keeping their eye on us. We disrupt at the Broadmoor, we seek redress at our representatives’ offices, we banner the main streets, we interfere with military job fairs and recruitment strip malls. We show up at City Council and have them scrambling amok. We don’t plan any of this in secret. Probably somebody’s responsible for keeping themselves abreast.

So did Erwin Paladino draw the plum job of getting to apprehend us one block from the official parade start? Or was it a big coincidence? At the staging we could have rallied or prevailed from a dialog unhurried by the pressure of holding up the parade. At Tejon and St Vrain the police got to appear improvisational and exercise executive authority to take us down.

Landmarks in memoriam

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Mount Rushmore public cafeteria
A past love of mine spent a couple summers working at Mt Rushmore at the visitor’s center. She longed for me to see it and eventually she took me there. I had already formed a vivid image of her youthful days there, serving food to plaid-clad tourists, taking her breaks sunning on the rocks between the ponderosa, chasing boys with her friends, away from home at this summer camp for Dakota high-schoolers off soon to college and new autonomous lives.

Her farm country heritage was a mystery to me, but her descriptions of the Black Hills and Mt Rushmore I could see clearly. When we finally made it there, the atmosphere was as charming as I had envisioned, aided too by preconceptions of the familiar dark wood trimmings of a US National Park with Yogi Bear. The restaurant really was a cafeteria, the workers dressed in white like nurses and the food was like they served in school. Except that visitors would carry their fiberglass trays to tables beneath huge plate glass windows with a view of the granite presidential face of Mt Rushmore.

Years later I would recognize the unchanged lunch room and viewing deck as filmed in Alfred Hitchcock’s North by Nothwest. I could watch that scene and recollect our visit, especially the tour Kim gave me through the staff-only area, climbing paths around the workers’ dormitories which led us to the swimming hole. We watched squirrels and bears -I mean birds- and recalled her earlier days. She might have been thinking of earlier beaus, what would it have mattered? Now my recollections are of recollections.

Now many years later, another love asks me if revisiting the site of a cherished memory would diminish it. I said no, and I still believe it, but I have to add one caveat. It’s not that you erase one memory with another, you jeopardize the memory tape itself.

I thus revisited Mt Rushmore, without of course my making any todo about a past significance, and I came away changed and less happy because the visitors center is gone.

Well, it’s changed, the wooden building is replaced by a bigger, improved center of granite, very attractive and swarming with more people, the grounds are now entirely covered in cement, comprising amphitheater, museum, Grecian monument and vast parking structures. No amount of smooching with a new love would have effaced my earlier nostalgia, but the physical anchor of my memory is broken away. It’s like the difference of a grandparent passed on, being cremated versus interred. You can visit your loved one in a cemetery, even if only in your mind, because you know where you can find them, still there.

My Mt Rushmore in not “there” anymore. I retain my memories, themselves of memories, but they have become intangible.

The same was done to our Garden of the Gods. We used to be able to goof off on its roads and paths, now they are paved and redirected into an uncompromising giant roundabout. And there’s now the giant visitors center, with its big window and stepped-back view, replacing the Hidden Inn which used to nestle right against the rocks.

In fact, I took a favorite photograph of a girl I liked very much on the weathered railing of the Hidden Inn looking out on the upended rock formation extending along the Front Range. But the historic inn is no more, just a few cuts into the red stone, now just a point-of-interest on a marker. At least the original foundation was meticulously removed, not buried under concrete. I lament never having kissed that girl, and I guess now the opportunity seems all the more gone.

CSPD Officer Erwin Paladino of 2003

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Come to papaHas it been made clear enough in the multitude of retellings of the events of St. Patrick’s Day 2007, that an Officer Erwin Paladino was the chief agitator in the police camp? He directed the arrests and handled most of them with two chief accomplices, guy with taser and guy of choke-hold. (Maybe not coincidentally the three men in blue in our T-shirt advert image at right.) The other of the fourteen policemen on the scene stood in the wings to receive us as we were removed from the parade route.

If the police had been interested in removing us efficiently from the street, the officers could have handled it on one swoop. Instead Paladino was let to do the dirty work, dirtily, throwing me to the ground, yelling at us pell mell, acting over-taxed when in fact the police outnumbered us.

Police misconduct, 2003
Imagine our surprise when Mark Lewis, reviewing the videotapes from the wrongful arrests of peace activists in 2003, discovered that the chief police bully in that case was the same Officer Paladino! You can hear him on the tape telling a woman she could walk to Boulder because he was impounding her car, then handcuffing her before she could even do that. She and friends were standing outside of a Dairy Queen, where they’d parked, after the tear-gassing of the antiwar rally.

