Did I take the wind out of Thomas Friedman's sails or what?
There's no way that I could read his column this morning ("All Fall Down") without a certain sadistic glee. If it's unkind of me, well we all have our unkind moments.
How things have changed for him.
This time last week, he was screaming about and lashing out at liberals which I think had more to do with his fear that our upstairs neighbor Jess might be interested in me. Please, Jess has enough women his own age to deal with. But when you're old, tubby and sport a bizarre mustache, I guess that a sleek, shiny, young colt like Jess must be very threatening. Which explains the face masks Thomas Friedman now wears religiously.
Just last weekend, he was asking me if he didn't look like Robert Wagner circa Hart to Hart. I told him I thought all the grooming had made him look like the marionette Madame. He didn't take well to that and I actually felt sorry for him.
If I'd known he'd been swapping spit with Patti Nelson Limerick at the time, I wouldn't have given a damn about the big titty baby's hurt feelings.
"All Fall Down" was the title of his column. Well all his hopes of having it both ways did. His hopes of playing me off Patti and vice versa.
There was a tail between the legs quality of his column. A little less boastful, though still as nutty.
When I was cleaning up the desk Monday, I found a bunch of post-its. One of which contained the lines:
If you like emotional dramas, you may want to pull up a chair and pop some popcorn, because this sort of political sound and light show comes along only every 30 or 40 years.
I just wonder how that column would have turned out if I hadn't curtailed his extra-marital activies? Instead, he reworked it for his column on the Middle East as:
If you like comparative politics, you may want to pull up a chair and pop some popcorn, because this sort of political sound and light show comes along only every 30 or 40 years.
He followed that with "How did it all happen?"
A question I'm sure is plauging him. Probably why he went with the Middle East today. Whenever the well's empty and Thomas Friedman has nothing to say, his columns head for the Middle East. It's a print version of a remix. Gail Collins always accuses him of coasting.
She may have a point, but possibly a larger point is when isn't he coasting?
Does anyone really think that his random musings spiced up with pop-cult refs is deep thought?
Mrs. K noticed how strange he looked in his official portrait for the Times. She called me yesterday to find out how it went with Patti Nelson Limerick. When we were through discussing that, she brought up his photo.
"Not to be cruel, but he looks like a turtle."
"Turkey neck and chins," I informed her.
"Pardon?"
"He said it's a Joan Collins trick. Just out the chin as far as you can and it reduces the flabby extra chins that hang below."
"Oh."
"He's a plethora of beauty tricks from old time movie stars," I informed her. "For instance, I'm constantly having to refill ice trays because there's never any ice in the house."
"Why not?"
"Because he read somewhere that Jean Harlow would ice her nipples to make them stand out."
"Ewww!"
"Yeah. And because Marilyn Monroe bleached down there, he's taken to adding highlights below the belt and not just to the hair on his head."
"Ewww!"
By comparison, Nicky K must look like Rob Petrie.
It never would have worked with Patti. Both of them have a desire to be worshipped and be seen as leaders. What happens if they end up with a flat tire?
Patti's offering bromides in the third person and Thomas Friedman's explaining the need for action via a McDonalds Happy Meal and no one's lifting a finger to change the tire.
It would have been like Mutiny of the Boring as they battled one another attempting to have the last overly worded word.
Both dream of creating a community but they don't want a real community. When you're Thomas Friedman and Patti Nelson Limerick you want a cult, a devoted one. So at some point it would have fizzled all on it's own.
But before that happened, Thomas Friedman would have "pulled up a chair" to enjoy the fireworks. (Or "sound and light show." He really doesn't get that most readers have no idea what he's talking about because they weren't getting doped up in the seventies and going to see Pink Floyd.) He wouldn't have popped any popcorn, though. He just would have hollered, "Bettina, corn me!"
Now Patti would never do that. She'd be too busy admiring herself and complaining that the glass on the microwave was see through and not a mirror. I wonder if the two of them had sex? With all the ego stroking they both do to themselves, I find it highly unlikely. They may have had a mutual masturbation but that's all I can see either of them doing together. They're too much into stroking themselves to reach out to anyone else.
Ring a ring o' roses,
A pocket full of posies,
A-tishoo!
A-tishoo!
We all fall down
Thomas Friedman's cheap fantasies did.
Reading his column this morning, I found myself humming the old Gladys Knight & the Pips song "Didn't You Know You'd Have to Hurt Sometime?"
You used to be so proud
Now, your head's a little lower
And you walk slower
And you don't talk so loud
Thomas Friedman's been humbled. For once the great Thomas Friedman had to face that when forced to choose between him or her cats, Patti chose her cats. All in all, it was probably the smartest choice she could have made. Thomas Friedman had to learn that we all fall down, even Thomas Friedman.
Friday, July 29, 2005
Wednesday, July 27, 2005
Facing Down Patti
As Thomas Friedman finally realized that he couldn't alter my mood with sweet words, especially words like "Don't be such a backward idiot," he stormed out of the apartment and I was finally able to call Mrs. K. First, she explained that Nicky K was whining about all his hate mail over his column about how the whole world has ignored the Sudan except for him.
I wanted to ask her if this "me first and only" of Nicky's applies in the bedroom but I didn't feel like we were close enough to allow for that level of personal questioning. Instead, I told her that Thomas Friedman's on probation of a sorts after his last few columns which Gail Collins generously dubbed "sophomoric."
Then I got to the point of my phone call, that Thomas Friedman sang the praises of Lance Armstrong in his column this morning ("Learning From Lance").
"Oh, Bettina!" Mrs. K gasped. "I saw it. You know he only writes about himself. That's why he invents all those cab drivers who speak just like him."
"I know," I said evenly.
"So . . ."
"I think he's having an affair or planning one," I explained. "Actually planning one would be more likely because he's too lazy to actually do anything. And planning may be giving him too much credit as well so maybe just dreaming of having one."
"But with who?" Mrs. K asked.
"Well, he came home the other afternoon speaking of a ticket taker on some flight. Raving over her. She loved The World Is Flat, she thought he was brilliant --"
"Uh-huh."
"how did so much intelligence fit into one brain, how could one man be so attractive, and yet so manly, then he got too her stupid mustache --"
"No, he didn't!" Mrs. K squealed.
"No, he wasn't that obvious but we both knew there was no woman and it was another imaginary fan of his writing."
"So you think this is just some fantasy on his part?"
"Well, I can think of only one woman who would be stupid enough to find Thomas Friedman a catch."
"Bettina, you're not stupid," Mrs. K. offered.
"I must have been," I replied. "But I wasn't thinking of me. I was thinking of Patti."
"Patti! Of course. And she is stupid."
"Yes."
"No, Bettina, she's truly, truly stupid."
"I know!"
So with Mrs. K's help, I was able to track down one Patti Nelson Limerick.
She lives in SoHo, natch. In a closet-size cubby hole that reeks of sandlewood and cat pee. It's a claustrophic's nightmare. It's an interior decorator's nightmare as well. Everything is white or off-white to give the impression of a blank canvas or possibly her mind. Instead of a couch, sofa or even futon, she's furnished the place with saddles.
"Have a seat," she chirped as she proceeded to sit side saddle on a red one.
The other five were all occupied with cats, so I stated that I preferred to stand.
"Let me get right to the point," I started off. "Do you have designs on my husband Thomas Friedman?"
"Designs? Hmmm. I think that there is a spontaneous quality that results in the creation of biochemical merger of sorts when the body and my own occupy the same space and time."
I wanted to knock her off her saddle. Instead I looked at the yellow cat that was coughing on a fur ball.
"The query goes to the issue of co-mingling in a cosmos where bondage occurs but in which, alas, free radicals will emerge and possibly alter the landscape of not only the outer exteriors but also our own shady interiors that we never delve into until confronted with the emotional reality that reaches to our core . . ."
