The Iraq War Was Appropriate

Absence... fonder?

2005-07-08T13:05:00.000-04:00

I feel inclined to explain my lengthy absence. Not to belabor the long, sad story, but it transpired that my former would-be agent became aware of this electronic journal and expressed to me, in no uncertain terms, his discontent with the fact that I had published excerpts from The Realignment Crescendo without his blessing (which he, in his infinite arrogance, apparently deemed essential in all things). I retorted with the obvious observation that my artistic creations are mine own, and suchlike, and in return the sort of parry ensued that one might expect from the emasculated male of today's America: letters from lawyers, legal threats, &c. During the interim, my esteemed legal representation advised me to refrain from publishing writings to this outlet, and so I did, for at this point the potential risk to my economic well-being outweighed any other considerations one might imagine to have been operative.

To summarize on a somewhat pleasant note, the matter is now (mostly) settled and the association with the agent dissolved. He can retreat back into his world of cocktail parties and homosexuals, I am chastened to be more discerning in my selection of business associates, and so I suppose we are each the better off for the ordeal. Naturally, this will force a delay in the publication of The Realignment Crescendo, but no matter. In the meantime, I have been advised that contributing entries to this electronic journal entails little further risk, and so perhaps I shall.

In our present world circumstance it appears to be more crucial than ever to emphasize and explain that the 2003 invasion of Iraq was a truly appropriate course of action for the U.S. and its Anglo-Saxon allies to have engaged in.

Novel Excerpt 4

2005-01-27T17:37:00.000-05:00

I realize there is a very important component of P. Wallach Hedge's story that I haven't included in the excerpts: his training. (After all, readers who have read the prior excerpts only are probably wondering just exactly where did Hedge get his skills?)

I've chosen an excerpt that, I believe, remedies that deficiency. Enjoy.

Wally looked morosely up at the grizzled face of Mai-Pei through reddened tear-stained eyes. "I can't do it!", he wailed helplessly, refusing to look at the board in front of him. The stubborn board, that would not break, streaked with the blood of the young Hedge boy's wounded right hand. Birds could be heard in the distance, mocking him with their warbles. It was already late afternoon; the glow of the Macau casinos was beginning to be visible just on the horizon.

Mai-Pei's eyes narrowed imperceptibly, as he awkwardly (and a bit reluctantly) addressed his student by the English version of the name he'd selected for him that fateful, foggy day two months ago when Tamika had presumptously, but astutely, brought the boy over on the boat and left him in the care of the elder legend warrior-priest, the last of his kind. "Oh, but you can, Clay-faced Orphan of Liberty. And you will. It is only a question of when, and how. It is foreseen, and written. Written on your face, in your bloodlines. I can see it."

"You can? How?", Wally sniffed.

"Because I have the mishubi."

"Mee-shoe-mee?"

"Mishubi. You will learn it too, one day." Mai-Pei idly picked up a birch twig and stripped it.

Wally was plagued with doubt. "How can you be so sure?"

"Because that is why you are here, Clay-faced Orphan of Liberty. You would not have been brought to me if it was not your fate to learn the mishubi."

And that is how it was, for the coming months and years. At the beginning of every summer, and one weekend a month during the school year, Wally would rise at 4:30 A.M. from the futon he shared with Tamika in Kowloon, make his way across the ferry, hop on the boat (eventually, hovercraft) to Macau, dine on noodles for breakfast on board, and then find Mai-Pei for his intense training in the mysterious ways of mishubi.

Or, more precisely, Mai-Pei would find him. As with their very first meeting, Wally's instructions were never more specific than the ones Tamika had relayed to him that first, arduous summer: "Go to the front of the old Portugese cathedral, stand next to the old cannon, look out upon the water, clear your mind of all thoughts besides silt in a riverbed, then imagine your arms are pelicans. Before the next bell sounds, Mai-Pei shall be there."

And so he was - every time.

But all that was unimaginably far off to 12-year-old Wally Hedge as he listened to Mai-Pei begin to recount the secret history of mishubi, his mind equal parts empty vessel thirsting for knowledge, and seething cauldron burning with a desire for revenge, revenge for what had been done to his parents not one year earlier.

As Mai-Pei demonstrated the mishubi state of mind, presently Wally burst out: "Will it help me kill my enemies?"

Mai-Pei snapped the birch twig in two, each part somehow bursting into flames as he did, at which point, with one smooth motion of both arms, he briskly flung the two flaming rods past Wally's head. They made a whizzing sound as they whipped past his eardrums and settled in the red dust behind him.

"The first thing you must understand about mishubi", Mai-Pei began slowly with deep breaths, "is that, while it gives great power, legend says it was created by The Dancing Yellow Trickster. In result it can be used for either good or evil, and the Trickster's Joke says that those who are with the mishubi will not always be able to tell one from the other."

Wally smiled and sat in the lotus position, dead center of the old abandoned cathedral that was their training ground. "Tell me more, Mai-Pei...."

Far off in the distance, the steady noise of the casino Pai Gow games abated for just a moment, and then continued.

Results

2005-01-26T15:55:00.000-05:00

Kissinger and Schultz know what they're talking about. So does Wretchard.

You might think that the latter contradicts the former on a certain point. Superficially, I can see how it would seem so, but only if you haven't thought it through.

You see, although they may look at the current situation from slightly different angles, what both have in common is a deep understanding of the appropriateness of the invasion of Iraq and ouster of the Hussein regime initiated by President Bush in the spring of 2003. This becomes more clear with every passing day.

Feedback

2005-01-23T13:57:00.000-05:00

I don't mind admitting that the feedback I have received about my novel excerpts has been extremely encouraging. If the level of interest represented by some of your electronic letters is any indication, then my agent - and his pessimistic, cynical attitude regarding the prospects for publication of The Realignment Crescendo - surely shall be eating crow. I confess, there were times when I was taken in by this man's supposed expert judgment, but reality (in the form of your encouraging notes) trumps theory and "expertise" every time. Thank God for that.