The Dairy Queen Dozen won a settlement from the city of Colorado Springs, an admission that the police had acted improperly. And yet four years later, here’s the same wrongdoer, Officer Paladino, pulling the same uncivil behavior, the same abuse of authority, the same escalation of brutality, worse actually, in the midst of children and elders.

We’re told that any admission of wrongdoing on the part of CSPD could never include a reprimand of a particular officer, certainly not one like Paladino who wraps himself in a flag whenever there’s a fallen officer memorial.

To tell you the truth, I got the very strong impression, on St. Patrick’s Day when we were trying to learn his name from the other officers, that they weren’t too proud of his actions either. Most of the police bent over backward to treat us with consideration, as something of an apology for what went wrong on the street. Paladino would not tell us his name when we requested it, and when it came time to record it on most of our arrest forms, the officers filling out our paperwork pretended amnesia it seems, they didn’t want to betray his name either if he wasn’t brave enough to give it himself. That’s a man not likely respected by his colleagues.

Until our trial, until criticism can be brought on police misconduct, who might Paladino be mishandling today? We were fortunate to have cameras focused on us at the parade, and to have a large crowd protecting us with its gaze. What of the hapless vagrant in a dark side street? He bears the brunt of the policemen’s abuse of authority, regularly beaten and harassed by officers with aggressive personality disorders and the means and opportunity to vent them.

Bucket brigade then tar and feather

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Ranchers assembled to ask Senator Salazar to oppose PCMS expansion.
I’d like to ask you to look closely at the the photograph of ranchers assembled in Trinidad to reject the PCMS expansion and Senator Salazar’s support of the taking of their land.

(Salazar and the Army will only commit to say that no one’s land will be taken who doesn’t want to sell it. In the meantime, Army public relations can continue with their rumors that plenty are approaching them to sell, prompting the real ranchers to hedge their bets themselves, compounding the problem no one can get financing or investors because the big bets are on the Army getting the land in the end. So Salazar’s promise is empty and as devious as what actions will ensue. What, is he going to say he was just a good ol’ boy caught in the middle?)

I ask you, what do you see in the picture? Do you see farmers and ranchers and feed store workers getting together to fight a common cause? Do you see a social atmosphere where being a neighbor is redefined and strengthened? Sure. The first, or third, or tenth time. But how many times more must these people remobilize, taking time from their work, their livelihoods, most probably from the little leisure time they have? What’s going to come of the time and energy stolen from them?

When counties and regions face floods or hurricanes, the people come together, luckily for not too extended a duration. When it’s done, there’s disaster relief and efforts expended to see how to keep such calamity from visiting again. So what do you do about politicians, in this case in cahoots with the war business, from raining their greed upon the people? You weather it and then what? Can you dam it further upstream? Can you hire a better weather service to warn you when klepto-politicians are circling for another blow?

Each and every rancher in southeast Colorado has reason to despise Salazar. He’s robbing them of their lives. It’s time for the rest of us to be good neighbors and show our solidarity with them and oppose the traitorous senator ourselves. We don’t have to look far to find more reasons. It’s time to pile up the sandbags, hold fast to what’s dear to us and hang tight. When the onslaught subsides, let’s dam the door to Ken Salazar’s office and never let him back to our state. We’ll keep his homestead estate as partial recompense. Actually we have to charge Salazar and his cohorts with criminal mischief and sue him for the damage he’s done to the Southeast Colorado ranchers, for their lost wages, lost business, and sideswiped lives.

Actually, one can see from whence the tar and feather tradition comes. Right to the state line.

Rupert Brooke’s foreshadowed grave

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The grave of poet Rupert Brooke on Skyros Island in Greece.
If I should die, think only this of me:
that there’s some corner of a foreign field
that is forever England…
 
Rupert Brooke wrote these words in 1914 and embarked thereafter on the British expedition to invade Turkey at Gallipoli. “Well if Armageddon’s on, I suppose one should be there.” Just days after receiving a telegram of this poem’s acclaimed reception, he contracted blood-poisoning and died. They give the 27-yr-old poet a hasty night time burial and the day after his mates met their ill fates on the Turkish shores. Rupert Brooke rests in an olive grove on the Greek Isle of Skyros where his grave is still visited today, re: rupertbrookeonskyros.com. Survivors returning to England called it Rupert’s Island.

Senator Salazar and the Military Industrial Congressional Complex

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Trinidad reception for Senator SalazarBill Sulzman attended Ken Salazar’s public meeting in Trinidad yesterday addressing the Piñon Canyon expansion. This from Bill:
 
Salazar came across as a bumbling idiot. The questions he keeps asking are merely rhetorical. He doesn’t want answers. He just continues to hide behind them. The “crown jewel” remarks which are referred to in the Chieftain story went on at some length and were downright scary. He is a proud, card carrying member of the military, industrial congressional complex.