As she continued to prattle on, I noticed that her turban, like everything else in the tiny space appeared to have cat urine stains. As the yellow cat continued attempting to hack up the fur ball, I could feel my own throat closing up as the room seemed to grow smaller and the plentiful cat hair littering the place only more abundant.
"When we visualize and conceptualize the very basic term resulting may be 'suprise' which mutates into realization as we grasp and devle further into --"
"Cut the crap," I said stopping her. "Are you sleeping with my husband or not?"
"So base, Bettina, so base. What Thomas and I are embaring upon will go beyond the realm of physical and enter a cosmic force that shakes us and wakes us."
"You go near my husband Thomas Friedman again and you'll find my fist shaking you and waking you up."
"So base, Bettina, so base," Patti breezily tsked-tsked.
I watched as the yellow cat finally coughed up the fur ball and began to pee on the saddle.
"Atta' boy, Roy Rogers John Wayne Reagan," Patti cooed encouragingly to the cat, "Express yourself out of the imposed limits."
As the rank odor enveloped the room, I tried another tactic since intimidation appeared to be ineffective with a nut job.
"You do realize that you'll have to give up your cats?" I asked.
"What did you say!" Patti gasped clutching her stomach.
"Give up your cats. Even little Roy Rogers John Wayne Reagan here," I said pointing at the yellow cat who had ceased urinating and hopped off the saddle.
"But why?"
"Thomas Friedman is allergic to cats," I declared proudly.
"You tell that asshole I never want to want to see him again," Patti growled in a very non-beatific manner.
"I'll do that," I said making my way out of the cubby hole Patti calls home.
On the subway ride home, I thought of what Mrs. K had asked me, "Bettina, if you're lucky enough to be rid of him, why not go with it?"
Believe me, I would. If I had a job right now, I would. But between hand washing his undergarments, squeezing his prune juice, scrubbing floors, fixing his meals and his frequent snacks, when do I have the time to look for a job?
I also don't know what skills I have. Memory's not a strong one obviously because if Mrs. K had prompted me to explain how I came to be married to Thomas Friedman, I couldn't have given her an honest answer. I honestly don't remember.
My childhood is also a blank. Thomas Friedman has told me about the village I grew up with mud huts and the village elder who oversaw our currency system based upon beaded necklaces but I remember nothing from it. Worse, sometimes I think I remember something. Like watching an old I Love Lucy episode with my mother but Thomas Friedman has insisted that my village had no electricity so how could that be?
I need time to figure it out. Time I don't have. Why couldn't it have been Thomas Friedman in jail and not Judith Miller?
Walking into the apartment, I surprised Thomas Friedman who was downing canned cheese with one hand while reaching inside his sweat pants with the other to scratch his ass.
"Your affair with the modern day Aimee Semple McPherson is over," I said as I walked past him.
I wanted to ask her if this "me first and only" of Nicky's applies in the bedroom but I didn't feel like we were close enough to allow for that level of personal questioning. Instead, I told her that Thomas Friedman's on probation of a sorts after his last few columns which Gail Collins generously dubbed "sophomoric."
Then I got to the point of my phone call, that Thomas Friedman sang the praises of Lance Armstrong in his column this morning ("Learning From Lance").
"Oh, Bettina!" Mrs. K gasped. "I saw it. You know he only writes about himself. That's why he invents all those cab drivers who speak just like him."
"I know," I said evenly.
"So . . ."
"I think he's having an affair or planning one," I explained. "Actually planning one would be more likely because he's too lazy to actually do anything. And planning may be giving him too much credit as well so maybe just dreaming of having one."
"But with who?" Mrs. K asked.
"Well, he came home the other afternoon speaking of a ticket taker on some flight. Raving over her. She loved The World Is Flat, she thought he was brilliant --"
"Uh-huh."
"how did so much intelligence fit into one brain, how could one man be so attractive, and yet so manly, then he got too her stupid mustache --"
"No, he didn't!" Mrs. K squealed.
"No, he wasn't that obvious but we both knew there was no woman and it was another imaginary fan of his writing."
"So you think this is just some fantasy on his part?"
"Well, I can think of only one woman who would be stupid enough to find Thomas Friedman a catch."
"Bettina, you're not stupid," Mrs. K. offered.
"I must have been," I replied. "But I wasn't thinking of me. I was thinking of Patti."
"Patti! Of course. And she is stupid."
"Yes."
"No, Bettina, she's truly, truly stupid."
"I know!"
So with Mrs. K's help, I was able to track down one Patti Nelson Limerick.
She lives in SoHo, natch. In a closet-size cubby hole that reeks of sandlewood and cat pee. It's a claustrophic's nightmare. It's an interior decorator's nightmare as well. Everything is white or off-white to give the impression of a blank canvas or possibly her mind. Instead of a couch, sofa or even futon, she's furnished the place with saddles.
"Have a seat," she chirped as she proceeded to sit side saddle on a red one.
The other five were all occupied with cats, so I stated that I preferred to stand.
"Let me get right to the point," I started off. "Do you have designs on my husband Thomas Friedman?"
"Designs? Hmmm. I think that there is a spontaneous quality that results in the creation of biochemical merger of sorts when the body and my own occupy the same space and time."
I wanted to knock her off her saddle. Instead I looked at the yellow cat that was coughing on a fur ball.
"The query goes to the issue of co-mingling in a cosmos where bondage occurs but in which, alas, free radicals will emerge and possibly alter the landscape of not only the outer exteriors but also our own shady interiors that we never delve into until confronted with the emotional reality that reaches to our core . . ."
As she continued to prattle on, I noticed that her turban, like everything else in the tiny space appeared to have cat urine stains. As the yellow cat continued attempting to hack up the fur ball, I could feel my own throat closing up as the room seemed to grow smaller and the plentiful cat hair littering the place only more abundant.
"When we visualize and conceptualize the very basic term resulting may be 'suprise' which mutates into realization as we grasp and devle further into --"
"Cut the crap," I said stopping her. "Are you sleeping with my husband or not?"
"So base, Bettina, so base. What Thomas and I are embaring upon will go beyond the realm of physical and enter a cosmic force that shakes us and wakes us."
"You go near my husband Thomas Friedman again and you'll find my fist shaking you and waking you up."
"So base, Bettina, so base," Patti breezily tsked-tsked.
I watched as the yellow cat finally coughed up the fur ball and began to pee on the saddle.
"Atta' boy, Roy Rogers John Wayne Reagan," Patti cooed encouragingly to the cat, "Express yourself out of the imposed limits."
As the rank odor enveloped the room, I tried another tactic since intimidation appeared to be ineffective with a nut job.
"You do realize that you'll have to give up your cats?" I asked.
"What did you say!" Patti gasped clutching her stomach.
"Give up your cats. Even little Roy Rogers John Wayne Reagan here," I said pointing at the yellow cat who had ceased urinating and hopped off the saddle.
"But why?"
"Thomas Friedman is allergic to cats," I declared proudly.
"You tell that asshole I never want to want to see him again," Patti growled in a very non-beatific manner.
"I'll do that," I said making my way out of the cubby hole Patti calls home.
On the subway ride home, I thought of what Mrs. K had asked me, "Bettina, if you're lucky enough to be rid of him, why not go with it?"
Believe me, I would. If I had a job right now, I would. But between hand washing his undergarments, squeezing his prune juice, scrubbing floors, fixing his meals and his frequent snacks, when do I have the time to look for a job?
I also don't know what skills I have. Memory's not a strong one obviously because if Mrs. K had prompted me to explain how I came to be married to Thomas Friedman, I couldn't have given her an honest answer. I honestly don't remember.