One thing that has caused no small amount of surprise to me: If your electronic letters are any indication, there is an as-yet-untapped reservoir of interest in some of the side characters of The Realignment Crescendo, that I had not foreseen. Rest assured that your interest shall not go unheeded. Although the novel is and must always remain primarily the story, background, evolution, influences, and heroism of its main character (and, my alter ego) P. Wallach Hedge - for, I don't mind saying, this was the very raison d'etre of the book's genesis - I concede it may indeed be advisable to add a few scenes here and there to flesh out some of the (as of now relatively minor) side characters such as Lorii Chambers, Zabe, and Tamika, each of whom seems to have piqued the interest of no small number of readers. I shall attempt to satisfy this demand; let it not be said that I am unheeding of my potential audience's concerns. Indeed, I now see how expanding upon some of these characters' roles (slightly) can help flesh out and contextualize the life and travails of P. Wallach Hedge.

Oh, one side note: I was a bit taken aback by the sheer amount, and - in some cases - bizarre nature of speculation regarding the side characters and who they may represent in real life. Is President Rex Magnusson really Ronald Reagan? Who is Gauchinsky? &c. Now, don't get me wrong, this is indeed a semi-autobiographical novel and so quite a few characters are actually thinly-disguised real people. All I want to say here is don't take every single character too literally: in a few cases, they are but composites. So, keep that in mind.

Novel Excerpt 3

2005-01-17T16:51:00.000-05:00

I fear the impression given by my previous excerpt may be that The Realignment Crescendo will focus mostly on the higher-ups in the Executive Branch. Although (by necessity) their movements and machinations are indeed intermittently tracked for plot purposes, I assure you, that is not the main thrust of the novel. The epic sweep of the story is such that it is difficult to encapsulate, but in brief it is, in part, simply a biography of a humble, patriotic American. At least, that is how I like to think of it.

To illustrate this let me jump ahead to Part 2, Maelstrom of Wills, and excerpt a passage which is, as we encounter it, an opium-induced flashback to Hedge's early childhood. (As in many other places in the novel, I have employed the literary technique of time-shifting; I trust this shall not be too confusing to the reader.) In addition to re-emphasizing who is really at the center of this tale, this excerpt should, I think, give you a better idea of Hedge's origins and upbringing.

"Wahry, keep quiet", whispered Tamika resolutely. "I won't ret them kihr you but you must hehrp me." She was still tightly clutching the shotgun, which unseen by Wally she had already deftly reloaded.

Wally was pale. He nodded robotically and followed her down the alley, away from the stonefaced men - "M-G-B", his father had enigmatically spelled out with his dying breath - who had just ruthlessly gunned down the only family Wally Hedge had ever known moments before, as Wally and Tamika watched from the garden where they had been playing. If she hadn't blasted one of the killers, the squat one, they too would probably be dead.

He was shocked to realize that his part-time nanny was all he had now. It would not be the first shock he would experience in the coming days. Who would have guessed that this shy, slight girl with downcast eyes and long straight hair, who had come from Japan only three years ago to live with them, would prove to be the thin thread upon which little P. Wallach Hedge's future, and indeed his very life, now hung?

Tamika's arrival by ship had been the culmination of some mysterious pact Father claimed to have made during the war with a certain Jap soldier - a now-dead Jap soldier. That, at least, is all Eddie could ever bring himself to say by way of explanation. Mother had initially protested, but deep down she understood the man she married, and his sense of honor. Edwin Hedge, Jr. was never one to go back on a promise. Tamika, sixteen when she arrived and already a burgeoning beauty, was welcomed, if uneasily, into the Hedge household. Quickly and with a grateful quietude she set about doing her part in tending to little Wally - then but eight years old - tacitly providing her with a helping-hand, that Althea came to welcome and trust. Wally was delighted and mystified by the lithe alien girl. When they were alone, she would (for he had easily picked up a bit of the Jap language from her) fill his head with strange and wonderful tales of her homeland. Her eyes spoke of deeper sadness, never spoken of. Days together were like flowers.

Now, Wally struggled mightily to keep up with the graceful, gazelle-like figure of Tamika as she sprinted stealthily down the dimly-lit back streets to escape the killers.

"Slow down", Wally panted at her. "Where are we going? Why don't we go to the.. th-the police?"

Tamika stopped, turned around and slapped him jarringly in the face. In a controlled hush: "No pohrice! Pohrice on their side. You understand? But I know where go. I know peopre help. We get out. You forrow."

And then she turned, and ran. Wally gave in. It was her or nothing, he decided then and there. He let her lead, he let her take charge. She took him that night into a dizzying underworld of secret knocks, of smoke-filled gambling dens. At one point, for an agonizing hour or so, Tamika left him alone in a diner as she went to meet with some important "friend"; when she came back she looked disheveled, but her eyes told Wally that she had want she wanted: "We have ticket now."

Four days later they were in a junk in Hong Kong harbour, a temporary way-station before word could be gotten to them of the new living quarters, and identities, that had been mysteriously (to Wally) arranged for them somewhere in Kowloon. America - picket fences, Brooklyn Dodgers, soda fountains, cowboy movies - now, all was just a distant, hazy dream for Wally - Wallach - Hedge. In the months and years that were to follow, Tamika would be his only guardian as well as his teacher: instructing or arranging for his instruction in languages, history, culture; in survival skills, martial arts. Although neither of them could possibly know it now, after a certain point, she would even instruct him in the arts of love.

But all of that was still to come. For now, on this day in 1949, eleven year old Wallach Hedge gazed out at the tall buildings beyond the array of staccato lines created by Oriental shipwrights that was traced out by countless ships, and thought only of three letters whose meaning he could merely guess at for now: M-G-B. He would not fail to notice - or be fooled - when the organization in question altered its name to KGB. Nor would he be forget what those bastards had done to Edwin and Althea Hedge - and consequently to his childhood.

Back In Leningrad

2005-01-17T11:38:00.000-05:00

It will always be Leningrad to me. Call me old-fashioned.

Of course, some things have changed. But not everything, I thought, as I first stepped off the train a couple days ago and was greeted almost immediately by protesting pensioners, red flags. Perhaps they seek more humble goals - free transport rather than world domination - but if you ask me, the soul remains the same. For good, and ill.

