Flight in February - Excerpt and Summary
Mockery - Chapter One and Summary
The Magnificent Mary Ann: Excerpt and Summary
City on the Ledge - Excerpt and Summary
11-9 and the Terrorist Who Loved Bonsai Trees: Summary and Excerpt
Previous Political Commentary
Podcast interviews

DECEMBER 15, 2019








I can't find my opinion about The Big Peach,

Ever'where do I search, even under bed reach,

I check my coat pockets and look in the car,

Check back with the 'papers to see how things are,

But those doggone opinions, slippery as eels:

As soon as you grab one, it's odd how it feels.


Like all mothers' sons would I love to see Trump

Fuming in lockdown, a jump-suited frump,

But as long as his party forgives all his crap,

Christmas will he spend in the White House's lap.

Which means the Process is but fury and sound,

Signifying ratings but once a year found.


Besides, this Process what species of peach is?

Revengesis politicii, which hasn't much fizz.

Dirty laundry in Wash-town does keep it real,

And if pols can't find it, they call their Bob Steele,

Who'll invent a few orgies out Russia way,

With ladies of pragmatically easy per-sway.


Me, I can think of some deep peachy pie,

Like with no due process a-droning some guy:

Or not minding Congress when its will is given,

Or warring in Syria where our troops are livin',

Actions that should mean a legal hard scuffle,

But Bush, O. and Don play Security Shuffle.


All of which preceding a clear precedent sets:

A prez does what he wants and takes without frets.

As long as he cleaves to the Establishment script,

His gang will applaud and his critics get ripped.

Though this peach has skin and some meat under that,

It's hollow at core and will likely go splat.





NOVEMBER 27, 2019





Should cell phones be banned? It’s worth a good think,

They’re turning our species into crass rinky-dink,

Exposing us to 5G on our left and our right,

And the boss’s long arm on a Saturday night,

And the sticky swift hands of the silent e-thief,

Who leaves our accounts without the merest fig leaf.


I get NFL scores that I really don’t need,

And ads by the dozen that make my patience bleed,

While that snoop NSA tracks my Al Qaeda meets,

So in peace I can’t plot new terrorist feats.

My bank thinks it’s terrif’ that it saves teller costs,

But not my infarction when my cell phone gets lost.


It’s an idea with legs, this phasing out cells,

No more Whatssup whistles or electronic bells,

No twitters that cut into your movie’s love scene

No coverage caprices that turn voice into spleen.

Without interruption could you tuck into steak,

Converse about the world and consider friend’s take.


Our youngsters will object to this ban on their game,

A return to reality that just won’t be the same

As those eons of screen-time with never a prob’,

Killing monsters or texting or watching porn throb,

Though it’s largely forgivable in view of the fact

That their future at best runs from slate-gray to black.


Like all our advances, there’s always a step back,

Something worthy gets lost or comes under attack.

Like a pinball bouncing off the flippers of life,

We’re whacked by inventions to assume or face strife.

Imagine our dear world if when cars were new,

We might have thought twice about so much CO2.



OCTOBER 29, 2019





I signed on with Putin some ten years ago,

Hoping America to give the heave-ho.

T’was a sweet ceremony with kisses on cheeks,

Oceans of vodka and long speeches for weeks,

“Assets, I salute you,” Vlad said through interp’,

“Go create havoc and wear proud the term ‘perp.’”


Then on to classes for havoc techniques,

Like spreading fake news in the guise of wise geeks,

And taking out ads in Facebooks and Twitters,

Psy-ops and disinfo’, some really hard-hitters.

In five years flat we’d have Unc’ Sam on the run,

Or about to give in, our web-assets well spun.


There were dozens of assets devoted like me,

Assange and Ed Snowden, for class Donald T,

Brad not yet Chelsea, T. Gabbard, Steve Cohen,

Each with his role but the same way a-rowin’,

Such hell-raisers sharp as had never been had,

And all hoping to please our highest priest Vlad.


We set out to give it our very best shot,

A try of the college type, hopeful the lot,

But at every turn did we end up outdone,

Confounded by the good guys, outstripped, undone:

Libya, Syria, Hillary went crack,

Talibs ran rings ’round the U.S. in Af-Pak.


From Moscow Vlad thundered, “Is that all you got?

Free of charge do I have that Washington lot.”

“They’re finished,” we said, “by revelations and words,

And Don’s done his best to make a mess of the Kurds.

And tax cuts: he’s brought us to true hells of debt!”

“In Congress?” said Putin, “that’s a job of no sweat.”


And he fired us all, after all those years’ work,

Adding, “Why didn’t I hire that John Bolton jerk?

There’s a guy who can get the U.S.A. messed.

Snowden revelations? A distraction at best,

Assange is a sideshow, Chelsea a martyr,

Bumbling like this I’ve not seen since Prez Carter!”


Jeez, we all figured Ed’s rev’s were darn good,

Anyone can read ’em if only they would,

T’were published and onlined with our hearts in our guts,

But treated like box scores by those MSM sluts,

Who take in stride the Constitution’s been peeled,

No one caring what we’ve informed or revealed.





OCTOBER 17, 2019




Can someone smart set me up on legalities?'Cause I wouldn't want to enter frivalities,When blowing the whistle on crimes high and low,Multi-misdemeanors and billions in doughThat discreet CIA peeps prefer much to muffle,In hopes that Ukrainegate gives Don the quick shuffle.I also punched clock in the royal West Wing,Brought Don the day's Whopper with fries from B. King,And like them I saw things I'd never believeA sitting prez doing to more cash achieve.I mean, Prez Bill sold chits by the pound at bulk rates,But 'round him Prez Don traces long figure-eights.You say you wish that you could sit in Don's chair?It's yours for an arm, a leg and some hair,It rents by the minute to your Visa card,And Don throws in secrets Your-Eyes-Only starred,Or maybe you like that bust of Abe Lincoln,Say no more, but I hope you're rich-stinkin'.And not only on some does Don do the dirt,I heard him say Greta he'd happily flirt!Not for her virtue or to make her braids tighter,But to wheedle the name of her fine speech-writer,That "How dare you?" line made his Grinchy soul float,And come the debates, will get tied 'round Dem throat.Unlike those Company guys, I'm telling all,Stuff heard in the Oval, the chopper and hall:MbS shaken down, the Fed turned cash cow,Macron made a doormat, Merkel a hausfrau.See Pete and Bernie riding high and mighty?Don's got their ping-pongs in vices quite tighty.Yup, find me a whistle 'cause I'm gonna blow,Get my fifteen minutes and close down this show,Don's got this jones now, he but answers to God,Impeachment's for mortals or the poor with no wad.God spake (at Seventh Hole) he's more chosen than thee,Divine revelation being to his future key.





Was the purpose of 9/11 to provoke America into an attack on Afghanistan?

It is time to ask if the most spectacular crime in American history was really planned to goad a gargantuan superpower into attacking a destitute, rustic, landlocked Himalayan nation ruled by a Medieval-minded clique. Or was it to achieve something more in keeping with the sheer grandeur of the attacks?

That Osama bin Laden delegated his greatest work of terrorism to four bumbling, loose-lipped teams armed with box cutters is a conspiracy theory that may be safely dismissed: history for Army grunts. In his last authenticated statements, bin Laden himself, with almost superhuman honesty, denied taking part in the attacks, and said that America should look for the culprits closer to home. His statement must have been sincere--the logic of terrorism requires taking credit for an attack--and surely correct. We need only to ask "Cui bono?" to understand that the authors of the attack have eaten more apple pie than couscous.
Investigation over the past eighteen years, some by people who paid for their heroic efforts in lost jobs and smear campaigns, has shown that the Twin Towers and Building 7 were felled by demolition explosives. To keep this in mind, and to watch the two towers bursting floor by floor and melting into their shrouds of dust, is to understand that the attacks derived from the most venal Shakespearean ambition. And so were the goals of their authors in the American elite.

Was the aim Afghanistan? Yes, but only as a steppingstone. Iraq? Yet another, and Syria as well. Progressives who decry these "endless wars" seem to have never considered that, far from any attempt to "conquer" the Middle East and western Asia, the goal itself was endless war: nothing else so empowers the military-security sector. To attack Afghanistan simply because Osama bin Laden had Taliban protection there in the run-up to 9/11 is surely the flimsiest raison de guerre in history. But the war served the real objective: the military-security complex's final ascension to power.

For the planes crashing into the Twin Towers heralded the beginning of the American empire's terminal phase: military domination of the government. The rich had had a fine run at the helm of plutocracy since the time of Ronald Reagan, and it was time for them to start relinquishing their grip. Like everyone else, they quickly came to relish security.

Which doesn't seem to trouble them even now. The rich no longer use their massive wealth to create domestic jobs and invest in America, which might reinforce their strength in society. No, they have used their bloated fortunes to buy back stock, pay dividends to investors all over the world, and send their money to flashier investments abroad. They have happily partnered with the Pentagon and the security agencies, lining up at their overflowing troughs of funding. They silence critics by eliminating their accounts on social media or canceling their electronic means of payment and funding. It's nothing personal; it's just business. To the rich, a country is only as good as the protection it provides them to trade derivatives and go to smart restaurants in peace.

What Democratic candidates, with the exception of brave Tulsi Gabbard, would say straight out that they intend to transfer the Pentagon's billions to social use? Do any of them want to sweep Homeland Security infamous name into the dustbin of history? Indeed, this tumorous department, now the government's third-largest, is the most obvious manifestation of the military-security milieu's move to power: a domestic defense department that controls what little the private sector couldn't.

So now airline passengers and Super Bowl fans and concert-goers docilely line up for detecting wands and take off their shoes and check their pockets. Cameras watch every street. Cops patrol school hallways. Cell phones track parents' trips to school soccer games. Government spying is a proverb.

For the fight now isn't against communism, but "terrorism." This was the other maximal objective of 9/11: to completely change the conversation, to eliminate the worldwide relief at the end of the Cold War and replace it with a new frightful paradigm. Communism was tangible. It had been headquartered in a distant country with a capital and a flag and scowling presidents so dour they might have been taken out of a comic book. But that threat petered out in the early '90s, to the worldwide delight of citizens and the alarm of American elites. Probably it was then that planning for 9/11 began.

A new threat was needed, and this time around it would be a tougher sell to a distracted public to whom international affairs was the dullest part of the newscast. Which is why it wasn't enough to have airliners smash into the buildings: the crucial half-dozen videos shot by startled cameramen would last but seconds; office fires would be put out before the six-o'clock news, the buildings eventually repaired, a commemorative plaque unveiled in the plaza a few months later.

No, the towers had to be mined with demolition explosives and crash to the ground in a roaring tantrum of destruction. Everything depended on this, and no effort was spared, including an entire backstory on how the terrorists, thinking themselves undetected but discreetly nursed along, miraculously eluded American intelligence, air defenses, and both national and local law enforcement. Surely the symbol of the operation's momentousness was the explosive material used on the buildings: the amount applied must have been several times the necessary, burning red-hot in the debris for months despite the tons of water poured on it.
And how splendidly "terrorism" has worked out, the selling job a success. For terror is personal, it's a ghost, it's whatever one makes of it, it's around the corner and under the bed, requiring neither country nor flag, though a long gloomy face and tattered beard like bin Laden's certainly help to focus passions. But anybody will do. Iranians. Kim Jong-un. Bashar al-Assad. Jeffery Epstein. Limping Central Americans hoping for a fresh start in America. Vladimir Putin, regarded as something of a modern savior in his own country, especially in Crimea, is regularly set down as the greatest terrorist of them all in western media.

Mass shootings continually refresh the scare, and as usual truthers like a sand-and-shovel brigade trot along behind police reports cleverly pointing out inconsistencies and gaps in the evidence. Mainstream reporters loathe them. Truthers make them taste their self-censorship in security matters, whether they involve the local sheriff or the CIA. Nobody tells these coiffured, orotund hustlers to say one thing and not another; nobody needs to: they know what their newsrooms want. To them, a David Ray Griffin or a Richard Gage is a pathetic idiot gabbling in the wilderness; truthers are "nobodies."

The reporters' job on 9/11 was to terrorize the public, and later to pound away at the theme of an America in peril. ISIS and al Qaeda have now passed their primes, but Homeland Security grows by the day. The media masters are well-pleased.

For they are acolytes of the military-security complex, whose bid for power was 9/11. It was the final downward step of American empire, terrorism a convenient new fear to add to the old and familiar danger of a resurgent Russia and a now prodigiously competitive China. The smearing of the former is complete; of the latter it is still taking shape. The anti-democratic theme rings loudest, a fact that attests to the difficulty of vilifying a polite people determined to extend a decent standard of living to all of their stupendous population.

Though the forms of US democracy are respected - elections, congressional investigations, a Supreme Court, the appearance of debate in mainstream media - the stage-management of it all has shifted to ever-darker, ever-smaller forces skirmishing amongst themselves far from the public spotlight. Since 9/11, American history is Plato's shadows on the cave wall.



AUGUST 16, 2019




Is intelligence intelligent? It's hard to say.
Our 17 agencies are out there to prey
On bubbling secrets our fellow man holds,
Excepting the fact that wifey him scolds,
Or coming together they publicly say,
Mr. V. Putin our elections did sway.
Or was it just four, and those four cherry-picked?
'Cause just among four the conclusion sweet-clicked,
And having more cooks, well, you spoil the broth,
The point being anyhow to make pundits froth,
And assure John Q. that Putin prefers Trump,
Such putty compared to that snarling blond frump.
Seventeen! Is our intelligence that low?
(And seventeen more in the column Can't-Show),
It seems to be thus, you can tell from Af-Pak,
Where eighteen years' smarts have netted but jack,
Nor is Iraq an extraordinary success,
Nor luckless sad places that we've left a mess.
It's said the Company chucks tons of intel,
Great stuff it can't use or on Ebay sell,
But which keeps employed folks who top their class list,
Folks you don't want to see left-raising a fist,
But applauding-abetting each new control,
And to whom al Qaeda is one great console.
'Cause good econ-times, well, they come and they go,
But with terr'ists, God bless 'em, the work's never slow,
We might nail bin Laden, send X to Guantan',
Do in ISIS and bring a smile to Prez Don,
But on the horiz' here comes a new baddie,
Grinning through beard, saying "Bro', who's your daddy?"


AUGUST 6, 2019





Actually I thought it was just a good prank,
Slipping my mug into the Democrats' rank,
Presenting myself as one more contender,
One more pale face as a blue-suit pretender,
For a down-the-pub laugh, YouTube repartee,
But it worked out OK, as soon you will see.
I called a campaign and said, "You're boy's been switched,
To the second group t'is that his night's been hitched."
I arrived on time, got made-up like the rest,
Put at a lectern and shook hands with true zest,
Bernie said civil, "Phil? I don't think we've met."
"It's quite a crowd, Bern', but now we're all set."
The host frowned at me, I thought up was the jig,
But then with sly wink he said he liked my wig,
The show began, me between Bull' and the Loop,
And when they asked me how to beat the Big Poop,
I said, "Sometimes you gotta fight fire with fire,"
Call Don a balding and cuckolded liar."
Well! I took flak for that: left, right and center,
When I got the ball back I tried to enter
Completely new ground in our Dem debate, 
Mentioning a point past which the rest skate:
"Medicare for all? A new Flint doesn't hap'?
Cut Defense by half and make Homeland S. scrap."
Another bombshell! And the rest did me flay,
Making sure I'd ne'er see the new light of day,
Our defense was sacred, our homeland attacked!
How could I say this with no reason or tact?
"Defense," said I, "keeps working the wrong mission:
The Twin Towers, my friends, was controlled demolition."
OOOF! Cream pies and stones flew, along with some bricks,
Delaney and Klobuchar got in several kicks,
Never have Democrats been so united,
As when I averred that they were benighted,
But the last laugh was mine when the polls were heard,
Behind Bernie and Liz, your boy came in third.



JULY 30, 2019





With war or without it Don said he’s “OK,”

I like my president flexible that way,

Not one of these guys who consults a dull panel,

Or says that it’s war while he works the back channel,

But simply admits that each path has its thing,

Like choosing ’tween beers, college majors, or bling.


The Iranians’ trouble? They’re unwilling to flex,

To take things with humor and without touchy vex.

The Brits take their ship and the beards get all huffy,

Ayatollahs bug-eyed and faces all puffy.

It’s only a ship, they’ve got more whence it came;

Like the kid who lost homework, they sound pretty lame.


The threats are a bore as are tit-for-tat plays,

Which take up more time and ruin the crews’ days,

What’ll the Brits do? Cut it up for cheap scrap?

Make it a fern bar or a house for bounce rap?

That’s how wars start, see, when impatience reigns,

If Iran just chilled, they’d see reward for their pains.


Yup, like Don says, you gotta let things take course,

Delegate out stuff, bet on more than one horse,

Wars come and go, yeah, they’re a pain in the butt,

But they have some charm if your regime’s in a rut,

They pick up your numbers and make you look great,

Put opponents to rout and help you lose weight.


So Don is comfy watching how the wind blows,

Sweating Iran and watching how Wall Street rose,

The best June since Cesar, like a well-oiled machine,

An economy unlike any soul’s ever seen,

So this business of war he takes not too serious,

Unlike Iran with their long-beards delirious.



JULY 15, 2019






Speculation's rife on why Don called it off,
Everyone on everyone's theory to scoff,
So instead of trusting experts so-called,
I called an old buddy who's suit-and-tie bald,
Who gave me the skinny thorough and proper,
For he was there holding Don's Double Whopper.
He tells me clear that at the very last min',
The Kremlin hot line began ringing like sin.
To Don Vlad talked turk for ten minutes no less,
And said that he thought the attack was B.S.:
"The last thing I need's a call from Rouhani,
Asking me to come to the rescue Irani'."
Don told Vlad he could just send the guy packing, 
The attack was only a little base-whacking,
Something guys do for Saturday-night fun,
A lark, a laugh, or what they called a "milk run,"
But no sooner'd he hung up than Xi checked in,
Worried his supplier would get kicked in the shin.
"What the hell is this?" Don hissed sharp to the room,
"Does everyone know we're about to let boom?"
The Chinese wouldn't stand for a single attack,
So Don could go and tell his jets to turn back.
"We do as we please, my little grasshopper,
You guys can make iPhones, but no decent Whopper."

"That's tellin 'em, Chief!" all cried in the room,
When into the Oval Ivanka did zoom,
Eyes full of tears, lovely mouth all a-jag,
"Father, please tell me this invasion's a gag!
My fashion firm has its fall runway tomorrow!
It'll get buried if the news is all sorrow!"
Don hem-hawed and said, "Can you let the show slide?
Just for three days until the news has all dried."
But I. stomped her foot, scowled and dug in high heel:
"I've got models and venues and it's all a done deal!"
So with minutes to go Don asked in half-moan,
"Guys, how many people will die for that drone?"



JULY 2, 2019






            Back in 1995, when John le Carré turned in the manuscript for his novel “Our Game,” one of his editors wondered if the places depicted in it – Chechenya and its capital Grozny – were real or made-up. “By November she had her answer,” he wrote in The New York Times Book Review; the civil war there had recently begun. “I felt no triumph, just a kind of nausea,” he adds.


            I know what he means. My novel “11/9 and the Terrorist Who loved Bonsai Trees,” which took four years to write – an embarrassing amount of time for just over two hundred pages of print – deals with a false-flag operation designed to propel America into war against Iran. And here we are today, with attacks on oil tankers and American officials wringing every bit of drama from them in order to get into a war. After years of arguing to skeptics that 9/11 was brought off for a similar purpose and writing a novel that illustrates how easy it is to do, I find current events now bring me a tickle of smugness, true enough, but also le Carré’s same nauseating sense of the suffering to come.


            Suffering because this time America’s opposition is a sophisticated people with a real army. And united. They may have their differences with their glum ayatollahs, they may enjoy Michael Jackson tunes and download into cell phones every app imaginable, but the American-led installation of the hapless Shah and the U.S. Navy’s 1988 shootdown of one of their airliners are recent memories. And American sanctions have bitten deeply. Americans will not be greeted as liberators.


            Suffering because while the U.S. Air Force is putting on another performance of shock, awe and shameless brutality, Iranians or their proxies will attack any of the dozens of small American installations in the region, making Afghanistan look like a Sunday picnic. And then there’s the Strait of Ormuz, the blocking of which means barrel prices in the hundreds. In that case, the casually sadistic Trump, one of whose favorite words is “obliterate,” may well make good on his threat to use nuclear weapons.


            Even apart from that, it is a sure bet that the country’s best and brightest will turn their skills against the United States. Cyber attacks – the poor man’s nuclear bomb – in America could become commonplace. Not that airports and power plants will be shut down; I’m always amazed that moviemakers and armchair catastrophists can be so short-sighted. Cyber attacks really mean that coal doesn’t get delivered to power plants on time because spare parts for the train engines have mistakenly ended up in Paraguay. Attacks could take the form of news items saying that Facebook is going to be broken up into ten companies and Chase Manhattan is actually bankrupt, of oil refineries breaking down, of sporting events where the lights go out. Hospitals could run out of the blood supplies and schools out of lunches. If you need a graphic example of the new age of war, remember that false nuclear-attack alarm in Hawaii that sent the locals running for cover. That’s war with Iran.


            A wired society is as vulnerable as a newborn baby.


            And the rest of the world will look on with complacency, if not provide help, and in places where they hold no truck with jihads or visions of virgins in the afterlife. I don’t mean Russia, whose smeared, vilified, slandered, demonized leader is a pillar of reason compared to that coiffured pro-wrestling heel in the White House. War on Iran would mean the fatal blow for America’s relations with western Europe. Where I live, in Spain, the protests would be multitudinous. Pressure to disengage politically and militarily from the U.S. would be intense.


            All of this is evidently lost on our foreign policy mandarins. In my novel, I create a portrait of the Deep State – by no means the type you see in movies, with Marine guards standing tensely at attention, computers blinking, insipid clocks showing the times in Paris, Moscow and Tokyo. Over the years that I wrote and re-wrote those scenes, I had reservations about not deepening the characters that participate in the meetings. But figures like the cantankerous John Bolton or Mike Pompeo, the latter visibly straining the seams of his suit in his enthusiasm for whacking one antichrist or another, relieved me of those doubts. We were assured by an anonymous writer in the New York Times that there are “adults in the room” keeping President Trump away from his dumber ideas. For the life of me, I cannot detect their influence. Was it they who urged the president to attack Iran? Or who informed Trump, once his forces were all in position fingering the safeties on their guns, that 150 people would die for the drone that Iran shot down, so maybe this wasn’t such a hot idea after all? Bravo, adults!


            But no matter. The president’s spasm of humanity regarding casualties, however dubious, surely reassured the folks in Peoria: We are a decent, feeling people. One of the most enjoyable parts of my book to write was about the manipulation of the media and public opinion. And not only was it fun, it was easy. At one point in my story, the government version of the false-flag op needs to have a full makeover. But with a shocking revelation here and a clever leak there, everything comes off as smoothly as a pop singer changing her image from sweet to racy, with scarcely a break in sales flow.


            My “11/9” is a reflection on 9/11 and how the “narrative” – hateful word – is sold and reinforced to launch America into another Asian war. As one of my characters, a hard-boiled senator from Connecticut, moans, “Oh, narrative. Sometimes I wonder if all government has come down to these days is the telling of a goddamn bedtime story.”


            The most amazing narrative on 9/11 was clearly the Shanksville, Pennsylvania, crash of Flight 93. Here the public was shown a smoking depression in the ground and assured that down below, an entire commercial airliner lie buried, having burrowed into the ground upon impact – all the way out to its wingtips, all the way up to the stabilizer, scarcely a tray-table left in sight. Incredible – literally. No wonder Osama bin Laden hastened to assure the world that he had nothing to do with 9/11, rather than take credit for it (as the real perps were probably counting on): he must have figured the whole charade would be exposed within a month.


            But I was talking about false flags and getting it right on Iran. Having written a novel about how easy it is to stampede the public, I have no faith in either the president, his top advisors, or those “adults in the room” to avoid war with Iran – and certainly none in the Deep State, whose record over the past twenty years has been dreadful. Maybe – maybe – sundry political calculations regarding the economic consequences will stay their hand. But the false-flag-driven narrative is theirs to write, the media will do nothing but embroider it, and Truthers stumbling along behind them like the sand-and-shovel brigade will never get an audience.


            But their version of events will ultimately end up the most accurate.


            So history has ended – history, that is, as a nurturing tissue joining the past to the present and defining a nation. As the comedian in my story sums it up: “People will believe you have eyes on your ass before they believe the government plays dirty.”




JUNE 18, 2019








The Pentagon recently presented fake news, 
Regarding the doings of Iran Navy crews, 
Who took down a wreath attached to a tanker, 
Which in the Oman rode peaceful at anchor. 
Yes, a "wreath," which is no B.S. from a ninny, 
For here's the real scoop, the lowdown on the skinny. 
You know how these sailors have a babe in all ports? 
Well, in these times of e'galite' of all sorts, 
Turns out Filipino met a Guard from Iran, 
And they hit it off as two handsome guys can. 
So the Fil docking Gulf-side, they set every sail, 
And did what they did, not to enter detail. 
But you know how things go: the Rev Guard got pissed, 
When he found out he was one more on a list, 
And sent the Filipin' a blistering Dear John, 
This by text message into the ether and yon, 
Picked off by those swift guys at our NSA, 
Who laughed their ass off, saying "This makes our day!" 
Yet love sprang anew when the Fil's ship returned, 
And the Guard repented and for old love yearned, 
So in dark of night he slipped out of the port, 
And hung on the ship's side a wreath of love's sort, 
Sending the Filipino a message anew: 
"On that starboard side, babe, there's something for you." 
By now the NSA guys were rolling on floor, 
And someone called Centcom and said with a roar, 
"Get eyes on that starboard and don't give me crap, 
The brass wants to see it, so let's see it ASAP!" 
'Round screens staff gathered as the chopper flew near, 
"It's solid red roses!" and they toasted with beer. 
Yelled and drank, that is, till in walked a three-star, 
And asked impolitely why this seemed a bar, 
But those techies were smooth as techies can be, 
And quick blurred the big screen before telling he, 
A limpet they'd found that had blown a mere poof. 
"Look, they're removing it 'cause they know it's proof!" 
Alas, port guards had seen the lover's return, 
And in the brig thrown him for a seven-month burn, 
And sent men to the symbol of roses to grab, 
Do it damn fast before the gossips could gab, 
So now we behold the good work that all did: 
Iran kept its rep and the Yanks got their vid.




MAY 17, 2019






And if Iran fights back? I know that I would,
And not willy-nilly in my own neighborhood,
I'd hire a hit-team to pot-shot New York,
And pay some bad homeboys to chaos uncork,
Scarce would I bother with carriers aircraft,
But remind the locals t'was I who last laughed.
Yes, modern war now has so many a prong,
It makes you full glad to have lived for this long,
There's drones or sanctions for the rabid or chaste,
War a la carte that will please every taste,
And if your procliv' is the cloak and the dag',
Why, attack Saudi ships in a daring false-flag!
Iranians might well go with cyber du jour,
And pain-in-the-butt make Yank airports endure,
Then tell bus drivers that there's no school today,
And make teachers fume and kids shout hooray,
Then tell the markets that Google's been bought,
And make traders think of what this war has wrought.
Drones would fly and to the oddest of places,
To the MBS yacht and New York's air spaces,
With maybe a dogfight between jet and a drone,
The latter untroubled by breaks to its bone,
A true kamikaze sans iPhone or care,
That homes on its target with no lives to spare.

I just keep on wondering how long it will be,
'Fore we start a war that ends up on Main Stree',
'Fore Arab or Persian who studied new tech,
Planning a future with silk tie 'round his neck,
Decides to apply his wide learning to war,
And gives back as good as he gets from our corps.




MAY 10, 2019




Say what you like ’bout ’em, they sure have some nerve,

Chucking the treaty with Iranian verve,

Allowing the Donald to squawk “I told you so!”

And claim once again they want not nukes for show,

And promise big muscle to do all he’s able,

All options like golf clubs laid out on the table.


Yet though Don is saying, “C’mon: make my day,”

Iran is replying it wants things its way,

And woe is the signatory who doesn’t help out,

’Cause they’ll drop the deal like a rank Brussel sprout,

So the sigs’ had better make up for the Yanks,

Lest Iran tire of well-enforced sanc’s.


Which sets the scene for Game of the Loyal,

Where allies’ intentions are set to fast-broil,

And the other big powers must measure their strat’,

And with the beards deal and play tit-for-tat

Against Pompous Mike who will need to save face,

And send in the Air Force or start an arms race.


Yes, you sniff it plain in the high strastosphere,

A new crisis brewing from Shanghai to here,

With the Russians fed up and China fed full,

And Europeans tired of more Yankee bull,

The Pentagon looking for another grotesque,

Lest some poor general needs polish oak desk.


Thank goodness for the sure hands of Don and his men,

Guys who can put Humpty together again;

Mike pushing the long-beards, Jared MBS,

Bolton pushing all with no shred of BS,

“With God (and some drones and a decent cash flow),

All things are possible,” says Don at Lago.




APRIL 25, 2019




You watch Pompeo strengthen sanc’s on Iran,

And threaten all countries that jump his full ban,

And wonder how long this theater will run,

Till on this great power does set the old sun,

’Cause ’round the whole planet impatience has grown

With the weight it’s throwing, including Mike’s own.


In Europe once again the sigh is quite audible,

As nobody there thinks the move is much laudable,

Or anyone else ’cept the yay-hoos Stateside,

Who’ve forgotten the fact they must law-abide,

And not just aggress ’cause it wows ’em on Fox,

Where they approve in baas, moos and doo-cocks.


You wonder how far Europeans will stretch

To adapt to Trump or the latest poor wretch,

Ordered by the Deep State to raise holy hell

Against a far country where most wish us well,

Since they have their own Deep and know common folk

Would rather do business than swift their eye poke.


What will happen if Mike fines a Frenchy?

I think they’ll answer with something quite trenchy,

Since one thing’s to push Euros into Afghan,

But fine them one euro and fit hits the shan,

So maybe old Europe will now take a stand,

And refuse to bang drums in Mike’s Full-Sanc’ Band.


When you have no hammer, prob’s don’t look like nails,

But more like the ho-hum of everyday ails,

Solved by blue suits with their water in bottles,

Not by Chuck Norris but bland Aristotles,

Who now abandon The One Indispensable,

Which pushes on with the true indefensible.





APRIL 5, 2019





That noise that all heard was the squawk of despair,

When Biden crouched low to sit on his chair,

At table with Bernie and many a rose,

And down fell Joe to sore awkward pose,

For his butt found itself of chair full bereft,

Both table and chairs having moved to the left.


So Biden got up with his usual grin

And said, “That’s a classic political sin.

You should always look down ’fore taking a chair,

’Specially with wise-guys like ol’ Bernie there,

Who think they’ve given a permanent shove,

To our party’s core and the nation thereof.”


And striking bold stance leaning on the chair’s back,

He said, “I’ll just stand, since you all show a lack

Of true recognition of what I stand for:

Civil rights, health care, and concern for the poor,

All that I fought for when you guys were teenies,

The prob’ being then we had Bush and his meanies.”


Bernie said, “Hold on, Joe, you’re stretching too far,

You’re selling a rusted bald-tire used car.

Sure, you have some qualities worthy of Dems,

But of them your leftist cred much haws and hems.

Miss America might for dog-catcher run,

But lose on a platform of fashion and fun.


“So if you’re planning the Centrist Waddle,

With HRC as your political model,

Remember her message did squat on the stump,

And got mashed to fodder by sleaze-master Trump,

So this time around we do poor versus rich:

That’s the best way to leave Don in the ditch.”


But Joe said “No, there’s room for us all,”

And gave the table a mighty great haul

Back to the center and admonished the rest

To support his nom’ after he’s won the quest,

Which he might do when it’s all said and done,

And means that Trump has re-election near won.




MARCH 22, 2019






I heard that back in the good ol’ Bush days,

A lot of his backers were Christian mainstays,

Conniving to provoke The End worldwide,

For they found in this fate a groovy upside:

That since Christ promised to return for a vis’,

He’d have to do it ’fore the planet went fizz.


Now Jesus for sure is a reliable source,

Who does what He says as a matter of course,

But now I’m wondering as I look at Caracas,

And the romping fake news behind the fracas,

If He isn’t planning to stay where He is:

Declining to scrap with the fakery biz.


Because miracles aren’t what they used to be:

A vid, for examp’, of making the blind see,

Which going viral makes the six-o’clock news,

Then flayed by truthers and low-researched views:

A schmaltz crisis actor, the mud Walmart physic,

Which in sum could well be called anti-semitic.


Or to anger slick bankers you overturn tables,

But all you’ll get are some punditing labels:

“Unstable,” “activist,” or “unfit to serve,”

A total smear job, chump, with you behind curve,

So you turn other cheek, say the meek will inherit;

In truth, say analysts, meek stats are disparate.


Talk about the rich and the needle’s small eye,

And Fox will say that you’re hoping to vie

For the Dem nomination with its field so bloat’,

Planning to capture the soccer-mom vote,

And cynically carry the Iowa straw,

Pledging to cut duty to Cesar by law.


No, a Second Coming just ain’t what it’s cracked:

A non-starter, non-event, and prob’ Russian-hacked,

Recorded on iPhones and on Facebook fanned,

Sweet wisdom retweeted and by China banned,

Dashing Holy Righters' great expectations:

Well, that’s what you get for ruining nations.




MARCH 15, 2019






I swear these socialists make mountains from moles, 
And yowl, squawk and squeal like hungry new foals, 
Over Nothing 'bout Nothing and then back again, 
Sticking the good guys with the point of their pen, 
Making them suffer for pursuing the good, 
And doing what patriots for our nation should. 
I refer to the effort to sell Saudis nuke, 
And that talking head Hedges who's but a kook, 
screaming foul play and hoping to spike 
A lot of huge contracts that Yankees will like, 
Like 'em for jobs and duration and bucks, 
Which contrar' to Chris is not the true crux. 
'Cause who's pushing this deal for 40 nuke plants? 
Not Putin, Maduro, or the Ku Klux Klants, 
But our gen'rals and diplomats, ties straight and tight, 
Execs who fly jets and make deals left and right, 
I mean guys with clearance who know the dark skinny, 
And daily shave bare their chinny-chin-chinny. 
They're the guys we count on to run this world straight, 
And I listen up if they say Salman's great, 
Yeah, I've heard the story: he topped a harsh scribe, 
And would have done better to slip him a bribe, 
And he enRitzed some sheikhs and made 'em sleep nervous, 
Though in cells with saunas and snappy room service. 
His war on the Houthis has been no success, 
For war is hell: our guys know its excess, 
But look on the bright side: his citizens thrive: 
They're watching blockbusters and the women can drive! 
If that ain't a vision for peace and prosper' 
My name is Mud and my butt's in the air. 
But he pushes clean E and everyone carps: 
That's nuke for H-bombs, they say, hid under tarps, 
Which Iran will take for evil intentions, 
And quickly raise high the level of tensions, 
When nothing could really be further from true, 
Against which our good guys would bet their cut-crew. 
Hedges and his rads'd better hear what I say: 
Trust in our patriots who plan to make hay, 
For workers, for Wall Street, themselves a bare penny, 
Since t'would be a shame if they didn't get any. 
So just sit back, Chris, worry not of their toil: 
If it all goes sideways, it's on Saudi soil.





FEBRUARY 15, 2019






I keep reading we have ten years to change,

Though some say eleven might still be in range,

Or twelve if we're lucky with big solar flares,

Or less if China controls poorly its airs,

Or a bit more if we can cut down on pork,

Though sore will I miss a sweet chop on my fork.


And what then, I wonder, when those years have passed,

When the doom long foretold is no longer forecast:

Imagine our lives with folks wringing their hands,

Whole stadiums empty of foam fingers in stands,

Not a soul on the beach in sunny Miami

Everyone hunkered for the big double whammy.


No, methinks the experts will again coalesce

Around ten more years to get out of this mess,

And ten after that if we don't get it right,

Since there's no sense in getting tense and uptight

'Bout the far stratosphere and its airy puddle,

Through which we'll manage and co-opt and muddle.


Muddle for better or more often for worse,

As lab-coats hustle to make up for the dearths

Of food and water and a few scraps to eat,

While shielding the earth from the sun's angry heat,

And cleaning the air so it gives us a break,

From all the exhaust that then we'll still make.


But this stuff about how we have ten years or three

The ol' diddly-squat gets from wiseguys like me,

'Cause nobody measures GDP by intent,

But service and products that pay monthly rent,

And like it or not that is all here to stay,

Till Mother Earth sticks her foot out our way.