From Salazar: “You have to know that I believe that we in Colorado are the crown jewel of national security.”

And: “There was some communication from the army that they would be willing to provide contracting work that would mean about 107 jobs.”

More articles in Rocky Mountain News, Gazette, Fox21

From the Times….

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Bichon FriseThis article in the NYT made me laugh. Just this morning, while driving my kids to tennis lessons, we saw a Bichon Frise. I said, “Hey kids, it’s a Bitchin’ Freeze.” Devon, age 9, said, “Mom, is our dog a bitch?” Lara replied, “You just said bitch.” Devon, “Yes, but not IN VAIN!” Ho, ho, ho.

August 7, 2007It’s a Female Dog, or Worse. Or Endearing. And Illegal?
By MICHAEL M. GRYNBAUM

The New York City Council, which drew national headlines when it passed a symbolic citywide ban earlier this year on the use of the so-called n-word, has turned its linguistic (and legislative) lance toward a different slur: bitch.

The term is hateful and deeply sexist, said Councilwoman Darlene Mealy of Brooklyn, who has introduced a measure against the word, saying it creates “a paradigm of shame and indignity” for all women.

But conversations over the last week indicate that the “b-word” (as it is referred to in the legislation) enjoys a surprisingly strong currency — and even some defenders — among many New Yorkers.

And Ms. Mealy admitted that the city’s political ruling class can be guilty of its use. As she circulated her proposal, she said, “even council members are saying that they use it to their wives.”

The measure, which 19 of the 51 council members have signed onto, was prompted in part by the frequent use of the word in hip-hop music. Ten rappers were cited in the legislation, along with an excerpt from an 1811 dictionary that defined the word as “A she dog, or doggess; the most offensive appellation that can be given to an English woman.”

While the bill also bans the slang word “ho,” the b-word appears to have acquired more shades of meaning among various groups, ranging from a term of camaraderie to, in a gerund form, an expression of emphatic approval. Ms. Mealy acknowledged that the measure was unenforceable, but she argued that it would carry symbolic power against the pejorative uses of the word. Even so, a number of New Yorkers said they were taken aback by the idea of prohibiting a term that they not only use, but do so with relish and affection.

“Half my conversation would be gone,” said Michael Musto, the Village Voice columnist, whom a reporter encountered on his bicycle on Sunday night on the corner of Seventh Avenue South and Christopher Street. Mr. Musto, widely known for his coverage of celebrity gossip, dismissed the idea as absurd.

“On the downtown club scene,” he said, munching on an apple, the two terms are often used as terms of endearment. “We divest any negative implication from the word and toss it around with love.”

Darris James, 31, an architect from Brooklyn who was outside the Duplex, a piano bar in the West Village, on Sunday night was similarly opposed. “Hell, if I can’t say bitch, I wouldn’t be able to call half my friends.”

They may not have been the kinds of reaction that Ms. Mealy, a Detroit-born former transit worker serving her first term, was expecting. “They buried the n-word, but what about the other words that really affect women, such as ‘b,’ and ‘ho’? That’s a vile attack on our womanhood,” Ms. Mealy said in a telephone interview. “In listening to my other colleagues, that they say that to their wives or their friends, we have gotten really complacent with it.”

The resolution, introduced on July 25, was first reported by The Daily News. It is being considered by the Council’s Civil Rights Committee and is expected to be discussed next month.

Many of those interviewed for this article acknowledged that the b-word could be quite vicious — but insisted that context was everything.

“I think it’s a description that is used insouciantly in the fashion industry,” said Hamish Bowles, the European editor at large of Vogue, as he ordered a sushi special at the Condé Nast cafeteria last week. “It would only be used in the fashion world with a sense of high irony and camp.”

Mr. Bowles, in salmon seersucker and a purple polo, appeared amused by the Council measure. “It’s very ‘Paris Is Burning,’ isn’t it?” he asked, referring to the film that captured the 1980s drag queen scene in New York.

The b-word has been used to refer to female dogs since around 1000 A.D., according to the Oxford English Dictionary, which traces the term’s derogatory application to women to the 15th century; the entry notes that the term is “not now in decent use.”

But there is much evidence that the word — for better or worse — is part of the accepted vernacular of the city. The cover of this week’s New York magazine features the word, and syndicated episodes of “Sex and the City,” the chronicle of high-heeled Manhattan singledom, include it, though some obscenities were bleeped for its run on family-friendly TBS. A feminist journal with the word as its title is widely available in bookstores here, displayed in the front rung at Borders at the Time Warner Center.