One thing that has changed, on the other hand, is the once-vaunted KGB. I assure you, the name-change is not merely cosmetic; these people are but a shell of what they once were. In one small protesting crowd alone I spotted three obvious agents provocateurs. They're getting downright sloppy.

I shall be operating here for an unspecified period of time. Publication of entries to my electronic journal could possibly continue, facilitated by small, seemingly semi-illegal establishments for connecting to the global network. Staffed by 19-year-old worldly-wise vixens happy to bring you coffee but who will charge extra for milk, patronized by Westerners with too much money and too little concern for how easily they will be robbed (I have witnessed two robberies already - in one amusing case, by a policeman), these dark corners of Leningrad are more comfortable than they have any right to be.

Of special interest for me are the open-air markets for ex-Soviet army paraphernalia. Canteens and patches and medals, all up for sale to spoiled Westerners. The empire, hollowed out at last, a garage sale on the lawn. There were times when I never thought I'd see that, and it is almost enough to bring a tear to this old man's eye. If only so and so could still be here to see it, I think to myself - but enough.

Wish me luck, then, as I try to survive an indefinite stay in a land without living rooms and which has a million kinds of "salad", none of them involving either lettuce or Jello. Clearly, I am not in Kansas anymore.

Novel Excerpt 2

2005-01-13T16:26:00.000-05:00

The following scene actually comes earlier in Black Marbles White Marbles than the previous excerpt. (I see now that I may have jumped the gun and confused readers by getting into the action too quickly.) I've chosen a passage which helps introduce some of the major players and political maneuverings behind the scenes, with perhaps even some foreshadowing of who might be the - oh, but I don't want to give away too much. Enjoy.

Magnusson cautiously surveyed the room. To his right (as reckoned by bisecting the oval) sat respectively his NSA chief (whose name always escaped him - Rex usually just called him "Spike"), the CIA director K.C. Williams, his chief counsel Kessler, and Lorii Chambers, his willowy young Secretary of State, who was nervously bouncing her left leg on top of her right. None of them knew exactly why they had been summoned here.

To his left, as always, perched on his cushioned chair guardingly like a gargoyle, was stationed his top political advisor, Mark Alexander Gauchinsky, who perplexingly (to Rex) insisted on being called "Sasha". Gauchinsky, who had suddenly arranged for this meeting, sat informally with his left leg up on the ottoman, a pose he often, citing leg cramps, reflexively adopted, one which sometimes perturbed Magnusson for reasons he could not quite put his finger on.

President Reginald (Rex) Magnusson gazed distractedly out the window, onto the lawn. Sasha had been strangely insistent on this meeting, but Magnusson knew not why. All he knew was that it had something to do with that mess in Cleveland this morning, and that his morning workout had been interrupted. It had been an uneventful Presidency thus far for the former Navy SEAL.

"Mr. President, sir, it's good to see you", initiated Lorii, hesitatingly. "I have a nine o'clock, can we make this fast?" hurriedly piped in Spike from over the screen of his laptop, precariously poised atop his knees as always. The President grudgingly managed a grunt of acknowledgment to both, yet to neither one in particular. He idly smoothed his graying hair and turned back to the window. The day was sunny out. It was morning.

Gauchinsky, opportunistically taking his cue, began. "Mr. President, thank you for agreeing to this meeting on such short notice. Before we begin...."

"Let me guess", blasted K.C. impatiently, "this has to do with that mess in Cleveland this morning, Mark." Gauchinsky discreetly shot K.C. an angry look at that but said nothing.

"Ohh, I heard about that on CNN. It was awful, just awful", chimed in Lorii, concerned.

"Yes Miss Chambers; but, well, we'll get to that", Gauchinsky continued curtly. "As I'm sure Director Williams has already learned through his channels - and perhaps your people, too, er, 'Spike', have pieced this together -" (quickly nodding a glance at the NSA Chief), "the tragic events in Cleveland this morning were not exactly as they seem. Not as they are being portrayed in the press, I should say. We - the President and I - have found it necessary to conceal the true nature of what has taken place from the public, for the time being." At that, Kessler, who like a recessive gene had been a previously dormant factor in this meeting, opened his notebook and started furiously scrawling notes.

Meanwhile the President's interest suddenly perked up. What was Sasha up to? This wasn't like him. But what did he know about his political advisor, really? Well, no matter; Sasha had loyally served him well thus far. He was indispensable; Magnusson knew that he likely would not have been elected without him. Gauchinsky was an unceasingly-rising star - at Yale, then in journalism, then rising through the ranks at State, Council on Foreign Relations, all that he touched seemingly turning to gold - no, Magnusson trusted M. Alexander Gauchinsky implicitly. After all, Sasha had not thus far given him any reason not to.

"But before I get into that" Gauchinsky had continued briskly, "I'd like to ask Director Williams a few questions." K.C. Williams, a no-nonsense Korea vet, eyed Gauchinsky impassively, neither consenting nor refusing. Gauchinsky returned the glare, asking directly: "What can you tell us about an ongoing operation CIA has in Ankara?"

The hair stood up on the back of K.C. Williams's thick, leathery neck. How on earth...?

"In particular, Director Williams, I understand that this operation involves a particular deep-cover operative by the name of" - here, Gauchinsky peered idly at a file that had somehow materialized in his lap - "Hedge."

The name meant something to Magnusson; he wasn't quite sure what.

"Wallach Hedge, that is, if I'm not mistaken. First initial P. I am very interested to know the background and availability of this man, if he indeed exists. Trust me when I say that it may very well be highly relevant to the situation at hand."

K.C. said nothing. Spike closed his laptop. As Lorii looked, wide-eyed, alternatingly from one end of the room to another, President Rex Magnusson reluctantly picked up a nondescript phone on the side of his desk and spoke softly into it: "Margie, you're going to have to push back a few appointments; oh, and tell my daughter Melanie that lunch will have to wait."

Outside, over Washington D.C., a small hazy cloud drifted effortlessly in front of the sun.