FEBRUARY 1, 2019






You gotta just love these guys with ambition, 
Whose rhetoric alone pulls off their mission. 
Far easier t'is than harvesting votes, 
Mugging for selfies and caressing rank goats, 
Debating opponents and with unions lunching 
Sipping warm beer and cold bratties munching. 
Why not proclaim oneself king of the land, 
Take a solemn oath and strike up the band? 
For ol' Napoleon it worked well enough: 
Leader-king-emperor, straight up the bluff, 
Then bark and fetch for the Yankees as Fido, 
Which seems to sit well with President Guaido. 

Manager-of-the-year Maduro sure ain't, 
A glowering Trump without the hair paint, 
Ham-fisted and arrogant, too Latin by half, 
His rhetoric soaring and good for a laugh, 
And yet it's his country for better or worse, 
And for Vens to decide if he's Churchill or curse. 
'Course, south of the border you never quite know 
If the econ's that poor or who's running the show 
Is some latter-day Nixon who said to his team, 
"That country's toast, 
make the economy scream." 
And if the new prez is a self-proclaimed man, 
Yank dips count their blessings: it could be Af-stan.


JANUARY 25, 2019






Will the shutdown of gov’ hit sixty days?

I’d hate to see it but in many ways

The only movement that I can much see

Is the shuffle to mic of Chuck S and Nan P.,

To explain once again they’re doing their best,

But it’s our president who must do the rest.


Which would work just fine with a regular prez,

Who does what he can if not what he says,

Or a regular Congress that’s not full of jerks:

Some Repubs who to their prez can talk turks,

And split a few hairs and give each side a win,

And once that’s done kick each other in shin.


Thing is, ol’ Don is no regular prez,

More of a pasha but without the red fez.

He sees The Wall as divine re-election,

The gain of respect and less circumspection,

His beloved cage match of winner-all-take,

Political survival clearly at stake.


And by hook or by crook, Don sure survives all,

Bankruptcy, dear Stormy, the I.R.S. trawl,

And it ain’t by ceding that Don did all that;

It's by NOT ceding, though he had to turn rat,

Turn rat or cretin or Janus-faced lover,

Using who’s needed to give his rump cover.


So I suggest Democrats just make a fuss,

And cry the nation must get back on the bus,

And give in to blackmail, say they were forced,

Cry dirty pool, with Trump’s motives ill-sourced,

’Cause Don won’t back down and make no mistake:

To him two months shutdown’s a quick piece of cake.



JANUARY 5, 2019






The former Speaker has retaken her gavel,

Which makes me wonder where Democrats travel,

’Cause to me it’s clear that a Dem worth the name,

Is leaning to left and away from the shame

Of repping the banks, the rich and most able,

Which means ol’ Nancy is herself off the table.


Plutocracy’s a story that’s now sunken in,

Which you see in movies where underdogs win,

In some C.S.I. and House of Cards chapters,

Lamented alike by heroes and raptors,

And now forms a part of the national lore,

Which Dems must address if they want to score.


Along with the story of how wealth’s taken over

Rises the one about arms-makers in clover,

Making that hay while sun shines in Af-Pak,

And Yemen, Syria, Somalia and Iraq,

And while Yankees happily fend for their nation,

They now raise eyebrows at mili-lactation.


And since Speaker P. last grabbed that big gav’,

The income gap’s grown ’tween have-not and have,

With more and more folks needing loans at short terms,

Which bleed them more than bacterial germs,

And this finally too is making impression

On our body politic and raising much question.


Yet the Estab’ continues to itself assert,

Not changing its spots or even its shirt,

Ragging on Russia, keeping Gaza a jail,

And against any pullout from anywhere rail,

On poor Bernie S. doing hit-job-du-jour,

Hoping most likely for Hillary’s new tour.


It’s a disconnect worthy of old ’68,

When elites thought it was but something they ate,

And carried on ’Nam and bombed it just horrible,

Relying for votes on the dumb and deplorable

Who fifty years on voted in The Blond Flame,

Their savior-in-chief from More of the Same.




DECEMBER 20, 2018






Can you quite believe Trump did the right thing? 

He said "That's enough" of the Syrian fling! 

I can scarcely remember a similar stroke, 

When a sitting U.S. prez blew off the smoke 

Of generals and experts in sober blue ties, 

And cut through the crap and well-polished lies. 


One such was Bush making peace with Mik Gorb, 

A far worse blow than the Estab' could absorb. 

Of course Trump's measure was but a no-brainer, 

At most for the Pent' the smallest butt-painer, 

And for those who like their niceties legal, 

Ends bases set up with arrogance regal. 


Yet it's odd this aspect makes no impression 

On critics all over who this measure question, 

For whom the removal of this illegality 

Affronts their sense of imperiality: 

What good's power if you can't step on some toes, 

Go flouting a few laws and foisting a few woes? 


You bet Hillary'd still be in there swinging, 

Warring with Russians and in the rain singing 

About how to Syrians we'll quickly bring 

Since the invention of sliced bread the best thing: 

Real cool democracy a la Afghan, 

Ten-buck-a-vote pols, and chicken in each pan. 


So for once let us give Don Trump his due cred, 

For calling off sharp a dumb fight that was dead. 

A no-brainer, yes, but how many keep going? 

Lost-on-your-watch is a song they're still crowing 

In Af-Pak, Iraq and those half-dozen places 

Obama scored with his policy aces.



DECEMBER 10, 2018






I’m getting this feeling that everything’s bought,

And starting to ponder on what God has wrought,

Or if not the Big Guy, those guys with blue suits,

Who crave every asset from Chase to green shoots,

And unload the cash as if it’s burning their hands,

Then for even more stuff go hunt foreign lands.


Jeff Bezos, for examp’, is raking it in,

With a rake as big as a Las Vegas inn,

And since his wealth is in money not feet,

And with just two shoes he walks warm and neat,

This means he can blow off the rest of his wad,

Buying Microsoft, GM and Cape Cod.


Which explains why Timmy who come cuts my grass,

Fingers a timeclock with every row pass,

I asked why that was and he flourished his card,

Which attested his working for Chad the Lawn Bard,

A division of Scrooge Inc., which is part of Groupe Sluice,

Which the Pentagon contracts to keep Bagram spruce.


Young Tim says he checks in with every mown row,

Lest sneaky algorhyth’s call him poke-slow,

And replace him with T.J. who runs all the time,

For his kids and a wife have to live on his dime.

If Tim aces jobs and twelve clients endorse,

He wins a Nespresso from Human Resource’.


Such is the world in this twenty-first cent’,

Awash in this ocean of billions unspent,

Where all can be bought or at least well-controlled,

Be it stand lemonade or citizens polled.

It’d be nice to think that the peons don’t mind,

But these things end often with payment in kind.


NOVEMBER 25, 2018






Worrieth thou about what’s sustainable?

Me, I’m happy with what’s maintainable,

Like a bulb that lights up when I hit the switch,

And e-mail that arrives without any hitch,

But I look at the streets and watch the gas guzz’ed,

And wonder anew if this issue ain’t fuzzed.


Because like those streets are many more equal,

CO2 spewed in an infinite sequel,

And multiplied strongly by many a road;

The conclusion is clear that we’re making a toad,

And like toads all over that have never been kissed,

This one has grudges for it feels it’s been dissed.


I’d like to believe that this sustainable stuff

Is the stuff of the future and not so much fluff,

But I can’t sit in traffic jams and fully believe,

That it ain’t ourselves that we’ve come to deceive,

In thinking that all will be well down the road,

If we just get holy in car and abode.


Imagine a prez talking turk with constits:

“This is balls-up, folks, if we go and persist

Growing our econ’ and creating more jobs,

With ever more houses with doorbells and knobs,

We’ve got to go backwards, so to my chagrin,

The GDP drops, and today we begin.”


Thus have I doubts about sustainable D.,

And think but a space shield might possibly be

What makes some amends with our dear Mother Earth,

In cities and oceans from Paris to Perth,

Lest the old wisdom awaken much rue:

You can’t have development and eat it too.



NOVEMBER 10, 2018







If Don calls you rude does it mean that you're rude?

It would if Obama did: he's quite a dude,

But coming from Don, well, you don't take it poor,

It's like what he says about Latins, only more,

But in this case I've got to give him some cred,

On the nail he hit it with a scribe ill-bred.


For Jim A. was playing the journalist bold,

Asking hard questions but too manifold,

Talking the tough talk of the Cool Fifth Estate,

Not standing down, keeping on with his prate.

Standing before Trump what a figure he cut!

Which come his next contract will make his pay jut.


Later the White House threw a flag for holding,

Touching the mic lass while Donald was scolding,

As harassment goes, it was pretty thin fare,

A jostle you'd see on a bus anywhere,

But extra frames turned the scene to more sordid;

Jim lost his "hard pass," from White House deported.


CNN squalled and placed on Jim a crown,

He tweeted of "freedoms" and "We won't back down."

Yet ten miles have they backed from impartial takes,

Talking up capital, the corporate sweepstakes!

Putin is awful, North Korea scarce better:

The long-clanked clanking of neocon fetter.


So what, in sum, can we make of this mess?

A cantankerous prez and a posturing press,

A crude grab at the mic, a caress unwilled,

This answered with spite and diction unskilled,

In a town where everyone's glad to aggress,

While the planet rolls eyeballs -- but I digress.



OCTOBER 19, 2018







I hear Don bet Warren on the slope of her blood,

And got back the news that his face is all mud,

And now he’s squirming o’er plunking down cash,

Saying he’ll wait till the next ’lection bash,

’Cause Don like the Pope is never quite wrong,

And only pays off if it makes his rep strong.


I speak with experience of my own bets with Don,

Like when he told me at the Hither-and-Yon,

“I’ll plop in your hand a cool million cash,

If you can prove Barack was just talkin’ trash,

On his Honolu’ birth the same as he said,

And not in dark Kenya with manger for bed.”


So I purloined a copy of Obama’s birth cert.,

And showed it to Don over our next dessert.

He put on some glasses and frowned for a time,

Then said, “What’s a paper but photoshopped rhyme?

Proof of this type is poor fun of rank mirth.

What good’s a scrap? Bring me vid of his birth!”


But video back then was really not great,

Unless your doctor had a good Super Eight,

So I asked Don if we could make a new bet,

And he came right back with what caused him much fret:

“I dare you to prove that the inaug’ of Barack

Drew more folks than mine which is nonsense and schlock.”


This I figured was a quick piece of cake:

There’s video galore, and none of it fake!

But I brought it to Don, who just shook that great mane:

“But who are these people? Have you even one name?

I’ll tell you who: they’re the DOJ mob!

Loser-crats all lying down on the job!”


Don gave one last chance though it came pretty high:

“Find me a leader, Phil, who’s greater than I,

Who in just two years ever made such a mark.

I mean, go and rummage through history’s whole ark.”

So off I went, looking till mine eyes did ache,

All the time thinking of that million at stake.


With triumph on face I went back to ol’ Don,

And slid him my answer and data thereon:

“Atilla – of course! What a dumbbell am I!

How could it be that I forgot to him scry?”

He grabbed his checkbook, muttered, “Son of a gun,”

And made me wealthy on the rep of a Hun.



SEPTEMBER 28, 2018






I wonder if the guys at the CIA

Don’t laugh till they cry o’er the things we say:

The Company did this and prob’ly did that,

They knocked off Allende and then did my cat,

They overthrew X and discredited Y,

Who kept local peace and was a pretty good guy.


Does amazement abound in their lunchtime canteen?

“They say we’ve infected the native Chad bean!

We’re talking to E.T.s, poleaxing left pols,

Slip Pope Francis mickies, down-dumb all the prols.

On mainstream reporters we keep a choke-hold,

And woe is the scribe who tries to go rogue!”


Do they laugh all that off over good rosé?

Or moan “if only!” and get on with their day?

Or maybe perusing those wild scandal hacks,

Who scream the Agency some Nazi-type backs,

They rub chinny-chins and pull out yellow pad,

Saying, “No, that ain’t us, but the idea’s not bad.”


Of course I’m referring to them and their Friends,

’Cause Central’s a word that both long ways extends:

“Is linked to,” “on orders of,” “sometimes worked with”:

It seems half the earth enjoys CIA pith.

Of course, just which half and how much we don’t know

That this Deus ex machina has changed our tableau.


Which ends our history, fallen right off the cliff,

And since ’45 has been one big “What if?”

What if the Company was behind Watergate?

What if Obama from their dish first ate?

Until we know sure what the CIA’s zapped,

Our story’s redacted, all thread-bare and gapped.




SEPTEMBER 18, 2018






History "repeats" not, but it surely "rhymes,"

Or so thought I till the great New York Times

Published an op-ed by a White House big cheese,

Saying Mr. Prez for a brain had but fleas,

Assuring that he and his like were in charge,

Lest into china shops did Trump anew barge. 


It's quite a step for this "senior official,

"For love of his country blowing the whistle,

But where in the history of political man

Has any aide, anywhere, fed into the fan,

His prez, his king, or Glorious Dear Leader,

And called him a fruit for the morning news reader. 


That's right: a top aide, a blue-suit enabler,

Who writes memoranda and we think of as stabler

Than the run of most men or dry op-ed hacks,

Who knows who he is and just what he backs,

Who'd go to the stake, for his man take a whack.

Who'd have thought he'd say Don is a quack? 


Not even Dick Nixon's men did this to him,

Which just goes to show that we're up to the rim

Of culture and empire, our vaunted democ',

As a leading newspaper revels in shock.

It's nothing you'd see in France, Spain or Japan,

Where decorum and manners root any plan. 


Hero or traitor, that's for you to decide.

I only point out this historic divide,

'Tween the calm of the past and the chaotic now,

Which only will deepen and re-wrinkle our brow.

This dark Times op-ed is the slip on the slope,

The end of the dream, the Establishment's rope.









Have we arrived at August '74? 
Is the crisis upon us, now open the door 
Of Marine One to fly the president away, 
And make most the nation loud cheer and hooray? 
Most, but not all, for deplorables will moan, 
And seeing reporters will throw stick and stone. 
We read Frank Rich on Trump's future downslide, 
A Nixonian fall as Repubs leave his side, 
Which gives them more cred than they prob'ly deserve, 
Since as long as he reigns they're willing to serve, 
And only a revolution with Congress full blue, 
Will do it to make Don red-faced in full hue. 
Or is this a pipe dream as Bob Reich divines? 
Since it ain't likely that Don Trump resigns, 
Though accused to the depth of his bright orange skin, 
He'll survive by the hairs of his chiny chin chin, 
Republicans keeping him beyond every reach, 
Unwilling to leave him or even impeach. 
Others leave the weight on Bob Mueller's shoulders, 
To look beneath stones and move some big boulders, 
Though proving a deal, and in Russian at that, 
Is like swatting mosquitos with fat baseball bat, 
Even if he flips o'er some big greaseball goons, 
Trump could still say that it's all Looney Tunes. 
Voila la diff' between Don and Tricky Dick, 
As there's no shame incurred, it's just legal shtick. 
The prez must be sat down in front of a judge, 
And till then it's just talk, hot rumor and grudge. 
Unless it comes out that Trump killed his granny, 
He'll make all pucker before his big fanny.


AUGUST 24, 2018



I've never been one to read Terms and Condish,
Just clicked "Accept" with an agile mouse swish,
And gone on with my versing about this sham and that,
9-11, bin Laden and the media race-rat,
So sharp was my fright and humungous my fret
When my server said I'd be wiped off the Net.
I'd heard of fellows being from Twitter 
Radical reporters on the Net getting 
And vids on YouTube that challenge 
Getting yanked as seeming beyond all redemption,
But I always figured my rhymes were quite tame:
To jab at some prez or to point out some shame. 
But it seems the censors are scaling new heights,
Lest people lack for their deep-sleeping nights
If presented the thought things aren't as Fox says,
Or that for the truth we can't count on our prez,
Thus has JoeShmoeNet (my server) turned blistery,
And told me my website is now part of history.
I sent them a mail and invoked First Amend',
They said, "We're a company, not a godsend,
Besides, Phil, you've got to read the small print:
Section 5, Para 6, even though you must squint,
Which forbids any rhyme that sounds at all moot,
Which you did -- alas! -- pairing 'put' with 'boot.'"
I objected and said that was hardly a crime:
And you scrap my site on account of a rhyme?
They answered the danger was present and clear
To oodles of schoolkids and their tender ear,
Speech defects and horrible complex might follow,
Trauma in which for all life they might wallow.
I replied, "Your motive like politics sounded,
The clause being true but the action unfounded,
Though surely a generation will thank you,
And as for me what can I answer but 'Fank you.'"
So to e-smithereens has gone my old page,
The victim of nerds, those kings of the age.



AUGUST 5, 2018






Whaddaya mean, "There's no there there"?

I've got three bets on there being there,

And not some there that's from anywhere,

But a big fat there caught fair and square.


Besides, Don's there must be everywhere:

Mar-a-Lago must have it to spare,

And with his hotels there's no compare

For impeachable there per foot square.


'Cause who's Ms. Page to say what's there?

Her parsed there holds margin of err',

Being conceived by her ex-herr,

Who from there could not tell a pear.


What type of there I really don't care:

It could be a cheap or hand-me-down there,

Do-it-yourself or photoshopped there,

Bought on Amazon and shipped free there.


The point's to find a big stinky there,

The kind of there that will cut The Hair

Of a prez who scrapes the nation bare,

Which to him is neither here nor there.


Now there's one there that might not be there:

This job by hackers extraordinaire,

The proof of which being thinner than air,

Although my take gets no public fare.


No fare, at the least, among confrere

Whose jobs depend on hunting this hare,

And doing in The Manhattan Bear,

This bellowing prez who's not all there.




JULY 20, 2018






Have you ever heard a reporter accuse 
A prez of high treason on your evening news? 
On the Tube I saw it and elsewhere read more
And thought here was music set to new score: 
A new downward turn in the bod' politic, 
A new tone of wowdom to make a rep stick. 
"He's either been bought or has sold out to Poot', 
Kissing his tush and Crimea to boot! 
'Cause why else would a prez to Putin cowtow, 
When they should be having a hairy great row? 
It must be that Vlad has the scoop on our Don!" 
Or so shout the scribes from hither and yon. 
Such is the Pravda of American life, 
The hard-eyed careerists and climbers so rife, 
Anchors, guests and writers all working as one, 
To make sure the Pentagon has plenty of fun 
With budgets for oodles of villains in black: 
And no one beats Russkies for scowls and sly hack. 
Now Arabs aren't bad but they're flash-in-the-pan: 
Qaeda ain't cuttin' it without their Big Man, 
ISIS went fizz and the rest are a joke, 
The Talibs excepted, but then who gives a poke? 
There's nothing like Russians to prickle your toes, 
With those pale bland faces cast perfect as foes. 
So for Trump to sit down with "a KGB thug," 
(An honest bald pate versus Don's orange rug), 
And try to mend fences and find common grounds, 
Invites an invective that's gone beyond bounds, 
In a derby to out-hate the rest of the pack, 
And secure to oneself the best job and most jack.


JUNE 27, 2018





From Amazon on Monday I got a vid,

And wondered at all of the lessons it hid,

About people and boxes and imperious chips,

The mingling of robots and fast-churning hips,

In warehouses huge that would park jumbo jets,

With their shelving and time sheets and workaday sweats.


You plunk down your e-dough and imagine it split

’Tween the picker and packer, for Jeff B a bit,

And on to the studio, for the actors and scribe,

The director and gaffer and whoever’s subscribed,

And let’s not forget the film’s backers and shills,

Who all live so sweet in them Hollywood Hills.


All done in a blink with the only thing left,

Just a statement with numbers of all heart bereft,

But quickly with joy are those cold stats infused,

Waved with triumph by the artist enthused,

Or with a rare smile by the top-rich received,

In a world where numbers are all that’s believed.


Well, yes, it’s a business and does much to disrupt

The shops and dealing of the quite uncorrupt,

The folks who fill downtowns and pay rent and tax,

Who never deserved to receive the e-axe,

Which leaves one wondering if there’s any safe harbor,

’Cept for the fireman, the cook and friend barber.


Yes, there’s some history in an Amazon buy,

Which ends with strides of the delivery guy,

A true account ’tis of our life and time,

Of loving works joined to vast fortunes and grime,

Of molecules dispensing misery and cash,

Of acquisitive folks o’er the planet they thrash.





JUNE 12, 2018






These letters spell something that's not only names, 
But decades of doubt that have broadened to shames: 
The culprits, the planners, the boys in smoked rooms, 
Those Wizards behind curtains who organized dooms, 
Of whom we've learned squat from slick news careerists, 
Who'd even call Toto "conspiracy theorist." 
Yes, journalists loathe the conspiracy crowd, 
Who ripple their ponds and challenge their proud. 
They hate to get scooped by an armchair fizz, 
Who full enjoys freedom to call it as is, 
And frets not of paychecks or slant editorial, 
Nor Wash-town tix to the glam and sartorial. 
What of those Ks without such searchers for proof? 
Without them all three would have been set aloof 
Upon history's sea without anchor or port, 
Their cases dispatched and judged without court 
By interested parties under sundry influences, 
Blasé on coincidence or odd confluences. 

It's said that the news is history's first draft, 
Which sometimes is later shown to be daft, 
Research appears and cuts old versions low, 
And most of the time this is welcomed as so, 
Conspiracy, then, connects interests to facts, 
That crazy aunt steering to unbeaten tracks. 
And that's a good thing for some theories come true, 
Like Vietnam vets left in war camps to stew, 
Like October Surprise and Contra cocaine, 
Like the who-shot-first Tonkin and U.S.S. Maine
It's true among theorists the nuts run amok, 
But ask the three Ks if they'd rather lies stuck.


MAY 31, 2018







That teapot squeal known as School Sandy Hook,

A slight higher note just recently took,

When gravel-voiced Alex got served a civil,

To stand before jury and not fake or swivel,

But make his case and defend what he said:

The poor children that died just might not be dead.


I’m glad to see it ’cause it’s often the case,

That newsfolks go blabbing to shore up their base,

Fareed CNN does this every week,

And calls Vlady Putin a thief and a geek,

But Putin’s a calm man and takes it in stride,

And takes out his horse or high polls for a ride.


But Alex got whacked ’cause he stepped on some toes,

And failed to support what he said with much prose.

TV’s a place that poorly supports theory,

’Specially the kind of which folks are leery,

Requiring some long lengthy concepts to parse,

And woe is yours if your reasoning’s sparse.


Hence Jim Fetzer’s written format is better,

Since him you can follow letter for letter,

Why/how he calls out the entire Hook group,

In wordage and photos, and throws in the soup

Parents and cops and the school system to boot,

Waiting with relish for just one to file suit.


Which when I think of the whole of this mess,

Is the aspect that most makes my eyeballs abscess:

Though quick it should be to show judge a few docs,

And knock Fetzer’s theories right off the blocks,

Nobody does it, foregoing a rich bite,

Which itself makes me wonder who’s wrong and who’s right.



MAY 15, 2018






For weeks now have I heard much spat and much spec’,

Regarding the questions the prez can expec’.

They say Mueller’s list has 40-plus zingers,

Though Don ain’t the type that such a time lingers,

Concerned by the logjam he’s got on his desk,

And missing his festively Fox News burlesque.


Yet worthies Bill B and Ray Mc us remind

That NSA savants can Bob ask to find

All Trump campaign calls and texts north and south,

And get what Trump said from the horse’s own mouth.

Well, what good’s data if it sits on a disk?

Pull out those records and make a search brisk.


And I wish Bob would ’cause we’re all getting sick,

Of endlessly hearing the experts’ dumb shtick,

Of the upsides of that and downsides of this,

Or whether Don’s lawyer has been sore remiss,

Or if Rudy meant A when he walked back on B,

Or if Stormy’s bank account’s a size double-D.


Thank goodness for leaks from above and below,

That to this long story lend some push and flow,

Let newsmen continue their magician’s drum roll

As the rest of us wait for this heifer to foal.

The hypnosis of story’s a powerful thing:

Still – still! – we all hang on the fat man to sing.





MARCH 31, 2018






Now that Mr. Bolton's got back on the bike, 
I wonder what war with Iran would look like. 
It's a smart country with an army well-made, 
Unlike the Iraq or Afghan escapade, 
With folks as one miffed with dear Uncle Sam, 
And won't take guff from the blond Hormel Ham. 

Now if up to now our wars have required 
Calling up Guard and Reserve well-attired, 
Think for a moment just what would be needed 
To subdue a country that's not yet been bleeded. 
This will take more than the bomb-meister's craft: 
Methinks what you'll need is to re-start the draft. 

And to re-start the draft and take guys away 
From their studies and sex and cell-phone array, 
Supposes our president will have to make case, 
Exploiting his honesty, cred and good grace, 
A pitch nothing less than the Perfect Cold Call, 
Unless Freedom Tower does someone make fall. 

Well, one good false-flag might another deserve, 
And how else is it that you'll get guys to serve? 
Sure, mainstream squires will do lots to help: 
"Iran grows terror like mushrooms or kelp!" 
And of the hostages do a full-blown reprise, 
Ignoring Dad Bush and the October Surprise

For no doubt the U.S. must go it alone, 
Along with pet Brits whom we throw a bone, 
For the rest of Europe will have nothing to do 
With John Bolton or Trump or Pompeo too, 
Having no gripe and much preferring the peace, 
'Cause war does a nation its treasury fleece. 

Our treasury, routine, and peace of mind too, 
When enemies our lights and Internet screw, 
And bill each one millions for using their phone, 
And divert New York flights to Boca Raton. 
It takes but some wonks and Iran sure has 'em, 
So God help us all should Don cross this chasm.


MARCH 20, 2018






Does the news have a future? I wish that it did, 
I like mine well-written and of horse feathers rid, 
All propped on stout pylons of facts, figs and stats, 
And with but a page about hits and at-bats, 
And if they throw in a Pentagon scandal, 
I'm glad to their toes a scribe's holding candle. 
But lately I'm feeling this pull on my leg: 
I see but crusades with hard news gone a-beg. 
Here's Mueller to remind us that Trump's not legit, 
This drama "Collusion" where clues hardly fit, 
There's Stormy whose lawsuit's in its inception, 
'Course for those eyebrows I'll make an exception. 
Another crusade knocks on poor Vlady Putin, 
Who might get some Likes if his name was Wayne Newton, 
His Russia's improved since the Boris Y. time, 
When neocons enabled the wealthy's repine, 
But Wash-town loathes Vlady 'cause he's not their man, 
They want Russia put down, knocked hard on its can. 
Yes, the news now is Crusade True Confessions
In which China crushes all free expressions, 
Iran gets whacked for repressing females, 
India for rape and Assad for assails, 
Famine in NK, Maduro's poor graces: 
Are things always lousy in all of these places? 
I doubt that they are but the media say yes, 
Hence in our own country the crises are less. 
Foreclosures are nil and good jobs abound, 
Our wars are progressing with nobody downed, 
The race problem's solved, women brag of their lot, 
It's folks paid by Putin who come stir our pot. 
Gee-whiz, then go tell him I'd like to cash in, 
Maybe not for the dough of one who's all in, 
Like millionaires handsome who broadcast Fox News: 
I'm fine with six figures if I can spout views, 
For if news has come down to crusade-du-jours, 
It only depends on who foots sinecures.



FEBRUARY 23, 2018







A revealing exercise was Munich Security,

As reality check on leaders’ maturity,

Which vary a lot from speaker to speaker,

Some speeches crackling and others a creaker,

And afterwards questions from folks in the biz,

Some leaders passing, some flunking the quiz.


Among the most poignant was Russia’s Lavrov,

Decrying the nonsense and the reaction Pavlov

Among the West media which them demonize,

But ignore in Ukraine their fascist allies.

“Blather”: his term ’bout the U.S. election,

And then he apologized for coarse word selection.


The rep from Iran’s worth a listen and look,

Making good sense though no drone wings he shook,

Talked of America’s long string of errors,

Attacking regimes by sending them terrors,

Yet on the nuke deal gave Kerry full credit,

Lamenting Prez Trump had not even read it.


Hear out these worthies, then tune in McMaster,

Who how I wished would finish much faster:

“Free world,” “resolve,” “strides,” “way of life,”

Cement-laden prose to confront rising strife,

Not talking to nations but numbingly past,

This linebacker-statesman badly miscast.


You finish your survey and tingle with doubt:

America’s less king than just odd-man-out.

Even from post-speech interrogation,

It’s clear we’re viewed with cold toleration,

Our actions abroad cruel and insensible,

Seen far and wide as quaint and dispensable.


FEBRUARY 8, 2018







Are we all getting used to President Trump?

Imagine the day’s news without his blond frump,

Or his talk of a Wall that keeps out brown men,

Or counting successes on fingers all ten.

It’s taken a year to fit our foot to his shoe,

But if it fits, wear it, the saying’s quite true.


For all over the place are folks settling down,

Ignoring the madness and going about town,

Repubs are content to cheer his bombast,

Silently wondering how long this can last.

And with Trump now loving the neocons’ fun,

The Complex is set for another good run.


Even palace intrigue’s declined to humdrum,

Its wandering plot set to soap-opera drum.

Will Jared bite dust? Will the general survive?

It beats Young and Restless and some of it’s live.

What sputters the most is the Russia red herring,

Which more and more seems but FBI daring.


The media as well accepts this new order,

Not calling lies lies, but on the line-border.

They’re “disputed” or “controversial” facts,

Which dials down somewhat their public impacts.

It ain’t the done thing to say Mr. T. fibs:

“Respectable” journalists must bow to His Nibs.


Meanwhile America gets greater and greater,

As we spring out of our cultural crater,

And politics reaches a John Adams level,

Renewing democracy in which we revel,

It’s quite a trick that in one year of scrimmage,

Trump is remaking the land in his image.


JANUARY 29, 2018







Lately I’ve noted that my website’s numbers,

Have taken a dive to levels true humblers:

The harrowing decline is 40 percent,

And though my numbers don’t quite pay the rent,

My five weekly hits have now fallen to three,

So two weekly folks get no fruit from my tree.


I dismissed the chance that my fruit had gone rot,

Less-ardent fan raves the problem is not,

So I looked at networks like Goog’ and Facebook,

And out my webpage I discovered they’d took,

Without a warning as courtesy might deem,

Just, “You’re ketchup crud now, champ, ain’t that a scream?”


So I called up Mark Z and asked him “What gives?”

And he said my page leaks false news like three sieves,

He said “What’s all this hate about wars that we’re winning,

And nonsense 9-11 that you’ve been spinning?

I’ll grant you Don Trump ain’t the greatest we’ve had,

But check out that tax cut and tell me he’s bad.”


I told Mark that I could catch his drift clearer,

If to his fortune my own were now nearer,

But more to the point I replied that fake news

Tended to be what big news corps called snooze:

“Ain’t nothin’ left here, folks, it’s all been seen,

And pay no attention to that man behind screen.” 


Mark said, “Exactly! It’s screen stuff we cut,

Making news smooth without ifs, ands or but.

We’ve got algorhyth’s to match every fact,

So folks needn’t argue about how events tracked.

If CNN knights put it not on their show,

Then it didn’t happen; it’s fully no-go.”


I replied CNN didn’t all news report,

And he just stared, shocked, and gave this retort:

“What are you saying, they don’t give all the news?

Tell me just one time there have been other views!”

So I gave ten examples and he went imperious:

“Websites like yours, Phil, can’t be called serious.”


Now from search engines my page you can’t reach,

As Facebook continues its campaign “counterspeech,”

Mark says my prob’ is with the program I’m not,

To which I shot back that in hell I’d first rot.

Still, before I go there I’d like to replace

My two lost readers, if just to save face.



JANUARY 12, 2018






 Electing Oprah is the talk of the town, 

And far be it from me to go take her down, 
But re: the Blond Wonder we might think again, 
And ponder a-full if billions make men, 
Or if blabbing with stars is good preparation 
For the oil-lube job that much needs our nation. 
Because stars and mag covers don't a pol make, 
And big money does nothing but give you a stake 
In hitching your star to current status quo, 
Making sure nobody disturbs its fat flow, 
With a protest, scandal or quaint criticism, 
Or Don's Saint P'burg yellow baptism. 
Along with the 'quo come smooth-talking bankers, 
Pentagon heavies and CIA gangsters, 
Guys who made mincemeat of President O, 
Who rarely found strength to give them a no, 
Which throws into doubt the narrow parameter, 
Of another star prez who's just a rank amateur. 
Status quo means also the Party of Dems, 
Decorated lushly in diamonds and gems, 
Things that are normal for people with billions, 
Which set them apart from the suffering millions, 
And Oprah's no different, you've only to view 
Her schmooze with Mike Jordan and Chuck Barkley too*. 
Let's also remember folks' feelings abroad, 
Who ne'er heard of Oprah, nor are over-awed 
By our pushy generals and air-headed kings, 
And send fewer soldiers for our foreign flings, 
And tight grit their teeth before fair Ivanka, 
Who for smart policy is no kind of wonka. 
To talk our proud country down from its ledge, 
Requires more skill than to chat o'er the hedge, 
It needs a lib version of Trumpian rage, 
The touch of a surgeon and grit of a sage, 
It needs more than Oprah can possibly give, 
More like a Roosevelt if they'll let him live. 
*Starting at 3:02.


DECEMBER 27, 2017







Of late I've read of a rumor, 
To put Pyongyang out of humor, 
Us whacking their bases and such, 
Just a quick dusting, not much, 
To show them what they're in for, 
If they go and start a new war. 
The trouble with shock-and-awe, 
Is it always earns a hee-haw. 
Bagdad's a perfect example: 
Bombing all night just a sample, 
Of what Iraq could expect, 
If they didn't show us respect. 
It was not in the least success, 
And earned us only duress, 
As rooftop snipers took aim, 
And roadside bombers were game. 
How hard the lesson is learned, 
S-and-A always gets burned. 
To which exception I make, 
In the ongoing case at stake, 
Where I think well it would work, 
And for us be truly a perk, 
If Kim sent shot across bow, 
And brought some sweat to our brow. 
He drones an internet farm, 
Hangs Netflix and Hollywood smarm, 
Downs ten lanes of overpass, 
Makes miles of traffic so crass, 
Lights matches in the right place, 
So Ventura loses more grace. 
Because that's the future of war: 
Not bombs that hit Marine corps, 
But no water spilling from taps, 
Power lines that somebody snaps, 
Prob's sent to any locale, 
The jobs booked off to PayPal. 

We'd thank Kim for giving us pause, 
A timely gift worthy of Claus, 
And though he may have his nukes, 
I think we'd glad put down dukes, 
Make Wash-town give peace a chance, 
And not treat war like a dance.



DECEMBER 9, 2017







A new Cold War is what we need,

Here in the land of the brave and freed,

With sound econ and jobs galore,

Like the Seventies and before,

With scowling foes we love to hate:

Dour Russkies with balding pate.


The ingrates who resist this trend,

Should quick and hard be sharp upend’.

They see not and less remember

The pride and glory of November,

When Kruschev blinked and we won day:

Triumph the American way.


Skeptics whine, “Why this again?

Surely t’is beyond our ken,

How we can war and fix our house,

Which sore needs paint and much de-louse,

And pay our debts and return to black,

And get our 3A rating back.”


But of a piece is all of this,

Which is the concept that they miss.

Again the leader of free world,

Our debt and troubles turn bright-pearled,

Because the fight involves us all,

We can’t be bothered by a squall.


A squall like race and gender probs,

Or gropey guys or Wall Street robs,

Or growing inequality,

Or doctors sans integrity,

Or even talk of gluten woe,

Which way back when did no one know.


The doubters/skeptics, the whole lot,

Seem to have just plain forgot’,

The joys of warring in the Cold,

With intrigue, walls and spies so bold,

And enemies with bureaucrats,

Capitals, ranks and diplomats.


’Cause, me, I’m sick of turbaned beards,

Who have no style and talk so weird.

At best they do great villains make,

And threaten all for Allah’s sake,

But drink no wine, eat no caviar:

Cold Wars have more class by far.


And think of coming culture perks:

Music, flicks, and Broadway works,

Butch and Sundance will ride again,

Snoopy, M.A.S.H., a new John Lenn’.

There’s nothing like a good long fight,

To tune guitars and make pens write.


Without Cold War we’re not ourselves,

We’re rusting cars and empty shelves,

We fret about what’s right and wrong,

And who wears briefs and who a thong.

Let’s hope the new war lasts some time,

And the country clears its head of chime.




NOVEMBER 9, 2017






Back in the day before Afghanistan started, 
A reader to me a suggestion imparted, 
And looking back now it seems to make sense, 
That rather than spend two trill and ten cents, 
Why not hand over this wad to Afghanis? 
That is, to mothers and fathers and grannies. 
In fact, they'd be happy with half that amount, 
Split square among all for each one's account. 
And of course the Talibs would swipe a few bucks, 
To buy red Ferraris and tune pickup trucks, 
But mainly the dough'd flow to where needed: 
Books for buckaroos and fields wheat-seeded. 

Ministries, NGOs would just step aside, 
As health-care improved and war vaporized, 
Big Macs and good latte' would pay local rents, 
Recover society with its discontents, 
Investment would come and folks could get jobs, 
And not in the army that many lives robs. 