My childhood is also a blank. Thomas Friedman has told me about the village I grew up with mud huts and the village elder who oversaw our currency system based upon beaded necklaces but I remember nothing from it. Worse, sometimes I think I remember something. Like watching an old I Love Lucy episode with my mother but Thomas Friedman has insisted that my village had no electricity so how could that be?
I need time to figure it out. Time I don't have. Why couldn't it have been Thomas Friedman in jail and not Judith Miller?
Walking into the apartment, I surprised Thomas Friedman who was downing canned cheese with one hand while reaching inside his sweat pants with the other to scratch his ass.
"Your affair with the modern day Aimee Semple McPherson is over," I said as I walked past him.
Learning From Friedman
Thomas Friedman will just have to do without his fresh squeezed prune juice this morning. He has pissed me off. He's whining that he's just buffed and filed his nails and can't use his soft, pasty hands to squeeze prunes. Well then he can just do without, can't he?
The paper hits the door this morning and thanks to Nicky K's Fourth of July meltdown, Thomas Friedman knows I haven't been reading his rantings. So before I can even finish my coffee, Thomas Friedman is waving his latest in my face. It's called "Learning From Lance."
As he sings the praises of Lance Armstrong, one thing stands out: no mention of the divorce.
We should all look up to Armstrong and he is the model American, that's what Thomas Friedman is implying.
"Thomas Friedman," I say, "are you not aware that his marriage broke up in 2003?"
"Huh," says Thomas Friedman, sopping up some egg yolk on his plate with a piece of toast (and overlooking the yolk now matted in that disgusting mustache).
"You know I don't follow the personal lives of people," Thomas Friedman demures.
As though he weren't the one obsessing over the state of Jessica Simpson and Nick Lachey's marriage? As though I'm the one leaving all those In Style Magazines in the bathroom?
He warms to the topic once I call him on it and, no surprise since he watches every tabloid show on TV, he begins defending Lance Armstrong as "our modern day Judy!" Thomas Friedman's obsession with Judy Garland can be strangely humanizing at times but this isn't one of them.
I'm quite aware that his columns are not the well thought out observations and critiques of the world we live in. Instead they are all about him.
So if Thomas Friedman's lionizing a man as a hero, a man who left his wife two years ago, I think I have a right to ask my husband, the not so great Thomas Friedman, what is up with that?
"Bettina, Lance is like Judy at the Palace," Thomas Friedman says as he licks the yolk off the plate. "A once in a lifetime thing. An event. An earth shattering moment that if you blink, you will miss it."
Looking at his chin and mustache yolk-stained face, I said, "Cut the crap, Friedman."
Thomas Friedman looked nervous as I stood and took my plate to the sink.
"Bettina, we get the leaders and stars we deserve," Thomas Friedman offered waving his empty glass at me.
I just stared at him.
"Prune me!" he insisted like the angry child he so often is.
"Prune yourself," I shot back as I left the kitchen.
I'm confused as to whom it could be, but I'm pretty certain Thomas Friedman is either cheating on me or plotting to. And my suscipions turn to one Patti Nelson Limerick. More to come later.
The paper hits the door this morning and thanks to Nicky K's Fourth of July meltdown, Thomas Friedman knows I haven't been reading his rantings. So before I can even finish my coffee, Thomas Friedman is waving his latest in my face. It's called "Learning From Lance."
As he sings the praises of Lance Armstrong, one thing stands out: no mention of the divorce.
We should all look up to Armstrong and he is the model American, that's what Thomas Friedman is implying.
"Thomas Friedman," I say, "are you not aware that his marriage broke up in 2003?"
"Huh," says Thomas Friedman, sopping up some egg yolk on his plate with a piece of toast (and overlooking the yolk now matted in that disgusting mustache).
"You know I don't follow the personal lives of people," Thomas Friedman demures.
As though he weren't the one obsessing over the state of Jessica Simpson and Nick Lachey's marriage? As though I'm the one leaving all those In Style Magazines in the bathroom?
He warms to the topic once I call him on it and, no surprise since he watches every tabloid show on TV, he begins defending Lance Armstrong as "our modern day Judy!" Thomas Friedman's obsession with Judy Garland can be strangely humanizing at times but this isn't one of them.
I'm quite aware that his columns are not the well thought out observations and critiques of the world we live in. Instead they are all about him.
So if Thomas Friedman's lionizing a man as a hero, a man who left his wife two years ago, I think I have a right to ask my husband, the not so great Thomas Friedman, what is up with that?
"Bettina, Lance is like Judy at the Palace," Thomas Friedman says as he licks the yolk off the plate. "A once in a lifetime thing. An event. An earth shattering moment that if you blink, you will miss it."
Looking at his chin and mustache yolk-stained face, I said, "Cut the crap, Friedman."
Thomas Friedman looked nervous as I stood and took my plate to the sink.
"Bettina, we get the leaders and stars we deserve," Thomas Friedman offered waving his empty glass at me.
I just stared at him.
"Prune me!" he insisted like the angry child he so often is.
"Prune yourself," I shot back as I left the kitchen.
I'm confused as to whom it could be, but I'm pretty certain Thomas Friedman is either cheating on me or plotting to. And my suscipions turn to one Patti Nelson Limerick. More to come later.
Monday, July 25, 2005
Found in the Sunday newspaper
Editorial: The Gang That Couldn't Talk Straight
Jimmy Breslin wrote about The Gang That Couldn't Shoot Straight. Plauging our nation today is The Gang That Couldn't Talk Straight. Whether it's "privatization" or "tort reform" or "Clean Skies" or "No Child Left Behind" everything's hidden behind a phrase that implies something directly opposite from the actual meaning. (And no, we don't find that "ironic.")
We've seen it play out since before the Bully Boy started occuyping the White House. "The votes have been counted and recounted!" (When in fact the majority had never been counted.) So maybe it shouldn't be shocking, for instance, that Bully Boy now says he'll fire whomever outed Plame in his administration only if they're found to have committed a crime.
Unless Bully Boy was seeking to establish a precedent, wasn't that always a given? Is he trying to tell us that's what he meant all along? "You go to prison, I'll fire you." That is where he draws the line?
His concept of integrity baffles the mind. But we're seeing that and a lot worse play out. Over and over, they try to divert and obscure. The gang that couldn't talk straight fails to grasp that conviction or not, Rove and Libby have already done enough that demonstrates they need to go. Enough has also come out that a Congressional investigation is needed to find out who else helped and (just as important) who failed to do anything when news of the impending outing reached the administration (as early as July 7th, 2003, Valerie Plame was outed on January 14th, 2003).
From Watching the Watchers' "Child Abuse at Abu Ghraib" by A! of Watching the Watchers, we learn that:
Data is emerging, no matter how the administration attempts to hide it, that the new photos and video of abuse at Abu Ghraib prison include the torture of children.
Norway's Prime Minister's office says it plans to address the situation with the U.S. "in a very severe and direct way."
Could this mean losing yet another ally in the Iraq occupation? Amnesty International in Norway has said that Norway can no longer continue their occupation of Iraq, or their support of US policy in this matter.
And some countries, as Tom Tomorrow notes, actually listen to their activists.While there isn't even an inkling of this in the US Mainstream media, all over the world people are beginning to read about the US abusing children at Abu Ghraib.
We weren't supposed to worry about that either, remember? Remember Operation Happy Talk of "a few bad apples" and that the photos just showed more of the same as the already released photos? Remember the GOP senators rushing to tell the public that releasing the photos could hurt us as a nation?
So they sat on them, after apparently lying about them, and a surprise only to the administration (which never seems to grasp that eventually the truth will come out), the photos haven't gone away.