A Novel Excerpt

2005-01-11T11:23:00.000-05:00

I've been working a bit more on my unpublished novel, using whatever downtime I may have at my disposal. My agent (with whom I have yet to establish a formal business relationship, but who takes great liberties to give me orders nevertheless) advises that it "needs editing"; frustratingly to me, since he is loathe to elaborate on just what that editing might consist of. Going behind his back a bit, I've decided that (for a lark) it might be interesting to publish excerpts of it for free to my electronic journal, to see what interest this might spark and comments this might engender. Keep in mind that this is still pretty rough, but the basic plot outlines are nevertheless in place and have been for some time. So critique if you must, but be merciful.

The following excerpt is a key scene from Black Marbles White Marbles, Part 1 of The Realignment Crescendo.

Hedge instantaneously, sharply kicked in the door with one swift, mantis-like motion of his wiry frame. Focusing his mind with his Buddhist training, his ears carefully and directionally attuned like a shortwave radio to frequencies that said "enemy", he strode resolutely through the ensuing explosion of splinters, crossing the threshold confidently and with expectation, like a newlywed couple - him and his MP5. This was it. This was the room in which he would find his answers.

Suddenly a voice called wryly out from the half-lit haze: "Greetings, Mr. Hedge. I've been expecting you." The voice was tinged with madness.

This had to be him. The arch-terrorist leader behind the Cleveland bloodbath, and the La Jolla cliffs operation, and the EMP attacks. The man behind the file, in the flesh. The flesh he knew to be stitched and burned and grafted almost beyond recognition.

Here, in this room, he would finally meet face to face with Zabe. What was left of that face, anyway.

"My, you work slowly, Mr. Hedge. Did I not leave enough bread-crumbs for you?" the menacing voice continued darkly. "Perhaps I overestimated you."

"The only thing you've overestimated, Mr. Zabe, is your lifespan. It's over. There's no way out, and your background says you're smart enough to know it", Hedge rattled off dryly, like a medical assistant calling a patient in for his appointment. Only, this appointment was with the Grim Reaper - the sooner, the better.

"Tsk tsk tsk. Is that the best you can do? I heard better from your predecessor. You didn't really expect me to sit here with no escape plan, did you? Now, Mr. Hedge. Let's dispense with the cops-and-robbers game. It grows tiresome. Check your jacket pocket, if you will."

Zabe's voice was without fear. After briefly processing the declaration, Hedge's instincts told him quickly that he wasn't bluffing. Keeping his alert eyes darting around the still-hazy room, and the MP5 at the ready, he lightly patted his overcoat on both sides, feeling his trusty Desert Eagle in its usual place on the right side... but an unfamiliar lump on the left. Reaching in gingerly, he pulled out what appeared to be a mobile phone. It was one of those flip-open deals, like Hedge had worked with in Ankara. Only when he flipped it open, he saw a tiny screen for showing photographs.

In the photograph on the screen, bound and gagged, was Melanie. Hedge's pupils shrank, but he performed two quick inhales to keep his nerves sharp. This wasn't part of the plan, but to Hedge's way of thinking, plans were made to be violated. Repeatedly.

Death Squad, Schmeath Squad

2005-01-10T19:42:00.000-05:00

I tell you, I have long been perplexed by the taint which attaches to the (to my view rather banal) phrase "death squads". I didn't understand the hubbub then and I don't understand it now.

Is it the word "squad"? Folks, when you hear "squad", just think "team". It's really just a synonym. Where is the sinister part?

As for the "death" part, well I can see that I guess, but I have to be honest with you, that's really a misnomer. Any good operative will tell you that the real value in going this route has more to do with things like intimidation and control, coalition making and breaking, massaging the dialectic. Basically, at root you get a nice little force multiplier out of the deal, that's all. The amount of actual death caused by these guys... (and by the way, how do you think they like just being written off and demonized as "death squads"? It's thankless work these grunts do, it really is. Many of them have families too, you know.) ... Well anyway, it's just (usually) way overblown. Statistically speaking, even at our peak usage of the strategy, we didn't cause more than... oh but I don't want to bore you with numbers. Just take my word for it. Mountains out of molehills, really.

It's like the man said: Politics by other means. To you folks who chafe at the very mention of "death squads", let me ask you: Do you find your local City Council sinister? If not, why not? What if I were to call it an "Ordinance Squad"? Sounds worse, doesn't it? See my point yet about the slick manipulation of your emotions with propagandistic terminology?

I'll say it again: Politics. by. other. means.

Miss

2005-01-09T09:59:00.000-05:00

If this sort of thing makes you squeamish, Miss, then may I suggest you head on back to Finishing School. That's right, you go on ahead now, Miss, back to the world of cotillions and debutante balls. Will he give you a corsage? Does that dress make you look fat? Oh my look at her, she wears too much makeup. And remember, a book on the head helps the posture.

I don't really care, but stick to whatever soothes your delicate constitution, Miss. Just as long as you leave the warfare and threats of warfare to the big boys. That's a good girl.

On Torture

2005-01-06T14:21:00.000-05:00

I must say the recent resurfacing of the so-called "torture" issue in the public square has been something of an education for me. I find it rather embarrassing, actually. To air these discussions in public, I mean.

And the fact that there exist actual memos - in writing - to be summoned and pored over, and grandstanded by the perfumed princes in Congress? Look, call me old-fashioned, but this whole episode is just strangely foreign to me. In my day, they didn't want to know, and we didn't want to tell them. Seems to me everyone was happier that way and things functioned more smoothly anyway.

Clearly, I have a lot of catching up to do.

My Prolonged Absence

2005-01-05T14:20:00.000-05:00

Readers will have noticed my prolonged absence from this electronic journal. As neither explanation nor apology is warranted, none shall be offered. But frankly you should know that by now, and I am aghast that this paragraph was even necessary.

Events have, as they always do, proceeded apace. In the coming weeks and months and years, as these events play themselves out, it will become more and more clear that the invasion of Iraq initiated by President Bush in the spring of 2003 was the entirely appropriate course of action. As is being and shall be chronicled here in this space.

If war is a drama writ large - for what is war, if not a drama, whose scenario is scrawled in blood? - then we are still in one of the early acts. And you, my clamoring little readers, are the groundlings, whistling like banshees, picking scraps off the floor, and making a ruckus. It has always been thus.