Startups could start and small banks lend them cash, 
'Cause ten here and ten there will soon make a splash, 
Women could run firms and wouldn't they love it, 
Telling Islamics and long-beards to shove it. 
And for once in our lives we could beat chest and say, 
"We've done someone good the American way." 

Of course there's a downside to this happy plan, 
The makers of arms would be sat on their can. 
Af-Pak's been great for their balance-sheet fill, 
(Though crummy for movies that lack any thrill), 
And pilots of drones have trained in real time, 
Shooting cool missiles on Uncle Sam's dime. 

We could also have saved a lot of poor guys, 
Who come home saddened and themselves despise, 
And who till the end of the twenty-first cent., 
Will cost us head-shrinkers and half-way house rent. 
Which is why I say when the next war comes 'round, 
Let's just chuck money and buy peace by the pound. 



OCTOBER 26, 2017







Jefferson-Hancock the moment was not,
When the prez of Catalonia turned on a dot,
And put independ’ on indefinite hold,
The one just declared with a flourish quite bold,
Which turned out to be but a total lame yawner,
And far from “our lives and our sacred honor.”



So cheesy it was that Madrid had to ask,
Did you guys declare or just pass ’round a flask? 
For a week the prez has answered a mumble,
His allies all huffy, his support all a-crumble,
But he knows he’s looking at serious hard time,
Some ten to twenty on hard beds for his mime.


So the cry has gone up from every Cat station:
“It’s dialog we need, ’tween nation and nation!”
And Madrid replies, “Of dialog we’re able,
But independence, champ, that ain’t on the table.”
So now these Cat pols find themselves in a fix,
Looking at failure and a wall full of sticks.


They’re also looking at Madrid taking charge,
And in local gov’ment and admin’ to barge,
Though sore’ reluctant to go through with it all,
And whack the protesters who look for a brawl,
And look bad on TV and put up with the taints,
While the separatists end up looking like saints.



The irony here is the same folks long-haired,
Raised hell against Franco, about democ’ cared,
And now a Franco of their own must commit,
The difference being that now Spaniards see fit
To fly flags from windows, a sight seen but twice:
When Spain won The Cup and this crisis cut-price.



OCTOBER 12, 2017






This year I'm gonna get a huge countdown clock,

Something in yellow with a massive tic-toc, 

To let the world know how long it needs wait, 

How long till The Moment, how much breath to bate, 

Till I show our president I'm taking a knee, 

To protest his calling guys 'those s.o.b.'. 
You're prob'ly wondering, Phil, what's with the clock?

When it's just one joker with a mission to knock

Ol' Mr. Prez whose mouth evokes truckers,
Miners, muggers and mafia bloodsuckers, 
Losing stock brokers and maniacs with axes, 
Moguls like Don who dodge drafts and prop taxes.


Thing is see, these days, if you don't have a clock?

Your event's a no-show and you're a wind sock. 

You've got to count down, you've got to raise buzz, 
Wake up the small children and hassle The Fuzz, 
Do a Grinch Christmas, at windows throw rock, 
But above all else do you need that tic-toc. 
For instance CNN counts down all the time, 
And not for big deals like this protest of mine. 
They tick off the time till a debate or election, 
Till Super Bowl kickoff or Karl's fall selection, 
Till Mueller's report or the end of the world, 
Without a clock, champ, your flag's left all furled. 
And as my clock ticks, the crowds will appear, 
To cheer on my gesture and make Trump lend ear, 
My knee will near ground as they count down the secs, 
Celebs to the front and my arm 'round Don's ex, 
All due to the spell of the countdown of clocks, 
But without one your wingding's left up on the blocks.




SEPTEMBER 15, 2017




Of Catalonia I'm surprised people take note, 
About independence on which they will vote. 
O'er here it's been the most silly of stories, 
That takes up some news time before soccer glories, 
With political Catalans frothing at mouth, 
While the rest of us head for beaches down south. 

Alas, this issue is now covered abroad, 
As if the Catalans dear freedom's been clawed 
By an ogre Madrid bent on rape and rapine, 
Ignoring their rights and, worse, dissing their wine, 
Commandeering their shoreline and swiping their art, 
And giving few freedoms and those a la carte. 

For thirty years now have I lived in old Spain, 
And in a few lines can I quickly explain 
What's really at stake here, to what pols aspire, 
And I'll tell you right now it won't much inspire 
But the likes of spy masters and Donald Trump too, 
Guys who admire a smart turning of screw. 

Catalonia's where the money's made in dear Spain, 
Tax goes to the nation, which causes much pain, 
Though you bet Spain's south would be happy to trade, 
This pain for some jobs and an income upgrade. 
To this vexation add a slightly diff' tongue, 
And you get a spirit of victims unsung. 

A sentiment Cat pols abuse at their will, 
To gather more votes and to stick a sharp quill 
To Madrid when it comes to grabbing more budge', 
Which end of the day is their only true grudge. 
In short this movement comes from the Scot school: 
Independence, bro', that'd be like so cool.


SEPTEMBER 11, 2017


T'was back in the 90s when some comb-overs said, 

"Let's drop the Twin Towers and raise world dread! 
A brand new Pearl Harbor is what will serve best, 
And from craven pols can more power be wrest, 
'Cause senators and voters are all fine and well, 
But they can't tell our foes from the farmer-in-dell." 


Thus did they start the last phase of empire, 
Generals who think of their calling as higher, 
Who need no glasses to read the wall's writing; 
Plus trenchcoats disdainful of fingernail-biting. 
Who know this old world needs just what we're selling, 
Though some who don't get it may need some compelling. 
Now that 9-11 is passed and digested, 
With a new meaning can it be invested. 
Its place in our history gets clearer with Trump, 
The reason the Complex pulled off its big bump: 
To ease out the rich and the oligarch crew, 
Who since Ron Reagan had ruled for their few. 
Not that the Complex had much trouble with that, 
But it burnt their bacon to always doff hat 
To grinning civilians who got all the chicks, 
And whenever war beckoned would usually nix 
The invasion, the raid, or "surgical" thumping, 
Opting for sanctions and sissy hand-pumping. 
Hence their handiwork which led to creation 
Of this new program to lock down the nation. 
Phone calls and e-stuff gorged memory banks, 
While blowers of whistles got terrorist ranks. 
Rights kicked their buckets down Memory Lane, 
Rights before then that not a soul would profane. 
Democ- forms remain and with pols to compare, 
Lest folks imagine things ain't on the square. 
But the exceptional nation exception is not 
To the custom of empire to fall into rot, 
And like our forerunners to reach the last phase: 
The uniforms in charge, to the media's praise.




AUGUST 25, 2017





Back in November of '15, yours truly penned a squawk,
And castigated SNL for giving Don a walk,
A walk, that is, across their stage, for an innocent romp,
And this when just some days before he'd on the Mexies stomped.
Called them thieves, called them rapists, could scarcely find the words,
But this was obviated for the show by well-paid writer nerds,
Who made a joke of Trump's racism that got a couple laughs,
And that was that, no more was said as Share sped up the graphs.
Outside the show Latinos beefed, but air time they got squat,
Besides the light was awful dim and spoiled every shot.
So Don had done what was before the near impossible:
Wore racism on his sleeve and gouged us to the full.
From there for Don 'twas all downhill, in retrospect it's clear,
If he could get away with that, the Dems he needn't fear. 
No exec quit, nobody got huffy, no reporters fussed,
Not half so much as recently, now that Don's gone bust.
Ponder the guys at SNL another slick Don show?
Or do they think this time around they'd better just lie low?
The ratings wouldn't be so great, the hype could not be built,
And maybe for this time around on show would be their guilt.
Will Fallon again muss his hair, will reporters give a pass
To this aspect of Trump's psyche, to the trails in his past?
People voted, that's for sure, but it's also somewhat true,
The powers-that-be did fail us all, and this today we rue.



AUGUST 7, 2017





A guy has to wonder if his leg’s getting pulled,

His thoughts led astray and his eyes getting wooled,

When a lot of news turns out to be hooey,

Yet favors the viewpoint of the rich fewey,

By which I’m meaning the guys who shoot guns,

Suppliers, neocons, and those who bank tons.


Take the fib about Crimean “invasion,”

Osama bin Laden whacked by our nation,

The one about intel consensus on hacking,

Donald Trump’s win with V. Putin’s backing,

WMD or MH-17,

Those nukes in Iran that nobody’s seen.


Which now that I look, ain’t bad for a stanza:

In just six lines a true fake-news bonanza,

Seven top whoppers all vying for greatness,

In the race to be told with most straight-faceness.

Me, I’d give the prize to the OBL raid,

For chutzpah, pizzazz and Homeric glissade.


Whether fake news or “conspiracy theories”

Basically depends on who makes the queries,

Or if it’s historic like old 9-11,

Which if made public would blow to high heaven

The government, the army and half of our country,

So MSM flaks give that the full shuntry.


I suppose it’s inev in the Internet world,

The fake and the true end up ying and yang curled,

Slickly produced for a lovely fat wage,

Or lovingly researched by the sweaty and sage,

The first paid sweetly by MadMen arrangers,

The other dependent on the kindness of strangers.


In long term truth-tellers will largely close shop,

Shushed like a child who wants lollipop.

Even now tech-weavers on Google’s vast loom,

Consign their villains to algorhythed doom:

TruthDig and Alternet and the ACLU,

ConsortiumNews and soon maybe yours true.



JULY 28, 2017





The folks in Qatar must be the Invincibles: 
Thirteen demands reduced to six principles, 
Which no doubt from there will descend to request, 
To a vague idea that some princelings suggest, 
Then trending topic below this poem's space 
A quickly-made gesture to save the Saud face.

I know how Sauds feel in watering all down, 
Feeling the whacks to their well-moneyed crown. 
With my wife I go through the same all the time, 
And turn on the same matrimonial dime: 
Demands fall to appeals and then invitations, 
And end one notch over abject supplications. 


Harder must it be to run the Saud kingdom, 
Convincing plebs of the size of your thingdom, 
And knowing that beyond that sandy horizon 
Your rivals and enemies plan on revisin' 
The state of your nation and the height of your rank: 
Lest you walk beside kings and not down the gangplank. 


And then there's the Yankees weighing in tough
Preferring to Salman that diamond-in-rough: 
M. bin Nayef who was against the blockade, 
Had no beef with Yemen, gave terror the blade, 
Much like his old uncle who played a cool hand, 
Led the Wahabbis and drummed for their brand. 


Nobody can say what the Yankees' game is, 
If they like Sauds bombing their neighbors to fizz, 
Or do they wonder if this Salman's a jinx, 
Muffing Qatar, Yemen, and Syria links? 
Happy they can't be with a pushy parvenu, 
With bold bright ideas and the oil tap too. 


The smart word to Salman from the guys at my bars, 
Is make Langley happy and not trust the stars, 
In fact distrust all except well-paid young toughs, 
The kind that turn bouncers into creampuffs, 
Keep career paths open, a house on the Med, 
And not bite the Yankee that keeps you well-fed.




JULY 14, 2017










They say America's the most powerful nation,
Only a fool would say this ain't true,
But of late I've been mulling this theoration,
And think it's a wee bit askew.

Now I'm not averring that our U.S. Army
Your wagon and more couldn't fix,
Or attacked if you got by a dictator smarmy,
You'd not call Marines and their sticks.

Our pilots and tech are a force to be dealt with,
You wouldn't try dodging our drones,
And NSA guys have lasers to pelt with,
And listen to everyone's phones.

But can anyone say what power is good for,
On the twenty-first century scene,
Or where we would be if all that it stood for
Is to hit Afghans on the bean?

For 9-11 was a real instruction
On how our strength is quite small.
Three buildings fell despite fine construction,
But fear for a decade stayed tall.

Let's say it's declared by a fed-up Assad,
"It's war against Trump's U.S.A.!"
And tells al-Jazeera to expect a hit-squad
In cool Californi-ay.

"A rush-hour overpass or Internet farm,
Will do for the message to send,
Or just a virus that does serious harm,
So they to this debate tend.

"This time around it's not war in some nation
That Yankees can't find on a map,
This time around it'll be hell and tarnation,
'Cause on American doors will we rap."

And when images go 'round of the fall of a bridge
Or airport computers run free,
Americans will see that despite a full fridge,
War just ain't what it used to be.

And point out to leaders that Syria's no-go:
Their own darn shops they can run, 
And that goes for Iraq and the Afghani show,
And now let's get back to our fun.

So I hope it's now clear about the strength blues:
It does our adventures much rend.
Power's just a word for nothin' left to lose,
If we're on the bomb's business end.




JUNE 30, 2017







BUY QATARI WAR BONDS TODAY! (tomorrow might be too late)


Been thinking about what to do with my dough,

This mountain of cash that does nothing but grow,

I could blow it on babes and fastuous good times,

And trickle it down to the folks with but dimes,

But I’d like something grand, more fitting of Me,

And thus have focused on the cause Qatari.


Qatar’s the size of a Rhode Island county,

Has a cool flag and enviable bounty,

And a name in two ways people can utter,

Rhyming with “tar” or sounding like “cutter,”

And the best news service that nat-gas can buy,

That bugs all monarchies except the most nigh.


More weight do they throw than they have a good right,

But what is wealth for if you’re going to be tight?

It’s also defense against mafias like Saud,

Whose very own family has something of fraud,

And who should be wary of folks who can hire

Hackers and hitmen and royals who aspire.


Yet ’t’would seem Prince Salman has nothing to do,

But bomb the Yemenis and make neighbors blue,

And while we’re all grateful for the cash he may drop

For jets and rifles and sleek drones that go “pop,”

And gets in the face of those creeps from Iran,

I’d rather he stick to his wives and Koran.


But everyone loves a good ultimatum,

Delivered with zest and quoted verbatim.

The problem, however, is on the day after,

When one starts to hear the fast-growing laughter,

’Cause into a corner you’ve ’self neatly painted,

And have to deliver or find yourself tainted.


Now the prince strikes me not as the self-tainting type,

But more like the kind who believes his own hype.

So I think Qataris should quick war-bonds sell:

Goliath is coming and he’ll ring their bell,

And Allah help us all if free-for-all starts,

’Cause this will be war that’s well off the charts.



JUNE 15, 2017








From Don the other day I got a grim call,

And he asked me “Phil, could I take a bad fall?”

I said, “Mr. Prez, worry not that blond pate,

It’s red herring, it’s bull, it’s something they ate.

R-Gate’s been going since Day One of your term,

And still in this apple they can’t find a worm.”


He said that it wasn’t the worm-app as such,

That troubled his sleep as nearly so much

As the apple itself, which everyone’s munching,

Leaving great policies to everyone’s punching:

“How can I repeal Obama (crap) Care,

When half of Wash-town is pulling my hair?”


I told Mr. Prez, yes, he had a good point,

Policy and scandal were just not conjoint,

If what you wanted was to run U.S. Gov,

And make some changes in programs thereof.

You can bloat the defense budge’, fatten fat cats,

But try changing something and out come the bats.


“But that’s the future, the inev let’s admit:

You’ve Trumpeted loud and have all in a snit.

From now till your last day it’s scandal du jour,

One after another till Mike your Hoosier,

Takes your baton giving thanks to sweet Jesus,

That impeachment and trial finally did seize us.”


This, I can tell you, ol’ Don took not lightly,

And stormed and shouted and yes, did swear brightly,

Saying in effect that they’re all out to get him,

And not just harry and hassle and fret him:

“This never happened to Obama or Bush,

And that was one guy who deserved a kicked tush!”


I said he was right, he’d been whacked enough,

Even as prezes go, he took tons of guff,

But George and Barack both had friends galore,

To shield their moves when they stole from the store.

“Your gripe is legit, Don, but you’ve got to see,

You can’t burn your forest and still be a tree.”



JUNE 5, 2017









Remember what Robert McNamara said,

’Bout ’Nam -- “we were wrong”* -- then a tear shed?

Nowadays I’m mulling the matter Afghan,

And wondering who of our suave poli-clan

Will someday step up and say, “Sorry, folks,”

And admit we’ve spent a few trill on a hoax.


Looking around at the mighty Bush lot,

Cred and breast-beating don’t stand out a lot,

Not near so much as their airy complacence,

And con-man’s pride in our soldiers’ obeisance.

To a man they defend the Asian attacks,

So don’t expect Rummy to back on his tracks.


Such is the difference ’tween rulers now and then:

The 90s produced mice, the 50s real men.

From the Times on down they beat on Mac hard,

Though you could see he’d deeply been scarred,

Yet felt bound to warn “future generations,”

And make some amends to our several nations.


The warning, however, hasn’t made a big dent,

The powers-that-be being on conquest bent,

Ever-less picky ’bout the excuses they use,

Whether Osama or Assads or Islamic crews.

At least North Vietnam posed a true foe to beat,

Not ten bearded guys doing GoPro and tweet.


But such is the measure of how things have shifted,

A racist prez, and the wealthy well-gifted,

Gifted enough to buy out reporters,

Who butter their bread and ignore retorters,

Focusing rather on the same neocon crew,

Who gave us this mess and cry “Charge!” anew.



*"We were wrong, terribly wrong. We owe it to future generations to explain why." - Robert McNamara, writing in his 1995 memoir, In Retrospect , on the management of the Vietnam War


MAY 23, 2017










The pain in Spain falls on I who explain
To friends in Madrid the cause of Trump's reign,
This maker of mayhem and lord of the tweet,
Who knows only factoids and talks like the street.

To answer I check the questioner's face,
Note if he's hippy or drinking apace,
Check if he wears an al Qaeda tat,
And that being the case, look 'round for a bat.

First I float out the usual reason:
Clinton was Clinton, the silly preseason,
The lack of some zing from guys on the right,
Who live and die for the perfect sound bite.

I then elaborate and edify all,
On how a president with that kind of gall
Can take the place of Barack Obama,
Who despite defects was no mouth-arama. 

'Cause like it or not Trump got helping hands,
From guys who hate rules and wear the top brands,
You see them behind the prez at his desk,
Beaming like moms as he signs a burlesque.

Not a bit did they mind if Trump was a jerk,
As long as he dropped the role of young turk,
On Russia and Is'rael talked the good talk,
Obeyed the gen'rals and walked the right walk.

And now that he does, why, all's fine and dandy,
This Russiagate stuff'll be dealt with quite handy,
Don and Ivanka will this world aright
For those mighty few who fly the same kite. 

By now my friends marvel that Yankees can't tell
Theodore R. from a dandruffy swell. 
So I ask a question with somewhat more zip:
How is it Europe still follows this ship?

Trump himself with rare illumination,
Pondered the point of Nato duration.
But why does Europe, with armies or duty,
Continue to kiss the U.S. patootie?

Nowhere in Europe that I've ever seen,
Does anyone question America's sheen,
Which makes me wonder if political man,
Has any future if he thinks with his can.



MAY 8, 2017










Needing a job, I applied at The White House,
And when my turn came, confabbed with a white blouse,
Who asked if I had political ambitions,
And I said 'twas more financial conditions
That I needed to meet in order to pay
One Netflix a month and the rough day-to-day.

She asked my stand on the Affordable C'Act:
I replied history would be glad it got whacked.
"Don't say you like history?" she squawked with eyes wide.
"Pure bunk, like Ford said," I quoth with some pride.
Which sparked her suspicion: "From where comes that ace?"
"A factoid on Twitter," said my poker face.

She asked my opinion 'bout Vladimir P:
I replied it's gone down to the level of sea,
From way up high in the far stratosphere,
Shot down by facts and wide blogosphere.
"You don't mean hard facts? 'Cause we've no room for those!"
"I meant just the right ones the prez does propose."

This calmed her down and she said I'd fit fine,
In an admin that knew to draw fast a red line
Between this old world and reality Trump,
Between Fox reports and an MSM chump,
"What's obsolete yesterday's just fine today,
That folks can't see that causes me much dismay."

She showed me a list of top jobs open still,
And said I could pretty much choose what I will,
Though "those creeps on the Hill" must give their okay,
And for most gov. posts there's no need anyway,
Like why pick Assistant SecState for Mideast,
To just sit around unless Rex gets deceased?

But I took it and at Fog Bottom sit now,
My shoes on the desk and my job a cash cow.
Jared checks in to inquire if I'm moving 
The Pals and Israelis toward an improving,
High-fives me when I tell him it's a slam-dunk:
What you read in the Times, J? Nothing but junk.

MAY 1, 2017









I’ve been watching the Republicans search

If not for their soul at least for a church,

Where they can all pray and left-part their hair,

And gossip with joy about Don who ain’t there,

And watch how he struggles as in he gets reeled,

Views on Russia, Syria and Nato repealed.


Been thinking of views as the French make their choice

Between a young minister and Madame Rolls-Royce,

Who squawks he wants not belle France to be first,

But stuffed with transients and Berlin till it’s burst,

Which neat says it all about My-Country-Firsters:

Suckers for slogans, true brain-liverwursters.


Suckers are the Dems, now less party than part:

Of the guy on the bus who let out a fart,

And everyone knows and in word excuses,

But would like to whack and yell him abuses,

Like “How on earth could you blow that elec’?

To Hillary you caved and created this wreck!”


Been watching more caves-in before the Deep State;

Just ask the reporters who pushed RussiaGate,

Which slunk away sudden without laugh or tear,

The moment Trump launched those missiles at Syr’,

Afraid MSM says Assad makes him quail,

Which proves even Don curves-of-learning can scale,


Been watching too as the Koreans scale quests,

And wondering but why of all hornets nests,

They need to kick this one and make adults mad,

But maybe they’re right: a nuke makes them bad,

And staves off Deep-State-types who flourish Big Macs,

And love turning countries into big fat Iraqs.


Been watching Iraq-types turn jihad hot shots,

Grab a few pistols and squeeze off pot shots

At cops and geezers in the name of the Proph’,

Which done for money would be called a rip-off,

But serve to make interventions all right,

And smiley arms-makers to sleep a good night.


I’ve been watching the ol’ cookie crumble,

And feeling the thunder of destiny rumble

Over terrorists, pols, sad loonies and Trumps,

Who pulling together make history’s speed-bumps,

Sped over blithely by the mighty Deep State,

Who’ll crash, burn and ask us to pay all the freight.




MARCH 12, 2017









Don’t you just love a hot allegation,

Rare to medium, garnished with damnation?

If cooked by the Post, with a side of op-ed,

It has that full body, so smooth like hot bread.

But the best ones you eat with wide Wiki-bibs,

Juicy with documents that stick to your ribs.


Best ’cause most alleg’s have no spice of proof,

No docs and no sources, from all fact aloof,

But they’re now the fast food of public debate,

Ten billion served yearly by the MSM great,

Unlike before when you needed research,

But chutzpah and spit will now do to besmirch.


Yes, “The Trump Method of Public Discourse,”

The choice of those lacking interest/recourse

To sources of info in flat white and black,

And prefer creation to take up the slack,

Which far more efficiently leaves you awestruck,

With more a’cadabra and bang for the buck.


Not that the prez on this market has corner,

The Times and the rest are Li’l Jack Horner,

Pulling out plums, crying “What a good boy!”

And tossing ’em out with Pulitzer joy.

The point is to plug their cool points of view:

And if facts get fudged, well, that’s their purvue.


Into this maelstrom steps dear Wikileaks,

With facts on paper that support what it speaks,

Raining in buckets on democracy’s parade,

Spoiling the coiffures in the Fox News arcade.

Big Brother is peeping in your living room,

On you and your sweet or your style with a broom.


Hence the anger that’s hard raining or reigning,

Depending upon who and why they’re complaining:

Langley vexed sharp about having been ripped,

About household spies, but how’d Wiki get tipped?

While still the day’s cherished by us graying groovers,

When the Tubes were just boobs, not J.E. Hoovers.

FEBRUARY 18, 2017









Of the return to "normalcy" in our foreign p, 

Has much been abuzz our dear mainstream me, 
Sore cantankerous since the gen'ral elec' 
When the coming of Trump did Camelot wreck. 
Then the ambass flacked Crimea's return, 
And many hearts rose as though they'd been spurn'.


All basked in "normalcy," sprung just like spring, 
Thumbs-up for new missions, for having a fling 
At terrorists old and newly invented, 
At Syria though the worst has been ended, 
At Africans, Arabs and Islamists alike, 
At any and all from al Qaeders to tyke.


Ab-normalcy's fine, but rather a bore, 
With no one to drone nor IS to floor. 
Friendship with Russia, hair-pulling with China, 
Bomb makers closed in North Carolina. 
Rebuilding in places all crinkled to rocks, 
Daesch guys putting their Toyotas on blocks.


If you ain't for "normalcy," you ain't in the game, 
To squinty-eyed lib'rals one must explain, 
Their objections treated with patient kind smiles, 
But no sweat for neocons in comb-over styles, 
'Cause the only alternative is something sub-normal, 
Dreamed up by people who dress too informal.


So bottom line is the new normal is war, 
Warming the hearth and quick brought to a roar, 
But always abroad where folks weep with aplomb, 
And refugees trudge and dream us to bomb, 
Unless it's true Trump plans a new quirk, 
But I'd bet my patootie it ain't gonna perk.



JANUARY 15, 2017








Is anyone else feeling the footing unstable?

’Cause this looks a lot like an Aesop’s fable,

Or Humpty Dumpty where all th’Estab men,

Would happily put him together again,

But only in exchange for a Syria or two,

Swipes at Vlad and a new villain to pursue.


We begin our check with President Sporty,

Sniping at hackers and Prez Five-and-Forty,

Eager to discred him like no presi has,

Making me wonder if his cool is but jazz.

It’s no way to treat the incoming new guy,

Unless he’s a temp and you’re in the loop why.


His successor of course is the King of all Kings,

Proud as Gadaffi with his bodyguard blings,

Who listens to naught but his barber’s advice,

Melania on China, Ivanka on Daesh,

Burning the neocons who had it all planned:

An admin in Moscow that’s at their command.


Then there’s the barkers and partners in crimes,

Like the Company, Bureau, WaPo and Times.

Their cred has of late been taking a beating,

With Clapper’s crew leaking and Comey word-eating.

’Twould seem the spies have nothing better to do,

Than ladle the media conspiracy stew.


Which eat it with gusto and chuck back a tale,

Huge blackmail stories that make the tabs pale:

The elections were rigged at Putin’s behest!

Those orgies and deals will shake him down best!

All that remains is to defame that blond hair,

Proclaim it’s a wig made of strands cut from Cher.


So I feel the ground shifting under my toe,

These massive contractions are a coup in slow-mo.

The Estab wants Trump out, just how it’s not picky;

That or controlled, but with Don that’s quite tricky.

In banana republics it’s yearly conceptional,

But here in America we call it exceptional.



DECEMBER 16, 2016







Heard tell of late ’bout some two hundred sites,

Funded by Russia that mean the last rites

Of truth and thought and all things democ,

Opinion, enlightenment, facts hard as rock.

But take a look here: yours truly ain’t there!

How the heck come I don’t get my fair share?


About 9-11 haven’t I squawked?

Around which Bob Parry carefully walked.

Antiwar-dot-com gives theories wide berth,

TruthDig-dot-com gives them nothing but dearth,

Webpages liberal and radical alike

All made The List but Phil K. got the spike.


I’ve questioned the truth of Abbottabat.

Go ask Chris Hedges if he ever did that.

I’ve whacked the imperial tastes of our leaders,

Decried drone danger  as well as their breeders.

I’ve praised Assange, given Gaddafi his due,

Why doesn’t The List list the likes of me too?


And the punchline is this: from Vlad I get dough,

When the rest of them get but a Russian heave-ho.

That’s right, I admit it, we’ve got a deal:

It’s in low two figures but all the same real,

Whenever I hand a new verse to his driver,

Mr. Putin SWIFTs me a fresh ruble fiver.


Which makes of me that rarest of lit. birds:

A scribe in clover paying rent with his words.

Well, if not rent at least bubble-gum,

Since like Mike Jordan I need to chew some,

To come up with lines as cutting as chrome,

That put me in league with Ron Paul and Noam.


When Propornot folks set out to protect

The national mind, I got no respect.

Such is their thanks for risks so artistic,

So pro-Russian they border ballistic.

Check out Paul Roberts who’s read to wide thrall,

And ranked with the biggies: some guys have it all.



NOVEMBER 25, 2016






Why is everybody trashing fake news,

Which rounds out my tweets and strengthens my views?

More reliable than squawkers on Fox,

Mine gives deep meaning to those who break rocks.

I draw this news from sheer circumstance,

Lest harsh realities lead us a dance.


Like this guy who saw long lines of buses,

Figured riders had shown up for fusses

With Prez-elect Trump, and tweeted quick-time:

“This was all planned and on George Soros’ dime!”

Just 40 followed this observant guru,

But his tweet as one they flung far a-strew.


Exactly what’s needed in this day and age!

Less info and fact, and more self-made sage!

More guys like me who can add one and one,

Come up with three and then hit a home run.

I’ve just ten followers: who gives a jay?

My guys will die to blare what I say.


Now since you’re all here attending my spiel,

I’ve got some news you’re welcome to peal:

The Empire State Building just toppled to ground!

Midtown Manhattan to pulp has been pound’!

Terrorism ’twas till yours truly revealed,

Yule trees in offices made steel beams yield.


You’re pro’bly wondering who was my source.

When to be honest ’twas just logic’s force:

I read on the Net that all Christmas fluff

Adds 10 percent weight to mere office stuff.

A hundred packed stories of bulbs, gifts and trunks,

Will make old beams bend and cause major clunks.


Which must’ve caused that big cloud of dust,

That made all complain and facemasks a must.

Freedom Tower can we clearly negate,

Leaving most likely the Empire State,

If you haven’t heard it’s the media’s fault,

Ordered to cover the rise of right-alt.


Weight, old beams, and copious dust:

I put it together and in God We Trust

Tossed it on Twitter and got folks informed,

Unlike hacks mainstream who keep us conformed.

Sometimes I’m wrong, but nuts, what the hey,

For your reporter it’s all in a day.



NOVEMBER 1, 2016




The legacy of O will soon come to a boil

Among pundit scribes who on it much toil,

Mulling the ‘what ifs’ and ‘if only he’ds’,

Citing new stats like the health-policied,

Or winning in Cuba and losing in Lib,

His killing bin Laden if only as fib.


But as they nitpick and nuance and sum,

I ask for a standard that ought to become

A simple measure by prez friend or foe,

Equally viable for Bush or Monroe,

And lets us judge all, the first with the late,

And thus plot the course of America’s fate.


Scan urbi et orbi and add up the score:

Chaos or order – which one has gained more?

Is the world more quiescent than eight years ago,

Or should we stuff mattresses with all our dough?

Have the globalized waters lifted all boats,

Or does the wise man grab whatever floats?


So which has made hay by the sun of Obama,

The forces of order or more those of trauma?

Abroad no question: you can barely find space

Where his “moderates” and drones have not erased

Peaceful societies with schools and paved roads,

Which till he dies will be history’s goads. 


At home he’s exemplified American grace:

Cool, kind and funny and those speeches just ace.

He’s calmed the waters when cops pulled quick triggers,

And pshawed the idea of election-day riggers.

He did what he could for those who need docs,

Sad souls with hard lives still up on the blocks.


Yet there’s Ed Snowden who put on display

O’s five-star indifference, his lack of fair play

With the Constitution, the laws, the Bill of our Rights,

Which fast disappear with technology’s bites.

He paid each year’s budget with a new-borrowed trill,

Stiff-arming a future that waits for the kill.


So it’s no surprise Don Trump’s a big hit,

Bernie near took it and the right’s in a snit.

Pols have turned plastic and Wash-town a club,

Hence the ferment and secession hubbub.

Good jobs at good wages have shrunk quite a lot,

As money pours into the One Percent pot.


You feel it all over that Chaos has growed,

While Order goes walking the Yellow Brick Road.

Not that I’d blame ol’ Barack for it all:

He seems to have striven to hold off the fall,

But can’t tame the soldiers or all the king’s men,

Content not to put him together again.


AUGUST 22, 2016




The Don's been having it rough of late,
His face shows how he feels,
He gets no break, gets cut no slack,
And slips on his own spiels.


Since his time as a media star
It hasn't been so long.
He won by ten in every state:
The guy could do no wrong.


And sure he stuck that foot in mouth,
On every other day,
But it never seemed to bug his fans,
Or block his White House way.


So I wonder what has changed so fast,
What's so different now?
Is he so more than e'er a creep,
Or just a dry cash cow?


Methinks it's prob'ly the second choice:
More creep he couldn't be.
But now he doesn't sell newspapers,
He's just a wannabe.


Which means the election's one done deal,
There's little more to say,
Except to tell the Don to stop,
And hope he'll go away.


Hence the Wall Street Journal cries,
"Straighten up or take a hike!"
And editorial pages urge ol' Don
To walk on down the pike.


During the primes such talk went untalked,
No pundits told him to quit,
Though Don pledged dough to pay off thugs,
If enemies they hit.


Nowadays poor Trump's campaign
Is wondering what went wrong,
Bombast having been their stock in trade,
And now it's their swan song.


Yet the principle's not so hard to figure,
In this fine age and day:
The media they're our Lord that giveth,
But also taketh away.

JUNE 16, 2016




A riddle of politics have I yet to parse:

Why do conservatives kick Hillary’s arse?

Yes, she’s a Dem but there’ve surely been worse,

Guys who spend tons and pry open your purse.

Her favorite schmoozes are Goldman and Chase,

Neither one socialist or leftist nut case.


She’s kissed the Israelis, ignored the poor Pals,

Done wonders in Libya and bombed Muslim gals.

She took the Ukraine off V. Putin’s hands,

Helped to push Nato right up to his lands,

And smiled when rich Latins imposed a new reich.

From Dick Cheney’s viewpoint, what’s not to like?


Dissing Maduro, bad blood with the Chinese,

The usual with Iraq stuck on its trapeze.

Her arrogant demand that “Assad must go,”

Showed off her ignorance and neocon gusto.

If what you’re looking for’s the end of the world,

You could hardly ask more than what she’s unfurled.


Yet the right never fails to jerk hard her chain,

Averring she’s soft and quails to cause pain.

Her measures are patches, her words are just words,

Her backers are wimps and her helpers just nerds.

You have to wonder, when you look at the whole,

If these folks are serious, or just playing a role.


Methinks it’s the latter more than anything else,

That and the newsfolk saving own jobs and pelts.

The divine above have a loftier aim:

To make more war or less the name of the game,

And make fools of those who say ‘Peace in our time,’

And turn ol’ Hillary into a bleeding-heart mime.


MAY 8, 2016



The other day I was oiling my Glock,

Planning to raise the human-race stock,

When Mother History gave a tick-tock,

And I realized that no longer guns rock.


I hoped to whack my best old ex-friend Ray,

A guy I'd known well and who lived in L.A.,

For taking my gal would I make him pay,

The tough part was how to make getaway.


But as I thought and rehashed and honed,

I wished that I could just send a clone,

And tell the cops t'wasn't me in that zone,

And then it hit me, why not send a drone?


A drone does business while you drink a beer,

Moved by a joystick, with ease does it steer.

Of shells and witnesses you needn't fear:

Just ram your target and have the last leer.


No need for bullets, no pricey hardware,

Just a good model and friendly software,

And if the cops call, an innocent air,

'Cause end of the day, Hey, I wasn't there.


Yes, folks, it's drones that I recommend,

To do someone dirty and not overspend,

Egg or grenade hung on nether end,

Nuancing the message that you wanna send.


Which is why I think that guns are the past,

Except for the mob and mafia caste,

Who prefer the old ways and hold to them fast,

A hit ain't a hit if the tie isn't splashed.


Terror-biz guys have of course taken note,

And dream of great jobs to drones they'll devote.

Suicide jackets will soon be remote,

Replaced by air mattress beyond an e-moat.


Yes, drones are for all whose shoulder holds chip,

And so hi-tech cool, which makes them a trip.

So turn in that piece and catch the wave's rip,

But don't steal my babe: from Ray take a tip.



APRIL 2, 2016





I have to admit it’s been really fun,

Republicans frantic to undo what they’ve done,

To put the toothpaste back into the tubes,

And thus head off the Revolution of Rubes.


Since Reagan they’ve pulled on the heartstrings of greed,

Of wallets, low taxes, all the better to feed

The craving for guzzlers, the show of good life,

Government being but a WalMart midwife.


Down and down the public head dumbed,

Till now a point that it’s totally numbed

To the needs of compatriots or Latin wannabe,

Who heal their hunger with crime gonnabe.


But finally Repubs have seen their creation,

Go to the polls and raise a tarnation,

And elect the ultimate in anti-gov grit,

Whose anti-gov talk for once is no skit.


Mitt and John M. have condemned in riposte,

Though I have to wonder what troubles them most:

The fact that Donald owes the party but zilch,

Or that foreign policy from them he will filch.


Neocons, y’see, like f.p. with a bang,

Be it from drones or the army’s big fang.