Karl Rove and Karen Hughes may have instructed, "Clap your hands if you believe in Bully Boys." If so, not enough people clapped because not enough people believe. Operation Happy Talk goes into motion and at best disguises reality for a few weeks. Truth does come out.
And what's coming out is that this administration with all their talk of "integrity" and "honor" has been the least accountable administration in recent history. They've fixed reports. They've lied about PDBs. They've outed a CIA agent. They've tried to cover up abuse that we should have dealt with a long time ago.
If America is hurt by the release of the photos, the Happy Talkers have themselves to blame.
They should have owned up to what was happening when they saw the photos. Instead, they tried to obscure the issue. As if it weren't bad enough that the torture occurred, our administration is now seen as trying to cover it up.
That's not the way the United States is supposed to behave.
Make no mistake, Bully Boy and his Bullies Without Borders have had a lot of enablers.
Including wishy-washy Democrats who didn't want to speak up or, when they did speak up, wanted to immediately cave, buckle, wimp out in the face of criticism.
The only apologies in the last five years have been coming from Democrats and, frequently, they're apologizing for things that don't require an apology. While the Dems bend over backwards to apologize for words, the administration demonstrates no accountability for its actions.
That needs to stop. The unwarrented apologies from Dems who try to speak the truth and the lack of accountability for the most mismanged administration that any of us can recall.
Congress better start excersizing their oversight because if they don't, accountability may come in the form of votes on election day in 2006. We need a truth movement in this country. Actually, we have it. You saw it on Saturday with people meeting to discuss and raise attention on the Downing Street Memo. As with Valerie Plame, the public's the one pushing for the truth.
Hopefully, the mainstream press will also take part. But they haven't driven this. One person who is asking questions that need to be asked is Robert Parry. From his "Rove-Bush Conspiracy Noose Tightens:"
The second new fact is what Rove did after his conversation with Cooper.
Although supposedly in a rush to leave on vacation, Rove e-mailed Stephen J. Hadley, then Bush's deputy national security adviser (and now national security adviser). According to the Associated Press, Rove's e-mail said he "didn’t take the bait" when Cooper suggested that Wilson’s criticisms had hurt the administration.
While it’s not entirely clear what Rove meant in the e-mail, the significance is that Rove immediately reported to Hadley, an official who was in a position to know classified details about Plame’s job. In other words, the e-mail is evidence that the assault on Wilson was being coordinated at senior White House levels.
Cooper also told the grand jury that his second source on the allegations about the Niger trip and Wilson’s wife was Vice President Dick Cheney’s chief of staff, Lewis "Scooter" Libby, a leading neoconservative advocate for invading Iraq. According to Cooper, Libby said on a not-for-attribution basis about Plame, "Yeah, I’ve heard that, too."
See last week's editorial and you'll know why we're glad he's raising it and surprised that everyone else (including Richard W. Stevenson in today's New York Times) isn't also on it.
As the public begins asking what Parry's asking, The Gang That Couldn't Talk Straight is going to find itself in even hotter water. What we've constantly seen is avoidance in the place of accountability. With consistently bad polling results, we like to hope the sheen is finally off the Bully Boy.
Speeches and phrases based upon coded antonyms and the refusal of others in place to hold the administration accountable (the press, the Congress) have resulted in our current state. But at a time when things could seem hopeless, what we're seeing is a public getting active and asking the questions and raising the issues that others won't. That's healthy for democracy. And having grown weary waiting for leadership, the public's now ready to set the agenda and lead on their own.
[This editorial was written by the following: The Third Estate Sunday Review's Ty, Jess, Dona, Jim and Ava, C.I. of The Common Ills, Betty of Thomas Friedman is a Great Man, Cedric of Cedric's Big Mix, Kat of Kat's Korner and Mike of Mikey Likes It!]
Jimmy Breslin wrote about The Gang That Couldn't Shoot Straight. Plauging our nation today is The Gang That Couldn't Talk Straight. Whether it's "privatization" or "tort reform" or "Clean Skies" or "No Child Left Behind" everything's hidden behind a phrase that implies something directly opposite from the actual meaning. (And no, we don't find that "ironic.")
We've seen it play out since before the Bully Boy started occuyping the White House. "The votes have been counted and recounted!" (When in fact the majority had never been counted.) So maybe it shouldn't be shocking, for instance, that Bully Boy now says he'll fire whomever outed Plame in his administration only if they're found to have committed a crime.
Unless Bully Boy was seeking to establish a precedent, wasn't that always a given? Is he trying to tell us that's what he meant all along? "You go to prison, I'll fire you." That is where he draws the line?
His concept of integrity baffles the mind. But we're seeing that and a lot worse play out. Over and over, they try to divert and obscure. The gang that couldn't talk straight fails to grasp that conviction or not, Rove and Libby have already done enough that demonstrates they need to go. Enough has also come out that a Congressional investigation is needed to find out who else helped and (just as important) who failed to do anything when news of the impending outing reached the administration (as early as July 7th, 2003, Valerie Plame was outed on January 14th, 2003).
From Watching the Watchers' "Child Abuse at Abu Ghraib" by A! of Watching the Watchers, we learn that:
Data is emerging, no matter how the administration attempts to hide it, that the new photos and video of abuse at Abu Ghraib prison include the torture of children.
Norway's Prime Minister's office says it plans to address the situation with the U.S. "in a very severe and direct way."
Could this mean losing yet another ally in the Iraq occupation? Amnesty International in Norway has said that Norway can no longer continue their occupation of Iraq, or their support of US policy in this matter.
And some countries, as Tom Tomorrow notes, actually listen to their activists.While there isn't even an inkling of this in the US Mainstream media, all over the world people are beginning to read about the US abusing children at Abu Ghraib.
We weren't supposed to worry about that either, remember? Remember Operation Happy Talk of "a few bad apples" and that the photos just showed more of the same as the already released photos? Remember the GOP senators rushing to tell the public that releasing the photos could hurt us as a nation?
So they sat on them, after apparently lying about them, and a surprise only to the administration (which never seems to grasp that eventually the truth will come out), the photos haven't gone away.
Karl Rove and Karen Hughes may have instructed, "Clap your hands if you believe in Bully Boys." If so, not enough people clapped because not enough people believe. Operation Happy Talk goes into motion and at best disguises reality for a few weeks. Truth does come out.
And what's coming out is that this administration with all their talk of "integrity" and "honor" has been the least accountable administration in recent history. They've fixed reports. They've lied about PDBs. They've outed a CIA agent. They've tried to cover up abuse that we should have dealt with a long time ago.
If America is hurt by the release of the photos, the Happy Talkers have themselves to blame.
They should have owned up to what was happening when they saw the photos. Instead, they tried to obscure the issue. As if it weren't bad enough that the torture occurred, our administration is now seen as trying to cover it up.
That's not the way the United States is supposed to behave.
Make no mistake, Bully Boy and his Bullies Without Borders have had a lot of enablers.
Including wishy-washy Democrats who didn't want to speak up or, when they did speak up, wanted to immediately cave, buckle, wimp out in the face of criticism.
The only apologies in the last five years have been coming from Democrats and, frequently, they're apologizing for things that don't require an apology. While the Dems bend over backwards to apologize for words, the administration demonstrates no accountability for its actions.
That needs to stop. The unwarrented apologies from Dems who try to speak the truth and the lack of accountability for the most mismanged administration that any of us can recall.
Congress better start excersizing their oversight because if they don't, accountability may come in the form of votes on election day in 2006. We need a truth movement in this country. Actually, we have it. You saw it on Saturday with people meeting to discuss and raise attention on the Downing Street Memo. As with Valerie Plame, the public's the one pushing for the truth.