The job of the dramatist - and what is someone like Rummy, if not a master dramatist? - is to know when to play to the groundlings' emotions... and when to ignore them as so much ignorant prattle. With the election in Iraq coming up later this month, now is such a time. And that is all the explanation you should need for all your momentary fleeting concerns, frankly, whatever they may be. And I can only imagine.

What the chattering classes so comically fail to understand is that the elections are not about choosing class president or most popular or whatever they recall from their grammar schooling, but are simply another tool in our arsenal. After all, what is an election, anyway, if not a continuance of war? But war done subtly, slyly, surgically and with anesthetics, on a patient only half conscious. For if war is the consummation then elections are the seduction, the sidelong glance, the erotic dance fraught with undertones and overtones. The smell of a rose, the pop of a cork.

Not that I expect most of you to understand any of this. Just take my word for it.

Sparse Publication

2004-12-21T13:19:00.000-05:00

N.B.: Publication of electronic-journal entries has been sparse in frequency in the recent past.

I cannot predict one way or the other whether this relatively low frequency will increase in the immediate future.

I do have some wet-work to do soon, I'm afraid, so that may complicate matters.

Info and Disinfo

2004-12-14T19:53:00.000-05:00

Folks, if you want to read something which made me guffaw like a hyena, trek on over here (echoing this). This pointyhead - if he's serious, that is (see below) - doesn't have a clue as to how these things work. I actually spilled my sake on my spats when I first read this risible fever dream.

Now don't get me wrong, these guys Omar and Ali, oh they may well be our assets all right. I'm not saying there's not potential there. They certainly seem like the type. I could perhaps have whipped up some use for them in my day. But this is not the way they would be handled. Just trust me here. The setup, it's all wrong.

Or if it is a Company deal, I'd like to have - to say the least - a little chat with the case officer and ask him just what in Sam Hill he thinks he's accomplishing, if anything. Playing sugar daddy to a couple of "bloggers"? Granted, the fact that they're brothers, that's a bonus. Like I said, there's something there. But let's get real: dental students who preach to a tiny, self-selected choir in the boondocks of the internet? What in hell kind of propaganda campaign is that? Is this what they're teaching at Langley nowadays? (If so, it's no wonder the Russkies got Saddam's cache over the border, right under our noses. But I digress.)

Now look. I've been out of the loop for a while, I realize, but I just don't think things have sunk that low.

Frankly, this Cole guy, he seems more like the your classic run-of-the-mill agent, and a useful one at that, what with the "liberal" cover. (This cover is so ancient and hackneyed it should be seen through by the smallest schoolchild by now, but, much to my ongoing amazement, it's usually still enough to do the trick. As they say, nobody ever went broke underestimating.... ah, but I digress.) Anyway, cover or no, a tenured piled-high-and-deeper publicly posting a theory this flat-out stupid for everyone to read, it's almost got to be disinfo, planted discreetly with a pliable, seldom-used agent. (Now that I think on it, I even think I know whose handiwork this might be, doggone it! Yeah, I know just the guy. It's him or his group anyway.)

But forgive me if I just roll my eyes. If you're really concerned, Joe-College Idealist, about this type of thing, this oh-so-evil taint of "CIA Money" (and whose money is preferable, you should be asking yourself? Or is that type of sober ratiocination too much to ask?), Mr. Cole would surely be the one to keep an eye on, by this observer's lights. So go ahead, all you would-be Hardy Boys, knock yourself out. I'll even get you started: start by looking at his funding - where does he get his grants? Another biggie: what conferences has he spoken at, and are there any where someone may have, discreetly, approached him and made the initial contact? Extrapolate, and use your common sense. But this is basic, basic stuff here, my friends. I'm bored just talking about it.

As for the Iraqi brothers who are supposedly at the center of this silly tale, so much of that kind of nonsense would be swatted down immediately if people would just use their brains for a change and see through this obvious disinfo for what it really is. The next question is, given our (I think now quite safe) assumption that this is all misdirection, what's it a setup for? What's it leading up to? I'll be making a few calls but I can't promise any answers. You know how these things are, people all guard their little domains jealously, like trolls under bridges.

All of which amounts to a big dog-and-pony masquerade that isn't even necessary, if you ask me. After all, most of you lot, you don't see the obvious even when it's staring you in the face, do you? "CIA agent bloggers" my arse, you Oprah-addled rubes wouldn't even recognize a CIA agent even if one rose from the Arkansas backwoods to the Presidency. What's that? I've shattered your fragile world-views, pulverized everything you thought you knew? I'll believe it when you plebes stop tuning in to Dr. Phil every night like little mind-numbed drones seeking instructions from the queen bee, and start using your own brains for a change.

I'm not holding my breath, by any means.

Those who know that they are profound strive for clarity. Those who would like to seem profound to the crowd strive for obscurity. For the crowd believes that if it cannot see to the bottom of something it must be profound. It is so timid and dislikes going into the water. -Nietzsche

To Moms

2004-12-13T13:31:00.000-05:00

About this puerile armor brouhaha currently distracting our once-great nation. My gut feeling, first of all, is to state the following and be done with it:

Listen, Mom, if you wanted your precious child to be at all times ensconced in concentric circles of impenetrable material, Mom, you probably should have squeezed your knees together for a change, kept him inside, stayed away from the night clubs, and hoped for the best. Nevertheless, somehow, against all the odds apparently, your little moppet not only got squeezed out, but has turned into an actual man, Mom. Not just a man, but a soldier. If this is not what you wanted for your little page boy then you should have done your darnedest to raise yourself a pooftah, or perhaps a girl. I assume you already tried this with Barbie dolls, yoga classes, sensitivity training, gender-neutral language instruction, and the like. But your efforts failed, the clock can't be turned back, instead of opening an art exhibit little Austin or Tyler has gone and joined up, and so I can't help you. No one can, not even Mother Oprah. As an outlet for your time-displaced, guilt-driven feelings of better-late-than-never coddle-nurturing, I suggest getting yourself a poodle. You can place a ribbon on it. A pink one. It would be ever so pretty.