But Don, who knows a bad deal when it squawks,

Reads the wall’s writing: “it’s the smart guy who walks.”


And walk he will as the going gets toughy

From Iraq and Af-Pak and others as scruffy.

For Don sees the world as profit evolved,

And won’t be troubled by calls for “resolve.”


But Repubs, the party, shouldn’t take all the blame.

Saturday N. L. made Don’s race-hate a game.

Fox News called up Trump to comment on matters,

Classic Fox trites known as “thinking-man spatters.”


To give him his due, Trump played his cards smart,

Using news moguls and opportunity’s art.

Nobody thought he’d be taken for real,

But now that he is, the Republicans squeal.  


Cooler t’would be to run a Pink Revolution,

Orange or Vermilion as per your solution.

But it seems our rev will be of the Rubes,

Such is America: dumbed down the tubes.




JANUARY 25, 2016





I spent an hour with Mr. O, who explained the Union’s state,

I have to say he sounded good, the country really great.

He made some jokes and talked with gut, didn’t hide the pain,

And made you feel that he’s a man who knows about hard rain.


Hard rain for old and young and mid, for workers, gays and straights,

For folks whose jobs just come and go, or student U-loan rates.

Future pains he understood, especially pension trouble,

For those unlucky sacked mid-stream or hit by Wall Street bubble.


Been years since someone spoke this way, with words so clean and calm,

For many troubled ’bout our nation, his words were sure a balm.

Yet he’s the man of most contrast in Century Twenty-One,

Called quite right a saint, a Bush, or corporate hired gun.


Barack’s the one who slammered Chelsea, sent Snowden on the run,

Dropped Hell-on-Fire on poor Pakis, killed a terrorist’s son.

His new law lets the soldiers in to snatch you clean away,

To leave in prison till you rot; forget in court your day. 


Homeland’s only swelled and swelled, your data all to keep.

Yet Mr. O and Mr. Clap just promise not to peep.

His foreign p’s pure neocon, he’s outwarred Gen’ral Ike,

And never met a Saudi king or drone he didn’t like.


What are we to make of him, who zigzags all so zany?

Who gets up feeling JFK and lies down feeling Cheney?

To me in him there’s some huge gap, there’s something very wrong,

This man that oozes common sense, yet strings us all along.


Not to say he’s cynical: he’s way too smart for that.

Nor to say he’s criminal: he can’t wear Nixon’s hat.

But historians will long confer on just who this guy was.

The wonder that was Mr. O will long make people puzz.





JANUARY 1, 2016






I've been reading Escobar, who explains it all so great,

Yet I find it's really tough, wondering whom to hate.

Can't they get this organized, and draw some lines in soil?

The battle map's a train-wreck mush, the hatreds all a-roil.


Over here you've got Turkmen, which means they're sorta Turk,

Just enough so they get off for doing Turkey's work.

Down the road the moderates have set up their own shop,

But just how moderate they are depends on whom they pop.


The Russkies don't like either crew, they'd rather keep Assad's,

They bomb the mods and Turks and Daesh, who to them are sods,

Pleasing not the Beltway boys, who really hate believing,

That ISIS can be pretty cool, when it's not neck-cleaving.


Then the case of Kurdistan, one of history's losers,

Whacked by Turks and Pres. Saddam, and all of earth's big bruisers.

Their men are sharp, their chiefs corrupt, they just can't get a break.

They fight I.S. to our loud cheers; we ought to send a cake.


The Sultan watches over all and wants to make his mark,

Open up a no-fly zone, make Kurdistan a park,

He figures half of Syria's his, Iraq and all their oil,

And one or two good pipelines more will really make him royal.


Now let's check on those elites, those guys in linen flowing.

They move the pawns and F-15s, humanity forgoing.

Qatar, the Sauds, Dubai, Iran -- each for their horse root

In the race for cash and oil, and souls to save to boot.


Amazing so much shock and awe is caused by pipes-in-line,

Uniting wells in Emirates with yonder Seine and Rhine.

Though happily I'd do without and ride my bike each day,

The chess of state, that never changes. The rest of us must pay.


DECEMBER 16, 2015






It’s gonna be chaos, gonna be dirty,

With leaders who insult, all vile and shirty.

There’ll be spit on the lectern and blood on the dais,

No quarter given to the righteous or pious.

World War Three? No, that’s not what I mean.

Something much worse: the campaign of ’16.


It’s shaping up messy as you’ve surely noted,

With egos galore and massively bloated.

And this time ’round it’s not gonna be smooth,

With a Dem, a Repub, and a November cruise

To 1600, the nation united.

No, this time ’round it’s love unrequited.


For Uncle Phil’s checked his old crystal ball,

And seen the future which does him appall.

At the end of a month or six weeks into primes,

His Trumpness still strong and spending his dimes,

The Republican brass will slip him the word:

“Sire, thy racism hath too much hate stirred.”


And away will The Donald most angrily stomp,

Change his ship’s flag and continue to romp,

Leaving the others to scurry and slaughter,

At the Convention to spray muddy water,

Whence will emerge a blue suit with wet grin,

That not even his mother thinks will get in.


Yet on our left the scene is no better,

Billary being the top money getter,

Cash gotten from here but No, not from there!

With folks fed up asking, ‘Okay, then from where?’

And Bernie’ll get tired of taking the shaft,

And alone set out on a big indie raft.


Which means down the stretch four guys’ll be vying,

For votes, for favors, and all end up tying.

For no one will have the number so magic,

Which means campaign’s end will truly be tragic,

Thrown into the House where the fix will be in,

The winner – guess who? – that blue suit with wet grin.

NOVEMBER 16, 2016


When I saw the Donald on ol’ SNL,

I verily wondered what in the hell?

Of course I’d heard the idea’d been hatched,

But due to Mex pressure would surely get scratched.

Only rednecks say he might be The Man,

With the tie, the hair, and ten-foot mouth-span.


But at NBC there was dough to be made,

And Trump pulled numbers that would easy put paid,

To doubts of another lucrative season,

Ratings that quashed the power of reason.

Yeah, he’s a racist, but our best guys are on it.

They’ll pour down buckets of laughs and just drown it.


So a comic let loose a milky dumb joke,

’Bout making five long giving Don a good poke.

And Trump replied kindly that he understood,

Since a buck from wherever is a buck to the good.

Hence the race issue got turned into camp,

Easily ignored like a fly or a tramp.


Outside in the cold the Mexies raised Caine:

The humor with them did not translate plain.

They deserved better’n that poorly-lit clip,

Of them marching calmly and giving no lip.

They got no attention, no cash-in-hand deal,

Just two seconds’ news and the anchorman’s squeal.


But such is the change in our common weal:

So long as it’s Mexies, it’s just no big deal.

Imagine if Trump had said rapists are black,

Blacks who speak English and know for a fact,

That you can’t trash them and with it get ’way,

Without half the earth and Barack cut your hay.


Back in the Sixties Trump’s drive would have tanked

The moment he said that José should be spanked.

Not a show in the world would’ve shown his face,

And quickly would he have dropped from the race.

But nowadays bigotry gets smoothed and effaced,

As SNL shows, cold cash now Trumps taste.




OCTOBER 30, 2015






I’ve decided to throw my hat in the ring,

Always on alert to do the New Thing.

You toss in your cap, your ’stache, or your wig,

Buy a good suit and play Mr. Big.

Character is nowhere greatly required,

The point’s to be airy and nicely attired.


Except for Bernie, who’s dressed by his wife,

But has good ideas and wants to fight strife,

Is willing to damn old Hillary’s demon,

Do it with gusto and both ears steamin’,

Restore the “demo” to our democracy,

Without the hype or even hypocrisy.


Me, I’ll run on the Republican side,

Since a loss to Bernie I’ll gladly abide.

And over here all the standards are low,

You needn’t have record, good sense, or be pro.

The thing over here is to have a great gimmick:

Something the others are hard put to mimic.


Don’s got the dough and a mouth big as Maine.

He’s cornered the market on bootstraps and pain.

Cruz is a Christian and that’s hard to beat,

Turns gays-into-fishes for rednecks to eat.

Ben Carson’s a surgeon who wants a flat tax,

As sure with a scalpel as big budget axe.


Jeb has a surname he’s reluctant to use,

Lest something Bushly his mouth does let ooze.

Rubio’s my rival, the greatest of threats,

Speaking the Spanish which means that he gets

The pain of his people, their struggle ’gainst race,

That smooth “Buenos dias” against all his ace.


But Marco don’t know that Spanish I hablo,

And I can toss verbos like any diablo.

I haven’t slanged Mexies, and with the best

I’ll run against Wash-town and all the rest

Of the lobbies and gen’rals and those well-to-do,

And kick ass in Congress without I.O.U.


So checking the field, my chances look good.

My fanbase is family and old neighborhood,

Which places me fourth in voters’ intention,

And lends some weight to my strong contention.

I’ll talk straight and to wealth I’ll not pander!

(But just in case, give your vote to B. Sander’.)



OCTOBER 12, 2015





Sitting so mad in the next traffic jam,

You might hear The Fates to you whisper “Wham!”

Yes, modern life’s dropped by to say hi,

And snatch that big ripe pie from your sky.


’Cause it don’t matter if your car is a Jag,

Ferrari, Porsche, or Dodge top-rag.

You’re stuck in the same lane inches away,

From skins and rappers and lovers-for-pay.


And who’s your savior, who is your daddy?

But yonder three lights: God’s little caddy.

For like it or not, on the state you depend.

And on fellow drivers not you to upend.


Of such jams there’s a lot going ’round,

Problems stupendous and no saviors in town:

Economies, the oceans, some decent tap water,

Or a future of possibles for our son and daughter.


What’s clear it’s only a fool that depends

On enterprise-free to make the amends.

Like V-Dub with its engines so clever,

Which end up pickling the air forever.


Or XL oil from the north to the south:

Long as it doesn’t go make its own mouth.

Or slick-suited traders who move the big cash,

Forgetting it’s plumbers who pay when they’re rash.


Like it or not, let’s all say it as one,

The best hope we have is more law and less fun.

Lest we wind up like those folks from Syrak,

Asking kind strangers to cut us some slack.



JULY 20, 2015





Easier it’d be to feel sorry for Greece,

If it weren’t themselves that themselves did fleece.

Some folks say those were predatory loans,

As if nations like swells buy big pricey homes.

Well, corruption there was, but a difference there lies,

’Tween finance ministers and truck-driving guys.


So now Greece hobbles down hot rocky roads,

Having poked out its eyes and sung all the odes:

Relief, reapportions, reappraisals, repositions,

Repairs, rearrangements, renewals, re-commissions.

You would think with a list of options like that,

The banks pub’ and priv’ could cut them some slack.


But it’s a sure measure of what Europe’s become,

When banks call the tune and pols play their drum.

The money they’d lose if Athens went south,

Would be a big whack, a punch in the mouth,

But not the K.O. that have them all scared,

They’ll just “take a charge” and act like they cared.


Maybe what irks them is a Greece independent,

Not tied to a bank nor bawling repentant.

Or maybe they’re afraid that others will try

The IMF Shuffle and off their debts pry.

But I’ll tell you one thing that’s truly for sure:

This Greece stuff is only the debt crisis’ spur.


I look at the States whose pols often fret:

Our GDP is the equal of debt!

But add Social S’curity, plus Medicaid,

The huge cost of vets who’ve drunk the Kool Aid,

And 100 trill is the tune the pols muffle,

Which they’ll only pay by doing the Shuffle.



JUNE 22, 2015


I was glad to see Donald Trump’s gonna run,
To lend the race drama, great flair and some fun,
With his big ideas whose time has sure come,
Since he has a dream and not crap humdrum.
For campaign gravitas has of late gotten lame,
With Ben Carson, Ted Cruz and Jeb! (no surname).

The Don gave his talk and promised to return,
America its greatness, my biggest concern.
Greatness, you know, can be lost like keys,
Like a ball losing air or flowers their bees,
Turning the country into a big Cameroon,
Which far as I know put no man on the moon.

I particular liked his push for a wall,
Along the Mex border to keep down the squall,
Of mariachi bands and ladies in labor,
And paid for by Mexies like a good neighbor.
That’s called vision in Century Twenty-One,
Joining Reagan and Cesar with Atilla the Hun.

Abroad our enemies will turn pussycat,
As The Donald to them will take a big bat,
Push them around and show them what’s greatness,
Bully them to respect us without any hateness.
And if Putin or Xi of him dare get tired,
Don’s just the one to tell them, “You’re fired!”

Finally! This prince after we’ve kissed every toad,
To take superpowerdom out on the road.
He’s just what we need: a non-politician,
Neither tub-thumper nor thoughtful patrician.
But a billionaire leader as nobody’s been,
Who’ll buy our country its greatness again.

JUNE 8, 2015





Does anyone else miss Muammar Gaddafi?

He of the threads and the ten-girl posse.

Toting his haima, in the backyard he camped,

Raising no fuss if with babes it was cramped.


He was odd, he was cool, independent, aloof.

He did as he liked, was under no hoof.

Dodging astutely from big-power clutches,

He sold oil, bought Fiat, never sought crutches.


Libyans prospered, they got a good deal:

Free college for all and food for a steal.

Here were good doctors, there cement roads.

But jerk not his chain: he took poorly to goads.


He got along great with the Bush CIA,

When called to whack Qaeda was no MIA.

He even stopped folks from jumping the Med.

Stopped them before in the desert they bled.


He threw heart and soul into those non-aligned.

With Africa he wanted all Afs of one mind:

Enough of the white men who'd stolen and robbed,

Gobbling up assets like corn off the cob.


A posture resented by folks in the West,

Who hate a loose cannon, a saint or a pest.

So when Arab Spring in Libya got sprung,

The Yanks and the Euros all wanted him hung.


Sent in their bombers and fine special forces,

And topped it all off with democracy courses.

Gaddafi was chased to a pipe underground,

Filmed while the mob to a pulp did him pound.


Libya's stunned since as a model of progress:

So calm, like Iraq, with smooth-running congress.

Migration has stopped, Al Qaeda is nil,

There are jobs for the taking and all eat their fill.


Hence for Syria we want the same thing:

To throw out Assad and let freedom ring.

There's nothing like being a western Samaritan,

It makes a guy proud to say he's American.



JUNE 1, 2015






The docs cooked four years till they gave us a look,

(We can thank goodness The Man wrote no book.)

At least it’s all served to wake up some buzz,

About OBL doing the stuff that he does:

Micro-management of the whole Qaeda shtick,

Bosses being bosses, ain’t that a kick.


He bitched at his men about being secure,

While keeping himself to a hovel obscure,

In which he took care of the kids and the wife,

Behind steel doors, a daily half-life.

For dinner I ‘magine they passed through some scanners,

So Father could watch and correct table manners.


Which brings up a question I’ve had from the start,

Regarding the Company and the spies’ art.

Assuming The Man forgot once or twice,

And snapped at his boy about holding his knife,

How come the CIA didn’t record it?

Surely history would greatly reward it.


For as the tale goes, before the night raid,

They told the prez they still were afraid:

They had not a shred Osama was there.

Would our brave Seals end up swatting the air?

The spies had no sound-bite, no video flick;

Just one voice-print would’ve done the whole trick.


It sounds to me like those fine spies begged off,

Recalling Iraq “nukes” at which all did scoff,

And grinning told Seals, “Take a selfie with O.,

Before his head to kingdom come do you blow.”

But either in the moment the photo got muffed,

Or much more likely the whole thing was a bluff.


But the spies got stuck as the clean-up brigade,

Creating a library specially made,

To throw dirt on conspiracy like 9-11,

By setting it with dreams like UFO heaven,

And reams of docs about nothing particular,

And a dash of porn for that touch testicular.


The point to pound is “This happened – truly!”

(All the better if accounts are unruly.)

This from the folks who cough up Osamas,

In time for re-‘lection, Bush or Obama’s.

Methinks it’s just one more proof of the gap,

Between rulers and ruled, hustler and sap.


MAY 25, 2015






I know that Sy Hersch and others worked hard,

To tell us the story, turn o’er every shard,

They’ve brought us detail with all scuttlebutt,

They’ve filled in the gaps and told us what’s what,

And yet I find there are black holes unfilled:

Was The Man there? Was it he who killed?


The reason I’m puzzled goes back a long way,

When OBL entered, did Le Figaro say,

The American Hospital in downtown Dubai,

For double di-al and just to say hi,

To our local CIA, Dubai head of station,

Who brought candy, flowers and polite consolation.


True or not, Osama looked finished,

When he made his last vid, greatly diminished.

‘Twas a bad hair day, and his arms barely moved.

Then two Mideast papers said his bucket got hooved,

This at the end of two thousand and one,

When George and Dick were just starting their fun.


But before his end, OBL talked turks,

And said that Eleven was some other jerk’s:

“Not me, not Qaeda; I condemn the attacks,

I target soldiers, not Jillies and Jacks.”

And you’ve got to wonder why someone would pull

The hit of the century and then call it bull.



But with Osama, you know, that’s always the case:

DNA with no blood, a beard with no face. 

Was his bacon saved by some Muslim voo-doo?

Was he grabbed by the Pakis, retired by AQ?

Despite all the hoopla, all that we’ve seen

Was some gent with turban, Mr. O on the screen.


So you can see why I remain undecided,

‘Bout versions that each in turn get derided.

There’s folks cooking books, on that you can bet,

As agencies elbow and compete for bud-get.

While somewhere in Tora Osama must lie,

Enjoying this soap called “Spy versus Spy.”



MAY 18, 2015





Have computers a future? They’ve got out of hand.

Like nukes and carbon, it’s time they were canned.

Starting out, of course, they were quite all the rage,

With folks checking spelling and numbering page,

Your neighbor passed on his forty-meg disks,

And a damsel paid great if her screen you could fix.


But it’s always the same where there’s money to make,

And Windows and others kept raising the stake.

Windows 3 or 95, or 2000.1,

I looked for advantages and really found none,

Though Dell and Big Blue sold many a set:

More oomph being needed lest your desktop fret.


But we’ve come full circle, as everyone bitches,

For computers have gotten too big for their britches.

They’re recording our calls along with the crooks’,

They’re pirating pop songs, great films, and big books.

They reserve our plane flights all nice and quick,

With travel pros stuck on the short end of stick.


Computers now call slick NFL plays,

Correct the defense and analyze frays.

An endless geyser, they gush baseball stats,

Now more germane than the guys swinging bats.

Or take man’s timeless pursuit of the lass:

A mix of tweets, whattsups and emails en masse.



Then there’s the danger from cyber-attackers,

Not just the Commies but lonely odd hackers,

Guys who for fun shut an airport or two,

Poison the water and liberate the zoo.

That never happened with the good old wall phone,

But computers turn geeks into mean Al Capone.


Well, it’s been fun but of a good thing enough,

Thank God we’re too wise to get scammed by this stuff.

Soon we’ll drop apps and with books make amends,

Scale back to word processors and face-time our friends,

Talk to that girl and let emotions take toll,

My, what a close call we’ve had with our soul.








MAY 11, 2015




I see three whistlers have gotten their due:

Sculpted in bronze and preserved as statue.

To them as they swiped and scoured for more,

It never occurred such pizzazz lay in store.

Nor how their scoops would change all for each:

They could’ve called Chaves and grabbed some good beach.


No, thirty-five years got Chels’ to count sticks,

On top, that is, of slow torture by hicks.

Julian Assange is perfecting his Spanish,

Rankly accused of being too mannish.

Ed Snowden, at least, can breathe some fresh air,

As he offers the Feds a deal and a dare.


‘Twas a great touch to add that fourth chair,

For selfies and bullhorns or just to scare

The guys who record my sly calls to ISIS,

As we hash out names on what target’s nicest.

Or longer ones I make to Janie’s Sex-Line,

Though the guys should chip in for half my time.


Now Assange as publisher, his story’s more moot,

Chelsea and Ed are the ones who stole loot.

With Pentagon squires at work cheek by jowl,

They alone saw the wrong, they alone cried foul.

Such must figure in our final summation,

Of what we consist as a people and nation.


So it’s fitting the statue got put in Berlin,

By Italians was whittled, from chairleg to chin.

The city, they tell me, once housed the Third Reich,

Yet now is a center for culture and bike,

It just goes to show you, nations do change,

And freedom moves on to where it can range.



May 4, 2015





It’s scary to ponder the world of drones,

And not just the ones that wreck Paki homes,

But those coming soon to a strife near you,

As skill, loads and madness to them accrue.


Take for example the ’16 campaign,

Hillary speeching, expressing her pain.

And then from above come a hum and a sign:

“For the best ‘burger, at Joe’s you must dine.”


Will bodyguards shoot or send up a Predator,

Risking the notice of public and editor?

Will Joe be nabbed for terrorist leanings,

Asked if inkblots have violent meanings?


Now it could be a package instead of an ad,

That makes a harsh boom, is more truly rad’.

It could be just kids sending drones in droves,

Or Amnesty making a point dropping loaves.


Or take swarthy folks in yon Tribal Area,

Some teen turned Manson by bombing hysteria.

Surely he’ll figure, “An eye for an eye,

If O. can do it, hey, why can’t I?”


And tinkers and trials and uses test tube,

Until he can fly his own Goldberg Rube,

And wing it over some fine Yankee base,

And make a loud crack and get in their face.


The trouble, y’see, is drones don’t use roads,

They treat fences and de-fenses like little toads.

They’re cheap, they’re small, like throwaway wipes,

Carry cams or meds or bangs of all types.


They’re wonderfully safe, just ask Mr. O.,

Or pilots in Vegas who do it as pro.

Country on radio, ensconced in A.C.,

They wag their joysticks and set Pakis free.


What fool would now send a real James Bond,

To do the same job and risk getting conned,

By informers, lovers, or moderates du jour?

No, best keep it simple and send drones on tour.


Not even if Bond can tell wheat from the chaff,

Tell boys doing push-ups from Al Qaeda staff,

And pick out hostages awaiting their day,

Who sure don’t deserve to get quick blown away. 


But sending a drone is cool and good fun,

Like Reese’s and Fritos, you can’t do just one,

They fly where they’re told and turn on a dime,

They take care of business and work overtime.


And when they err big, why, you just say “Sorry,”

And offer some dough with eyes a bit starry.

For drones are designed to dodge consequences,

Clean, sharp and swift like Bruce Lee sequences.


Their future’s the worst, worse even than nukes,

Gas on the fire wherever men put up dukes.

At least with a gun, you aim at one victim,

But drones are mass murder by distant e-dictum.



April 27, 2015







Today we consider the cause of Ted Cruz,

A man of great vision comprised of thin views,

Who counts sine qua non to be president,

On those who pray God that he’s heaven-sent.


He’s big on defending sanc’ty of life,

‘Specially the kind that plays drum and fife

Our army to him can do nothing wrong,

And deserves yet another ten million long.


Babies rank particular high on his list,

As long as they like Israel’s right to exist.  

The ones that don’t were born just for terror.

They’re fodder for drones, God’s little squarer.


To further our freedom he’d drop I.R.S.,

Though to play on our greed he’d never confess.

Of all Rightist things that puzzle and peeve us?

Their smooth cha-cha-cha with mammon and Jesus.


For some Tex-i-stan he’d make a fine prez,

Where a man packs a Colt and means what he says.

Where kids, maids and migrants all know their places,

Accept mini-wages with bows and good graces.


Where women are careful and don’t fool around,

Make pies like Mother and wear modest gown,

Where b-crats don’t pester, all pay their own way,

And those without health-care have no need to stay.


His campaign intends to wake up the right,

The folks who think pol’tics a dumb icky fight.

But I wouldn’t doubt him, he won in ol’ Tex’.

Came out of nowhere and turned many necks.


Yet how does he plan to lead us as one?

Lots think the Lone Star ain’t so well run.

We’re worried about the old and infirm,

And drones hitting Muslims make us hard squirm.


Try winning the Oval with just half a nation,

Consigning the rest to sinners’ damnation,

I seem to recall it happened before:

It’s studied in school and called Civil War.


Simplicity’s sweet but voters should think,

Of how easy fixes are so rinky-dink.

To protect the poor and pay taxes is cred,

But if mayhem’s your jones, go vote for Ted.




April 20, 2015





Mr. Obama deserves some high merit,

For not repeating that same balding parrot:

The one saying Cuba’s an island of creeps,

Who shout dumb slogans and drive 50s heaps.


And then that second il-lumination:

Havana capitals no terror nation.

‘Twas none too shabby, if slightly low-rent,

Since mainly medics was what Cuba sent.


And to call it flat-out a policy wrong,

Which just didn’t work and ran way too long,

Is no mean feat for any state leader,

And often ends as steady poll bleeder.


Yet there’s a few words the prez left unsaid,

And these now trouble my sensitive head.

He said neither “Sorry” nor “Cubans, well-done,”

Since fifty-odd years’s a pretty good run.


But let’s not niggle: that’d be to rub salt,

In wounds that yesterday did high exalt,

The triumph of capital, the fall of K. Marx,

And lemonade stands of kids in the parks.


For in the States there’s a whole generation,

Of Cold War touts who swear black tarnation,

Hearing their efforts have ended in vain,

That old Fidel got away with the game.


Yet O. in coda should someday declare:

“Our methods were cruel and not just an err’.

To make folks suffer so long for their ‘ism,

Is pure un-American and skank cynicism.”


And then should apologize, frank with full-stop,

Admit we’ve been neighbors who run others’ shop.

And make some amends with bucks and close ties,

That all earth might know we can eat humble pies.


And admit the Cubans have done some fine things,

Like health-care for all, and paid on shoestrings,

And cutting the corporate presence by half:

Come the next meltdown, they’ll have the last laugh.


Once that’s done, then we can take stock,

Of the sad list of Latins whose lives we did rock.

This business of running the earth as we like,

Would better have ended with Jack or Prez Ike.


For it’s not that our policies just didn’t work,

They bled our neighbors with grisly black dirk.

The difference with Cuba is they stuck it out,

Not losing their cool, their pride winning out.



April 13, 2015





If for ol’ Dubya one thing can be said,

He never tried messing with Vladimir’s head.

Too busy in Baghdad with saving his face,

For Mr. Obama he left Nato’s race,

To Russia's border with snappy panache,

To get in Vlad’s face and settle his hash.


But knuckling under has never sat well,

Either with Russians or KGB swell,

They prefer to invasions their peace nice and flat,

Black bread and vodka, in winter a hat.

Starbucks and ‘burgers are fine in the main,

But Yankees for neighbors jerk hard on their chain.


They watch manoeuvres with brave Pole and Czech,

Observe how n-cons hold O. by the neck,

And wonder how soon will hist’ry repeat,

The err’s of the past, their invaders’ retreat.

And how far will rise the next butcher’s bill,

Which last time around did top twenty mill.


‘Twould be a relief to count on the hate,

That Americans have of aggression by state.

But what they hate more is rank interruption,

Of Internet’s stream, Tom Brad’s ball corruption.

The fact is Russian relations rank yucky,

Compared to Wisconsin beating Kentucky.


Would that folks knew what grandeurs were said,

When shady Yank mand’rins each lend a head,

To bright discussions of the future New Rome,

Of which our dear Washington soon will be home,

And where will reign those lovely long freedoms,

For one-percent raves and corporate spreedoms.


Someday to history’s alarm-clock we’ll wake,

To find we’ve been had by that three-headed snake:

Money, Mili’, and Media move-shakers,

All frosting their loaves like happy cake-bakers,

Till shocked they find but a twig is their perch,

They’re a tail sans dog, a steeple sans church.



April 6, 2015





“Nightly” or “Evening,” I watch every day,

Wondering what more of the world’s blown away.

Have more heroes, villains or victims bit dust?

What chance exists that my own hair get mussed?

For I do like my ‘do all shiny and trim,

That it may make appeal to yon seraphim.


But in truth my concern is fair plain enough.

Though not being ISIL or Al Gore-type stuff.

Nor is it Qaeda, Ted Cruz or Jeb Bush,

Nor hairy great debts to the brink that us push.

Really what weighs on my thoughts like a canker,

Are those sturdy voices known as “the anchor.”


Day after day they relate the earth’s fettle,

Gibraltar but Jell-O compared to their mettle.

Tie straight and center, hair ne’er just-cut,

Chipper as snowflakes or grim from the gut.

Chatting as if it’s his house he’s to paint,

What kind of fool doubts this latter-day saint?


Yet as he talks I hear master of ring:

Frowning on Putin, and France has no zing.

Iran rates a frown, Brazil a half-smirk:

Beach-bums who don’t know d-squat about work.

Cuba is nothing but constant disaster,

Honduras, so rich, needs no looking-after.


Paki drones fly to “degrade” the worst terror,

Seen from an eagle, without the least error.

Homecoming vets receive grandest grinning,

Surprising their tykes at end of first inning.

It’s always so sweet the way anchors wind up,

With cat-in-a-tree or the return of lost pup.


(Though all in between shout ads for correctives:

Dysfunction, toe fungus, aids for digestives.

And the folks that suffer, why, they look just swell,

That snake-oil must work, you can’t even tell! 

Followed by reams on the second effects:

Consult your doctor if you get no respect.)


‘Tween health and horrors the anchor-guy hovers,

Conferring his blessing on all that he covers.

I used to admire how he oozed Fifth Estate:

Before he took cues from the Pentagon’s slate,

Still keen to impress he fends for plain folk:

Those that pull quiet on capital’s yoke.



March 30, 2015







I read an agreement might favor Iran.

Or so say those of conservative tan.

That’s always the trouble with doing a deal:

You can’t help but feeling your man got a steal.

But such are the Rightists now time after time:

So damn hard of heart to spare brother a dime.


I read an agreement might trouble old Saudi,

Those saintly white sheets who hate all that’s naughty.

They look at the Persians as Smiths do the Jones,

And would like nothing more than to kick their cojon’s.

Yet both of them love to go Visa-Gold slammin’,

Keeping the peace ‘tween Allah and mammon.


I hear an agreement might ease Iran’s life,

So much degraded by sanctions-cum-strife.

Yet here our savants cruel fuss and debate,

Like Inquisitors judging some sad sinner’s fate:

“How much more pain should these riffraff endure?

“Deserveth they cheer, or just more ordure?”


I read an agreement might favor the Shiites,

Who might pay for guns to blow off the Sun-nites,

Who’re banking on ISIL and mourn for Hussein,

Who drove the Co’lition of Willing insane,

Who sent shock and awe that many were kill’t.

It all sounds a bit like The House that Jack Built.



I hear an agreement might just lead to peace.

If only in part of the sad Middle Eas’.

Now consequences come and also they go,

And far be it from me to know which will grow.

But long has continued this grim song and dance,

So maybe it’s time that we gave peace a chance.



March 23, 2015










After the trouble and grief there in Fergs’,


I question my thoughts on cops in the ’burghs.


I’d always figured our police were just great.


Feeling and sporty and built for big freight.




I mean, take all those folks on cool C.S.I.s


That flash their clean badges and great big blue eyes.


My, they look tough as two-hand their Glocks,


And they cook and play ball and darn their kids’ socks.




The lovelies on Bones indifferent observe,


The innards of victims, the craft of the perve.


They seem to like guys, and dress oh-so-well,


But wouldn’t find bliss with Iowan swell.




Then there’s Arrow, with fine shafts a-flying.


His three-day beard and girls long-sighing.


He’d make short work of a mother-in-law,


Who said “Shave that chin, my daughter don’t paw.”




Navy cops go ’round flirtin’ and frettin’,


Bad guys, great sex and villains a-gettin’.


In office and out they seem to enjoy,


The perks of good quads and tax-paid employ.




(And let’s not forget the murdered throughout,


Paid union wages to just lie about,


Eyes still as moss and yet looking great,


In wide pools of blood, their breath well abate’.)




But with Ferg’ it’s quite clear that crimes won’t get burst,


If you just tuck your shirt and part your hair first.


Down yonder child the bullets do lay,


Quick called mistake, gift-wrapped in cliché.




Yes, I’m much troubled to see cops shoot first,


Ask questions later and skirt judgement’s worst,


They have a good point, those protests so recent:


It ain’t about service, but just being decent.



March 16, 2015





I was honing my tan on a beach in Caracas,

When the newsman went and announced a fracas.

It seemed Venezuela now posed a grave threat

To my sweet land of liberty, of thee I fret.


“A threat to security” was the phrase the prez used,

Adding a “national” lest Guam feel abused.

Serious stuff this, with jet pilots scrambling,

Bomb shelters opening and pundits a-rambling.


Would schools be shuttered and Pop Tarts sold out?

Would moms call in kids and tanks be rolled out?

A threat to security is mighty strong stuff,

And woe is the fool who thinks Yankees take guff.


I called Uncle Mike who said, “Pretty it ain’t.

“All Spanish speakers are daubed with red paint.

But I’m American‘s a dead giveaway,

“It’s U.S. person or C’mon make my day.


“Two major-league pitchers were snatched off the mound,

“With both of ‘em now Guantánamo-bound.

“‘U.S.A., U.S.A.’ poured proud from the stands.

“Are you still safe, Phil, down in those lands?”


“‘Round the beach, Uncle Mike, the threats seem but rare:

“Babes in bright strings and lifeguards in chair.”

“Don’t be fooled, Phil: those guards are Chavistas,

“The guys on Fox News call ‘em ‘hack Sandinistas.’


“And all those chicks with the luscious black eyes?

“Most are nothing but Maduro temp spies,

“Trained to slip mickies and swipe your emails,

“And then steal you blind right down to your nails.”


“Don’t know, Uncle Mike: folks here are neat,

“The guys are true gents, the gals beyond sweet.

“I tell ’em I’m Yankee, they don’t give a damn.

“They say all this tension is just a big scam.”


“As for the menace, I look and see none.

“The store shelves are bare, the rats have all run.

“It’s true there’s danger of street rape and rapine,

“But the same could be said of Holl’wood and Vine.”


Yet I could not dissuade my dear Uncle Mike,

That off the earth’s face poor Ven. we must wipe:

“Now you just be careful and watch out for creeps.

“Fox says they’re commies, and they play for keeps.”


I dashed on more sunblock and counted anew,

Countries our s´curity must pass on through.

There’s Iraq and Iran, a bunch of those ‘Stans,

There’s Syria and Isra’l and more Muslim lands.


Throw in Xe’s China, add Taiwan and Japan,

And four wannabes that still use sampan.

And now Venezuela, who would have thought?

Security loves travel, like a bug that it caught.




March 9, 2015





The world consists of bumpkins and hicks.

Some have iPhones, some just have sticks.

Some bust up statues from 50 B.C.

Some lynch black men from yonder beech tree.


Some wear grass skirts and eat bowls of petal.

Others wear leather and dance heavy metal.

Some move mountains to get certain shoes,

Others think troubles all come from the Jews.


A touch of world, the grace of perspective,

Largely does lack in the human collective.

When we yoked men to the harness of global

We forgot to re-make them broader and noble.


Take that stock broker hard at the game,

And African farmer of green plantain.

Jack bores you rotten with e-tech and trend,

Mengala knows everything blue ants portend.


But ask the first gent to find Cameroon,

All he can tell you is "west of the moon?"

This Ivy League grad with his sweet M.B.A.,

Which serves him at best to count up his pay.


Or take the sports writer hot on his beat,

Looking for scoops to report and compete,

With all of the others dying to tell,

Who'll be next coach at Tex’ A and L?


But query his views on our Fourth Amend,

So much the Supremes do twist and offend:

“What’s the trouble? My sources are cool:

“A def back, a tight end, the dean of law school."


Let’s ask Talib grunts in one of those Stans,

Why blow up lives like Al’s and Dan’s?

"They changed our laws and droned our town,

"Who are these bastards to kick us around?"


Now give those G.I.s the right of rebuttle:

"Osama bin Laden – he started this muddle.

“He planned Nine-Eleven as you served him tea.”

The grunts only squint and ask them, “Who’s he?”


And each and every, though far or near,

Asked of their countries, will tell you quite clear:

“Like mine, no sir, they’re ain’t nothin’ like.”

For we cling to our tribes, as tire to bike.


It’s not for nothin’ that pol’tics are local.

And woe to the rep who opines to a yokel,

That maybe our interest includes many others’,

As sinkin’ or swimin’ we’ll all do as brothers.


That rep won’t defeat the shyster who says,

“Not us, we’re exception (and vote me for prez).”

What a great soaring phrase that makes for the hicks,

Who love a good ad and make all the wrong picks.




Febuary 28, 2015





America the Beautiful by all was sung,

Until our leaders claimed a new rung.

Imbued with the Bible, they turned conceptional,

And declared we’re actually A. the Exceptional.


Like Play-Doh and plans, it’s joyfully malleable.

Like being the Pope, it makes you infallible.

And it serves all purposes under the sun,

To skirt silly laws or to pull out a gun.


Invasions become issues: “quality of life,”

That spread women’s lib and make iPhones rife.

You can torture and call it something “enhanced,”

Safeguarding cities where terror once pranced.