Hopefully, the mainstream press will also take part. But they haven't driven this. One person who is asking questions that need to be asked is Robert Parry. From his "Rove-Bush Conspiracy Noose Tightens:"
The second new fact is what Rove did after his conversation with Cooper.
Although supposedly in a rush to leave on vacation, Rove e-mailed Stephen J. Hadley, then Bush's deputy national security adviser (and now national security adviser). According to the Associated Press, Rove's e-mail said he "didn’t take the bait" when Cooper suggested that Wilson’s criticisms had hurt the administration.
While it’s not entirely clear what Rove meant in the e-mail, the significance is that Rove immediately reported to Hadley, an official who was in a position to know classified details about Plame’s job. In other words, the e-mail is evidence that the assault on Wilson was being coordinated at senior White House levels.
Cooper also told the grand jury that his second source on the allegations about the Niger trip and Wilson’s wife was Vice President Dick Cheney’s chief of staff, Lewis "Scooter" Libby, a leading neoconservative advocate for invading Iraq. According to Cooper, Libby said on a not-for-attribution basis about Plame, "Yeah, I’ve heard that, too."
See last week's editorial and you'll know why we're glad he's raising it and surprised that everyone else (including Richard W. Stevenson in today's New York Times) isn't also on it.
As the public begins asking what Parry's asking, The Gang That Couldn't Talk Straight is going to find itself in even hotter water. What we've constantly seen is avoidance in the place of accountability. With consistently bad polling results, we like to hope the sheen is finally off the Bully Boy.
Speeches and phrases based upon coded antonyms and the refusal of others in place to hold the administration accountable (the press, the Congress) have resulted in our current state. But at a time when things could seem hopeless, what we're seeing is a public getting active and asking the questions and raising the issues that others won't. That's healthy for democracy. And having grown weary waiting for leadership, the public's now ready to set the agenda and lead on their own.
[This editorial was written by the following: The Third Estate Sunday Review's Ty, Jess, Dona, Jim and Ava, C.I. of The Common Ills, Betty of Thomas Friedman is a Great Man, Cedric of Cedric's Big Mix, Kat of Kat's Korner and Mike of Mikey Likes It!]
Thursday, July 21, 2005
I am an insurgent in my own marriage
I am an insurgent in my own marriage.
That thought hit me Tuesday as I was picking up my husband Thomas Friedman's tube socks and BVDs off up the floor. Not all on the floor, mind you. Thomas Friedman can never seem to carry anything to the hamper in the bathroom. He is, however, handy at hanging his dirty underwear from door knobs. It appears to be his idea of a cute little greeting. Some spouses leave little love notes, Thomas Friedman leaves his not so tight and not so white y-fronts.
I was attempting to get the stains out when Thomas Friedman came stomping into the kitchen, in his shorty robe, natch.
"Bettina," he screeched in that nasal tone that I've come to loathe more than any other sound, "I need help!"
"And I need a vacation," I thought but did not say.
He stuck out his chest and cleared his throat although he failed to check his ego. As he blathered on in that self-deluded, self-important manner, I pictured his mustache springing to life and tightening around his neck.
He read his first sentence, "On the question of whether China's Cnooc oil company should be permitted by the U.S. government to purchase the U.S. oil and gas company Unocal, my view is very simple: let the market rule."
Right away I burst out laughing.
Thomas Friedman grinned proudly.
"I wasn't sure it started off funny enough!" he declared with no sense of modesty.
"My view is very simple" is pretty damn funny and pretty damn true when it comes to Thomas Friedman but I didn't say that.
What I said was, "It's priceless."
He droned on and I fantasized about his mustache turning into two fists that took turns punching his smug face. I left my fantasy long enough to hear "If I seem uninterested in this matter, I am."
Honesty always is the best problem. And isn't Thomas Friedman always uninterested if the subject isn't him.
"It's funny?" Thomas Friedman asked excitedly.
"Hilarious," I told him.
He got to some phrase that was overreaching even for him, something about "Tiananmen-Texas Bargain."
It was clumsy, even for him. Usually he's just corny as he reaches for his puns but this one wasn't even worth a groan.
Naturally, I praised it and told him he must leave it in.
"We are Siamese twins, but most unlikely ones - joined at the hip, but not identical. That's a problem."
Did that sentence even work medically? I don't think so. But of course I told him it was one of his finest moments.
So Wednesday, his column was in the paper. And I'd reassured any doubts he'd had.
People are scratching their heads over this. Some are saying that Thomas Friedman has finally lost it. Finally?
What's that supposed to mean? Like he was the picture of sanity prior?
As someone who has hand washed his under things, I don't see him as the model of sanity. A grown man who appears unable or unwilling to use toilet paper when it's needed?
I see him as an overgrown baby. And not just due to all of his sex games where I have to put on the Peggy Noonan mask while he pretends he is William Safire and I have to change his adult diapers.
He got a call from Gail Collins today. She wanted to discuss his Friday column.
"She is checking in, she is making me give her approval over my columns!" Thomas Friedman roared after he had slammed down the phone. "Me! The great Thomas Friedman! Her knowledge of editing consists of staring at the McDonald's menu and thinking up other ways to use 'Mac' as a prefix!"
The might Thomas Friedman is not so mighty now.
He has been brought down. By his own ego.
I used it against him. And I realize now that I am an insurgent in my own marriage.
That thought hit me Tuesday as I was picking up my husband Thomas Friedman's tube socks and BVDs off up the floor. Not all on the floor, mind you. Thomas Friedman can never seem to carry anything to the hamper in the bathroom. He is, however, handy at hanging his dirty underwear from door knobs. It appears to be his idea of a cute little greeting. Some spouses leave little love notes, Thomas Friedman leaves his not so tight and not so white y-fronts.
I was attempting to get the stains out when Thomas Friedman came stomping into the kitchen, in his shorty robe, natch.
"Bettina," he screeched in that nasal tone that I've come to loathe more than any other sound, "I need help!"
"And I need a vacation," I thought but did not say.
He stuck out his chest and cleared his throat although he failed to check his ego. As he blathered on in that self-deluded, self-important manner, I pictured his mustache springing to life and tightening around his neck.
He read his first sentence, "On the question of whether China's Cnooc oil company should be permitted by the U.S. government to purchase the U.S. oil and gas company Unocal, my view is very simple: let the market rule."
Right away I burst out laughing.
Thomas Friedman grinned proudly.
"I wasn't sure it started off funny enough!" he declared with no sense of modesty.
"My view is very simple" is pretty damn funny and pretty damn true when it comes to Thomas Friedman but I didn't say that.
What I said was, "It's priceless."
He droned on and I fantasized about his mustache turning into two fists that took turns punching his smug face. I left my fantasy long enough to hear "If I seem uninterested in this matter, I am."
Honesty always is the best problem. And isn't Thomas Friedman always uninterested if the subject isn't him.
"It's funny?" Thomas Friedman asked excitedly.
"Hilarious," I told him.
He got to some phrase that was overreaching even for him, something about "Tiananmen-Texas Bargain."
It was clumsy, even for him. Usually he's just corny as he reaches for his puns but this one wasn't even worth a groan.
Naturally, I praised it and told him he must leave it in.
"We are Siamese twins, but most unlikely ones - joined at the hip, but not identical. That's a problem."
Did that sentence even work medically? I don't think so. But of course I told him it was one of his finest moments.
So Wednesday, his column was in the paper. And I'd reassured any doubts he'd had.
People are scratching their heads over this. Some are saying that Thomas Friedman has finally lost it. Finally?
What's that supposed to mean? Like he was the picture of sanity prior?
As someone who has hand washed his under things, I don't see him as the model of sanity. A grown man who appears unable or unwilling to use toilet paper when it's needed?