However, there is more to this than fending off the fretting jibes of navel-gazing baby boomer once-absentee, now-politically-"active", suddenly-all-too-caring, "parents". It goes to the heart of what it means to fight a guerilla insurgency. (Although the following is a remedial lesson evidently much needed in our society, I shall not pretend that anything I write here was not anticipated long ago by Sun Tzu.)

When fighting a guerilla insurgency, the name of the game is dissipation. Do they concentrate their efforts, or do they thin and stretch them in pointless random ineffectual snipes against lines and convoys? Do we want command centers overrun or do we want silly "cells" of losers plotting for a week just to blow up a couple guys with a roadside bomb? I vote the latter.

Sound callous? Sorry, Mom, but that is the cold hard calculation of war. Kissinger knew this.

Following this (inevitable, irrevocable) logic, there is such a thing as over-armoring. If soldiers become invincible knights atop their HUM-V horses, guess where the uprising peasantry will turn next? That's right: the castle.

It's a numbers game from that point.

I assure you that Rummy knows all of this, even if you don't. Mom.

The Current State of Education

2004-12-08T19:55:00.000-05:00

As my readers will have inferred, my business trip has kept me away from posting to this web journal rather longer than was expected. I hadn't had any idea of the state things were in.

On a side note which is at once lighter and more depressing, here at the Motel my room is equipped with a cable-fed television, so that during my solitary moments of repose, I have had a chance to catch up on my television viewing. (I have not had a television at the house since I threw out the dusty old black-and-white in 1981. Can't say as I've missed the idiot box.)

Virtually everything I have seen is pure rubbish, of course - much of it utterly incomprehensible, in fact. But by far the most offensive and shocking program I chanced to look at was, evidently, a "60 Minutes" style interview/"television magazine" program which features hosts of steadily increasing stupidity. It is almost as if the stupidity is by design - it's that bad. I am not sure if "60 Minutes" is still on, and I can't say as though I was ever too impressed by that lot (if only for certain very specific reasons I cannot go into here), but if this is the type of thing which is replacing it, it is clearly a significant step down. Unforunately, I did not catch the name of the program, but I shall undertake to describe it to you on the off chance that you, being more familiar with popular culture I presume, will recognize it by its description, so that you will know to steer clear.

One of the hosts appears to be an idiot of Soviet extraction (ex-Soviet, should I say? I'll never get used to that), Kazakh perhaps if the accent is any indication, and (unsurprisingly) he indeed has their usual puerile obsession with sex and bodily functions. Don't get me wrong, I have worked with many of his type and they can be salt of the earth and good drinking fellows, but never in a million years did I imagine one of these moral infants would be handed a microphone and placed in front of a camera for Joe and Jane America to watch. The man is an embarrassment to his nation, but then again, what on earth could they have expected? Whoever decided that it was a good idea to expose unsuspecting Americans to the true nature of those people needs to be fired. On some things, at least until these silly, childish ex-Soviet mafia states learn to civilize themselves a bit more, Americans are better kept ignorant - trust me.

Another host appears to be simply, pardon my French, a vapid airheaded pooftah. The segment found him at some sort of fashion show, thus failed to hold my interest and I switched stations to one which continually displayed the current status of the weather.

The third host in the next and final segment I saw, however, left me shaking my head in disbelief. He appears to be, by my estimation, a young man from the England slums with apparently no education, and who speaks barely a word of coherent English. He dresses abominably - at first glance I had judged him to be wearing rain gear of some sort. And he embarrasses himself in literally every interview. I shall not even attempt to record the litany of ridiculous, stupid, simple, vulgar, idiotic, and jaw-droppingly off-point questions and remarks he made to a parade of public figures who, I was gratified and surprised to note, for the most part made every effort to indulge him and be patient with his slow and moronic nature.

Can anyone apprise me as to the name of this show and who is behind it? If this is representative of the state of popular television programming, and if these hosts are any indication as to the education of our younger generations, I weep for the future. East, West, Christendom, Islam, terrorism, oil assets - it won't matter. We're all doomed.

They still fall for it, every time

2004-12-08T19:51:00.000-05:00

For the record, this is textbook disinfo. I even think I know whose handiwork it is, too. The press just soaks it up.

Nothing changes.

Worth Your Look

2004-12-02T15:37:00.000-05:00

James Bowman explains why, in point of fact, the recent much publicized brawl involving basketballer Ron Artest was a demonstration of honor on the part of Mr. Artest, and not, as is popularly supposed, a lack thereof.

Frankly, that's not something I expect many of you to understand, however. Most of you wouldn't know honor if it were to eviscerate you with a garden trowel.

Me, My Writing, My Thinking, and You

2004-11-29T13:44:00.000-05:00

I noticed a few inquiries in comments as to my whereabouts and sparse posting as of late. These inquiries are misplaced and inapt. Let me explain something.

I write for me, not for you. When I compose my posts, I am doing so at my pleasure and at my leisure. I feel at liberty to compose long posts, short posts, or no posts at all, at any pace which I care to choose. I also feel at liberty to alter that pace, alter the length of my posts, at will. You, the reader, are not a variable in this equation. You are not a presence. You are literally as nothing. I am content that you are reading the posts; I tolerate your reading them, in other words. Nothing more.

I may give you warning when where will be light posting. Then again, I may not. If I do so, it will be because doing so pleases me, and for no other reason. I reserve the right to make no posts for a year and a half with no warning or explanation at all. Then again I reserve the right to make 50 posts in the span of an hour. Either one.

Let me tell you why I don't post. I don't post because I have you, the readers, to please. Let me tell you why I do post. I post because thoughts come to me and I must get them down. Or for some other reason which is related to me, my internal thoughts, my desires, my needs. The important thing to keep in mind is that it has nothing whatever to do with you. You are an artifact of the publishing procedure; in other words, you exist (as my readers) because I happened to publish these things that I typed. If I hadn't done so, you would not exist (as such).

This all comes from the fact that I have a rather unique and different way of thinking, which may be - and probably is - unfamiliar to you. The best way to explain it is to simply say that, for many years, perhaps in some cases more years than many of you have been alive, I worked as - for all intents and purposes, let's call it - an Analyst.