‘Tis great consolation when making an error,

Scything a wedding along with some terror,

You go all Gothic and sigh “Drones we need ‘em,

“For such is the price of your future freedom.”


You can buy off locals, start running their shop.

And if all goes sideways, hand allies a mop.

Your snipers are good guys, heroes to mint,

Caring and handsome, well worthy of Clint.


Me, I’m sure proud to be an exception.

It saves time, it’s cool, it assures a reception.

It much makes you feel for those run-of-the-mills,

Like Europes and Asians, all green to the gills.


It’s just such a pity they still don’t get,

The exception that’s us, like Elvis or Rhett.

America the Beautiful’s so yesterday,

Gone with the wind, like vinyl: passé.



Febuary 20, 2015





In Wash’town there runs a morality play

Called “Now That We’re Shooting, Is It Okay?”

The prez asking Congress if rightly he might,

Keep whackin’ those moles on left and on right.

Some are in Syria, some more in Iraq,

And tons are in both of those ‘Stans we attack.


This permit is needed, but O. did aver

All license was given at terror’s first stir.

And I s’pose he’s right that Congress agreed,

To give Mr. Bush the green light he’d need,

To dice bomber, shooter, and sundry bad guy,

With bits of Al Qaeda and make terror pie.


But does that apply to all this earth’s trouble?

With Mesopotam’ a pile of rubble,

With revolt and hatred ‘tween Shia and Sun,

‘Tween rulers and ruled if only by gun,

‘Tween lefties and righties, brown-eyed and blue-,

‘Tween anything else that against me sets you.


And declare war on what? A noisy boys club?

These guys on a roll, Mosul as their hub?

They bang, they rap, they show off their tats,

They rule and decapitate infidel rats.

To unemployed Frenchies they can’t seem but fab,

Tough and respected and dressed in cool drab.


They’ll win some key battles and raise some tarnation,

But let’s not believe they’ll run a strong nation,

Caring for plumbing, the streetlights and potholes,

And schools and the poor alone in their rotholes.

Though great fun it was to chop off those heads,

Hard will it be to put sheets on all beds.


So I think in Congress those people so posh,

Should tell Mr. O., “This time it’s a wash.”

No need, no exit, no timeline, no passion,

No backing and on top: A.Q.’s out of fashion.

Let’s hope our country has paid its last nickel,

For peoples and places turned out so fickle.



Febuary 15, 2015





Thousands of people make our nation secure,

Concerned for my safety, how touching, how pure.

But hard as they try and send cameras aloft,

I still get the feeling I'm no better off.


My firm might be purchased, the Chinese might steal

Our great techno-feat that derives from a peel.

That boy with a Glock might do show and tell,

And blow kids and teachers and coaches to hell.


The dentist off-rips me, the plumber -- oh my!

Insurers all gyp me, and Google's a spy.

Even the burger I buy down at Earl's

Consists of mule meat and paws of red squirrels.


The weather gets hotter and doesn’t abate,

Yet on we continue to shop and to skate.

I'd like to conserve and go ’round without gas,

But find me a chick who digs guys with bus pass!


Afar there's ISIL or whatever the name.

Roving the desert and enjoying some fame.

I really don't grudge them their day as top dog,

Until they start looking for sinners to flog.


Amazed they’d be at the fear all this urges,

The ten-hour meetings and budgeting splurges

On strong-arm black outfits that offer great pay,

Great jobs with great perks as way back in the day.


All this at ten thousand kilom’s from black flags,

Where teens blow their dough on torn blue jean rags.

And police go crazy on army sur-plus,

No cop on the beat, just robots-R-us.


And of course I’m grateful: no knife’s at my throat.

A.Q. hasn't called, or threatened, or wrote.

But pre-9-1-1 our lives weren’t so bad,

No need for ten billion to combat jihad.


Which now drives our debt so high, so queasy,

I sorely perceive it cannot be easy,

To defend our corner and half Asia’s too,

And pay those big bills with derivative stew.



Febuary 8, 2015






I've always felt sorry for Vladimir Putin.

First there's his name, not Ryan or Newton,

But a thud or a punch, the spitting of pips,

That rolls down the tongue and pops off the lips.

And he looks like a wrestler ready to choke

Some poor s.o.b. who cracked a bad joke.


I've always felt sorry for Vladimir Putin.

So high in the polls? You're darn-tootin'.

But scorned abroad for his taciturn grace,

Asserting his power, not knowing his place,

Yet working with Hillary, John and The One,

As they picked off his allies, wars yet unwon.


I've always felt sorry for Vladimir Putin.

Not a nice guy, but surely well-suitin'

The times of an empire falling to pieces,

Its business held up by quan’tative eases.

He kindly received their silly "reset"

And braced for an onslaught, ongoing yet.


I've always felt sorry for Vladimir Putin.

He does what he does with minimal shootin'.

His foes being glad of Ukranian fascists,

He sent the Crimea his boys without patches.

They snapped off a portion to wide applause,

Except in the West, where statesmen dropped jaws.


I've always felt sorry for Vladimir Putin,

Tricked by the West for their refutin'

A gents' accord to observe the stat’-quo

And making of Europe a steady strip-show.

Yet still he abides, he’s sent out no nukes,

Unlike old Brezhnev, he's put up no dukes.


I've always felt sorry for Vladimir Putin,

His ruble tankin’, his oil mootin'.

With China he's made amends and said,

"We give you oil, you give us bread,"

Not a dumb thing for a leader to do,

Except for ol’ Vlad, whom they love to chew.







January 31, 2015






The State guys last year were sitting around,

Each one displaying his best Foggy frown,

Thinking of China, Brazil and Bahrain,

Of terror, of trends, of tech, the Great Game.

World-beaters all, these masters of U,

Like them, they'll tell you, there are but damn few.


"We should take stock," said Sam with gin neat.

"Afghan democracy cycle's complete,

"Iraq's come 'round, the Kurds are well fair.

"Turks are still Turks, zilch to do there.

"Honduras, Paraguay - still a bit cross,

"That someone came down and showed 'em who's boss."


"And then there's Af-Pak," said Joe through his rum,

"Policed by drones that are ever-less dumb.

"They ought to thank us, in spite of the noise,

"For making them free, both girls and boys.

"Now Syria has prospects and Libya release,

"What else can we do in the cause of earth's peace?"


They sat and they thought and they drank and thought more.

They threw out ideas, like rocks from the shore:

"Can't we kill Xe?" "Is Kim outta bounds?"

"How 'bout some cyber on Cantonese towns?"

And then Ms. Nulland, she of Fuck the EU!,

Said, "Let's take Ukraine, and fuck the Bear too."


"Heck and shazam, Vick, World War Three!"

"My point exactly: we're in for a spree!

"The thing is to pounce while we still have time.

"Russia's pure Bedlam, a disorganized crime.

"Their subs only sink, their army's pure bunk,

"I'll say it out flat: this here's a slam dunk!"


"But Russia has nukes," some flunky reported.

"And we have nuker," Ms. Nulland retorted.

"Not that you blow the Kremlin per se,

"Just neutron their gen'rals to vodka purée.

"Then watch as good Russians dance in the streets,

"And welcome our boys with kisses and treats."


"We install Mr. Karpov, put chicken in pots,

"We divvy up Gazprom in tiny bit lots.

"We hire out Putin as disco line-bouncer,

"And little Medvedev pro-wrestling announcer.

"No more old Russia all wrapped in enig,

"Just Fox News and football, for kids the Mac Big."


"Now that's a plan!" they shouted as one.

"But where to start, Vick? How's the game won?"

"To Ukraine we send our boys with dog tag,

"And after a year do a little false flag:

"How's that? You took down our jet from the base?

"That's too bad for you, champ. (This with straight face.)"


And hence, the folks from Foggy did rally,

And planned, and honed, and did the back-alley.

And now it's a first: our foot in Ukraine,

War games for now, no, nothing to feign.

But bases with hookers and flags will come,

And grim Mother Russia, summing the sum.



January 22, 2015







Hakeem Kowalski said, "Let's do a bar."

I said, "I'm not sure 'bout going that far.

"Death to Christians is all fine and well,

"And striking a blow and giving 'em hell,

"But blowing a bar's a pretty long leap,

"Me, all I want is to wake up the sheep."


But Hakeem insisted, in mosque and in park,

And he had a plan, the stuff, and the mark,

So I went along, I wrapped and I taped,

I stripped the wires, I bent, I shaped.

And when came the day to strike at the West,

Hakeem just smiled: "Please be my guest."


So I took a breath and pushed the green button.

And all those sheep got turned into mutton.

Hakeem just stared at me, shock in his face,

"But how, how in hell did that take place?

"Didn't I tell you to leave out the blue wire?"

"You told me red!" I answered with ire.


"But I'm from the Bureau!" he shouted with rage.

"And I'm NSA," I said unassuaged.

"No, that can't be! You're under arrest!"

"You're for the jump, pal, you and the rest!"

Then came boys in blue to us cuff,

All to get sorted in halls painted buff.


Which is why the horrible Case of Joe's Bar,

Just never seems to get all that far.

The perps, they scrammed, and now terrorize,

Half the East Coast, thus giving rise,

To two more agencies, like NSA.

Hakeem got one; me, I said nay.




January 15, 2015






Just as "Polack" troubles a Pole,

And "kike" and "spic" will take their toll,

And picking a nose in public is crappy,

And "Fire!" in theaters makes all unhappy,

Charlie H. should really come off it,

And leave Islam alone with its Prophet.


The face of The Man, neither here nor there,

Has no news value, not hide nor hair.

His ideas may indeed seem odd,

But expect no less from men of God.

From any cover it's easy to doff it,

So leave Islam alone with its Prophet.


We know dear Charlie loves to provoke,

And watch from proud ears arise the smoke,

But Muslims are through with taking our guff,

And the Prophet's face is old-news enough,

So roll that one up under the soffit,

And leave Islam alone with its Prophet.


No, Charlie got no just dessert,

As this attack did nothing assert,

But to let our leaders stick out their chests

And raise that old cry, "Freedom of Press!"

Though news execs all love high profit,

Let’s leave Islam alone with its Prophet.


For small and slight is civilization,

All the thinner for globalization.

And like the sparrow with the owl,

We all must get on cheek by jowl.

So Charlie, though you love to scoff it,

Just leave Islam alone with its Prophet.



October 27, 2014





Over here you see people lining up quietly to cast their votes for Democrats or Republicans; over there you read an article about how a Republican president started mass surveillance of citizens and the next, a Democrat, furthered the program.


Here you see a middle manager rubbing his jaw over some 30-second televised twaddle about how the guy he was going to vote for in the Senate race doesn’t buy the idea of America’s special mission to spread democracy; there you read that only in our hemisphere, only in the last twelve years, America approved the overthrow of two democratically-elected governments (Guatemala and Paraguay) and attempts on two others (Venezuela and Ecuador).


Every network news program in the land splashes the video of some cockney Brit with a knife holding forth on caliphates while his victim patiently kneels beside him; yet a few clicks of the mouse will find inform anyone of ongoing American drone attacks on terrorists and their neighbors young and old.


The greatest disappointment of American political culture, especially in this election year, is the sheer paltriness of the political debate. The electorate’s choice is between lemonade with sugar or sugar with lemonade. "Whenever the people are well-informed, they can be trusted with their own government;... whenever things get so far wrong as to attract their notice, they may be relied on to set them to rights," Thomas Jefferson wrote in 1789. What would Jefferson make of our posturing candidates trying to be tougher-than-thou on illegal immigrants, more balanced-than-thou on the budget, or more patriotic-than-thou regarding the America’s role in the world?


One thing he would notice immediately is how narrow the political debate is, how narrow the political spectrum.


Take drones, for example. They have killed thousands – and maimed Allah knows how many others – most during the Obama presidency. The best estimate is that, only in Pakistan, hundreds of those killed were civilians. And for good measure, the drones continue to fly over the villages, terrifying children and sending everyone running for cover: terrorism in its purest form. Yet have you heard a candidate suggest we ought to stop this barbaric practice outright? That we ought to do things right and either declare war on Pakistan or end our attacks there?


Take terrorism in America. Has any candidate suggested that what terrorism there is – simply defined here as political assassination – is negligible? In the early 90s in Spain, where I live, a bomb was going off right in the major cities almost every week. That was a wave of terrorism.


Take Israel and Palestine. It would be the work of a moment for the United States to declare that it will not use its UN veto power in Israel’s favor until a Palestinian state is a living reality. But you will hunt in vain for an American candidate willing to take on Israel.


One of the healthier aspects of European democracy is that small fringe parties exist to make these points, and every parliament in Europe has its seats with vocal extremists. It’s true that these parties are never elected to run the country – they occasionally play king maker or attain a ministry – but they play the vital role of offering a wider variety of answers to public problems than you would ever find in America.


A wider political spectrum has the added benefit of giving democratic outlet to those fed up with the major parties. And it makes European politics less – slightly, crucially less – subject to big money and corporate influence. If you doubt that last point, just look at France’s answer to fracking: a flat nationwide ban, and that despite an all-out lawsuit by its own national oil giant, Total.


But the U.S.? America’s democracy will not recover until it throws off the dual oxen yoke of the Democrats and Republicans. As that modern sage Chris Hedges wrote: “If we do not rapidly build militant mass movements to overthrow corporate tyranny, including breaking the back of the two-party duopoly that is the mask of corporate power, we will lose our liberty.”


When a candidate begins to ask if we can’t cut back the surveillance state or eliminate most of our bases abroad or make a principle of not overthrowing foreign democracies, you’ll know something has changed. But how far from that day we are!




Here’s a list of the last few years of my articles. Scroll down till you find the one you want.


September 9, 2014




June 30, 2014




May 7, 2014




March 31, 2014




February 7, 2014




January 19, 2014




December 19, 2013




September 27, 2013




July 9, 2013




August 26, 2013




June 10, 2013




April 22, 2013




April 16, 2013




Febuary 27, 2013




December 23, 2012




(*based on the true facts of an untrue story)



November 13, 2012




October 24, 2012




October 24, 2012




October 17, 2012




September 5, 2012




June 7, 2012





March 20, 2012





February 14, 2012




January 18, 2012



December 22, 2011




October 22, 2011



September 21, 2011




September 7, 2011




September 4, 2011




July 18, 2011




June 29, 2011




May 26, 2011




May 8, 2011




May 2, 2011




April 7, 2011




March 13, 2011




March 6, 2011




February 17, 2011




February 5, 2011








September 9, 2014










Thirteen years later, the singular history-dividing event in American politics lies in silence, like the marble sepulchre of an ancient French king. The American media tiptoe past it like monks, faces turned away. Politicians come to kneel at its feet and pay homage. Military men polish its surfaces and go away refreshed and eager for battle. Security-industry moguls in sleek suits lay flowers and, like betting junkies, pray for more luck.




As to Americans, they look on it mute, awed – and dimly doubtful. For years polls have recorded that roughly half believe that the government is holding back information, that the full story has not emerged, that guilt has not been properly established. The difference is that nowadays, a poll respondent hangs up uneasy. Has the call – his answers, his voiceprint, his speech patterns – been squirreled away to one of those monstrous, faceless brains whose minders talk casually of yottabytes and zettabytes? How times have changed – and how much 9-11 changed them.




What has not changed is the silence. Thirteen years after 9-11, scarcely a soul across the length and breadth of the American media – print, electronic, or Internet – dares add or subtract a syllable to the official story: Muslim fanatics, hijackings, box cutters, collapsing buildings, cell-phone heroes, America pushed into war with its classic aw-shucks reluctance. Never mind that several of the famous nineteen hijackers turned up alive and well, not to mention indignant, within months of the event. Never mind that Osama bin Laden, in contravention of the very objective of terrorism, publicly denied involvement and condemned the attacks twice before the month of September was out. Never mind that many of the top figures in the George W. Bush Administration – now in President Barack Obama’s – had itched for just such an event to catapult the nation into action to make a New American Century.




Never mind the people warned off flights on 9-11, or the sudden rise in stock trades on United and American Airlines and the insurers of the towers, or the smooth walls beside the hole in the Pentagon, their windows intact, on which two jet engines could leave no scar. Never mind the enormous initial confusion about the terrorists’ identity when a quick check of the flight lists and airport security tapes would have – should have – sufficed. To this day, they have not been released.




Never mind any of that. As Chris Hedges reminds us in his excellent book, Empire of Illusions, Americans get skittish when reality stares them in the face and are happy to have it channelled and simplified. And on 9-11, those groomed people on the mainstream media jumped right in to interpret it for us: the buildings collapsed. This was the key word planted from the first moment: collapse. Just as with poor President Kennedy, who was not slammed backward by a bullet, but “slumped” – the word still used in history textbooks – against Mrs. Kennedy, on 9-11, the public believed what it was told what to see: “collapses.” And so it has remained.




It is hardly worth going through here the mountain of evidence that sustains that the North and South Towers did not collapse at all but were blown up from the top down in a series of minutely-timed explosions; the reader has every resource available with a few clicks of the mouse. The evidence assembled by the various branches of the 9-11 Truth Movement is physical, chemical, seismic, eye-witness, video, audio, and forensic. There is so much of it that the Truthers’ nemesis, the 9-11 Debunkers, sound ridiculous trying to explain away one item of proof after another, and end up giving the impression of a Bugs Bunny cartoon, with Elmer Fudd twisting every whichaway trying to stick fingers and toes in a leaking dam.




Take, from many possible examples, the Debunkers’ explanation for the black jets of dust seen spurting out vertically from the building dozens of floors below the wave of “collapse.” The Truthers say these are evidence of explosive detonations and cite the opinions of demolition experts, who call them “squibs.” The Debunkers call these the logical result of air pressure building up as the floors collapsed one upon the next, like the plunger of a syringe, and making a window here and there burst.




As usual with the Debunkers, it’s an answer that at first seems plausible, and plays on people’s natural inclination to denial regarding an alternative theory. But it doesn’t survive even the first empirical review, for the simple reason that there was no solid plunger-like mass pushing downwards; everything above the squib was disintegrating into dust. Dust: not fragments, not pieces, not bits, as you would expect to find after a building collapse from, say, an earthquake. Burning-hot dust that could have resulted only from explosions: everything from the urinals to cell phones to expresso makers was pulverized. And dust makes a rather porous syringe.




Besides, thirty floors below the wave, nothing had yet happened. Nothing had exploded – at least in the Debunkers’ theory. Hence no dust.




Still, let’s give two cheers in passing for the Debunkers crowd. It was the Debunkers who, sneering and jeering, hooting and hollering over the least mistake that the Truthers made, obligated them to bear down and grind out every last detail of their theories. The Debunkers pounded out the hollow spots in the Truthers’ arguments, went over their research with a comb fine enough to separate the dots from their I’s, and ultimately strengthened the Truthers’ case. Indeed, the sheer flimsiness of the Debunkers’ own counter-arguments has made the Truthers’ theories shine by comparison. Thirteen years after the attacks, the Debunkers have ridiculed and hooted and razzed their way into irrelevancy. But history will thank them.




For what’s left is solid research and a well-fertilized ground of doubt. If the case of the Truthers is not conclusive, it is only for lack of documents, still ensconced, one hopes, in government vaults. Probably as few as a half-dozen documents, if released, would clear up all the basic questions: the airport-security videos, those near the Pentagon, the two recovered black boxes (unless some of the other six have turned up), and the full version of communications between firefighters who answered the 9-11 call.




Still, it’s not so clear that Americans will want to face the truth, especially when they learn how wide the net of collaboration actually was. It extends far beyond people in on the planning, which was surely very few, to those who went to bed on 9-11 thinking bitterly of how they had been played.




Think of the fighter pilots ordered to stay on the ground or fly the wrong way, the bewildered air-traffic controllers trying to sort out real attacks from war-games attacks, the folks around the Pentagon who thought they were helping out the FBI when they turned over security videos, maybe even the security people around the World Trade Center buildings ordered to let pass certain individuals who showed up at night and on weekends for “elevator shaft renovation” or “rewiring” on the weekend before 9-11.




Pity the reporters – dozens, surely – whose observations of oddities on 9-11 were quietly edited out of their stories. And even more reporters at top news outlets who in the months and years after 9-11 were discreetly contacted by duty-bound military personnel, frightened secretaries, and indignant airline employees; and who set out to write Pulitzer Prize-winning exposés, only to be told by grim-faced editors that the 9-11 story was not to be tampered with.




And as long as we’re near the issue, let’s repel one more time that tiresome assertion by opponents of 9-11 alternative theories: This is America, we love fame, secrets are things of the past, we even talk about our sex lives on the radio, someone would have talked.




There are two answers to that. The first is that someone did talk; lots of someones talked, though their stories reach no further than 9-11 websites. For her trouble, Susan Lindauer earned the distinction of being the second person arrested under the PATRIOT Act. Sibel Edmond got a gag order. Barry Jennings’s experience in Building 7 proved that explosions had already gone off in the building hours before the collapse. J. Michael Springmann at the U.S. Consulate in Jeddah, Saudi Arabia, irritated his bosses by pointing out all those visas granted to guys who turned up on the list of 9-11 hijackers. William Rodriguez, initially a 9-11 media hero, later fell from grace for insisting that an explosion came from the sub-level of the North Tower some ten seconds before the first airplane hit that building. And dozens of eye-witnesses from all three crash sites have lent their testimonies, these confined largely to 9-11 documentaries.




The second is that, in real life, it is only the rarest Snowden or Ellsberg or Manning, alone among their multitudinous co-workers who witnessed the same government misdeeds, who comes forward. Or is even in a position to: none of those three was worrying about retirement when they exposed government documents. The ever-higher hurdles of financial life in America – college, mortgage, and retirement – must be a great comfort to the real villains of 9-11.




Yes, 9-11 Truth research is truly stupendous: the computer models, the chemical investigations, FOIA requests (mostly refused) by the busload, the frame-by-frame review of video and audio recordings. Pilots for 9-11 Truth have even sedulously examined radar and transponder recordings and concluded that Flight 93, which was supposed to have crashed in Pennsylvania, was still in the air and sending signals. Others combed through FAA records and found that this airplane was still on the active list years later.




Good for historical purposes, but at present all of this research is little more than a tree that falls in the woods, heard by nobody. Once the proper narratives – collapses, al Qaeda, feisty passengers and stoic flight attendants – had been set down, they were decorated with detail, made into films, and left to harden with the years. Silence is the norm, broken only by the occasional bubbling blurb to reinforce the official story: the 9-11 Commission’s “Final” Report (i.e., no others needed), the 9-11 Memorial and now the 9-11 Museum, which will be visited by and upon generations of school children. And God help the wiseguy seventh-grader who raises his hand and asks the museum guide why thousands of building professionals agree with the controlled-demolition theory. He is likely to be met with a withering rebuke – much as any thinking adult is today – and told that only cranks and fools bother with conspiracy theories.




Silence. Much as concerned folks in New York might try, there will be no second 9-11 commission, as in the case of the Kennedy assassination. At most, in fifty years, grandchildren will come forth with what someone said on his deathbed, a memoir will turn up, and a history professor will piece together a few stories from the archives, just as nowadays such tidbits regarding Franklin Roosevelt’s attempt to provoke the Japanese into attacking Pearl Harbor have come to light.




No doubt the hard-eyed planners of 9-11 found solace in the Pearl Harbor precedent. But Roosevelt’s deception had a clear justification: if Germany had won the war, or if the Soviet Union had won and gone on to dominate all Europe, the future would have been very dark indeed.




The purpose of 9-11, however, went far beyond a simple war or two in Asia. It was the expression of a passion as old as Alexander: the desire to take over the world. Of course, the current terms are “full-spectrum dominance,” “globalization,” and “free markets.” With the fall of the Soviet Union, the American elite imbibed single-superpowerdom. They were inebriated. America had a unique chance to expand their economic and military – hence political – grasp, and they were not going to pass it up.




The problem was their peaceful compatriots, who neither standing so tall nor seeing so far, could not be counted on to support conquest of the planet. Like dumb cattle, they had to be stampeded. Nor could they be trusted to remain acquiescent as they were squeezed economically while The One Percent fattened and the military splurged. So police forces would be turned into paramilitary squads and, as we have learned over the past year with the Snowden-Greenwald revelations, every phone call, mouse click, and text message would be recorded. The villains of 9-11 had seen the Vietnam War protests at first hand, and knew they needed to cut such nonsense off at the knees. Look at Ferguson. Look at Zuccotti Park. It’s clear that no more 1968s will be tolerated.




The elite’s campaigns at home and abroad might be reversed if the facts of 9-11 were allowed a true airing that riled up the public. But that won’t happen. Liberals and conservatives have joined forces to stigmatise anyone who questions the official theory. Even Justin Raimundo at recently wrote a long essay about 9-11 secrets, but it dealt with the minor question of whether Israel or other countries knew about the attacks ahead of time. But question the 9-11 gospel of box cutters and pancaking building floors? That did not interest him.




Which is typical. With any topic touching 9-11, nobody questions the government version of events. To do so is in bad taste. Take the raid on Osama bin Laden. Nobody but a few pundits like Dr. Paul Craig Roberts and myself wondered out loud how the CIA could have had bin Laden’s house under surveillance for the six months prior to the raid, and never once seen or heard him. Remember that? The obvious conclusion, that bin Laden just wasn’t there, got no traction in the media. But the dashing story that followed silenced any doubt: Despite the CIA’s inability to prove bin Laden’s presence in the house, President Obama, that daring risk-taker, sent in the strong-arm boys. And they got him.




In retrospect it sounds very much as if the CIA, still angry over being pressured into the WMD scam in Iraq, and probably knowing that bin Laden had died years earlier, had refused to get sucked into the game and washed their hands of it with a simple disclaimer. What a pity that Edward Snowden didn’t get a bit of that one down on his hard drives.




So that legend has been closed as well, like the unreal waves closing over bin Laden’s unreal body while America notched a real new bit of history on its belt.




History: what the victors – that riotous One Percent – write. And the left, the right, progressives and conservatives as one do nothing but deepen the grooves of the letters in the rock. Hurray for the free press! As I wrote three years ago, 9-11 was a national job. And so is the silence.














June 30, 2014






I watched “Charlie Wilson’s War” on DVD last weekend. Remember this Julia Robert-Tom Hanks film from 2007? It was loosely based on the story of how U.S. House Representative Charlie Wilson got funding and arms for the mujahaddin (he calls them “the muj”) in Afghanistan to fight the Soviet Army. Their casualties mounting, the Soviets ended up signing a treaty and leaving the country, “with their tail between their legs” – a phrase uttered with smug glee at the film’s climax.


As the United States returns – yes, returns! – to the Iraqi killing fields, one has to look with a new perspective on the Soviet retreat: you have to admire their facing the fact that the war was lost.


No doubt Soviet leaders knew that they would take a lot of guff, as everyone in Moscow played the same game now in full swing in Washington and the media: “Who lost Iraq?”


A quick check of the Internet lists pages and pages of this same question. Fareed Zakaria, that most corporate of corporate salesman, has an opinion (predictably, his culprit is the Iraqis). Even humble Minnesota Public Radio has one. Who lost Iraq is now doubtlessly the major issue left from America’s decade in that unfortunate country. The uncomfortable matter of who destroyed Iraq, however, doesn’t get much play: a half-dozen or articles that appear on small websites. Zakaria can’t be bothered.


That is the uniquely amoral American attitude in the aftermath of the Iraq conflict. Just look at the polls taken on Iraq. They show no shame, only disapproval. Between 71 and 75 percent give the thumbs-down to Iraq, depending on the poll. Some 66 percent are down on Afghanistan, and in a 2000 Gallup looking-back-on-it-all poll 69 percent of Americans are down on Vietnam.


But are people ashamed of destroying other countries? Not a bit. Their disapproval has a different root altogether. Look at how these polls are phrased. The NBC/WSJ/Annenberg poll says Iraq “wasn’t worth it.” Wasn’t worth it? Wasn’t worth the trillions spent, the lives lost? Is war, like a car, just one more bang-for-your-buck calculation?


The Gallup poll respondents call Vietnam “a mistake.” A mistake – like spelling Gallup with just one L? Do Americans, if they think at all about their destruction of that country, the chemical weapons spread, the millions of Vietnamese killed, just shrug it off and say, “Well, everybody’s entitled to a mistake now and then.”?


If there is a single summation of the American attitude, it is surely Nick Carraway’s phrase from The Great Gatsby: “They were careless people, Tom and Daisy- they smashed up things and creatures and then retreated back into their money or their vast carelessness or whatever it was that kept them together, and let other people clean up the mess they had made.”


These days, “other people” refers to Sunnis and Shia going at each other’s throats, UNHCR workers desperately trying to feed millions in the middle of sweltering deserts, and Afghans and Pakistanis trying to keep one step ahead of the Taliban and drone strikes and hunger. Americans, ever proud of their flag and their power and their democracy, are just sorry they got so little bang for their buck.






May 7, 2014






Imagine how different Ukraine would be today if the U.S. and -- prodded by the U.S. -- the European Union had not put their weight behind the Maidan Revolution. Lacking that sweet five billion bucks that Assistant Secretary of State for European Affairs Victoria Nuland bragged about, the rebels would not have overturned the government. The country would be simmering, rather than shooting, and united at least in their disgust with their corrupt government. And Crimea would still be Ukrainian.


Imagine how different if the U.S. had favored, publicly and privately, negotiations between the pro- and anti-Russian elements in both the capital and around the country. This, together with an electoral, by-the-book change in the government might have been a truly salutary watershed in the country's politics.


The Cold War -- how the U.S. military must be rubbing its hands! -- might not have been rekindled. And Russia, for its part, might not have been stuck once again with its reputation for hegemony.


"All around, the fabric of peace and order is fraying," New York Times columnist David Brooks lamented this past week. "The leaders of Russia and Ukraine escalate their apocalyptic rhetoric. The Sunni-Shiite split worsens as Syria and Iraq slide into chaos. China pushes its weight around in the Pacific."


Yet the first two crises -- Ukraine and the Sunni-Shiite conflict -- are surely the result of Amercian bumbling, the latter the aftershock of America's ham-fisted invasion of Iraq. As to China, what weight is he referring to? Their half-hearted squawking about the Senkaku/Diaoyu isles, which Japan also claims? The Chinese government has not lifted a finger regarding "illegal" flyovers of the islands, which makes one wonder if the government isn’t just making a gesture to domestic constituencies, like the military or the business elite who wants to exploit the area's oil and gas deposits. At any rate, the government is evidently not willing to throw any weight into the air over the issue.


Brooks quite rightly praises the system of foreign affairs going back to the Treaty of Westphalia, which protects "the desire for regional dominance and the desire to eliminate diversity." And he goes on to decry that "China, Russia and Iran have different values, but all oppose this system of liberal pluralism."


Surely he has forgotten recent American history. Has regional dominance anywhere been greater than America's in Latin America over the past century? Its foreign-policy domination of west Europe has been only slightly less great. And as to pluralism and diversity, who can forget Condoleeza Rice's carefree statement in an August 2008 Foreign Affairs issue, "Indeed, we have shown that by marrying American power and American values, we could help friends and allies expand the boundaries of what most thought realistic at the time." The list of abandoned, scarred offspring from that unhappy marriage lengthens every year.


"Preserving that hard-earned [liberal, pluralistic system] ecosystem requires an ever-advancing fabric of alliances, clear lines about what behavior is unacceptably system-disrupting, and the credible threat of political, financial and hard power enforcement," Brooks concludes, and he's again right.


Yet America’s blissful disregard for international law seems not to trouble him. From many possible examples, take drone attacks. They are a "system-disrupting" element if there ever was one. What excuses will the State Department make when Syria uses them against rebels? Or when China zaps a dissident in Manila or Jakarta? Or when Russia sends them to Ukraine? Just when international law was getting some real post-World War II force and character, along came the neocons to shatter it, and Obama to make sure the pieces never get put back together.


For what is most troubling about Brooks's article -- and many others like it from conservative policy circles -- is how they cannot see America's own contribution to the unraveling of international relations. Or rather, they can see it, but they cannot talk about it. A recent article by the excellent Times business columnist Gretchen Morgenson offers a look at the small world of important opinion leaders and policy-makers. She is referring to the financial world in this quote, taken from the book by Elizabeth Warren, "A Fighting Chance," but it can be applied as well to the airy world of foreign affairs.


"After dinner, Larry leaned back in his chair and offered me some advice,” Ms. Warren writes. “I had a choice. I could be an insider or I could be an outsider. Outsiders can say whatever they want. But people on the inside don’t listen to them. Insiders, however, get lots of access and a chance to push their ideas. People — powerful people — listen to what they have to say. But insiders also understand one unbreakable rule: They don’t criticize other insiders."


Ms. Morgenson followed up the quote: "A spokeswoman for Mr. Summers did not respond to a request for comment."


Of course not: why respond to outsiders?


We outsiders have the luxury of looking at the world much more realistically than Mr. Brooks and wondering why America is doing so much to break down and dominate the international system. We wonder why the American government is so intent on trying to break Ukraine off from Russia and make an enemy of President Putin, whose behavior on the international scene, at least, has been basically responsible, if we remember his cooperation on Syria, Iran, North Korea and Afghanistan. He hasn't deserved the White House snubbing, especially Obama's refusal to go to the Sochi Olympic Games.


William Pfaff, the veteran foreign-affairs commentator, said tellingly: "Tact seems a quality long abandoned in an America where officials communicate in obscenities." Putin has given up trying to please the Americans, and you can hardly blame him.


But it's Condoleeza Rice and David Brooks and his blinkered band of brothers who control the policy and the airwaves. We outsiders can only stand around saying whatever we want as we watch the fabric of peace and order fraying all around us.







March 31, 2014





President Barack Obama, who loves to be liked, must be wondering how he got such a poor record on foreign affairs. As far as anyone can tell, he deferred to the experts, like General Petraeus and Hillary Clinton and Susan Rice, and has got little more than grief for his politeness: thrown out of chaotic Iraq, bogged down in an ungrateful Afghanistan, red line wrapped around his throat in Syria, his pivot to Asia unpivved, his land-grabbing Israelis unperturbed.


His single moment of glory was the attack mission on Osama bin Laden, and even that was little more than a sixth-grade Christmas pageant put on by the military and security services who just wanted to show their gratitude for Obama's kind and continuing, um, deference -- let's leave it there.


Like most presidents -- George Bush the senior is an exception -- he came into office with no experience in foreign affairs, and no more knowledge than one might get reading the New York Times every day and some history books. So like the rest he leans heavily on those savants in the foreign-policy establishment. This was long ago purged of anyone except Gothic neocons and America-Firsters, who think that America has special duties, a special destiny, and a special relationship to international law, which is made for everyone else to follow. So it's not surprising that America has the same musty policy that the savants have been serving up, with results that run from lousy (Korea, the Gulf War) to horrific (Vietnam, the Iraq War) for the last half-century.


Their latest effort is the revolution in Ukraine. Assistant Secretary of State for European Affairs Victoria Nuland, not a discreet woman, said that America had invested 5 billion dollars to "promote Ukraine to the future it deserves." (Imperial governments always have the best of intentions.) I wonder: Did Obama himself order America to take a hand in the Ukranian revolution? Does he like the idea of overthrowing a properly elected government? You can be sure that the tame foreign-policy journalists will never ask him.


The great mystery is this: did the savants not foresee that President Putin, fearing Nato ships pulling up at Russia's Black Sea naval base, would annex Crimea? It was a logical outcome the Ukranian revolution, yet this could not possibly have been a goal of American machinations. Maybe in ten years some rogue diplomat will write a book telling the world how stunned the administration was by this move. Perhaps -- perhaps -- this explains President Obama's obvious anger and his futile comparison of the invasions Crimea and Iraq. This comment was so surreally dumb that it brought to mind Lyndon Johnson and Robert Macnamara talking about Vietnam.


At any rate, the result of the Ukraine-Crimea matter can only be called another failure of the U.S. foreign policy elite. President Putin has annexed Crimea to great national éclat and left President Obama sputtering about how invasion is a violation of international law. The sanctions on Russia will hurt West European investment there too much to ever be given any real force. That's the trouble with globalization: sanctions boomerang.


Meanwhile, the unelected ultranationalist fascists from the Ukraine have signed their deal with the EU. You have to wonder what Angela Merkel, et. al., felt on sitting down at the signing table with "Yats the guy."


Perhaps he and his rightists ministers will be cured of their ultranationalism and fascism when they sit down with the IMF, who will tell them that their awful economic situation needs to get horrendously awful before it gets better. Ultranationalist fascists are not known for patience and gratitude. It will be interesting to see how they take this "help." But however they do, let's remember: it's those savants in the American foreign-policy establishment who are responsible for them. The establishment wound up this monster and set it walking.


And who can doubt that those crafty American secret agents, smug with the success of their operation in Ukraine, are not doing the same thing in Venezuela? Well, it still is America's backyard, according to the musty foreign-policy elite. Not to control events there would be yet another sign of weakness, according to American neocons. You have to wonder how many signs of weakness have to be decried by them before the country is actually weak.