I see him as an overgrown baby. And not just due to all of his sex games where I have to put on the Peggy Noonan mask while he pretends he is William Safire and I have to change his adult diapers.
He got a call from Gail Collins today. She wanted to discuss his Friday column.
"She is checking in, she is making me give her approval over my columns!" Thomas Friedman roared after he had slammed down the phone. "Me! The great Thomas Friedman! Her knowledge of editing consists of staring at the McDonald's menu and thinking up other ways to use 'Mac' as a prefix!"
The might Thomas Friedman is not so mighty now.
He has been brought down. By his own ego.
I used it against him. And I realize now that I am an insurgent in my own marriage.
Friday, July 15, 2005
Friedman on the Fourth Pt. II
"Say your damn prayers, Kristof," Thomas Friedman, the less and less great each day, to Nicky K.
If you're thinking the line should come along holding hands with "And reach for the sky!" then you're obviously late to the party.
It was a cook out. A picnic on the roof. It was Monday, the Fourth of July. Thomas Friedman was wearing his shorty robe but he'd long since tossed aside the "Kiss the Chef" apron. We'd had song, we'd had drama and now we were left overcooked burgers as a result of Thomas Friedman, overcooked to the point that one longed for merely "burned." I'd followed Mrs. K's lead and tossed my burger over the ledge. We were both eating cole slaw burgers utilizing the coleslaw Mrs. K had brought (ask her for the recipe, she makes wonderful cole slaw). Others weren't so fortunate.
Patti Nelson Limerick, a would be op-ed-ist, was along for reasons no one was clear on.
Proving herself to be a really round the way gal (or else just stupid, Mrs. K and I voted for the latter), Patti had plunged in "with both hands, gripping with all ten digits, to embrace and encompass that which both surrounds and penetrates." Lots of words, but get them out now, Patti, before your kneeling at the toilet and the bugers coming back up.
Since we were all paired up, Nicky & Mrs. K, myself and my husband Thomas Friedman, Patti was odd woman out, a title she's no doubt held for longer than any can remember.
Not wanting to offend Thomas Friedman or maybe just scared of another repeat of the last "you are so dead to me, Kristof" scene that played like Bette Davis and Joan Crawford on really bad benders as the words, fur, and soda crackers flew (largely into Nicky K's eye), Nicky K couldn't find it in him to say "No, no, I will not eat the burger!"
Patti's dithering smile revealed she'd lost a good portions of the crowns and caps as she merrily chomped away on the brick burger. Nicky K wasn't willing to sacrifice his own dental health but he didn't have it in him to stand up to Thomas Friedman. (Insert standard, self-aggrandizing Thomas Friedman boast here.) So Nicky K had stalled for time. Currently, we all waited for him to say the prayer he demanded necessary before he could eat the brick burger. After the saying of grace, it would get ugly.
"Our father, who art in heaven," Nicky K began bowing his head while Thomas Friedman grunted. "Thank you for this food. Please protect Judith and all the anonymice. Protect us from fact checkers and look kindly on even those of us who appear to create cab drivers out of thin air . . ."
On that part all eyes, went to Thomas Friedman who snorted.
"Kirstof, as usual, you waste too many words," Friedman complained. "Good eats, Great Man, thanks."
Friedman smiled at everyone including Patti who grinned at him vaguely, or maybe that's her natural look, with chipped teeth flashing.
"Me. I'm the great man," Thomas Friedman oh so modestly explained.
Patti burst out laughing. For a moment, I almost liked her. Almost.
"Yes, you are!" Patti squealed. "We all are, we tap into our inner psyches and navigate the emotional waters of our turgid souls in search of an elevated reason for the human condition that might we all acknowledge is life?"
As she waited for some sort of response, Thomas Friedman lept in.
"You had your prayers, sissy boy," Thomas Friedman said pointing at Nicky K, "now eat that burger."
We all leaned forward waiting to see what would happen. Would Nicky K cave? His wife hoped he wouldn't. I remember when I used to root for my husband too. A lot easier not to root for him when he is Thomas Friedman.
Nicky K pulled the brick burger up to his mouth. He opened his mouth. Good Lord, he was going to eat it! Didn't he learn anything from Patti losing both her caps and her own teeth?
No, he didn't.
He was going to chew.
He was about to bite down.
"I can't do it!" Nicky K cried out.
Thomas Friedman looked pissed.
"You will eat the fruits of my grill, Kristof," Thomas Friedman huffed.
"Of course, I will," Nicky K said breathlessly. "But I can't continue to the lie."
Thomas Friedman's bushy eyebrows went into twitching overdrive.
"What? What is this? I demand you tell me!"
"Bettina!" Nicky K said pointing at me.
Now all eyes were on me.
"She's stopped reading your columns!" Nicky K exclaimed.
Thomas Friedman gasped, clutched his chest and began jumping up and down while moaning. This was especially bothersome since he was wearing, remember, the shorty robe. For the "all over tan," remember? We were looking at Thomas and the Friedmans whether we wanted to or not. Patti seemed to want to.
While this was going on, Nicky K hurled his brick burger like a frisbee, no complete idiot he.
I heard the window across the street break but everyone was watching Thomas Friedman gasp and howl.
"Yes, it's true," I finally admitted just to end the drama before Thomas Friedman went completely Baby Jane on us. I knew I didn't want to know whatever happened to Baby Jane Friedman.
Long story short, I've been stuck reading every piece of drivel he types. Not just the columns themselves, but anything he writes. The other day, he wrote a letter to his mother. It started off "Dearest good mother, good because you birthed me, but not great because you aren't me,
How are you?" It only got worse.
Then he decided he'd try his hand at the Times crosswords. He's never managed to finish one yet but I'm still expected to look it over and say things like, "6 across, five letter word for what we all seek. 'PENIS.' Great job, Thomas Friedman." Now the word was clearly "PEACE" but you can't disagree with Thomas Friedman.
The Fourth of July was always one of my favorite holidays, what with the food, the fireworks, the day off. Now it's just the day when I got sentenced. Doing my time on OpEd Row.
If you're thinking the line should come along holding hands with "And reach for the sky!" then you're obviously late to the party.
It was a cook out. A picnic on the roof. It was Monday, the Fourth of July. Thomas Friedman was wearing his shorty robe but he'd long since tossed aside the "Kiss the Chef" apron. We'd had song, we'd had drama and now we were left overcooked burgers as a result of Thomas Friedman, overcooked to the point that one longed for merely "burned." I'd followed Mrs. K's lead and tossed my burger over the ledge. We were both eating cole slaw burgers utilizing the coleslaw Mrs. K had brought (ask her for the recipe, she makes wonderful cole slaw). Others weren't so fortunate.
Patti Nelson Limerick, a would be op-ed-ist, was along for reasons no one was clear on.
Proving herself to be a really round the way gal (or else just stupid, Mrs. K and I voted for the latter), Patti had plunged in "with both hands, gripping with all ten digits, to embrace and encompass that which both surrounds and penetrates." Lots of words, but get them out now, Patti, before your kneeling at the toilet and the bugers coming back up.
Since we were all paired up, Nicky & Mrs. K, myself and my husband Thomas Friedman, Patti was odd woman out, a title she's no doubt held for longer than any can remember.
Not wanting to offend Thomas Friedman or maybe just scared of another repeat of the last "you are so dead to me, Kristof" scene that played like Bette Davis and Joan Crawford on really bad benders as the words, fur, and soda crackers flew (largely into Nicky K's eye), Nicky K couldn't find it in him to say "No, no, I will not eat the burger!"