Other Analysts instinctively know what I'm talking about, but many of you may not. As an Analyst, part of what I do - and what I believe is an integral part of my very personality - is to incorporate and assess large amounts of data, and make a macroscopic judgment of that data. A summary, but more than that. A picture. A model. I tell the story of the data, to put it in words you may be able to understand.

How this occurs is by a brain process which is probably foreign to you unless you are also an Analyst. It is something that is nonlinear and holistic. It does not proceed from one step to the next, simply, in an ordered progression such as those of you in Computer Science may rely on. It is at least three (by some measures, four) levels of abstraction above that. The only way I can explain it is to say that when I am trying to, let's say, solve some "problem", my brain switches into an alternate mental state. It is, perhaps, similar to meditation - but more disciplined and intense. It takes a large amount of focus. (Afterwards, I am often exhausted. Tea helps.)

My brain in this state is perhaps interesting for you to ponder and attempt to understand. First of all, I have found (and this has been verified) that I have the ability to suppress the alpha waves, as in sleep. This allows me to focus more of my brain's energy on the beta waves which are necessary for the cognitive processing involved in analyzing. Interestingly, however, I have also found that part of this energy is diverted into theta waves, which are usually found only in children. So this may go some way towards explaining how I have been able to function as an Analyst for so long, with few ill effects.

When I set my mind to a problem, it works on it with little to no guidance or further input from me. This is difficult to explain and requires wisdom to understand. My brain has a mind of its own. I believe it transcends time, and perhaps to some extent space (as you can imagine, I attend to all new developments in string theory with some interest), to access the processing power it needs to finish its task. I have little control over when my brain will finish solving that problem either; it may happen while I am in the shower, or tuning my flamenco guitar, or pruning my bonsai. Something happens inside my brain, which I shall not attempt to describe but which I visualize as a phase transition and a fracture simultaneously, and suddenly the realization comes to me that I have a Solution.

Often it is at such times that I find it pleasurable to compose a post to this electronic journal and publish it.

So now you have, I think, a deeper understanding of both my motivation and of your place in the scheme of things. Please be advised accordingly.

By the way, in case you were wondering: Yes, it is precisely due to my skills as an Analyst that I was able to perceive that the invasion of Iraq initiated by President Bush in 2003 was an entirely appropriate act in the context of the circumstances present at the time.

Oh Boy

2004-11-23T14:26:00.000-05:00

Johann Hari wouldn't know a strong man, of strong will, if one bit him in the ass.

Bold Decisiveness in Conflict

2004-11-22T14:44:00.000-05:00

The meetings are going well, if slowly. Although at times tempers have flared, old alliances have been renewed and misunderstandings clarified. Unexpectedly, my presence has proved to be, if not essential, let us say pivotal. I cannot say much more; I trust you understand.

On an unrelated note, upon adjourning for the evening two nights ago I had a rather sour experience at a local dining establishment which put me in the mind of the genesis of our recent escalation of hostilities vis-a-vis Iraq. To better elucidate the intended parallels, I thought a side-by-side presentation of their essential aspects would be best, and have replicated the resulting table below. For the record, the name of the establishment was "Olive Garden", and I do not recommend that you patronize it if you are ever in the area.

	Iraq	Olive Garden
What is it?	A nation-state in the Middle East, bordering the Persian Gulf, between Iran and Kuwait. Formerly part of the Ottoman Empire.	A restaurant which purports to serve authentic Italian cuisine
Ultimate origin of conflict	August 1990 invasion of Kuwait	Poor service and food quality. Specifically: the restaurant was air conditioned to an obscenely cold temperature; it took four minutes for a waitress to acknowledge my existence; the menu was scanty at best and I recognized virtually nothing as being authentically Italian; children at the neighboring table were not properly chastened for the din they were creating, which was propagated and magnified by the restaurant's horrible sound-damping, especially the tile floors; the pasta was overcooked; and the "sausage" on the plate which I ordered - needing some meat after all that bread - was somehow nauseating even in the niggardly amounts in which it was dispensed.
Response	President George H.W. Bush assembled a UN-led coalition of nations to expel Iraq from Kuwait in January-February 1991	I made my grievances known to the waitress and specifically demanded that she serve me a new, proper plate of food at no additional charge. (Further, the soup was by this time cold and I demanded a new cup.)
Effect	Hussein was chastened and convinced to agree to a cease-fire, the terms of which involved demanding his disarmament, arranging for a blockade ("sanctions") to restrict his imports, and disallowing the movement of his forces in "no-fly zones" to the north and south.	The waitress was rather curt with me for the rest of the evening. She ultimately brought me a new plate of pasta with sausage, but I detected a smirk on her face as she turned to walk away. The new plate was of equally poor quality as the old.
Things come to a head	By the early 2000s, Hussein had corrupted the UN's "Oil for food" program thoroughly. He had preserved the seeds of his NBC weapons programs so that, even if they were not at the time proceeding in secret (an issue still under debate in some quarters - I know what my ex-colleagues think but, out of honor, we can agree to disagree), they could be easily resurrected at any point following the lifting of sanctions. He had employed propaganda, political pressure, and bribery to successfully build up a critical mass of political momentum opposed to continuing the sanctions against, and in favor of normalizing all relations with, Iraq. Finally, in September 2001 the bill for the cost of our "containment" strategy was collected upon; fanatics angered over the 1991 action against Iraq, and our troops' presence in Saudi Arabia - who were there wholly as part of "containment" of Iraq - attacked our home soil. (My colleagues like to call this "blowback"; although I do not care for the term, it will suffice.) This all served to illustrate that further "containment" was no longer in our interest, and that the standoff with Iraq must be resolved one way or the other in finite time.	Despite the clearly unacceptable resolution of my grievances, the waitress placed a bill on my table, apparently expecting me to pay for the shoddy service and food which I received.
Conflict is resolved, decisively	President George W. Bush obtains War Powers authorization from Congress, and following a failed sequence of brinksmanship and charges at the UN, leads a UN-independent coalition of nations to topple the Hussein regime	I made my dissatisfaction known in no uncertain terms to the waitress, to her manager, and to the chef whom - after a lengthy standoff - I caused to be summoned from the kitchen. (The chef's name was Enrique and he was clearly Mexican rather than Italian, which nobody but me seemed to find ironic.) Having said my ~~peace~~ piece [HT: Skor Grimm], I delivered the coup de grace by, after paying the bill, leaving the symbolic tip of one penny ($.01) on the table for Ori to ponder over and ruminate upon. It was the only way she would learn.