Still, a new Cold War must offer hope to the foreign-policy elite, especially its military arm. Defense budgets were not looking good, now that terrorism is getting boring and Americans are looking dimly at new foreign commitments calling for copious cash and leather boots on the ground. But a new, long wrestlers' clinch like the first Cold War can only help out the elite.


In short, "Change you can believe in" has not come to the foreign policy establishment. It is on the same bumbling settings of domination and short-term gain that have got America and the world into one crisis after another. The Nobel-winner in the White House has not lived up to the prize. But given the advice he gets, this is hardly surprising.




February 7, 2014










The security is oppressive, Olympic Village wiring isn’t finished, Sochi is a Black Sea beach resort and not a ski resort, Sochi residents feel neglected, gay athletes feel offended, spending on the Games is the most expensive in history, spending on the Games was hidden from the public, there isn’t enough snow, there aren’t enough hotel rooms, the IOC is concerned, the IOC is urging action, Sochi city hall is killing off stray dogs, the Olympic torch is sputtering, the slopes are not world skiing standard, the government is cracking down on green activists, the government is releasing prisoners as a whitewash before the Games….


As the Olympic Games in Sochi begin, President Vladimir Putin is watching his dream eight years ago – to win the Games for his favorite resort town – go up in smoke. Like any national leader, he wanted to do an elegant makeover of his image. He wanted to be the benign statesman rather than the scowling authoritarian. He wanted to play the magnanimous host. He wanted to be Big Man on the (World) Campus, and that fat chunk of dough he spent on the Games is the measure of how much he wanted all this.


And what is he getting for his oil money? None of the above. For the western media have no intention of giving him a break. It’s hard to believe that a smart man like President Putin was so blind as to see how the media would tear him apart for every big and little mistake.


I typed “Sochi proud” into Google and found only stories about people proud to represent their countries in the Olympics. Fair enough. So I put “Sochi residents proud.” Only one story was favourable: from the Moscow Times. The rest were stories about how Putin was far prouder of the games than were any of the locals, many of whom had been forcibly relocated, and environmental problems in Sochi, and nearby villages up in arms, and etc., etc., etc..


And of course, as the Games begin and world attention is really focused, the reports will only get worse. For every report of triumph on the slopes there will be another of how Russians in a nearby village can’t get any bread because it’s all going to the athletes, or how local residents make two cents an hour harvesting wheat by hand, or how there’s no sugar in the Olympic cafeteria, or how the hotel beds don’t have sheets. Some skating star will soon tweet that she lost the gold medal due to a stuffy nose because her room was too cold, and American snowboarders will be sneering about how slow the Internet is and how they can’t log on to their favorite video games without having to wait thirty whole seconds. Trust those sleek-haired souls at Fox News to make thirty seconds sound like thirty hours.


Then throw in a terrorist attack – even a popgun, even one that didn’t go off, or just a decent firecracker sponsored by those thoughtful people in Langley, Virginia. And we’ll all be reminded once again of the hard lives of oppressed minorities under President Putin. By the time the Para-Olympic folks go home, the rest of the world will no doubt have consigned Russia to that rank of nations that includes Niger and Bhutan.


So it wouldn’t surprise me if a bitter President Putin decided to do something about it. After all, he’s already taken a few slaps in the face, like American missile “defenses” on his country’s border (protecting Europe from Iran!) and Ukrainians raising holy hell about their government siding with Russia rather than the European Union. He will see dashed his hopes of making the Games a kind of coming-out party for the modern, prosperous Russia, one of the BRIC countries that even clothing lines like Mango and Zara have to respect. He will see his country made a laughing-stock, whether it deserves it or not, because the western media, especially in the United States, is going to make sure that Russia and President Putin get the full salvo of coconut pie blown in their faces.


And that, I think, is dangerous. Marking the hundredth anniversary of World War One, many commentators have talked about a new “Sarajevo moment” that ignites a new world conflagration. Sochi could well be that moment, even if we don’t know it for some time.


There are a hundred ways in which an angry Putin, who figures that he has little to lose and no face left to save, could shove a stout stick into the wheels of the wobbling capitalist bicycle – and then retreat to those oil-rich steppes to enjoy the show.


Well, maybe and maybe not. But as I watch the clouds gather over Sochi and the muscle-bound pride of Mr. Putin – not a nice man – taking its first dents, I wonder fearfully where this will lead.






January 19, 2014











It had blown up, burnt ferociously, and injured many. Surely some would die.


The day-after photos showed a shaggy frost of ice, and that – and the tragedies of the occupants -- seems the way history will remember it.


My memory from the early 80s is of a bohemian place, where a wire basket nailed on the back of the front door caught the mail dropped through the slot, and everyone simply picked out their letters and sorted out the rest to be left on the steps that led up to the apartments.


My own, on the first floor up, had a single window that looked out on the small park to the left of the building. This “studio” apartment – a splendiferous name for a space that wouldn’t have held a Cadillac – was the smallest there.


Small or not, it was the first apartment all my own, rented at $130 a month, with a phone registered to my name. I had a small stove, an ancient, open-flame heater that stank faintly of gas all winter, and a walk-in closet just big enough for my bike to crouch in, front wheel taken off. I furnished it with family castoffs: a punctured armchair, a small kitchen table that served as a desk, and a floor lamp that swung to either the chair or the desk.


The shower-bathroom out in the hall was shared by all four apartments on the floor, an arrangement that made philosophers of all of us.


We were an eclectic group, U of Minnesota students like me. Chris was the last of the West Bank hippies, a guy whose thick hair reached past his shoulder blades. That’s his room on the lower left going up in flames there: a great pity. For a break on his rent, he had paint-stripped, re-sanded and varnished the floor, and it was worthy of the Palace of Versailles.


Lower-right housed a grad-student couple doing research at the massive University medical complex – good folks who often invited me to drink tea with them and filled me with tales of grants and internships. Sexy stuff.


At the back of the building was a maddening, self-indulgent woman preparing two Beethoven pieces on her piano in order to audition for the U of M Music School. She played nothing else, not even “Chopsticks.” I got to know every difficult passage and tensed when she came to them. And she smoked so much hashish that she and her room reeked of it. One time she lent me her calculator – remember those? – and even the plastic smelt of hash.


The building had no laundry room, so we all resorted illegally to the one in that monstrous apartment complex you see behind the smoke and frost. (My own front-door key came from my basketball buddy Bill.) We all dodged the smooth-shaven security guards who were supposed to keep outsiders out. My technique was to sneak in with my laundry in brown paper sacks from the grocer. I believe Chris used a huge cardboard box, struggling up to the building as if moving in.


But in general it was a good place to spend college years – away from the insipid U of M dorms packed with stereo systems. On Cedar Avenue, amidst the squawk of stairway floorboards and the gasps of shock as hot water showered morning skin down the hall, I had the wrap-around security of the beehive.


Of course, I wasn’t in the wrong place in the wrong year, like the poor folks -- east African immigrants, mainly -- at whom destiny pointed its hoary finger.


And who are now being pounded into a pulp of victimhood by newscasters.


As the building itself is now being pounded into fodder by the bulldozers, taking some hundred years of ghosts with it. Which just goes to show: people are never just victims, buildings never just walls.






December 19, 2013








There’s a reason that one cannot describe America and the world as chaotic. Syria, Afghanistan and Iraq daily show us what chaos is. So the word for America and its place in the world as 2013 closes is, to put it charitably, “worse.”


The year began with Hillary Clinton’s 2012 war cry “Assad must go” still ringing in Washington’s ears. In passing, let us note her declaration’s punchy tag line: “The sooner the better for everyone concerned.”


Thus, sooner rather than a prudent later, the Obama people jumped on those gas attacks against Syrian civilians last summer, rolling out “proof” that they were the work of Assad’s army. But it turned out to be proof à la Bush, cherry-picked and air-brushed (which, as I said in my previous article, was predictable).


Seymour Hersch, that great journalist who unlike the rest of the press refuses to be “on the team” of U.S. foreign-policy salesmen, told us why they did it:


“The fact of the matter is that this president was going to go to war because he felt he had to protect what he said about a red line…It’s about a president choosing to make political use of a war crime.”


The year now closes with the U.S. coming full circle: “Western officials” sidling up to the few moderate Syrian rebels still standing (in excellent hotel rooms, most of them) and telling them to accept Assad as part of a new government. For the alternative isn’t a new, democratic Syria, but a hodgepodge of militias dominated by jihadists, overseen by Al Qaeda, and itching to give Israel a bloody nose. “The sooner the better for everyone concerned” -- Wow! Only History could invent a joke that perfect.


History and Obama must thank Vladimir Putin, not a nice man but at least an adult, for stepping in and moving events in the direction of order.


Messes ever-worse burble in the American heartland too. The temporary agreement between Iran and the United States, among other countries, gives cause for hope, though the Senate – yes, the Democrat-dominated Senate – is determined to trash any agreement by imposing greater sanctions on Iran.


The Republican-dominated House, never to be outdone, trashes anything that the White House wants to do.


Though we criticize Syrians and Libyans and Egyptians for not being able to work together, it’s clear that the American Congress would feel right at home in those countries. Do we need Vladimir Putin to step in and establish order in America too?


In the middle of the year Edward Snowden and Glenn Greenwald shone a ray of light – or rather a big, fat spotlight – on what the American security services are doing in the service of domestic order: watch everything and everybody.


It’s an odd thing, the e-world. Imagine if we had discovered that the U.S. Postal Service was noting down all our mail contacts, occasionally opening the mail and reading it. Everyone would have been up in arms. But there is something about computers and software that makes domestic spying more palatable, more distant. It’s like the average person who would feel ashamed to steal a printer cartridge from an employer, but who thinks nothing of downloading a movie or an album of music from Internet instead of paying for it.


And so the biggest uproar has come from a few members of Congress and countries like Brazil and Germany, where NSA villains filched the text messages of leaders, who most likely are really worried about indiscretions giving the guys in Langley a few jollies.


The American public, as usual, is not outraged as one about their Fourth Amendment rights being trampled, but is, instead, divided on the matter: privacy or security? And now that the hubbub is dying down, the NSA, having taken its lumps in Congress, has jumped onto the public stage to sing a lullaby and sent everyone back to sleep.


Did you see the softball 60 minutes double-segment was hosted by John Miller? He started with this statement: "Full disclosure, I once worked in the Office of the Director of National Intelligence, where I saw firsthand how secretly the NSA operates." Of course, this disclosure wasn't all that full, was it? It turns out that he worked for both the NYPD, the LAPD, and has spent much of his career working on high-tech intelligence systems.


Poor Mike Wallace must be turning over in his grave to see what a government mouthpiece that once-worthy program has become.


That is where America is at the end of 2013. The Obama Administration defiantly carries forward the George W. Bush torch, taking two steps forward, then one backward for public relations. Journalists and whistleblowers who point out these abuses are, to global astonishment, persecuted and silenced. Only a few like Seymour Hersch continue, though with ever-greater difficulty, for potential sources remember Edward Snowden mushing through the Moscow winter, or Chelsea Manning sleeping on a hard bed, or Julian Assange counting sticks on the wall of the Ecuadoran Embassy in London. Silence, they figure, is the greater part of valor.


The result of all this is America’s new reputation as a muscle-bound Big Brother, and an astonishingly gray legacy for the inspiring man who came to office chanting, “Yes, we can!” Obama ran as an outsider and ended up swallowed by Washington and spat out to carry on the Bush revolution of spreading chaos abroad and the mechanisms of repression at home.


I look at him nowadays and marvel at how he keeps going. His expectations have surely been crushed: president of a wayward nation, bystander of an undeserved reputation of Orwellianism, victim of an intractable and prostituted Congress. He must wonder why he spent two years running for the White House.





September 27, 2013






Does public reluctance in America and Europe to using force in Syria indicate a new isolationism? Does it mean indifference to crimes against humanity? Does it mean an “inward turn,” as an article by Judy Dempsey, the New York Times columnist, indicates?


“If Europeans refuse to consider force as a last option to support diplomatic efforts,” she writes in The New York Times, “analysts believe that the European Union’s foreign policy will be toothless.” And Dempsey, whose byline reads “editor in chief of Strategic Europe at Carnegie Europe,” is one of those analysts. She might have used a plain “me and the guys around the water cooler believe,” but “analysts believe” definitely has more brio.


You read of such worrying about European and American publics all the time these days in the mainstream media. The cover story of The Economist this week is called "The Weakened West" and shows a defanged lion. Yet you can never finish these hand-wringing meditations without an odd taste in your mouth. These analysts and the foreign policy elite in general, especially the American type, are peeved these days -- peeved with the public. For they like their foreign policy toothy. In her article, Dempsey sounds like a kid whose kite has being taken away, or at least reeled in a great deal. Without that wonderful length and the bracing dips and dives, kite-flying just isn’t much fun.


We heard pouting of the same tenor when Edward Snowden’s revelations first started to come out. They lifted the lovely embroidered curtain of intelligence and espionage, and the elites – military, security, foreign-policy – and their fellow-travelling mainstream columnists did not like it. Fareed Zakaria on CNN called Snowden’s efforts “a kind of vague nihilistic anarchism.”


The Snowden revelations and Dempsey’s article – and again, it is just one of many concerned about “toothlessness” -- point out the deeper truth that the gap between elites and publics is growing. For the American elite in particular, the public is now the enemy, a sulky teenager that will not listen to reason and takes drugs as soon as one’s back is turned.


Or as the veteran commentator William Pfaff asked in his article “The American Top Secret Kept from Americans”: “What crime is Edward Snowden accused of committing? Not his revelation of American global eavesdropping on foreign governments, which every major government in the world already knew of, or took for granted as existing. Snowden is an international political fugitive because he revealed to the American people what their own government was doing.”


And because Americans cannot be convinced to attack peoples with whom they have no bone to pick, they must be shocked into action, whether by 9-11 or horror stories of Iraqi WMD stockpiles or now, by images of gassed children in Syria. And here, I add this aside: When 9-11 Truthers say that the U.S. military-security complex was the prime mover of the attacks, Americans usually dismiss the idea this way: “Our government would never do that to us.” But people would do well to reflect on the Truthers theories in relation to the sea of disgust and suspicion that has spread between rulers and ruled in America. If the Snowden revelations mean anything, it is that the former group is far more hard-eyed than the latter has imagined.


And now the American public has been jolted awake. It is quite right to second-guess the judgment of its foreign-policy elite, whose policies with teeth have given us nothing but disaster over the past ten years. It has not left a single situation better than it found it, whether in Iraq, Libya, Pakistan, Afghanistan, or Yemen.


I was relieved to see that Dempsey admitted this at the very end of her article: “The instability now in [Iraq, Libya, and Afghanistan] has, as the Transatlantic Trends report shows, encouraged skepticism among Europeans and Americans about the use of force.”


But Dempsey and those “analysts” take negative opinion polls on the Syrian matter as reluctance to engage internationally. This, I think, is a misreading of the publics on both sides of the Atlantic. They are not more cowardly, just more cautious and more informed.


Why? First, the Internet. The mainstream media’s power to shape public opinion on that last bastion of the elite, foreign policy, has been diluted. Back in the 70s and 80s, when I was studying International Relations at the University of Minnesota, the foreign policy debates were basically contained between The New York Times for the liberals (or are we saying “progressives” these days?) and Time Magazine or the Wall Street Journal for the conservatives.


The Internet, of course, has now made this seem like little more than a debate between Pepsi and Coca-cola. Now all of those publications occupy one side of the debate and Internet websites occupy the other. Though websites are of greater and lesser credibility, they make it hard for the mainstream media to slant the news without getting caught.


And hence the second reason. The mainstream media are more and more considered to represent a powerful business and political elite, some of it American, but most of it with dark international loyalties. This has provoked great suspicion. One of the things that struck me immediately about the Occupy Movement was its rhetoric: “talking back to power,” “the government’s propaganda machine.” It was stuff taken straight out of Noam Chomsky, John Pilger, and Chris Hedges. Clearly, leftist voices like these have made inroads; a good part of the public is reading the news more critically.


If there is reluctance over Syria, it’s because people have looked at both sides of the question. They’ve digested more information, more opinions. And the arguments against engagement are articulate and coherent. So people are not convinced.


Analysts and whining columnists regularly adduce Europe’s comparatively skimpy spending on defense as evidence of European spinelessness. Nonsense. European governments simply see no reason to stretch already-thin budgets. Why should they? There is no Hitler around these days. There is no communist threat to be turned back, no nationalist madman threatening his neighbors. Al Qaeda? A terrorist group that must be dealt with through espionage, infiltration, and the occasional fly-swatter, but not a cannon.


Europeans maintain thin, utilitarian militaries that can keep up with military technology, send enough soldiers to assuage America’s thirst for intervention, and make decent showings in Memorial Day parades. Europeans have seen how the Pentagon has pitilessly spent the country into debt, and they want no part of it.


Besides, military force is not the only power behind foreign policy. Just ask the Iranians. They want out from under sanctions. Or ask American members of Congress about European reluctance regarding genetically modified seeds. Or ask the chic Mrs. Assad if she’s planning a shopping spree on the Champs-Elysées once her husband has taken care of those nasty rebels. Most likely she’s going to stick with E-Bay.


No, I don’t see the reluctance, the reticence or the toothlessness that Ms. Dempsey bemoans. I see European and American publics that are a tougher sell for war. The reaction of Europeans and Americans to a real threat in the world? Hard to say. But both peoples know perfectly well what Hitlers and Napoleons and Stalins look like, and I think they would know what to do.




July 9, 2013






At the end of Fareed Zakaria's program GPS last weekend, there was a short, ugly blurb against Edward Snowden. Zakaria led it off, referring to Snowden: "This guy is not working for another government. It's a kind of vague, nihilistic anarchism. I mean I presume the message here is he doesn't want the governments to do any espionage?"


Not that Snowden ever said that. His protest is against the U.S. Government vaccuuming up data on practically everyone, whether they are terrorists or tinkers, foreigners or Floridians. In that sense, his act has none of the destructive urge of nihilism; quite the opposite. Protest, especially the daring kind that he has performed, is a matter of hope for a better future.


But all three of Zakaria's guests -- Zbigniew Brzezinski, Richard Haass of the President's Council on Foreign Relations, and Bret Stephens of the Wall Street Journal, all regulars on the show -- did their best to discredit Snowden.


Brzezinski quite rightly brought up the example of Daniel Ellsberg, dean of American whistleblowers. "He may have been misguided, but he certainly was patriotic. What did [Snowden] do? He goes to China and then he goes to Russia. Both countries that would like to replace us on top of the global totem pole." Snowden's locations puzzle Brzezinski: "So, what are his motives? Who's he trying to appeal to?... Maybe he's psychologically mixed up."


I have the feeling that if Snowden had been in the middle of Times Square when the revelations came out, Brzezinski would have felt no better about him.


For Snowden's motives could hardly be clearer: "But over time that awareness of wrongdoing sort of builds up and you feel compelled to talk about. And the more you talk about the more you're ignored. The more you're told its not a problem until eventually you realize that these things need to be determined by the public and not by somebody who was simply hired by the government."


That doesn't sound to me like man who's "psychologically mixed up"; sounds to me like an articulate man who gives a far more concise response to a question than Brzezinski.


Both Haass and Stephens specifically told their listeners that "this guy is not a whistleblower." Well, "this guy" -- what a lovely dismissive term, like Bill Clinton's "that woman, Monica Lewinsky" -- forced DNI James Clapper to admit that he had lied to Congress. And it's not like Clapper told Congress that he hadn't done anything dirty with an intern or hadn't slipped a few shady favors to campaign contributors. The well-known lie he told was about a top-of-the-line, get-your-money-back vital issue. If Snowden's deed isn't whistleblowing, what is?


Both men took their turns vilifying Snowden. First Haass: "People will be vulnerable because of the way that he has tipped off groups and individuals who want to do us severe harm....his legacy will be truly destructive." That's nonsense. It's hard to believe that any "groups and individuals who want to do us severe harm" don't take into account that American intelligence is monitoring electronic communication all over the world. America's enemies have long ago resorted to other methods of communications or simply encrypt their messages. If there is any news to them, it is that the NSA is monitoring its own citizens to the extent Snowden has revealed.


Then Stephens got in his licks: "This is not a guy who is willing to pay the price for the civil disobedience he thought he was committing." This echoed Brzezinski: "[Ellsberg] did it in the United States and was prepared to face the music."


Except that Ellsberg fully supports Snowden’s decision to stay abroad. Back in Ellsberg's day, the status of the whistleblower was respected. Nowadays, the whistleblower needs to seek political asylum – from the United States, who would have ever thought that in Ellsberg’s time? He needs the asylum because the alternative is justice of the type supplied to Bradley Manning: late, terrifying, and hopeless. And as Ellsberg points out, once the feds put the cuffs on him, Snowden will be stifled and at their mercy.


Anger, as British philosopher Malcolm Muggerridge once observed, is usually just a damaged ego. And the damage that Brzezinski, Haass, Stephens and, yes, Zakaria are suffering is obvious: no-name outsiders are knocking holes in the walls of their elitist castle. As Stephens put it, "How is it that after the Bradley Manning incident, you can still have a 29-year-old contractor, not even working for the government itself, essentially walking into the sanctum sanctorum of our American intelligence establishment and putting so much information on a zip drive?"


Which reminds me of that laughable congressional hearing in “Inside Job” where Senator Carl Levin nails David Viniar, Executive Vice President and CFO of Goldman Sachs:


SEN. CARL LEVIN: When you heard that your employees, in these e-mails, said, god, what a shitty deal; god, what a piece of crap; do you feel anything?


DAVID VINIAR: I, I think that's very unfortunate to have on e-mail.


In short, what these four men are really angry about is not the shame of domestic spying, but the fact that someone exposed it.


No, if I were Snowden, I would head for a place on the sunny shores of Venezuela, too. He certainly deserves a fresh towel, a piña colada and, if he feels like facing the music, a six-man band playing salsa. He's done his countrymen an enormous service; he may have started an American Spring. Not bad for a nihilistic anarchist.




August 26, 2013






Can anyone recall a single moment of greater nonsense in international affairs than the one the world is living right now, as the UN inspectors examine the gas-attack victims in Syria and the chemicals used and give us their verdict? A half-dozen nations, including the U.S. and Britain, stand ready to attack if this reddest of red lines – the Assad regime’s use of chemical weapons – is crossed, and it all depends on a group of scientists.


Of course, the scientists will find evidence of the gas, and the Assad regime will say, “Hold on. That’s XYZ sarin, and all our sarin is type ABC. Here: take a few liters straight out of our stockpile and see for yourselves.”


And then some savant from – oh, let’s take some nice, quiet, neutral picturesque place – from Israel will say, “That’s true, but you can easily make XYZ from ABC. All you need to do is add a little JKL and a dash of salt – all stuff you can buy at the local drugstore – and you’re there.”


And just to be sure that this Israeli is not talking out the Netanyahu side of his mouth, another talking head from – oh, let’s take a nice, quiet, neutral place that runs a mile from anything military – from M.I.T. will confirm that this is true, and add the opinion, “Y’know, if I wanted to gas my people and I had ABC sarin, this is exactly how I’d disguise it.” And off we go to war.




It’s instructive to remember a couple of things as we await the learned words of the UN scientists. First, the Syrian government is now winning the war. Russia continues to help out with arms, Hezbollah has sent their seasoned fighters. Things are looking up. What need is there to bring in deadly gas? The only element that could galvanize public opinion beyond Syria’s borders – and the mainstream media is really whacking the old drum – is the use of chemical weapons. Even the Syrian military brass could not be that stupid.


Second, where did the major chemical attack occur? In some distant village accessible only by donkey? No, it took place just a short drive from downtown Damascus. Medecins Sans Frontieres had no people in the area, but hospital doctors contacted them and gave them details. Nice of them.


Third, when did this gas attack happen? As the rebels were gathering for a final assault on Damascus? Was this attack the Assad regime’s last desperate attempt to hold on to power?


Far from it. The rebels have splintered and turned on each other. This was predictable. To judge from every Middle Eastern crisis, Arabs cannot wash a car together without disagreeing, then arguing, then insulting, then separating, then agreeing after tedious negotiations to each wash half the car, then arguing because each wants to wash the more prestigious front half, then insulting more and ending up slugging it out. No, the Syrian military has the crucial ingredient of unity that the rebels lack, and the Assad regime knows it. All it has had to do was wait out the rebels.


In short, it looks to me as if some powerful people want to get America and Nato into the war, and if it takes a gas attack on innocents to do it, well, it does.


I would imagine that President Obama, who nearly alone in Washington wishes to avoid the Syria mess, is watching this and resenting the hands on his back pushing him into another war. In his mind he has long ago run through the argument I’ve laid out here, but he knows he can’t make it in public: it would be taken as yet another sign of weakness. Such is politics.


His wise instinct, back in the day, was to avoid the Libya mess – until Hillary Clinton reversed course. Too bad: today Libya has no democracy and is still a mess, a long step down from the Qaddafi days, when Libya had the highest standard of living in Africa.


The previous link to Hillary Clinton is also instructive in another regard. From a New York Times looking-back-on-it analysis, the article has this line in it: “That night, with Col.Muammar el-Qaddafi’s forces turning back the rebellion that threatened his rule, Mrs. Clinton changed course, forming an unlikely alliance with a handful of top administration aides who had been arguing for intervention.”


It would seem, then, that this winning formula has been taken out and oiled up again. For Bashar Assad’s forces are “turning back the rebellion that threatens his rule.” And someone has decided to do something about it.





June 10, 2013







President Obama has always dreaded the surveillance controversy. From the moment he became president, he knew that it would fall on him. The only question was how hard.


For in order to be president, he had to make his peace with the powers-that-be in American politics. I imagine it as something like this.


Let’s go back to the last months of the George W. Bush’s first term, when the second term was assured (and how could it not be, with a clumsy candidate like John Kerry?), and the War on Terror was transforming the country, and the early 9-11 Truthers were just starting to murmur dark things about “controlled demolition,” and public security agencies were mushrooming at a rate of some twenty new ones a year and putting billions into the pockets of private security firms, and the surveillance state was being lavishly funded and permanently erected, and the housing bubble was just a rumor. Ah, those were the days for the Masters of the Universe.


Bush being headed for re-election, the Masters began to look around for their next president. They did not much like what they saw. Any Republican could be counted on to carry on the revolution, but among Republicans, real contenders for the White House were few. Besides, after the Herculean effort to get the puerile W. into office, they weren’t looking forward to another such battle. So, being pragmatic folks, the Masters of the Universe looked around on the Democratic side. After all, they breezed over their martinis, why get a Republican to do your dirty work when you can get a Democrat to do it for half the price? All they’d had to do was dangle a scandal or two in front of Bill Clinton’s startled face, and financial deregulation was done.


They discussed Hillary, but Hillary came with baggage and, more to the point, a solid political base. She would have the clout to tone down much of the Bush revolution, especially the surveillance-cum-security state, and would probably do so as the fear from 9-11 faded. (Not even the Masters expected it to last ten years.)


Their questing collective eye eventually fell on a personable young state senator in Illinois. Yes, here was their man: intelligent, articulate, ambitious, effortlessly photogenic, clean of scandal, great on the stump, married to the brightest smile in Chicago and father of two cute daughters – rock-of-the-family types who could be counted on to play soccer and pipe down on cue.


So the Masters of the Universe chose the more politically palatable among themselves – guys who know how the world works but like to make sure that everyone has at least a PopTart to eat every day – and they sat down to dinner with the young senator. After the T-bones had been eaten and the cigars lit and the elegant back room in the restaurant filled with smoke – just for that touch of realism – they said to Obama, “Senator, how would you like to be president? We can make it happen.”


And Obama, who is no fool, said, “Sounds great – but there’s always a catch to these things. What is it?”


The Masters replied – and you’ve got to admire their candor – “The catch is this: the financial, military and security policy is ours. To put it bluntly, the whole thrust of Bush-era policy stays intact. Bases continue to multiply abroad, Israel is number one, the surveillance state moves ahead.”


“But I’m already on record against Iraq.”


“Well, you’ll have to finesse it: Iraq stays. As does Afghanistan – and even after the war ends, we keep a dozen or so big bases there.”


“I don’t know….”


“Tell you what, Senator: you can run against Iraq in the campaign. But end of the day, the army stays.”


“Well, all right – that’s politics. Can I do a health-care thing?”


“No problem – as long as it stays within the confines of health and insurance corporations.”


“What about a campaign organization, funding….?”


“Money, staffers, strategists – we got all that worked out,” added another Master.


And Barack Obama saw himself walking through the door of the Oval Office, and he grinned and said, “Great. Let’s go!”


Well, so much for my theory on the election of Mr. Obama.


The point is that Barack Obama signed on the dotted line with the Masters of the Universe and has since then hoped desperately that nothing too Bush-like would blow up in his face. And you have to hand it to him. He handled the Iraq thing masterfully, calling the Iraqi government’s defenestration of America the fulfilment of a campaign pledge. And he has said that American bases will stay in Afghanistan after the 2011 deadline – or was that 2014? – without adding a new wrinkle to the presidential brow.


But now the surveillance matter has finally exploded in his face, and if Obama is miffed that the hue and cry has started now, with a few press revelations, you can hardly blame him. Everybody has known since midway through W’s administration that those hard-eyed security boys were looking at and listening to whomever they pleased. Or what does everyone think that new, two-billion-dollar super-computer center out in Salt Lake City is really doing – calculating a formula for world peace?


Despite everything, I like Barack Obama. He is the most decent, urbane, articulate man since JFK to occupy the White House. And I cannot believe that he would give rein to the security state and a lot of military excesses unless he were having his arm twisted up very hard and high behind his back. There is simply no connection between the man who taught constitutional law and protested the Iraq War, and the man who now sounds like Richard Nixon trying to defend the Department of Justice looking at reporters’ phone records.


Clearly, there is a dark side to the Obama presidency. He is compelled to do things he does not like, and the people in the shadows doing the compelling have a very clear military and security agenda. There is simply no other explanation for Obama’s policy.





April 22, 2013







What if the Boston bombing is just the first one?


Legions of commentators have been crying for a decade that American invasions, and now drone bombings, spawn new terrorists who will one day seek revenge on America. Has that day arrived?


At this writing, it is unclear exactly what provoked the Tsarnaev brothers to plant bombs, though clearly religious belief, a sense of solidarity with aggrieved Muslims, and anger with America’s wayward foreign policy all contributed. How many others, either inside the U.S. or outside, Muslim or otherwise, have felt the horror of America’s wars at first hand – even in the flesh – and are planning to do the same?


President Obama’s talk after the apprehension of the second brother was thoughtful and measured, and hit all the right points: hatred won’t prevail, American values define us as a country, unity and diversity make America strong, every ethnic group is welcome, “liberty and justice for all.” Say what you like about Obama, he makes those statements with sincerity and conviction – quite the opposite of George W. Bush’s childish recitations or Ronald Reagan’s schmaltz. You could hardly ask more a president at a moment like that.


Unfortunately this is the age of television, and prospective terrorists are more likely to be impressed by the chest-beating crowds and their ugly gorilla chant: “U.S.A.! U.S.A.!” It rings with a muscle-bound triumphalism just touching racial superiority, and must make blood boil across the Middle East.


And of course, the images being what they are and the news what it is, those chanters appeared on every newscast in the world, even here in Spain, where I live. And it makes me wonder how many individuals from a half-dozen countries, their lives long studded with explosions and gun battles and the sight of drone aircraft hovering over their villages, look at those images and long to wipe the grins off those faces and cut the fists off those upraised arms.


What will Americans say when that happens? What if the next time around the bombers are two brothers from Pakistan – or any other country where America carries on an undeclared war – whose family Mr. Obama’s drone missiles obliterated, with the possible exception of, say, a sister who lost all her limbs?


Imagine these two brothers, dressed in shapeless orange prison garb, in a 60 Minutes interview, and as long as we’re imagining, let’s imagine the best case – that they’re educated and speak English, so that we needn’t hear their words through a milky translation.


60 Minutes: Why did you attack our country?


Older Brother: What would you have us do? Just bury our dead, pick up our lives and move on? Would you do that?


Younger Brother: You bomb our country saying that we are harbouring terrorists. What terrorists? After hundreds of bombing strikes, and all the terrorists your government says that you have killed, can there still be actual, operating commander terrorists?


60 Minutes: In some cases, victims’ families have received compensation for innocent lives lost.


Older Brother: I don’t want your money. I want justice.


60 Minutes: Is it justice to plant a bomb at a high school football game and kill thirty people? And maim another two hundred? Those people had nothing to do with the bombs that fell on your family.


Younger Brother: It is not justice, it is revenge. Besides, to judge by popular American films, revenge is well understood and accepted by Americans.


Older Brother: All attempts to bring American servicemen or intelligence agents to justice have failed. Obama himself has protected agents who committed torture from being brought to justice. Or look at Italy: CIA agents condemned in abstentia for kidnapping people off the street. The Italian involved got nine years. In Iraq, the American military finally ended up leaving the country because they would not allow themselves to be subject to Iraqi justice. So don’t ask us to depend on justice.


Younger Brother: You say these people at the football game are innocent. They are less innocent than the Pakistanis killed by American drones.


60 Minutes: Just how do you figure that?


Younger Brother: Because your country is a vigorous democracy in which people can protest, write their representatives, and have a voice in policy. So they are ultimately responsible for that policy. In my country? Yes, we have a vote now and then, but there is a gap like your Grand Canyon between me and the Pakistani Army, which basically runs our country. These people in the football stadium, they are responsible. They are making war against us, so they are soldiers. They are as responsible as those men who sit in air-conditioned trailers in Nevada and drop bombs on us.


Older Brother: Here in this prison, we are condemned to death. I don’t care. My family was the stalk that sustained the flower of my life. My family has disappeared. So will I.


Of course, 60 Minutes would never air an interview like that: nothing is ever to be said to Americans that might make them see the terrorists’ point of view. That’s not how you run a war – against terror or another nation.


But I can’t help feeling that after more attacks and the inevitable follow-up profiles of terrorists that Americans, who are a fair-minded people, will finally begin to see the answer to President George W. Bush’s puerile question, “Why do they hate us?” They’ll see that it’s not for “our freedoms.” It’s for something far more tangible.


And then maybe, at long last, as during those healthy few years of scepticism at the end of the Vietnam War, disgusted Americans will demand a foreign policy that agrees with American values. For Obama was right: they do indeed “define us as a country.”





April 16, 2013



The review of my political thriller, Mockery, came back from the Writer’s Digest Annual Self-Published Book Awards this week. Looks like I’m not going to win: in every category, my writing scored 3 out of a possible 5. Even Grammar came in for a 3. Ouch. One of my prides is my solid writing mechanics.


But that’s the Rodney Dangeresque life of writers who self-publish their books: no respect, no respect at all.


Judge Number 37 called my novel “Overall, an enjoyable read.” He liked the deft first-person narration and appreciated that I “never break character from [the narrator’s] voice.” He thought that I handled the plot twists “generally pretty well.” What brought my novel down, he said, was that late in the story, “there are just a few too many zigzagging plot twists.”


“I feel,” he added, “that an editor would most likely have gone through and eliminated some of them.” I wonder what Judge 37 would say if I told him that it was precisely a book editor, in reading the manuscript some years ago, who had pointed out that technically my villain could be innocent and suggest that I ripple the plot toward the end to ensure culpability.


That editor ultimately rejected the manuscript, but not before complimenting me on the FANTASTIC dialog – the capitals are hers -- that brought to life the story’s host of secondary characters.


Judge 37, however, said not a word about the dialog or the characters. Maybe they spoke ungrammatically.


My point here is not to complain about a bad review; reviews are like a coach’s praise or admonitions shouted from the sidelines, and the smart player takes neither too seriously. But if there is a single element that distinguishes the career of a self-published writer, especially a novelist, it is the teacher-knows-best attitude of his judges, be they in literary agencies, publishing houses or awards contests: Don’t use italics, you might have brought out the conflict more, his motivation could have been clearer, her use of profanity is out of character.


Even Judge 37, with earnest good intentions, finished his two-paragraph review saying that he just wanted “the rest of the book to be as tight and good as possible.”


Does anybody read “The Great Gatsby” muttering that Fitzgerald shouldn’t have dwelled so much on description here, could have shortened the dialog there, left ambiguous Tom and Daisy’s sexual relationship? Of course not. With a real novel, it is the reader’s defective understanding that’s at fault if something seems wrong.


Still, if you typed up a lesser-known work of Fitzgerald’s, put your own name on it, and sent that in to a book contest (and I’ve heard of writers doing it), the “things to improve” section of the review would be full.


The novel market is “A Chorus Line” on a vast scale: a hundred thousand stories clamoring for a literary agent’s favor, a publisher’s nod, and finally a reader’s parsimonious purse. Book awards like The Writer’s Digest’s cost the writer some $75 to $100 to enter – a lot of money for a fifty-to-one shot, but an award seal on the cover provides one of the few vehicles by which to escape the mass of novels.