Patti's dithering smile revealed she'd lost a good portions of the crowns and caps as she merrily chomped away on the brick burger. Nicky K wasn't willing to sacrifice his own dental health but he didn't have it in him to stand up to Thomas Friedman. (Insert standard, self-aggrandizing Thomas Friedman boast here.) So Nicky K had stalled for time. Currently, we all waited for him to say the prayer he demanded necessary before he could eat the brick burger. After the saying of grace, it would get ugly.
"Our father, who art in heaven," Nicky K began bowing his head while Thomas Friedman grunted. "Thank you for this food. Please protect Judith and all the anonymice. Protect us from fact checkers and look kindly on even those of us who appear to create cab drivers out of thin air . . ."
On that part all eyes, went to Thomas Friedman who snorted.
"Kirstof, as usual, you waste too many words," Friedman complained. "Good eats, Great Man, thanks."
Friedman smiled at everyone including Patti who grinned at him vaguely, or maybe that's her natural look, with chipped teeth flashing.
"Me. I'm the great man," Thomas Friedman oh so modestly explained.
Patti burst out laughing. For a moment, I almost liked her. Almost.
"Yes, you are!" Patti squealed. "We all are, we tap into our inner psyches and navigate the emotional waters of our turgid souls in search of an elevated reason for the human condition that might we all acknowledge is life?"
As she waited for some sort of response, Thomas Friedman lept in.
"You had your prayers, sissy boy," Thomas Friedman said pointing at Nicky K, "now eat that burger."
We all leaned forward waiting to see what would happen. Would Nicky K cave? His wife hoped he wouldn't. I remember when I used to root for my husband too. A lot easier not to root for him when he is Thomas Friedman.
Nicky K pulled the brick burger up to his mouth. He opened his mouth. Good Lord, he was going to eat it! Didn't he learn anything from Patti losing both her caps and her own teeth?
No, he didn't.
He was going to chew.
He was about to bite down.
"I can't do it!" Nicky K cried out.
Thomas Friedman looked pissed.
"You will eat the fruits of my grill, Kristof," Thomas Friedman huffed.
"Of course, I will," Nicky K said breathlessly. "But I can't continue to the lie."
Thomas Friedman's bushy eyebrows went into twitching overdrive.
"What? What is this? I demand you tell me!"
"Bettina!" Nicky K said pointing at me.
Now all eyes were on me.
"She's stopped reading your columns!" Nicky K exclaimed.
Thomas Friedman gasped, clutched his chest and began jumping up and down while moaning. This was especially bothersome since he was wearing, remember, the shorty robe. For the "all over tan," remember? We were looking at Thomas and the Friedmans whether we wanted to or not. Patti seemed to want to.
While this was going on, Nicky K hurled his brick burger like a frisbee, no complete idiot he.
I heard the window across the street break but everyone was watching Thomas Friedman gasp and howl.
"Yes, it's true," I finally admitted just to end the drama before Thomas Friedman went completely Baby Jane on us. I knew I didn't want to know whatever happened to Baby Jane Friedman.
Long story short, I've been stuck reading every piece of drivel he types. Not just the columns themselves, but anything he writes. The other day, he wrote a letter to his mother. It started off "Dearest good mother, good because you birthed me, but not great because you aren't me,
How are you?" It only got worse.
Then he decided he'd try his hand at the Times crosswords. He's never managed to finish one yet but I'm still expected to look it over and say things like, "6 across, five letter word for what we all seek. 'PENIS.' Great job, Thomas Friedman." Now the word was clearly "PEACE" but you can't disagree with Thomas Friedman.
The Fourth of July was always one of my favorite holidays, what with the food, the fireworks, the day off. Now it's just the day when I got sentenced. Doing my time on OpEd Row.
Thursday, July 14, 2005
Found in the newspaper
Editorial: Time to Head On Home
To quote the Beatles "I read the news today, oh boy." A quick scan of the headlines on BuzzFlash reveal what we already knew, the Bully Boy's not made us safer. We see links to stories on the feelings of the British. (Similar to Pru's feelings expressed at The Common Ills.) C.I. and Dallas go international and end up with Tony Allen-Mills and Andrew North's "Downed US Seals may have got too close to Bin Laden" (Sunday Times of London) about "the worst incident in the history of the Seals." Not a credit the Bully Boy needs right now after dragging his feet for almost four years since Sept. 11th. What was "Wanted Dead or Alive?" A provocative personal ad? It certainly wasn't anything with meaning.
Then there's Michael Smith's "UK in talks to hand Iraq role to Australia" (also Sunday Times of London):
BRITAIN is negotiating with Australia to hand over military command of southern Iraq to free up British troops for redeployment to the front line in Afghanistan.
An announcement is expected within weeks that several thousand British soldiers are to be sent to Afghanistan.
The coalition of Operation Enduring Falsehood continues to shrink.And folks, we're just getting started.
Still sticking with The Sunday Times of London, check out Hala Jaber's "Allawi: this is the start of civil war:"
IRAQ’S former interim prime minister Iyad Allawi has warned that his country is facing civil war and has predicted dire consequences for Europe and America as well as the Middle East if the crisis is not resolved.
"The problem is that the Americans have no vision and no clear policy on how to go about in Iraq," said Allawi, a long-time ally of Washington.
In an interview with The Sunday Times last week as he visited Amman, the Jordanian capital, he said: "The policy should be of building national unity in Iraq. Without this we will most certainly slip into a civil war. We are practically in stage one of a civil war as we speak."
Occupations will lead to civil wars. No surprise there. To resentment, to anger and to violence.Or how about this UPI article linked to at Iraq Coalition Casualties? The link's bad(they don't have the full web address in the link) but look at what you can read:
07/09/05 upi:
Iraq war results in at least 254 amputees
Army hospitals treated 254 amputees from the Iraq war...Nearly 19,000 soldiers have been medically evacuated ...There were 2,527 evacuated with battle injuries, 5,444 with non-battle injuries and 10,758 with disease.
At The Independent, Andy McSmith's "Leaked memo shows Iraq pull-out plans" only makes the point more clear about who's still wanting to dance with Bully Boy and who's called a taxi for the ride home:
Almost two thirds of the 8,500 British troops in Iraq will have been pulled out by the end of next year, under plans drawn up in Whitehall to hand over two provinces to Iraqi control.
The plan set out in a leaked memo written by the Defence Secretary John Reid, hints that the Government is keen to cut the heavy cost of patrolling southern Iraq.
The memo calculates that the current cost of the British presence in Iraq, around £1bn a year, could be halved if the number of troops were reduced to 3,000 during 2006. The memo implies that the British would formally hand over control to the Iraqis of the four provinces currently under British control by April 2006, but that it take another eight months before what the memo calls the "UK military drawdown" has been completed - and 18 months before the money comes through.
Are we starting to get the picture yet? The public is. They want the troops home. Polls show that. It's just the media and our leaders that are too timid to address it. "Stay the course!" they chant. This "cakewalk" has now lasted over two years. Donald Rumsfeld says twelve is a possiblity. "Cakewalk?"
How do you define "success" in Iraq? That's difficult since the reasons for the invasion/occupation constantly shift. But it's not been a cakewalk, this war of choice. And we haven't made the world safer for anyone. Iraq's not safer. We're not safer. The London bombings prove the fly paper theory was crap.
Now we're supposed to let the ones who brought us this war go back to the drawing board to . . . think up new excuses? They had no planning other than (as Naomi Klein pointed out in "Baghdad Year Zero") to have a tag sale on the Iraqi assets. Even the Operation Happy Talkers seem to have a case of cat got their tongues. (Sadly, we're sure this is a momentary condition.)
If sane people can agree that the illegal occupation is a disaster for everyone involved (outside of those profitting from the war), how much are we willing to give to "stay the course?" We want the body counts to double? When do we reach the point that we say enough?