Robin Lakoff, a Brooklyn-born linguist who teaches at the University of California, Berkeley, said that she despised the word, but that enforcing linguistic change through authority “almost never works,” echoing comments from some New Yorkers who believed a ban would only serve to heighten the word’s power.

“If what the City Council wants to do is increase civility, it would have to be able to contextualize it,” said Ms. Lakoff, who studies language and gender. “You forbid the uses that drive people apart, but encourage the ones that drive people together. Which is not easy.”

Councilman Leroy G. Comrie Jr., the Queens Democrat who successfully sponsored a symbolic moratorium on the n-word that was adopted Feb. 28, said he supported Ms. Mealy’s measure, but acknowledged that the term had many uses.

“We want to make sure the context that it’s used is not a negative one,” Mr. Comrie said yesterday.

Back at the West Village piano bar on Sunday evening, Poppi Kramer had just finished up her cabaret set. She scoffed at the proposal. “I’m a stand-up comic. You may as well just say to me, don’t even use the word ‘the.’ ”

But at least one person with a legitimate reason to use the word saw some merit in cutting down on its use.

“We’d be grandfathered in, I would think,” said David Frei, who has been a host of the Westminster Kennel Club dog show in New York since 1990. The word is a formal canine label that appears on the competition’s official materials. But Mr. Frei said he worried about the word’s impact on some viewers, especially younger ones.

“I think we have to take responsibility for that word on the air. The reality is it’s in the realm of responsible conduct to not use that word anymore.

How about a 3rd party for THE BOYARS?

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Boyars kissing up to the CzarGrassroots Democrats! What have you got to say for your party? Sixteen Democrats crossed over to approve the expanded surveillance act. Why? Republicans stick together, why can’t the Democratic Party leadership? Twas 16 with 6 not voting, giving Bush’s measure the needed votes. Perhaps the 16 drew the short straw and were cast across the aisle to pass the measure, cast by the Democratic leadership who got to stay off the record.
 
The point is, the Dems, just like the GOP, continue to back Bush. They refuse to bring the war to a close, they enforce corporate monied rule. That’s the way it works, while the media has us scratching our heads wondering why those darned Dems do dat?

I have an idea. Let’s create a third party, and let THEM have it. The Monied Party, the Landlord Party, oh let them name it. It will be so them. Let them deal with the dismal prospects the media gives a hypothetic new party. Why shouldn’t the American people get to keep their established parties?

Republican and Democratic caucuses, vote to eject your political representatives. Retake your party. Your reps in Washington are not representing you. Get rid of the traitors. Expel them.

Standing politicians, voting for Bush or Pfizer, or Exxon or Dow, or the AMA or Prudential, or GE or General Dynamics, or Wal-mart or the Waltons, or Disney or Murdoch, give them their own party. The Boyar Party I’d call it. From historical depictions, Boyars look like the kind of folk who wouldn’t give you or me the time of day. I cross my fingers we elect a Czar with the guts to nail their hats to their heads.

Then set about to find candidates who will represent YOU. Don’t stand by for table scraps from candidates who can’t say in public what they pretend to promise you in private. It doesn’t happen, they get to Washington and they betray all of us. Ditch ’em.

Democrats who just voted Republican

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Who were the Turncoat Democrats who voted to give expanded surveillance power to Bush? There were 16 in the Senate: Bayh IN, Carper DE, Casey PA, Conrad ND, Feinstein CA, Inouye HI, Klobuchar MN, Landrieu LA, Lincoln AR, McCaskill MO, Mikulski MD, Nelson FL, Nelson NE, Pryor AR, Salazar CO, and Webb VA. And 6 Dems who DIDN’T vote: Boxer CA, Dorgan ND, Harkin IA, Johson SD, Kerry MA, and Murray WA.

There were 41 Turncoat Democrats in the House: Altmire, Barrow, Bean, Boren, Boswell, Boyd FL, Carney, Chandler, Cooper, Costa, Cramer, Cuellar, Davis AL, Davis Lincoln, Donnelly, Edwards, Ellsworth, Etheridge, Gordon, Herseth Sandlin, Higgins, Hill, Lampson, Lipinski, Marshall, Matheson, McIntyre, Melancon, Mitchell, Peterson MN, Pomeroy, Rodrigez, Ross, Salazar, Shuler, Snyder, Space, Tanner, Taylor, Walz MN, and Wilson OH.

Plus 8 Dems who didn’t vote: Becerra, Clarke, Clay, Delahunt, Hinojosa, Kilpatrick, Klein FL, and Lantos.

United, the Democrats could have defeated both proposals. Instead 57 didn’t want to go on record as opposing a “counter-terrorism” measure, and 14 didn’t want to go on record as voting either way. That’s a lot of worrying about going on record, and not enough making the record work for the rights of their fellow Americans.