Which like gravity itself never stops dragging on the individual novel, as book contests receive ever more entries. Judge 37 had probably been assigned to review several books by a certain deadline. Could his haste be the reason he couldn’t go back to understand the final plot points? I’ll never know, though it’s worth noting that nobody else has complained or asked me for clarifications.


But such is the fate of the self-published novel, with its inevitable air of bruised fruit. The story’s defects are automatically assumed to be those of the writer. Of course, his great redemption – or revenge – is sales, but there are precious few of those; last year my four titles altogether sold 37 copies.


Once or twice a year, you hear of someone striking it rich with Amazon and selling a million downloads of vampire histrionics, gooey serial murders or the prosaics of the bedroom. Friends tell me I ought to write one.


But I look over these sublimities – or indeed, page through an actual line-edited, copy-edited, proofread thriller or romance glittering from the airport bookrack – and shudder to think that my name might adorn one. The grammar alone would make Judge 37 cringe.


So I self-publish and take satisfaction in works that have some value other than sales stats. Here and there, my books are bought and opened; now and then, I get a glowing email from a reader. The reading public doesn't nag; they either put down a book or enjoy it, wallowing cheerfully in the odd wrap-around dream that a good novel inspires. One of the nicest things a reader has ever told me was that the characters stayed with her for weeks after she had finished the book.


Beyond the cattle indignities and third-string reputation of self-publishing is the delight of imparting one’s story to a kindred spirit. That’s all that story-telling is, and it is enough.




Febuary 27, 2013









The irony of this period of history is how peaceful the world is. For once, everyone is getting along fairly well: everybody is keeping their army home, is doing business, visiting each other’s lands, sending their young abroad to study and do research. Even the Chinese are glad to build your country an airport or two if it will help them move the raw materials to their factories.


The exceptions are occasional civil war and America, which roams the earth picking fights. Now the Obama Administration has set up a drone base in Niger -- Niger, of all places! And members of the House and Senate are intoning gravely that American security passes through Mali, which hardly one of them could have pointed out on a map six months ago.


But some of those terrorist groups – they’re just groups – have links to al Qaeda, or at least got a couple of stickers and a tee shirt, and that makes them dangerous.


Personally, I think it was a good idea of President François Hollande to send troops and push out the invaders in northern Mali; their Sharia law had made life damn difficult for the locals, all of whom got along pretty well before. But Hollande’s approach is a long way from full-scale occupation that America does when it invades.


But that’s because Hollande sees the “threat” – if that’s even the right word – of al Qaeda more clearly than the Yankees: that is, very small indeed.


And his economy and army, which is under control, don’t demand that he go on with endless war.


That is the real motor of American intervention in Asia: oil economics and the vast military-intelligence-security community that needs to justify its existence. To defeat the Soviet bloc – real, constituted countries with armies and buildings and spies and resources – America did not need half the tumorous complex of agencies and companies that have been marshalled to the opposition of al Qaeda.


The complex’s main locations coincide almost exactly with America’s wealthiest counties, as Dana Priest and William Arkin pointed out in their excellent 2010 series “Top Secret America,” in The Washington Post. And those well-groomed people see the writing on the wall: No threat, no budget, no mortgage payment. So they look after the threat as carefully as their solutions to it.


Hence America continues the “War on Terror,” a term which is becoming as tiring as the “war on drugs.” Missiles from drones fall here and there, and even when they’re not falling, the locals – particularly in Pakistan and Afghanistan – are terrified by the sight of surveillance drones zooming over their villages. How many young people have buried their brothers and fathers and cousins swearing under their breath that they will have at least one American’s head off before they die?


And they would surely raise that figure if they heard how little top American figures in foreign policy consider their grief.


The other night on Fareed Zakaria GPS there was a roundtable discussion among the usual moldering philosophers like Richard Haass, president of the Council on Foreign Relations, former CIA Director Michael Hayden, and a few others.


Haass, to his credit, thought America was using drones too promiscuously. But listen to his reasons: “We don't want to alienate governments. We don't want to alienate populations. The whole idea is to gain progress in the war against terrorists and terrorism.” And that was about as much sympathy as anyone in the group had for the thousands of people who have seen their world destroyed in a flash because one guy was seen twice delivering pizza to the wrong people and therefore assumed to be a terrorist.

Zakaria himself was bloodlessly mathematical: “If you radicalize an entire village by a drone attack, maybe you got one guy, but was it worth it? Is that a calculus?” he asked one panelist, mistaking “calculus” for “calculation”(but it sounded a lot cooler, didn’t it?).


All of the people on that panel emphasized in turn that they agreed with drone strikes. One, Jane Harman, a former member of Congress, was in favor of “drone courts”: “And when [drone strikes] are necessary, not only Americans, [but] foreigners should be assured that America abides by the rule of law.” That will come as cold comfort to Pakistani villagers, and raise the eyebrows of anyone who has watched what America has done to law, both domestic and international, over the past ten years.


9-11, silly TV shows about nuclear bombs and attacks on the “Homeland,” and one dumb propaganda movie after another have turned the America public into the lady standing on a chair shrieking because she’s seen a mouse.


But where is the prominent figure that will say it’s only a mouse and that the world is really at peace?

December 23, 2012





The movie Zero Dark Thirty is coming out to great acclaim, Hollywood doing its usual job of cheerleading for America’s darkest deeds. It’s fiction, of course, loosely based on loose facts supplied by a truth-loose Pentagon, and “unauthorized” books whose versions have that sweet tang of the illicit. The Pentagon was damned angry about the unauthorized stuff, you might remember. And it strikes me as rude to make a big-budget Hollywood film of a version of the events that the Pentagon -- which, let’s remember, did put its men on the line -- disliked to the point of threatening lawsuits. Still, in the interests of entertaining and entrancing Americans, everyone seems to have put aside their differences.


Being a fiction writer myself, I thought I would put together my own version based on what facts have come out of the raid. It wouldn’t make such a great movie, now that I think of it, more a good one-act play on the order of Twelve Angry Men. But with regard to the facts, it seems to me just as valid a take as the movie version. I’m putting out the first part this week and the second part in a week or so. Enjoy.




(And just for the record, I reiterate: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.)




(*based on the true facts of an untrue story)



The Rainmaker had worked as a government employee – he had no illusions about using the term “served” – for forty-seven years, and had never lost his raw wonder at the blockheads, both the wide- and narrow-eyed, who played the World’s Great Game. Watching the bickering at the far end of the table, he resorted to his usual trick to stay awake: with one hand, he took apart a pen – unscrewed the middle, pulled out the cartridge, pulled off its spring, held all four components parallel and flat in his palm, then put it all back together again. He was not ambidextrous, but with the decades and the long moaning meetings, he could do this with either hand, and so fast that anyone who saw would gasp in amazement – but he did it under the table.


That’s it, children, argue yourselves out, he silently told the scrapping officials. Then you’ll be ready for the Voice of Reason. It was what he called his Meeting Rope-a-Dope. And did these people ever need it – Chip Bookbinder had that one right on the money.


Why? Because the hard-boiled CIA guy up by the screen, laser pointer in hand, was telling the truth and wasn’t budging from his position. This vexed the many top officials assembled – NSA, White House, State, DoD, and sundry emissaries from the far-flung empire of American security – vexed them just on general principles: in Washington, telling the actual rank truth only showed weakness, and as to budging from a position, well, we all budged eventually. It was just a question of more access, control, or budget. All had been offered, graciously and frankly, and still the CIA guy was sticking to his point like a barnacle to a hull.


That is: here they were, just days away from the scheduled raid on Osama bin Laden’s house in Abbottabad, Pakistan – wavelengths assigned, teams limbered up, choppers gassed -- and CIA was tossing a stick into the churning spokes of America’s War on Terror.


Following White House orders, CIA, dubious yet dutiful, had trailed Osama bin Laden’s personal courier right to The Man’s house in Abbottabad – all this the previous September. Then CIA – methodically, delicately, discreetly -- set up surveillance of the house. Cameras in the guise of chunks of cement, arms busted off little dolls, and used condoms gazed without blinking at those four mammoth walls day after day. Listening gadgets beamed microwaves – from down the street, from across the rooftops, from a hundred miles up in the cold dentist’s waiting room of space – beamed them so long and hard that, as the CIA guy put it, “everyone in the goddamn place should have been turned into roast beef by now.”


Yet not a voice-printable peep was heard from Osama – not so much as an “Anybody seen where I left my glasses?”


Nor had a single glimpse of his six-foot-six frame lumbering past the windows been wrung from the terabytes of video streamed 24/7 over hundreds of days.


Could The Man be that security conscious? the CIA man’s listeners wondered. After all, the compound’s inhabitants burned their own trash rather than have it trucked away, lest some street urchin come across The Man’s fingerprints on a Pakistani Playboy. The kids shepherded to school each morning never once let slip to classmates anything about Grandpa Osama, causing the White House guy to mutter, “Wish I had staff that reliable.” And as bad luck would have it, there was no phone line to tap, though surely the neighbors – neighbors being neighbors the world over – all wondered why someone would build two million dollars of bad taste on their street and not put in a phone line.


“And that has led to our considered conclusion,” the CIA man had said after his half-hour presentation, “that the subject is not there and never was. The courier – if indeed he was a courier -- was someone else’s.”


The room was stunned. The room raised holy hell.


For two hours.


“What kinda bullshit is this, boy?” an Air Force general roared. “All the time in the world, finest e-lint money can buy, and you boys can’t find one man in one house?”


“Yes! Exactly! Right! Halleluiah, it’s finally sinking in!” the CIA guy cried in exasperation, tie now pulled down to his second button. “Because he’s not there. Get it, folks? The reason we don’t see him or hear him is – watching the lips this time, right? – he is not there. End of story.”


For the first time in two hours, silence writhed down the lovely oaken table -- a long one, supporting the cufflinks and purses of twelve Type-A bureaucrats.


Except at the far end of it, where The Rainmaker sat in his worn black suit and wrinkled tie, one pylon-like elbow propped on the table, his crew-cut balanced on that. His hand worked furiously under the table -- he could take apart and re-assemble his pen in twelve seconds -- and even with that it was hard to stay awake.


Well, looks like we’re finally getting worn down. Thank god! Five more minutes and I’m going to turn into rigor mortis.


Halfway up the table, the White House guy – in shirt sleeves like his boss, with whom he’d just played “a couple quick three-on-threes, it being such a nice spring day” -- swatted back his chair and jumped to his feet.


"Now just wait a goddamn minute. What the hell is this?" he griped. "I've got a president looking at re-election in the middle of a recession, and he’s not going to miss out on this. He's kissed the ass of every one of you guys from day one. Anybody here lacking for budget? Huh? Anybody worried about joining the legions of jobless? Anybody see anything less than a brilliant career path ahead straight through till retirement? Huh? C'mon, speak up if you do -- now's the time."


Nobody spoke up.


And like the many presidential flunkies The Rainmaker had seen over five decades in government, this one even had his boss’s gestures. He slowly put his hands on his hips to highlight for one and all the flatness of his abdomen.


Of course, that face is so bony you might not have eaten but a leaf of lettuce in six months, The Rainmaker mused.


"All right, all right, all right, so Osama's not there. Fine. Like I give a fuck! Then you make him there. The Seals are ready to go. They’ve been practicing on the mock-up house for weeks. So you make him there."


The CIA guy shook his head – once and sharply. "No way. Not a chance. Not doing it, not going there. This is major shit and our top brass is still walking on thin public ice from Iraq and WMD. Been there, done that, and we’re not going back. Report stands: he's not there.”


“He goddamn well is. The American people never got closure on this guy, and now they’re going to get it. Now do it!”


The CIA man’s face -- and it was a big, loose, pale one under left-parted hair – was turning red. The Rainmaker read him as the kind of man who lost every argument with his wife; Chip had chosen him well. “Crawl the fuck back down off my ass! We told you guys from the get-go that we had it from our best assets since the early Bush days: the man kicked it of kidney failure two months after Tora. A half-dozen Mideast newspapers reported it. Practically every in-theater asset we had came back with the same thing. Did we tell you or did we not?”


“Did we approve your budgets hardly changing a comma, or did we not?”


Why don’t you just pull down your pants, see whose dick is bigger and get it over with? The Rainmaker wondered with a sigh.


The CIA man looked around at the unwilling faces; his opinion was not popular. “C’mon, people, he was on double dialysis, for Chrissakes. Nobody – repeat, nobody -- could survive ten more years in that condition.”


“His myth could, and that’s what we’re about here today,” said the White House guy. “We’re going to bury it.”


The CIA man’s forefinger shot forward like a missile. “No. That’s the thing, see. You’re going to ask us to bury it. And we’ve been down that road before, haven't we? The heavy boys go in and it turns out he’s not there, and then it’s our people explaining to the sub-committee why we were all wrong again. Everyone’s favorite punching bag again. Think we don’t see the play? Forget it. The brass is not going there."


More writhing silence. The Rainmaker put away his pen, took a deep breath, and spoke.


"One man's opinion here, but…" he said in his viscous old Midwestern drawl, all heads turning his way. Of all those present, he was the only one without a title before his blotter. "It’s all a question of narratives, isn’t it? You're just using the wrong one.”


“May I ask who you are and what your agency is?” snapped the White House man, tie wagging as he leaned over the table to get a look at the speaker.


“Oh, what’s in a name? Chip Bookbinder asked me to step in. I keep an office down the hall from his. I’m just kind of coasting along till retirement, to be honest,” The Rainmaker breezed. Harrington Bookbinder was deputy director of the CIA. “People send me psy ops for critique and vetting.” And what hare-brained ops! he despaired silently. “NSA, CIA, just about everybody. The team that polices 9-11 Truthers calls me when they’re in a jam – that sort of thing.”


At the mention of 9-11, several faces at the table went red.


“Now then,” The Rainmaker went on, leaning back in his chair and propping an ankle on a knee. “The problem is not the facts on the ground, but the narrative you give them. You don't need to say bin Laden’s not there. Just say, ‘Well, there was just such-and-such a possibility that we’d find him there.’” He held up a hand before the objections started. “What kind of phrasing would we be looking at here? ‘Possibility’ needs weakening. Let me think…”


There was a skeptical chuckle to his right, and The Rainmaker turned his head that way and for a long moment nailed an Army Intel colonel in his gaze. The man fell silent. “If you are in the mood for humor, Colonel, I suggest you go inspect your troops.”


“That was uncalled for, sir,” the colonel mumbled.


The Rainmaker looked at his long pale hands, which he wrung for some seconds on his knee. “Ah! Yes, the correct phrase is, ‘A strong possibility.’ That’s the ticket."


"Strong or weak," huffed the CIA man. “What difference does it make?”


"Now let’s roll the new narrative and hear how it sounds," The Rainmaker continued. He cleared his throat and let the silence gather. When he spoke, it was with a deepened voice and the patter of a news anchor:


“‘As late as two days before the raid, the best the CIA could say was that there was a strong possibility that Osama bin Laden was in the mansion. They could tell the president that they were’” – The Rainmaker paused – “‘highly confident. The president asked for confirmation but they could not give it. They gave certain odds, they made certain assumptions -- that was the best they could do. Between a rock and a hard place, the president took a risk, gambling his presidency in the bargain. He gave the Seals the green light.’” He stopped and looked at the CIA man at the head of the table. “On board so far?”


“Depends,” he said. “You go in, there’s no Osama. Now what? Finish it.”


The Rainmaker didn’t – not for the moment – and looked at the White House man still sprawled over the table. “And the C-in-C?”


“Yeah, yeah, sure. That’ll play. Keep going.”


“No. No, not quite,” said The Rainmaker. “You’ll need to divert attention from the fact that it’s just a house and one man hasn’t shown up inside it. So you’ll want a lot of moaning and groaning about how hard the op was: Taliban spies everywhere, all the neighbors around, military academy right down the road. And just for good measure, for example, for example…Yes! You red-teamed it first. There we are. You brought in another team of intelligence analysts and presented your findings to them. They agreed: he’s there. I can bring in my own staff this evening if you’d like, just for the versimilitude: reserve the secure room, make a fuss, order in Chinese, walk out looking grave and statesmanlike.”


The rest of the people were chuckling.


God, what children you are. It’s as if you’re plotting to soap the neighbors’ windows.


“Excuse me, sir,” called a Marine general down the table. “I believe I’ve heard of you. Would you by any chance be the man known as The Rainmaker?”


A modest smile. “An old baseball nickname, I’m afraid, General.”


More laughter. The Rainmaker dipped into his patience.


“Well then, the rest is merely decoration,” he went on with a simple shrug. “The Seals drop in, enter the house and…what? They find one of the men. This unlucky fellow is now our Osama. The Seals terminate him along with all other males – leaving the children and females, whose account one way or the other will hold no weight in the Muslim world. They pack up the body with a lot of laptops and electronic files and then --”


“Hold on. Just hold it right there. That would never fly,” said the CIA man flatly. “That won’t work at all. We’re going to take down the man who is at the center of al Qaeda? Like fucking hell we are. We would haul him down to Gitmo and squeeze him like a tube of toothpaste till he coughed up every last detail of his networks. Everybody knows that, and if they don’t, the Times is going to remind them the next day.”


The Rainmaker could not quite hide his amusement. “Now of course, that's true. But when the president of the United States calls a surprise press conference and announces that we just put a bullet through Osama bin Laden's brain, well, I think good Americans will overlook the loss of intel." He waited for the laughter to subside. "With all respect, sir, you live in Langley, Virginia. The folks who need to hear the narrative live in Memphis and Palo Alto and Dayton.”


The CIA man puffed out his cheeks, shrugged, and finally said, “All right, I’ll stretch a point – fine. But then what about the body? You just killed a guy calling him Osama bin Laden. On one hand, you can’t leave the guy there for anyone to discover. But on the other, what justification do you have for weighing down a chopper all the way back to Bagram?”


“Yeah, that’s right,” said the White House guy nervously.


The Rainmaker had an ugly lower-teeth-only smile like a line of gray tenements, which he now displayed. “To check his DNA, of course.”


“We have his DNA.”


“Exactly. And now we check his DNA against the sample that we have. To i.d. him.”


The CIA guy stared as if talking to an idiot. “You kill him and then you check his DNA?”


“You would rather that we checked it before?”


Everyone chuckled.


What I wouldn’t give to take a photo of you all, The Rainmaker thought. The Gadarene swine could have not posed more beautifully before running over the cliff.


“I think the point is, son, to have an excuse to get the guy outta there,” said the Air Force general to the CIA man.


The CIA guy could see he wasn’t going to win this battle either. “All right, fine. But if that one goes sideways, we are not taking the rap, that’s all I can say,” he pouted.


“All right. Now we have a body and we are ready to go,” said The Rainmaker. “The Seals pack everything up with a lot of laptops and hard drives and pendrives soon to be used to complete our narrative – and let’s not ponder too deeply the fact that bin Laden never struck anyone as a computer wonk. Off we fly to Bagram. At first light, the Pakistani police swoop in and carry off the women and children. There is a long-standing agreement, I believe, between CIA and the Paki ISI regarding bin Laden?”


The CIA man rolled his eyes as if to concede a single point. “Yes, we have full rights on capture in Pakistan if we locate bin Laden there. I would imagine they’ll cooperate.”


“All the same, you’ll want everyone to raise Caine for the violation of their sacred territory: ISI, Congress, Musharraf, Paki media, president, the works.”


“They won’t need much encouragement,” the CIA man said drily.


“Indeed – but key for the versimilitude. And for the sake of narrative, we’ll need some color. For example…” The Rainmaker wrung his hands twice. “The Seals burst in just as bin Laden was reaching for an AK-47 leaning against the wall. And let’s bring in a woman – that’s always adds the right dabs of blues and violets. Yes, let’s say a woman – a bin Laden wife, say -- stepped in front of Osama, who wasn’t gentleman enough to object. And let’s say someone tried to defend him, maybe a son – all in the fanatical spirit of defending the great man to the death. Whatever – the details needn’t connect.”

See? Even you are hypnotized. The moment you enter the story, you’re helpless, The Rainmaker observed, pausing for someone who was coughing.


“Actually, the more blurry the raid is, the better,” he went on. “Let one version come out, then another, then another. Let the public pick and choose. Nothing stinks more to high hell – nothing’s funner to pick apart -- than the classic seamless narrative. Just look at the first moon landing: pure as the driven snow, but half the public no longer believes it happened.”


“Wow! I get the feeling you’ve done this before,” the White House man joked.


“C’mon – finish it. What about the body?” snapped the CIA guy.


“Simple. Once back at Bagram, Forensics checks out the body, takes photos, does the DNA, and then...Well, I suppose you couldn’t just bury him – that would be sticking a hand into the hornet’s nest. Better to cremate him after a moving religious ceremony presided over by an Army Muslim cleric because we…No – no, that’s madness. The bin Laden family would ask for a box of ashes, wouldn’t they? As would half the Muslim world. No, you…where could you….Ah! You fly the body directly out to a waiting aircraft carrier. Moving Islamic ceremony, the body lowered into the sea.” A frown. “You would want to be very careful with the verb there: ‘lowered,’ ‘slid,’ or ‘condemned to the sea.’ Isn’t that what the sailors do?”


“I believe the phrase you’re looking for, sir, is ‘committed to the deep,’ said a Navy Intel man politely.


“Thank you, Captain. Yes, ‘committed to the deep.’ And as to the media, ‘lowered,’ ‘slid,’ or, or…‘eased into the sea.’ Yes, that’s our ticket: eased. Because we’re a feeling people, even with our bitterest enemies. We’re above them. Even bin Laden gets his final ashes-to-ashes with a few bowed heads by his side.” The Rainmaker looked around. “Everyone happy?”


Silence, which no longer writhed, but slithered.


“This is great stuff,” said the White House man. “Great stuff. Hell, you’ve got to come work on our re-election campaign!”



“And lastly we’ll need the endgame,” The Rainmaker went on hastily, to a few laughs. He stopped, looking up at the ceiling, one hand raised tensely. “No. Actually, in this case – public psy op, narrative built from the ground up…No, here you would do well to have three endgames, one for the immediate narrative, another a week or so later to reinforce, and another for the longer term, after the truthers have had their go at it. It won’t take them long get going on this, you know.”



"Fuck ’em,” said the CIA guy. “We should lock every one of those shits up and waterboard them till they’re sponges.”




“A truly counterproductive act,” said The Rainmaker, and he needed a sharp effort not to add “you fool.”


“How do you figure?”


The Rainmaker addressed the table. “We need truthers, dear ones. We need them making their angry YouTube videos and blogs full of bad grammar and claptrap: ‘blatant,’ ‘obvious,’ ‘utterly.’ They are precisely the ones that make us look as if we have freedom of expression. Internet is our ally – never forget that. Internet turns everything into nothing. It churns truth and falsehood together in a way I could only have dreamed of years ago when I was briefing reporters in ’Nam.”


The Rainmaker felt their astonishment pulse around the table. Why does anyone need to explain this to you? Because you’ve never once lifted your faces out of a computer screen to think, that’s why.


After a silence, the White House guy said, “You said three endgames. What’s the first one?”


“The first, well… You’ll need to release some kind of video -- like the one from Jalalabad where bin Laden confessed to 9-11? That was one of my jobs, by the way.”


“Yeah, and that was a bang-up job if I ever saw it,” sneered the CIA man, finally scoring a point. “9-11 Truthers cut that to ribbons.”


“Yes, well, I apologize for my fat bin Laden. You know how it is: orders came down, not in the original plan, best we could do on short notice. Our model spent three hours in makeup, and even that and a grainy lens couldn’t do much. But at least the proper impression was made at the right time, and that’s the name of the game. The Truthers arrived far too late. Now then: let’s think of another video, which will be released, say, forty-eight hours after the raid – first video from the stash that the Seals pick up. It should prove bin Laden was recently alive, and we would do well to imply that he still had some type of organization supporting him.”


“How about bin Laden giving a speech to his people in the middle of the compound?” said a prim woman with a heavy pearl necklace across her chest and the mysterious initials “ARR and J” before her blotter.


“Yes, not bad,” said The Rainmaker. “And that would give us the extra plus of extended jihad after bin Laden dies.” He tipped his head to either side. “But that would also involve an extended frontal view of him, and then we run into identification issues again. We really must avoid that this time. And then there’s the background inside the compound. We have no idea what it looks like. We don’t want anyone sneaking in there after the raid comparing our video with the cracks in the walls. No, we’ll do best to keep it to an enclosed room with an absolutely plain background. And anything in it would have to be moveable.”


The prim woman wasn’t going to give up. “He could harangue people in a closed space in the house, and you could keep the camera behind him, trained mainly on the followers.” She grinned suddenly at the others. “Hey, this is kinda fun.”


“Uh-huh – better.”


“He could be have a Pakistani newspaper from last week in his hand,” the man from DoD Intel tossed out. “We could have one flown over tomorrow.”


“Yes, but you would run into the problem of specifying exactly what day it was. Not good. Ambiguity is our ally, dear ones.”


For ten minutes, everyone contributed ideas and The Rainmaker fielded them, rejecting, honing, approving, modifying. You’re like a lot of happy college freshmen in a bull session. ‘This is government at its finest!’ you’re thinking. My god, you belong in a Doonesbury comic strip.


At the end, he said, “All right, I think we’ve got it: a from-behind quartering shot of Osama in a bare room, maybe a computer screen to one side. He’s watching a video composite of news items put together by his team. It should show President Obama, a few current events around the Middle East -- the Arab Spring and so on. Can you put that together?” he asked the CIA man.


“I guess,” he said skeptically. “But hell, it’s going to look pretty damn convenient, isn’t it? A video of him taken from behind so that you don’t see his face very much? And what’s on the screen just happen to be events that prove the vid’s recent? Little obvious if you ask me.”


The Rainmaker conceded this with a shrug.


“Besides, if you take video, what do you shoot?” the CIA man went on. “The guy playing with his grandchildren or – well, this is Islam – the guy praying on his rug. Whatever – the guy doing something.”


“Yes, yes, of course – point taken,” The Rainmaker huffed. “But you’re giving your fellow citizens far too much credit. All of these objections will pop up on leftist websites, but only among people who think outside of the TV box, which is very few." He was wringing his hands again. “Ah, may I ask a favor at this point?”


The CIA man flapped his elbows piously. “Have I ever told you no?”


“When you shoot the scene, would you use a skinny little hard-to-use remote control and tell the model to hold it in his right hand?”


“Bin Laden is left-handed,” said the CIA man impressively.


“Precisely. You see, the Truthers caught me out on that one. I had our Osama filmed writing a note and the pen was in his right hand. It simply slipped my mind. I’d just like to give those bastards a little jab so they know that I don’t really give a pig’s pod for their investigations. Do you mind?”


A shrug. “You got it – right hand it is.”


“Thank you. Now then, the mid-range endgame. Bits and bobs from the laptops and pendrives should come out – most of it very hush-hush, TS/TCI, but pornography should figure prominently – nothing dirties an image faster. And you’ll want someone to mention hair dye found in the house – Grecian Formula, Just for Men, whatever. Vanity deflates the image too, and our latter Osamas were indeed a bit on the youthful side.”


“What about pictures, visuals?” said the White House guy. “If there aren’t photos, people think it didn’t happen.”


The Rainmaker shook his head. “Yes, though for the life of me, I don’t know why; the camera always lies.”


That got a huge laugh.


The Rainmaker took out his pen, held it under his thigh, and went through his little drill, just to keep from shouting at them. Because you still believe the camera, don’t you, you fools? A whole lifetime of movies and heroic presidents has made you as gullible as children before the puppet show.


"But I think, in this case” -- a long pause -- “the best we can do is the impression of photos, the news of photos, rather than the photos themselves. Photo-shopping some old photos is but the work of an hour, and then we release them on a limited, official basis. We send --”


“Forget it,” said the CIA man flatly. “The Truthers will go through ten thousand photos of bin Laden till they find the one we used.”


I said release them on a limited, official basis,” The Rainmaker said patiently. “You circulate them among White House staff, perhaps to the top level of State and DoD, everyone mulling and weighing and splitting hairs and debating like real adults: to release or not to release? That is the question. Because these photos are grotesque. Gory. One of the president’s staffers spent fifteen minutes in the Oval Office bathroom puking his guts out after seeing them. Now: I think we can count on these good people not to check if the pictures are just photo-shopped old photos of Osama.”


“Sure. Hey, we’re on board, count on it,” said the State Department Intel guy.


“And at the end?” The Rainmaker asked. “As one these sensitive elites shout no. The photos are just too awful to be released. Osama with his brains hanging out one ear. Osama missing a nose. Osama with half his face blown off. Decency-in-media associations would protest if we released them. Local PTAs. The AARP. Then the Pentagon --"


"Wait a minute. Aren't you running kind of a risk there?" said the CIA man alertly. "What if the Seals shoot him in the chest? What if his face ends up intact?"


The Rainmaker sighed. "Can someone please tell the Seals that we'd like head shots only? That otherwise our op quickly turns into limburger cheese? Thank you. Now, as I was saying, the Pentagon should also weigh in: these photos would play right into the propaganda hands of our enemies. And the solemn determination is made: these photos will not come to light till well after The Second Coming.”


“Well now, I don’t know here,” said the Marine general. You don’t release any photos, sir, and you’re not going to convince your grandmother. With all respect.”.


Others nodded vigorously. The Rainmaker wondered if any of them had greater intellect than the chairs they sat on.


He pressed professorial fingertips together. “Let’s remember, dear ones, that our job is not to convince, but merely to give people one or two good reasons not to believe any other version. This is a distinction that I’m always having to explain to various agencies. Sometimes, as in an espionage op, you do indeed need to convince. But this is a public psy op. Here we play with a natural advantage” – a tiny chuckle – “and I would imagine it drives the 9-11 Truthers nuts: Americans naturally believe their government. Such is our political culture. Europeans naturally suspect, Americans naturally believe. Just look how long it took for Americans to believe that Nixon was actually involved in his staff’s Watergate shenanigans.”


"Fine and well, but what if some State Department flunky slips a photo or two to the AP?” asked the CIA man.


“I take exception to your inference, sir” said the State guy.


The Rainmaker held up pious hands. “In that case, the White House’s response is adamant: ‘Those are not official photos. We are not responsible, we do not stand behind them. All the official photos have been gathered up, not to be released until 2061.’”


The CIA man shrugged. “All right. So we’ve got this thing tied off for the short and medium. What was the long?”


“Not much – just a little something to reinforce the basic idea. By then the Truthers will have found a few cracks in the official story, and it’s not a bad idea to head them off at the pass. A year or so on, the usual movie will come out. And you have a book put out by one of the Seals that witnessed bin Laden being killed -- the guy who actually plugged bin Laden, let’s say.”


“That’s gonna to stink to high hell, though, isn’t it?” asked the colonel with operational charge of the raid, speaking up for the first time. “There’ll be twenty soldiers in-compound. And it’s just a coincidence that one of the two or three guys who actually go upstairs is the one that writes the book?”


The Rainmaker shrugged his concession. “Point taken, Colonel. But an eye-witness account of bin Laden hitting the deck will be essential.”


“No, no: wouldn’t happen,” said the colonel. “A Seal – who is that? Dyed-in-the-wool military man, that’s what. He would naturally go through channels to publish, for one because he’d need the Good Housekeeping seal from the Pentagon. You’d have to have that in spades. And believe you me, they’d fine-tooth-comb it. He’d have to say something about the months of surveillance. One word about the e-lint used, and they’d blow a book out of the water.”


The Rainmaker nodded. “That’s an excellent point, Colonel. So the book would be published as an unauthorized account. Pentagon up in arms, threats of lawsuits, threats of cancelled pensions, CIA wailing about how their tricks of the trade are being revealed. There’s nothing like scandal to bring out credibility.”


“Bul-l-l-lshit,” moaned the colonel. “I said, ‘a dyed-in-the-wool career military man’ -- a Seal! -- and he’s going to go off the ranch and publish unauthorized? My mother’s raised three military men, sir, and even she wouldn’t believe that.”


“Well, with all respect to your mother,” said The Rainmaker, “in Dubuque nobody makes those fine distinctions. The moment people hear that the book is the unvarnished, unauthorized version, they won’t even need to read the book. They’ll hear it confirms the official version and does a little fan dance around the tricks of e-lint, revealing a little curve here and a dark crevice there, and that’s that. Modern government, dear friends, is the laying of narratives. Properly prepared, the assassination of Osama bin Laden’s house in his house in Abbottabad will soon form part of American history.”


Silence again, complacent and drowsy now.


The Rainmaker stifled a laugh. Why don’t you all yawn and scratch and take a nice splash in the manure pile?


“So are we ready to go?” said the White House guy, looking around the table.


“I guess,” said the CIA guy grudgingly. “We’ll get started on a bin Laden video.” He looked at The Rainmaker and aimed the laser pointed over his head. “Right-handed.”


“Thank you,” said The Rainmaker with a nod.


The White House guy strode over to The Rainmaker and stuck out his hand. “Hey, really: you’ve got to come work for us.”


The Rainmaker took the hand and rose. “That’s very kind, sir. But I work in narrative – a nice Dickensian pastime in my old age. The Orwellian stuff – ‘ignorance is strength’, ‘some animals are more equal than others,’ all that – I leave to more mature minds.”








November 13, 2012









So President Obama returns to his office for another four years, and anyone with a bit of knowledge of what America does in the rest of the world has to sigh with resignation – not because a President Romney would do it better but because Obama makes what was once unthinkable now seem so cool.


Yet that bit of knowledge is a rare thing in America. Listening to the interviews with voters leaving the polls, I heard talk almost exclusively of jobs, and whether or not Obama would be able to deliver more in the second term, of the economy and whether or not Obama can make it grow, of the national debt – this from the deeper thinkers – and whether or not it’s time to start planning for the possibility of taking the first steps in a national effort that might in ten or twenty years begin to take a percentage point or two off the national debt.


If there is a singular irony to American elections, it is that the incumbent is most crucially judged on the economy and yet this is the issue where he can least effect a change. If it were up to the government, the economy would always be terrific. Yet at best an administration can aspire not to screw things up more. And if there is anything to be said for Obama, he’s done that. Never mind those trillion-dollar deficits; the national debt passed its last chance of being whittled down with the 2008 financial crisis. Obama hasn’t made big mistakes and to his credit he has been trying against enormous and well-paid opposition to get the rich to contribute a few more bucks.


Contribute them, that is, to the national treasury and not to the campaigns of political representatives, though the rich have plenty in reserve for both causes. The tax-the-rich matter, in any case, satisfies our emotions more than the budget. The trillion or so gained from the rich over the next decade is still peanuts compared to the government’s financial problem. Like a pilot whose airplane has run out of fuel, mountains approaching quickly, Obama has chosen to keep people quiet and in their seats playing video games. The point is to look cool doing it.


His foreign policy -- Bushism with a smile -- is, if not change, then at least a rhetoric you can believe in. Bush invaded countries and people protested. Obama drops bombs left and right on belligerents and their cleaning ladies in countries where no war has been declared, and only corduroy-clad lefties point out that this policy violates international law, the principle of due process, and that ever-dustier line in the Constitution about how the Congress must declare war before the president orders out the bombers.


Yet far from denying that he personally orders these shameful attacks, Obama had the whole operation leaked to The New York Times. If the definitely not-cool George W. Bush had leaked a story like that, the critics would have been all over him. But when Obama does it, he’s a cool decision-maker, a quarterback who calls his own plays at the line of scrimmage.


So American bases, still growing abroad, will continue their complacent sucking at the national udder, domestic spying on citizens will grow, and Dick Cheney’s “war without end” is assured by the endless rain of missiles and assassinations that fertilize hatred.


And it’s all so cool. That, really, is Barack Obama’s legacy: to make the neocon agenda cool. Biographers of Obama will have much to mull in coming years about the abysmal dichotomy of a man so full of idealistic rhetoric and so given to the dirtiest realism in his policies.


My own conclusion is this: I think that Obama is a far more insecure man than he seems. He is not shallow, as Ronald Reagan was, preening and posturing heroically for the cameras. Obama weakness is that he wants to be admired. You see it in his snappy suits, his jewel-covered wife, his pulled-down tie, his disgust with low politicking, his football under the arm while he talks on the phone in the Oval Office, and in his carefully-prepared performances in the White House Press Correspondents dinners: “Love you, brother.”


Biographers in the year 2500 (unless the files are still classified) will see it in his relations with foreign-policy and military experts, whom he won’t have thinking he’s an amateur. And so he goes along with them, even if it means extending wars in Afghanistan and Iraq (which the Iraqis ended by throwing the U.S. military out). Biographers will see it in his relations with U.S. security agencies, both domestic and worldwide, whom he won’t have thinking that he’s a wide-eyed idealist. And so he goes along with them. His need for admiration runs deeper than his convictions about the Constitution, and so he goes along, even with that hokey raid on Osama bin Laden, who had surely died years earlier. But you had to hand it to him: that was COOL.