We steer to you to "Should This Marriage Be Saved?" and ask at what point do we take a realistic look at what's going on? Pig-headed is not a virtue. It's not sane. It's not logical. And it's only going to get more people killed.
The Bully Boy has sullied this nation's name. He's trashed treaties and conventions. He's had a five-year frat party at our expense. At some point, we need to roll up our sleeves and do some cleaning. And that means tossing in the garbage the notion that after two years of the "cake walk" this is anything like what was sold to us.
"Stay the course?" We say "head on home." Head on home to what America is supposed to stand for. On what America is supposed to represent. This invasion/occupation isn't what America's supposed to be about. So let's all grow up, sober up and realize that the Bully Boy's taken us on a two-year bender. Comes a time when you gotta head home. It's past time for that.
Iraq had no WMD. It was not a threat to us ("mushroom cloud," Condi?). Someone lied us into war. They took us off course. It's time to get back to what America's all about and it's time to realize that drunk slurring his words and telling us he knows another bar that's still open isn't anyone we want to get a car in with. We're ready to head on home and return to the lives we should be leading. Lives that don't involve wars built on lies. Lives that don't involve trying to impose a system on a people who didn't ask for us to be there. Lives that don't involve falling for the latest Operation Happy Talk. Lives that are reality-based. Bar's closing, let's all head on home. At least the ones who still have that option, the ones who didn't give their lives to a war of choice, one that should have been avoided.
[Note: Since these editorials tend to get reposted elsewhere, we'll note this was written by The Third Estate Sunday Review crew of Jim, Dona, Ty, Jess and Ava as well as by C.I. of The Common Ills, Rebecca of Sex and Politics and Screeds and Attitude, Kat of Kat's Korner, Mike of Mikey Likes It! and Betty of Thomas Friedman is a Great Man.]
posted by Third Estate Sunday Review @ Sunday, July 10, 2005
To quote the Beatles "I read the news today, oh boy." A quick scan of the headlines on BuzzFlash reveal what we already knew, the Bully Boy's not made us safer. We see links to stories on the feelings of the British. (Similar to Pru's feelings expressed at The Common Ills.) C.I. and Dallas go international and end up with Tony Allen-Mills and Andrew North's "Downed US Seals may have got too close to Bin Laden" (Sunday Times of London) about "the worst incident in the history of the Seals." Not a credit the Bully Boy needs right now after dragging his feet for almost four years since Sept. 11th. What was "Wanted Dead or Alive?" A provocative personal ad? It certainly wasn't anything with meaning.
Then there's Michael Smith's "UK in talks to hand Iraq role to Australia" (also Sunday Times of London):
BRITAIN is negotiating with Australia to hand over military command of southern Iraq to free up British troops for redeployment to the front line in Afghanistan.
An announcement is expected within weeks that several thousand British soldiers are to be sent to Afghanistan.
The coalition of Operation Enduring Falsehood continues to shrink.And folks, we're just getting started.
Still sticking with The Sunday Times of London, check out Hala Jaber's "Allawi: this is the start of civil war:"
IRAQ’S former interim prime minister Iyad Allawi has warned that his country is facing civil war and has predicted dire consequences for Europe and America as well as the Middle East if the crisis is not resolved.
"The problem is that the Americans have no vision and no clear policy on how to go about in Iraq," said Allawi, a long-time ally of Washington.
In an interview with The Sunday Times last week as he visited Amman, the Jordanian capital, he said: "The policy should be of building national unity in Iraq. Without this we will most certainly slip into a civil war. We are practically in stage one of a civil war as we speak."
Occupations will lead to civil wars. No surprise there. To resentment, to anger and to violence.Or how about this UPI article linked to at Iraq Coalition Casualties? The link's bad(they don't have the full web address in the link) but look at what you can read:
07/09/05 upi:
Iraq war results in at least 254 amputees
Army hospitals treated 254 amputees from the Iraq war...Nearly 19,000 soldiers have been medically evacuated ...There were 2,527 evacuated with battle injuries, 5,444 with non-battle injuries and 10,758 with disease.
At The Independent, Andy McSmith's "Leaked memo shows Iraq pull-out plans" only makes the point more clear about who's still wanting to dance with Bully Boy and who's called a taxi for the ride home:
Almost two thirds of the 8,500 British troops in Iraq will have been pulled out by the end of next year, under plans drawn up in Whitehall to hand over two provinces to Iraqi control.
The plan set out in a leaked memo written by the Defence Secretary John Reid, hints that the Government is keen to cut the heavy cost of patrolling southern Iraq.
The memo calculates that the current cost of the British presence in Iraq, around £1bn a year, could be halved if the number of troops were reduced to 3,000 during 2006. The memo implies that the British would formally hand over control to the Iraqis of the four provinces currently under British control by April 2006, but that it take another eight months before what the memo calls the "UK military drawdown" has been completed - and 18 months before the money comes through.
Are we starting to get the picture yet? The public is. They want the troops home. Polls show that. It's just the media and our leaders that are too timid to address it. "Stay the course!" they chant. This "cakewalk" has now lasted over two years. Donald Rumsfeld says twelve is a possiblity. "Cakewalk?"
How do you define "success" in Iraq? That's difficult since the reasons for the invasion/occupation constantly shift. But it's not been a cakewalk, this war of choice. And we haven't made the world safer for anyone. Iraq's not safer. We're not safer. The London bombings prove the fly paper theory was crap.
Now we're supposed to let the ones who brought us this war go back to the drawing board to . . . think up new excuses? They had no planning other than (as Naomi Klein pointed out in "Baghdad Year Zero") to have a tag sale on the Iraqi assets. Even the Operation Happy Talkers seem to have a case of cat got their tongues. (Sadly, we're sure this is a momentary condition.)
If sane people can agree that the illegal occupation is a disaster for everyone involved (outside of those profitting from the war), how much are we willing to give to "stay the course?" We want the body counts to double? When do we reach the point that we say enough?
We steer to you to "Should This Marriage Be Saved?" and ask at what point do we take a realistic look at what's going on? Pig-headed is not a virtue. It's not sane. It's not logical. And it's only going to get more people killed.
The Bully Boy has sullied this nation's name. He's trashed treaties and conventions. He's had a five-year frat party at our expense. At some point, we need to roll up our sleeves and do some cleaning. And that means tossing in the garbage the notion that after two years of the "cake walk" this is anything like what was sold to us.
"Stay the course?" We say "head on home." Head on home to what America is supposed to stand for. On what America is supposed to represent. This invasion/occupation isn't what America's supposed to be about. So let's all grow up, sober up and realize that the Bully Boy's taken us on a two-year bender. Comes a time when you gotta head home. It's past time for that.
Iraq had no WMD. It was not a threat to us ("mushroom cloud," Condi?). Someone lied us into war. They took us off course. It's time to get back to what America's all about and it's time to realize that drunk slurring his words and telling us he knows another bar that's still open isn't anyone we want to get a car in with. We're ready to head on home and return to the lives we should be leading. Lives that don't involve wars built on lies. Lives that don't involve trying to impose a system on a people who didn't ask for us to be there. Lives that don't involve falling for the latest Operation Happy Talk. Lives that are reality-based. Bar's closing, let's all head on home. At least the ones who still have that option, the ones who didn't give their lives to a war of choice, one that should have been avoided.
[Note: Since these editorials tend to get reposted elsewhere, we'll note this was written by The Third Estate Sunday Review crew of Jim, Dona, Ty, Jess and Ava as well as by C.I. of The Common Ills, Rebecca of Sex and Politics and Screeds and Attitude, Kat of Kat's Korner, Mike of Mikey Likes It! and Betty of Thomas Friedman is a Great Man.]
posted by Third Estate Sunday Review @ Sunday, July 10, 2005
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