Like most presidents, Obama is deeply concerned with his legacy and apparently talks with presidential biographers about this; he wants to be a transformative president. He needn’t worry, for he will be – just as George W. Bush was. By 2016, Obama will have carried out the transformation that the neocons began on 9-11. (Was it neocons dressed in sheep skins, looking for someone to carry on their revolution beyond 2008, that launched him on his way to the U.S. Senate somewhere around 2004?) His contribution will be to have made the whole transformation seem cool: “Love you, brother” will be the line our domestic spies murmur as they pick over our email.


Be careful what you wish for, Mr. President; you just might get it.




October 24, 2012






Daniel Ellsberg is of course right in his recent essay, “Defeat Romney, Without Illusions about Obama,” in writing that a Romney presidency, “would be much worse, even catastrophically worse, on a number of other important issues: attacking Iran, Supreme Court appointments, the economy, women’s reproductive rights, health coverage, safety net, climate change, green energy, the environment.”


He cites the most flagrant of many liberal gripes with Obama: “a man who’s decriminalized torture and is still complicit in it, a drone assassin, someone who’s launched an unconstitutional war, supports kidnapping and indefinite detention without trial, and has prosecuted more whistleblowers like myself than all previous presidents put together.”


No, Mr. Ellsberg has no illusions about Obama. But having read his passionate article carefully, I wonder if his illusions are not about the electorate.


From where I sit, in Madrid, Spain, teaching English and writing political novels, the trouble is not the American president but the American people. It’s necessary to remember that, with the exception of the occasional horrendous dictatorship -- like Sudan’s, where the government is little more than a group of thugs who shot their way into the national capital -- people get the rulers they deserve.


Just yesterday in the New York Times was an article talking about how Americans have no patience with politicians that talk straight about national issues. A candidate that does, “is, in fact, all but unimaginable in the political culture of the United States. Of their serious presidential candidates, and even of their presidents, Americans demand constant reassurance that their country, their achievements and their values are extraordinary.”


Or to put it another way: try explaining to a roomful of Spanish bank employees during an English-as-a second-language class how it is that three American presidential debates can run their full lengths without anyone saying the words “government bankruptcy.”


So if the root problem of American politics is that the citizens refuse to face their problems, refuse to see how far their government has veered from the spirit and letter of the Constitution, and refuse to consider the ramifications for themselves and the world, it seems to me right to ponder, What might change this awful state of affairs?


Certainly not the re-election of Barack Obama. Another four years of that lovely grin, those great jokes and slaps on the back, “Love you, brother,” the sweet wife and spunky kids -- no, that won’t do it. Those fine speeches, that gutsy empathy for the poor and unemployed, the occasional rocking triumph of health care or bin Laden (or whatever luckless soul actually got “taken down” in Abbottabad) -- all of that makes great TV, but it doesn’t inspire Americans to worry more about the nitty-gritty of what’s going on around them.


No, if Obama is elected, the domestic-spying center in Bluffdale, Utah, will be finished on schedule. The drone missiles will continue to fall and fertilize another generation of terrorists that will keep the Pentagon and the private-security mushrooms in business for another twenty years. Women will keep their reproductive rights and new Supreme Court justices will be of a more agreeable cut, though the rich will continue their romp and the middle class its death rattle.


But if Mitt Romney wins? Then things might get interesting.


Let’s say Mitt went the whole hog: abortion outlawed (and why not, if a majority of Americans favor this now?), police warrants a thing of the past, health care a thing of the rich, invasion of Iran and, just for good measure, a good pasting of those bastards in North Korea; the poor freed to shift for themselves and oil companies freed to shift the blame. And just for that grace note of liberty, new Supreme Court justices whose idea of free speech is an iPhone app that votes Republican on everything so that you needn’t interrupt your cultural activities with crass politics.


Say Romney, bless his hair-gel, did all that. Then maybe, finally, at long last, after all this time and all the delights visited on America by its rock-eyed political elite, we might see a stirring in the Body Politic. The Occupy Movement might bloom, the electorate might throw out anybody who takes money from PACs, and the sound of wickering tent cities and the chattering teeth of nine-year-olds begging in the entrances of shopping malls might finally drive home the point that we need government to organize us and see to the general welfare; that the pioneering bootstrap days on the prairie are over and we must ineluctably work together for prosperity to spread; that those fun, well-groomed folks on Fox News really have led us up the rose path.


As I see it, short of a Romney revolution, the only other thing that might open the electorate’s eyes to the arrogance of their political class is a full outing of 9-11 – which at best would demonstrate government fore-knowledge and at worst its complicity – which is why the elite has worked so hard to stigmatize anyone who brings it up and why it remains the crazy aunt in the American attic.


But make no doubt about it: odious as a Romney presidency might be, a second Obama term would only keep Americans snoring. If eight years of Bush and four of Obama have shown anything, it is that the wake-up alarm must be shrill enough to split granite.


October 17, 2012








The presidential campaign is entering its final tired laps around the track, and reporters are no doubt scraping the bottom of their question barrel for a relevant comment from either candidate. Of course, one can always go with the standard, "Well, Mr. President, what's your pick for the World Series?" Or you can ask Mitt Romney about his hair gel. But that is all pretty well-trodden ground by now.



And since we do have the candidates at least theoretically open to questions, and since one of them has been at least theoretically responsible for foreign policy these past four years, I say there’s still time to bring up a few issues that bring us closer to the nitty gritty of the world today.



Here’s one for the president:


Mr. President, it is well-known that you are intimately involved with the drone-strike program in Pakistan and Yemen. It is less well-known, but well-documented by a variety of sources, that sometimes after a drone strike on a terrorist in Pakistan, a second strike is made that kills people who have gone to the aid of those in the wreckage. Putting aside for the moment the question of violation of the Geneva Conventions, I would like to ask, Do you order the second strike as well?


Here’s one for Mitt Romney:


Governor, you have gone even further than the president in saying you would not allow Iran to have a nuclear weapon. Now, if Iran actually used such a weapon to attack anyone, it would in turn face nuclear annihilation in a matter of hours: a reasonable deterrent that has worked for decades. The same would occur if Iran took the crazily rash step of arming a terrorist. So can you explain why an Iranian nuclear bomb would be so dangerous?


For Obama:


There is much suspicion in the West that recent cyber attacks have been the work of Iran retaliating for cyber attacks against them. These latter that have been all but confirmed by our government and Israel’s. Is it fair to say that what goes ’round comes ’round?


For Romney:


You are a Republican, the party of law and order. The past ten years have seen a marked decline in law in order. No bankers, for example, have been brought to justice for wrecking the economy. Immunity has been extended to intelligence agents who have tortured prisoners. President George W. Bush demonstrably got America into a war with Iraq on demonstrably false pretenses. America attacks countries without either provocation or congressional approval. My question is, as president, would you roll back this trend?”


For Obama:


The use of drone attacks on countries against which no war has been declared, nor even nominally approved by Congress, has blurred the line between war and peace. Do you think this has been a mistake? Would you have a serious objection if, for example, Iran made a drone attack on the MEK, recently removed from the State Department’s list of terrorists? Or if Israel made a drone attack on Hezbollah either in Gaza or Lebanon? Or if Russia attacked a country that gives safe haven to suspicious Chechens?


For Romney:


You have been quoted as wanting to win the war in Afghanistan. Are you willing to send, for example, a half-million troops into that country in order to win?



For Obama:


The raid on the Osama bin Laden’s house took place despite the CIA’s inability to find any trace of him. That is, in three months of surveillance of the house prior to the raid, they neither saw him walk past a window – and the top two floors of the building stood above the level of the surrounding security wall -- nor got a recording of him asking if anyone had a couple of batteries to put in the video remote control. And yet the attacking troops reportedly found him in an upstairs room and killed him. Two questions: do you doubt the veracity of events as told to you? Have you asked the CIA how they could miss one man in one house over a period of three months?



For Romney:


Your foreign-policy transition team is headed by Robert Zoellick, a protégé of James Baker. Many of the rest of the team are the same neocon adventurers that got America into quagmires in Iraq and Afghanistan. What side do you come out on? The Baker realists or the Cheney adventurers?



For Obama:


The military budget continues to rise and, with troops returning in bad shape from both wars, will continue to occupy a larger and larger percentage of the general budget. Our opponents, however, are no longer an enormous antagonistic group of nations like the Soviet Union and its allies, but small groups of men whose weapons are by comparison extremely limited. Are we overspending?



For Romney:


Some three hundred American troops remain in Iraq, this a contradiction of a recent congressional funding vote and not a small deception of the public, which had been told that all our troops have left. Will you continue this program?



For Obama:


“On your watch America has continued two wars and attacked more countries than any president since World War II. Are we indeed in a world war? Do you agree with former vice president Dick Cheney when he said that this war “is different than the Gulf War was, in the sense that it may never end. At least, not in our lifetime.”? Have you had any thoughts of returning the Nobel Peace Prize that you were awarded?”


September 5, 2012




If there are parallels between Vietnam and Afghanistan, there are futures to predict as well. Let's look at the parallels first.


When the last prisoner of war was brought home from Vietnam and the nation as one sighed, "Good-bye and good riddance," who would have thought that just forty years later America would be in the same mess? And it is the same. A war in an obscure Asian country that Americans neither understand nor care a damn about; against an enemy naturally allied to the country's people, who themselves hold in contempt the corrupt government America is bravely trying to present to the world as representative and patriotic. Again, we continue fighting in order not to lose.


Then as now, the mumbled justification from the usual mandarins is American security and American interests in the region, though just how American security depends on that far-off country and what interests hang in the balance -- these are never articulated, and for good reason: who's willing to die for oil pipelines and rare-earths mines? When cornered nowadays, officials chuck up the Hail Mary: if Americans leave, Afghan women will never break the chains of their enslavement. True enough, but is humanity really witnessing the first war for women's lib? I think not.


Then there is the terrorism argument: if America leaves, terrorists -- that one-size-fits-all substitute for communists -- will again take up residence in the country. Which is far from clear. If the Talibans return to power, what can they actually offer terrorists that other countries don't? Full terrorism services, like assertiveness training for squad leaders? Explosives experts, found where your fingers did the walking, who will prepare your suicide bomber for a real, quality, 100-casualty pop? And financing -- there's another pain in the patootie for terrorists.


(And in a post-American Afghanistan, they can forget about financing with drug money. The Taliban are willing to use it to finance their comeback, but before the invasion, their rulers had stamped out the heroin trade completely, just on principle. And that would be a huge turn-off for terrorists since drug money is a far safer investment than, say, Facebook. Indeed, the FARC, Colombia’s narco-rebels, financed themselves so well in the 90s that in June, 1999, they received a chummy visit from Richard Grasso, then head of the New York Stock Exchange, who pitched them on investing in Wall Street.)


Given the parallels, what will be the final chapter of the Afghan mess? Americans being plucked off the roof of the embassy, as in Saigon? I think that’s it – except that we must substitute “the base headquarters” for “the embassy.” Here’s how it will play out.


To judge by the number of Allied forces that are being killed by their Afghani comrades during training, the Taliban have finally, after all these years, taken to heart General Giap’s lesson that the place to win a war against America is not on the battlefield, but on the streets of America. Every time Afghani soldiers kill Allied ones, public opinion takes another hit. No wonder Nato allies are already heading for the exits.


Not America. The difference between the Vietnam exit strategy and the Afghanistan one is that America can’t just obtain “peace with honor – or even “declare victory and get out,” as Senator George Aiken wisely suggested back then. For it turns out that the Pentagon and those nasty little Napoleons who populate the security, military and foreign-policy circles intend to keep those bases in Afghanistan – all part of the misbegotten and undeclared strategy of encircling China, which has the gall to work hard and save its money and raise its country up, and do it all without sending a drone to suck the oxygen out of anyone's lungs. So Bagram and the other big bases will stay long after America and its reluctant allies have officially “left.”


Or maybe not so long. For the bases will become big, fat targets for Afghanis – and not a few Pakistanis, still smarting from Mr. Obama’s Murder Incorporated – who, like Average Joes the world over, don’t like foreigners living down the road with their damn bases and adjoining streets of brothels and fighter jets humming and twittering all night long.


And a couple years after America’s official withdrawal, the unending attacks on their bases and “green zones” will incline mature minds to the prospect of real withdrawal. Around the world, other Average Joes might well take inspiration from the Afghani attacks and decide to chuck a few firecrackers over the fences of America's 1,180 foreign bases, just to put a little muscle behind their complaints about the noise.


So somewhere towards the end of this decade, the last panicked soldier from Wisconsin will finally be lifted off the roof of the Bagram control tower, still thinking what a bunch of ingrates these people are for not accepting our gifts of civil rights and democracy, and Afghanis will finally be left alone to sort out their differences, just as the Vietnamese did in the 70s, and gained for themselves forty mostly peaceful years.


And lastly the coda. The exodus of desperate Afghanis persecuted for having worked with Americans -- or supplied or traded with or shared a joke with or lent their daughter to -- will swell refugee camps in Pakistan, and eventually end up in the United States. Local welcome committees will be set up, funny anecdotes about families hosting refugees will appear in the news, and little by little puzzling ghosts in blue burkas, trailed by swarthy, squeaking children, will begin to appear drifting uncertainly around supermarkets from Bangor to Burbank. When you see that, you’ll know the war is finally over.

June 7, 2012


I don't know what it is about history, but it always seems to get made without me.

I was just a boy during May 1968, though I remember it vividly: riots, hippies, protest marches, National Guardsmen with bayonets, Robert Macnamara on top of a car shouting at demonstrators, students burning draft cards. All very dramatic and exciting and scary -- and great TV.

But the street outside my house in Kettering, Ohio? Calm as corn flakes. Hank the mailman did his daily rounds. Dad caught the bus into Dayton in the morning and the bus back in the afternoon. A skinned knee in a bike wreck was a far greater tragedy than Vietnam or segregation.

And things haven't changed. Here I am, forty years later, living in Spain at the epicenter of what I am assured is the greatest crisis since the foundation of the European Community after World War Two. And I don't see it. Anywhere.

I dutifully buy my International Herald Tribune, the international edition of The New York Times, which quotes a leading economist, Charles Wyplosz, as saying, "Spain is going down the drain." Spain's default on its debt is inevitable, it tells me. The euro is history, and Spanish banks are wobbling. "There is concern on whether there will be a bank run in Spain that could have repercussions beyond the euro zone," James Saft quotes "an anonymous G-7 source" as saying in today's paper.

This possibility is mentioned in the Herald Trib every day, and I always read it with astonishment. A bank run? In Spain? Where on earth do they get that? There's no sense of panic here. None. Sure, a few worry-warts have pulled out their deposits, and of course the rich, who can move their money with a few clicks of the mouse, have shuffled their cash off to Buffalo -- or Munich. What difference does it make to them? But an actual corralito -- a bank run? Nobody -- nobody -- talks about that here.

Nor does anyone talk of leaving the euro. Just yesterday, the Finance Minister, Cristobal Montoro said, "The way out of our problems is through Europe and the euro." Leaving the euro would invite chaos; the resulting inflation would be brutal. And everyone knows it.

Nor does anyone talk about the government defaulting on its debt. Spanish debt, even after all its borrowing over the past few years, is still under 70 percent of GDP. Indeed, an interesting historical fact of Spain is that the central government has always been fiscally conservative; for much of the twentieth century, it made a point of running small annual surpluses.

Yes, the savings banks are in trouble -- though not the major private banks, like Banco Santander and BBVA, deeply invested in more profitable parts of the planet, like Latin America. Yet the widespread belief here is that, one way or another, the Spanish government, the European Central Bank, and the European Commission will eventually work out a way to recapitalize troubled banks. I give English classes all day to businesspeople and top managers, and I don't know a single person who seriously doubts that.

Experts say that in a few years Spain will have reduced its bloated banking sector from more than a hundred institutions to about a dozen private banks. This is all to the good. The savings banks are semi-public institutions controlled largely by politicians, and they're what has messed up the banking industry.

No, what's really happening is that the American political elite, who lunches with the financial elite, who plays evening paddle-tennis with the media elite, is worried about the euro taking the place of the dollar as the world currency. The Greek crisis wasn't enough to rock the boat, but Spain's could, and this might be the last chance the Yankees have of destroying the euro. So the media is pulling out all the stops.

What we're really seeing, in short, is economic warfare.

And it's working. Spanish bond interest rates are now at a delicious 7 percent, when that kind of return on any investment is pretty scarce. Unmentioned in the American media is that the 7 percent is a solid value. Spain isn't Greece. Investors are going to get their money back.

Nor do the media savants mention an essential difference between American and European approaches to financial problems: to cover its debts, America prints the money; to cover its own, Europeans cut and borrow. Ask Germans who lived through the Weimar Republic which is smarter.

So don't worry about Spain. People aren't running in the streets, nobody's burning cars, there are no lines of businessmen waiting to jump off the bridges. There's nothing but a lot of hard-eyed folks making an easy buck at Spanish expense, and one ex-pat American still waiting to see a little history happen.




April 23, 2012


Freedom fighters from Vietnam, Panama, Iraq, and Afghanistan -- guys who really know what American boot leather on the cheek feels like -- were sitting around at the Pizza Hut in Beirut, chewing through an extra-cheese pepperoni and sinking brewskies; the Muslims had laudably put solidarity in alcohol before religion. The Afghani had gotten them together to ask for advice on getting the U.S. out of his country.

"I mean, can you believe these guys? They're worse than the Russians. Defeat stares some general from Wisconsin in the face and all he sees is Pamela Anderson in her lifeguard suit."

"Wait a minute. I kinda thought they were winding it down there," said the Panamanian, and everybody just kind of looked at him they way they'd look at a woman trying different hats.

"Well, nobody's told the U.S. Army, that's for sure. In the last two years, they've gone from four hundred bases to four hundred fifty!"

"Obama, man, that guy can kiss my assets," said the Iraqi. "Maliki told the Pentagon that American soldiers would have to abide by local laws if they wanted to stay in the country, and the Americans no-wayed the whole thing and packed their bags. But how did Obama spin it? He called it 'fulfilling a campaign pledge.'"

"Hey -- that's an idea," said the Panamanian. "Tell Karsai to pull a Maliki on him."

"Been there, tried that," said the Afghani. "Karzai turned us down flat. He's toast as soon as the Yankees go home, and he knows it -- probably hitch a ride on the last helicopter off the roof, the bastard."

"Yeah, but even so, you make a deal with gringos and you might not like the result," said the Panamanian. "We cut a deal back with them back in the Carter Administration and they didn't leave till 1999."

The Afghani: "Oof! Twenty more years of American Idol and women taking assertiveness courses -- that's all I need!"

"Besides, instead of rising prosperity from the Canal, all we got was this lousy tee shirt." He showed them. It read: Dow Jones 35,000 by next year!

A pall fell on the table.

Then the Vietnamese, typically formal and inscrutable, spoke up. "One whose sad intellect is but a guttering match compared to the bonfire of the Atom of Afghanistan, grovels to remind the Icon of I.E.D.s that Uncle Sam's navel is his weak point."

"His navel?" the Afghani said.

"Mine isn't any fortress either," muttered the Panamanian around a fat pepperoni.

"The insuperable Ho Chi Minh and that fox of the guerilla desert, General Giap, predicted with the wisdom of Vietnam's thousand ages that if the pouch of the kangaroo is vulnerable, only a fool struggles against its hind legs."

The Afghani: "What -- you mean public opinion? Forget it. That was then, when there was a draft. Who are their soldiers now? The guys from behind the shopping mall: ne'er-do-well volunteers, luckless immigrants, video-game heroes who don't know a Glock from a gutterball. If they catch lead, nobody waves a placard in front of the White House."

The Vietnamese solemnly raised his hand. "The lowest servant of the Hawk of Kandahar urges His Sublimity to consider that public opinion is but a chit of statistics, a wisp of wheat blown across the interstate. Look deeper, and one sees that the American's Super Bowl is his philosopher's stone, Facebook the mirror of his soul, the i-Phone his ying, Visa his yang. Change his Final Four to a Final Three, and you tilt his universe. Garble his Internet for an hour and he tastes Armageddon. Cleanse his Whopper of mayonnaise and the National Guard must be called out." He glanced across the room, and his face brightened. "Ah! Let me demonstrate."

For an American carrying a Nike bag had just entered the Pizza Hut and now sat down at the next table: a fortyish, lilly-white crewcut wearing Hush Puppies, an L.L Bean polo shirt in their popular "springleaf" color, and the lofty pallor of a churchgoing Lutheran. He nodded politely to them. "Salam maleikum," he said, melting seamlessly into the surroundings.

The waiter came and the American gave his order, which included three XL Cokes, since he had "friends" coming. "Hey, if I pay you with my Visa, will the points show up on my account back home?"

"Yes, but the card has your real name, sir, and that might blow your cover."

"Oh. Caught me, didn't ya? Yeah, that's a point," said the American. Then he chuckled. "Man, you Lebs got all the angles covered, I gotta give you all the credit in the world. Guess I'll just do cash then. Thanks."

The waiter left, and the American rummaged in his pockets and brought out a bill. "You guys can't change me a hundred U.S., can you?"

Between the three of them -- the Vietnamese had excused himself to go to the bathroom -- the men managed to come up with a hundred bucks' worth of Lebanese pounds.

"Hey, cool -- and that's with my thanks," said the American.

Two swarthy, bearded gents sat down with him, the one introducing the other to the American, who said, "Hey, Nouri, great to meet ya today! Not a Vikings fan by any chance, are ya? That was a vetting question. Ha-ha! Fooled ya -- no, heck, relax. Any spook buddy of Achmed's is a spook of mine." He reached into his Nike bag. "Here, take ten grand as a goodwill gesture. Okay, guys, so, let's see here today. Anything on the bathroom wall down at the mosque? Any enriched gossip on nukes going 'round the Qom YMCA? Whatever you got -- Langley gave me a new app that'll sort it all out. I heard that Amadinejad is bucking for supreme high llama or whatever they got over there. True? False?"

The waiter returned to the American's table. "Pardon me, sir. I'm afraid that the kitchen has run out of mozarella. There is no pizza. It seems that the Druze militiamen blew up the mozarella factory in response to the Shia robbery of a shipment of paint-shakers." A tiny smile. "May I recommend my mother's fine goat-meat lasagna, sir? Our customers say that --"

"Stop right there, haji. Damn, I've been on the road for three days straight, and I was really looking forward to an anchovy deep-disher. Where's the nearest Pizza Hut?"

"Homs, Syria, sir."

"Oh. And the second nearest?"

"The Israelis have a very fine one with fantastic views in the Golan, sir."

"Then we're heading for the Golan, gents," said the American to his guests, who expressed shock. Once outside, all three argued, until the American finally said, "All right, all right! Then we'll go to Italy. They always have pizza." And off he strode, the two men trailing.

The Vietnamese returned. "Have they gone?"

"Yeah, how'd you do it?"

"The lowliest chucklehead of a thousand humbly reminds the Sons of Supremity that twenty well-placed euros can effect a true tsunami upon the waters of Babylon: mozarella flows dry up, plans are left half-baked and Cokes half-sipped. Soon Fun finds herself spattered with tedium, Goodness with elbow grease. Glorious horizons quickly become fuzzy, focus groups blurry, and retreat the better part of valor. And the Vultures of Virtue fly elsewhere."



March 20, 2012




John le Carré, that sage Solzenitsyn of the West, was right when he wrote, "There were even voices--mine was one--that suggested Mr. Putin join Slobdodan Milosevic on trial in The Hague. Let's do them both together."


But since Vladimir Putin has returned to center stage in Russia again, having retaken the presidency, let's look at the silver lining of this political cloud. Of course, to do so, we'll need to look beyond what Pepe Escobar calls, "the relentless demonization of Putin and the myriad attempts to delegitimize Russia's presidential elections," which he says come from the mouthpieces of "some very angry and powerful sections of Washington and Anglo-American elites."


What silver lining? The possibility that the neocon agenda, started under George W. and continued vigorously under Barack, might be blunted for a few years.


Putin has twice been suckered by tricky language in the United Nations, once to allow an invasion of Iraq and second to allow "humanitarian intervention" in Libya to turn into the resistance-movement's air force and special-ops teams. Well, good-bye to all that. As Russia's veto on Syria showed, there will be no more monkey business at the UN.


In a sense, Putin and the Cold War are the political equivalent of the Glass-Steagall Act. This law, which separated normal banking operations from investment business, allowed a half-century of smoothly functioning financial markets. But it was repealed, and the financial barons soon made a hash of things.


Similarly in the political realm, when the Cold War ended, the little Napoleon neocons that populate America's foreign-, security-, and military-policy circles, joyfully proclaimed America "the world's only superpower." But with Bill Clinton in the White House, the 90s were a seething, frothing, bitter decade for neocons, desperate to take only-superpowderdom out on the open road and let it run. And while Clinton never really had much of a foreign policy, he did have enough sense to stay out of trouble. So he allowed bombing runs over Iraq for years after the first war there ended, but resisted the many calls from the right to go back to Iraq and finish Saddam off.


This period ended with 9-11, which was the foreign-policy equivalent of the dismissal of Glass-Steagall. If 9-11 hadn't come along, the neocons would have had to invent it, and they probably did.


We now know how these ambitions, political and financial, have ended: disaster for the planet, with those responsible tiptoeing away from the mess -- fortunes and reputations intact -- all screaming defenses of the indefensible.


How I wish the guys who made Inside Job would do a similar film on that inside job at the World Trade Center.


So the return of Vladimir Putin to the Kremlin is not all bad. There will be no more cynical R2P, no more nonsense about protecting Europe from Iranian missiles, no more American bases on Russia's southern flank, no more chipping away at China's resource bases because Russia will happily make up whatever Libyas the Americans take away. Countries under stiff pressure from America, like Pakistan and Iran, will find a little relief in Putin's sniper eyes.


Yes, the neocons and their buddies in the media will rail and rant against him, just as the financial boys rail and rant still -- still, if you can believe it -- against regulation. But with Putin giving back snarl for snarl, for the first time in years the neocons may have to scale back their ambitions. If the result is a nice, boring, Cold War-type stasis, so much the better. The world could use a break from a decade of America's napoleonic tantrums..


But it's a funny world when you have to count on the likes of Vladimir Putin, and perhaps the Chinese, to keep the world on an even keel.





February 14, 2012


By Philip Kraske


My three novels sold a total of 30 copies last year -- fewer than Stieg Larsson's three novels -- and as the second production of The Millennium Trilogy hits the theaters, film producers are still mulling my stories. Somewhere. Probably.


I read his books too -- or rather, skimmed them as everyone does, they being so stuffed with irrelevant detail that long leaps over, for example, how the surgeon extracts the bullet from Lisbeth Salander's brain, are forgivable.


Which is why I don't envy Larsson. I open my books and find that every line needs to be there. 


My content with good work was challenged, however, by an ad I received the other day, sent by one of the many companies that prey on self-published writers like me. For just a few hundred bucks, "leading experts" in publishing offer to teach me "the Strategies that can Turn Content into Cash Flow."


By "content," they don't mean my content with my books.


They want to show me how to make money with them: how to master "the three markets of content," define my "platform," build my "content brand," and identify the markets I "serve."




A writer's work -- it can't be repeated enough -- is not sales.  The moment a writer begins to pander to a market is the moment he's finished. Just look at bestselling fiction -- romances, serial-murder novels, suspense stories, whatever. It all has the thousand-watt smarminess of a game-show emcee.


The bestselling writers reply: But it sells, Phil, and not 30 copies a year.


True, but do you really want to show off those 700-page bricks, full of block-and-tackle sex and gummy prose, to your grandchildren?


Besides, it never seems to dawn on writers so intent on pleasing the market that surprise bestsellers written by new writers break all the sales rules. Look no further than the Millennium books, which are far from being models of the lean, keep-it-moving fiction so popular with the write-to-sell gurus.


Or take The Bridges of Madison County, which did pretty well with sales. It's way too short for a commercial novel, has pictures, features characters well into middle age, has not a line of graphic sex, and is set in a place where, to put it nicely, the ravishing cops of CSI wouldn't be caught dead lifting a fingerprint.


But what do Millennium and Bridges have in common? The overwhelming passion of writers caught up in the fascination of their characters and their dramas. The passion is what's contagious in a good story.


Maybe Larsson got too caught up. His Lisbeth Salander starts out a computer genius -- fine and well -- and ends up a math genius, a chess genius, a terrific boxer, and a speed-reader with a photographic memory. By series' end, you wonder if she's from Sweden or Krypton.


Yet nowhere in Millennium -- nowhere -- do you get the feeling that Larsson was pandering to the 18-to-35, professional-female, single-or-divorced, non-smoker, dog-owner, lottery-buying slice of the market. He just loved Lisbeth.


So I'm afraid that I will pass on marketing, branding, and serving. My novels, dished up print-on-demand style, lie dormant on some printer's hard disc, awaiting the occasional order. Royalties come in once or twice a year, whenever they reach a minimum of twenty dollars -- that's the rule.


But no complaints. Here and there across the planet a few kindred spirits sit down and switch on lights and turn their attention to my stories. It's a privilege, an honor -- a sale that cash flow can't measure.




January 18, 2012



As Republican candidates for president often note, here in socialist Europe, the government does everything for us. Normally, these savants mention only our health system, our free universities (free, that is, till you have to pay for books and cafeteria lunches and ever-heftier registration fees), huge severance pays, long vacations, and generous retirement benefits (which only become truly generous when you've paid off your mortgage and sold your car).



Actually, they don't know the half of it.  The truth is that socialism here does everything for us.



Here where I live, in Madrid, a typical European day goes like this. It's true that nearly everyone has to turn off their own alarm clock, but after that, social workers with truly hospìtal-like efficiency run our baths, scrub our backs, make our breakfasts and get us to work on our wonderful European transportation systems.



Once at work, we are sat on chairs fit for The Sun King, our computers blink on in front of us, and we perform what is officially called an Act of Work. Our trials are eased, however, by a tiny meter that runs on the bottom of the screen showing us how much our labors are being taxed and poured into that ever-swelling pouch of plenty, The Public Good.



But the stresses of work don't go on for long. After a few minutes, a break is called, and we all head for our second coffee and croissant of the day, there to discuss -- in the case of Madrid -- the successes or failures of the Real Madrid soccer team. The soccer world fascinates us because it is the only real capitalist business in Europe. The players have contracts worthy of NBA players, and -- this being socialist Europe -- the contracts generally include benefits like a dashing supermodel, since it wouldn't do for our boys to show up at a benefit or an awards ceremony with old hags on their arms.



But Europe is not without its discontents, and these now come out. We men grouse about how the supermodel clause violates our sense of European equality. Why doesn't a marketing manager get a supermodel? The women, in return, grouse about how chauvinist the men are and how easily the supermodel problem could be solved: by getting the government to declare all European women ravishing and to offer free plastic surgery to any woman treated with callous inequality by men.



We return to work, but again, not for long. For now a cloud has appeared in our workaday socialist sky. The boss has told us that he needs last month's accounting finished and on his desk by five. Dismayed by such blatant bossliness, we call the union representative to defend us. (We don't really call; there's a button, mandated by the Interior Ministry, under our desks, which presses easily under the thumb, its spring well-worn.)



Within minutes, sped on his way by our excellent bullet trains, the union guy is at our side, listening to our complaint and nodding sadly. He goes and jerks the boss out of his tele-meeting with the London head office, and reads him the Riot Act. The boss, duly humbled, murmurs that he merely suggested the five-o'clock deadline. The sky won't fall if he has the results by, say, tomorrow at five?



But tomorrow as well is deemed an outrage, an attack on the dignity of the working man, and the latest example of crass capitalism responsible for stress fracture, the breakup of marriages, and migraines. A strike is called.



Out we all march into the street, waving signs furnished to us by -- you guessed it -- the Labor Ministry. Within minutes we are joined by the workers of neighboring firms. Even many members of management come down and add to the chanting, just for the nostalgia of it all, for it reminds everyone of May '68.



After tedious negotiations, in which management is made to prostrate itself at the feet of the unions and say ten Hail Marxes, an agreement is struck, a government minister (or the king, if it's a monarchy like Spain) comes to shake everyone's hand and grin for the cameras, and we workers file back into the office. Soon, however, this trying day is over, and we flow effortlessly into subways and trains, and are whisked home by the Forces of Public Transport.



There we find our spouses similarly invigorated by interesting workdays, our children enlightened by lessons in dialectical materialism, and dinner our only task and fascination. Soon the news, brought to us by the government channel, assures us of the excellence of our socialist system. It shows us the latest earthquakes and floods that capitalist governments are incapable of handling, the hopeless government debts that capitalist governments are capable of running up, and puzzling footage of Republican fustian to the effect that Europe is the pit of political iniquity, its people enslaved. Over evening cognac, we page through Rousseau and assure ourselves that this opinion is poorly informed.



Just another day in socialist Europe.






December 22, 2011



One of the intellectual pleasures of being an American living abroad -- I live in Spain -- is to observe the subtleties of your own country's propaganda efforts.


I was reminded of this smarmy side of the American political game the other day when I saw that North Korean news anchorwoman crying on television as she announced the death of President Kim Jung Il. You had to wonder if she would take the death of her own father any harder.


That was the point of the scene, of course: the Dear Leader's death was like your own father's. It was the point for North Koreans, that is. The rest of the world probably found it -- let's be charitable, a man died -- melodramatic.


But that's the fascinating thing about international politics: how each nation retains, generation after generation, its personality; how it cannot think, though it can feel; how certain sentiments root so deeply in one national psyche and wither without a trace in the next. Koreans apparently react to tearful displays; Americans react to to cool leaders who play saxophone or make snappy speeches.


Some countries don't need personal identification with their leaders. In Spain, of the six men who have been president, only one, Felipe Gonzalez, had any sort of personal charisma. Presidents here are just heads of the political parties that win elections. It is King Juan Carlos, jovial and distinguished, that personifies the country and that people relate to personally. And the mainstream media, as everywhere, plays its propaganda role bathing him in kingly mystique.


The trick to propaganda is that it can never look like propaganda. And it works best if the people presenting it don't consider it that way either. I would imagine that the Korean anchorwoman really was deeply moved, and if the director had to tell her to save her tears till he gave her the on-the-air countdown, it was only the reverential thing to do.


The image of the crying anchorwoman finds its American parallel in President Barack Obama's interview on 60 Minutes with Steve Kroft a week after the raid on Osama bin Laden's (ugly) house in Pakistan last May.


Is it hard to think of 60 Minutes, that scion of investigative journalism, as a propaganda mouthpiece? That's exactly the point: it doesn't look like one. And just as the North Korean television director told the woman to put everything she had into reading the death announcement, no doubt Kroft saw the post-raid interview as his duty as a patriot and a newsman.


I wonder how the questions were prepared. In cooperation with Obama's people, as with the recent Jay Leno interview? If Obama didn't submit the questions, he certainly had advance warning on them.



And what questions! The killing of bin Laen was an event that, big or small in the general sweep of events, was certainly key to America's sense of 9-11 closure, not to mention Obama's re-election. Questions swirled -- and swirl still -- around the raid; yet Kroft, who like all the 60 Minutes guys goes tooth and nail after fraudsters, mobsters, gangsters and sundry sleazeballs, played the softest of softballs with the president.


A violin might have been playing in the background when he asked Obama, "This was your decision -- whether to proceed or not and how to proceed. What was the most difficult part of that decision?" (To give Obama his due, he occasionally seemed uncomfortable with Kroft's hyper-sensitive, muscular portrayal of him.)


The reason it was difficult to proceed was, as Obama had just mentioned, "We didn't have a photograph of bin Laden in that building. There was no direct evidence of his presence. And so the CIA continued to build the case meticulously over the course of several months."


Kroft never asked how it was that, in months of surveillance of the house in Abbottabad, the CIA had never taken a photo of bin Laden, never recorded his voice. In all that time, no thin, six-foot-six bearded gent ever once passed in front of an open window? With all the super hi-tech devices available to the CIA -- the American CIA, that is, not the CIA of, say, Cameroon or Paraguay -- no recording of his voice was ever made?


All they needed was to match up a voice print of bin Laden yelling "Anybody see where I left my glasses?" or telling the kids to eat their spinach because the Prophet Mohammed did, and look how far he went. If I had been president, and if the greatest intelligence-gathering agency in the world could not find a trace of one man in one house over a period of months, I would have concluded that he wasn't there and called off the mission.


But "direct proof" would have had to be presented to the public, wouldn't it? There was the rub. And as we saw with the faked dead bin Laden photograph briefly floated on the Internet and quickly torn to shreds by sour conspiracy theorists, presenting direct proof was only asking for trouble. So somewhere the decision was made to lie by omission. And to give this crucial absence covering fire, it was couched -- by Kroft and the mainstream media -- in terms of how difficult the lack of evidence made the president's decision.


Not that I'm criticizing: I've used that technique myself in two nov