In both cases what we can observe is that, sometimes, it takes men of decisiveness to take the bold actions required to keep the world's bad actors in line. I hope the table format has been illustrative of this parallel structure which often arises in conflicts. (I expect tabular presentations to be a semi-regular component of this journal in the future.)

My Advice Is That You Steer Clear Of "Irate Savant"

2004-11-19T01:44:00.000-05:00

For you see, I know the type. All too well.

Folks like this, they're a sorry lot and a waste of your time.

Overrun

2004-11-18T20:21:00.000-05:00

As our boys streamed into Fallujah, incurring a rout, the jihadis did not stand a chance. Such is the ruthless logic of war. The prize of course would be Zarqawi. This prized has escaped us - for now, but, I wager, not for long. It is but a matter of minutes, days, months. Zarqawi kills those with whom he shares the tightening noose.

Second prize would be the headquarters. As every cat knows, there are no rats without a rathole. As of this publishing, that rathole has been found.

You have heard tell about the banality of evil. This is what they found in the jihadis' holy of holies. Portable computers. Korans. Notebooks. A sign on a wall reading "Al-Qaeda Organization"; although the text is in Arabic, it translates into the laconic joke of a Johnny Carson or a Steve Allen. Our enemy is opaque to us, and - with our technology, our night vision, our rock and roll music - we to it.

But we have the upper hand and the Arabs do not. Not by dint of innate superiority, mind you, but for reasons at once pedestrian and unromantic, and, one must grant in those midmorning hours between wakefulness and dreamworld, seemingly unfair: by our superior way of war. The cold, machine-like Western way of war devours all before it, cowards and heroes alike.

There is no longer any place for Sherif Ali ibn el Kharish today. Sherif Ali ibn el Kharish now either makes the full transition to Western politician, or gives way to a freckle faced recruit from Omaha, Nebraska named Brian, less than two years away from having scored the winning touchdown before his hometown fans, admiring, his girl bouncing on the sidelines, his preacher cheering along with the rest of them. Either that or Sherif Ali ibn el Kharish steps out from behind the movie role and reveals himself to have been Omar Sharif, play-acting all along. There is no fourth way.

You will hear in the days to come much talk - talk of Zarqawi, talk of that shadowy network "Al Qaeda", talk of prospects for the future, for Iraq, for elections, for the re-painting of schools, for strategy, for tactics, for logistics, for Iraq - but it is all so much noise. War is clarity. And there is no clarity like war. Words pale in comparison, insufficient to the task.

I think it better that in times like these
A poet keep his mouth shut, for in truth
We have no gift to set a statesman right;
He has had enough of meddling who can please
A young girl in the indolence of her youth,
Or an old man upon a winter's night.
--Yeats

A Test

2004-11-18T14:26:00.000-05:00

Having now completed my journey north (by train, naturally, for I detest airplanes for reasons best left undelved into), seeking rest & decompression I happened upon a pleasant if highly priced little coffee bar which goes by the whimsical name of "Starbuck's". In conversing with the young lass behind the counter, it came out that this establishment has made provisions enabling patrons to access the internet via their portable computer, provided it is sufficiently equipped. It proved that mine is, and so with the help of a young man named Ethan of Israeli Jewish extraction, I attempted the linkup, and sure enough, I was able to access my electronic mail and certain other, private, systems.

This post is merely a test of the capability of composing entries while connected via just such a linkup and then sending them to my web journal via electronic mail. If all goes well, the effect should be seamless to the reader, who, upon reading this, may surmise with satisfaction that the likelihood of my publishing entries from time to time while here in Virginia is rather high.

So far, I cannot but say that the linkup service provided here at "Starbuck's" is highly recommended. Having experienced the technology firsthand, I must say that I see big possibilities for this in the future.

And now, back to my java and my preparation. Traveling often makes me wax pensive, yet cautious. But most of all one wonders at the immensity of our vast land. As the historian recorded,

Men that have scant land measure by feet;
those that have more, by miles;
those that have much land, by parasangs;
and those who have great abundance of it, by schoeni.

The parasang is three and three quarters miles,
and the schoenus,
which is an Egyptian measure,
is twice that.

Publication of entries shall likely be less frequent in the near-term

2004-11-17T18:05:00.000-05:00

This journal entry is intended as an advisory that publication of entries to this journal shall likely be less frequent in the near-term.

I have been called away, out of town, to render some assistance to certain former colleagues of mine. To phrase it as specifically as I am able, they are having a bit of trouble with their new management. Oh, to be sure, I have been out of the game for a long while now, but all the same I do still keep my "finger" in a few pies here and there. This morning I received a call to join the aforementioned colleagues in a sort of emergency pow wow and strategy session, and so I shall go. Where I come from it's as simple as that.

I do apologize for the inability to state it less vaguely. Were the details known, some of my readers - who suffer from a pathetically shallow view of how the world functions, of where and how allegiances are formed - would no doubt be asking me, Hedge, why are you helping them?

I'll tell you why, son: Because of something called honor. That's why. I know this is not something that many of you are able to grasp, the concept of honor being an antiquated notion, but there you have it.

During the trip I expect I shall still have access to electronic mail, thus retaining the capability of journal publication, but in a somewhat limited capacity due to constraints on my time and person. Hence the need for this advisory.

Puerile Nonsense

2004-11-17T01:39:00.000-05:00

Not to state the obvious, but it's worth interjecting that the Spring 2003 invasion of Iraq initiated by President Bush was not an initiation of hostilities. It was a continuation of them. This mutual-masturbatory daydream we've all got going that prior to this oh so discontinuous geopolitical maneuver the relations between the US and Iraq were as like Huck & Jim or Lenny & George is puerile nonsense.

Ladies and fops, I hate to break it to you but laying incompetent siege to a country and setting up a sissy-boy bureaucrat's blockade ain't no game of pattycake once you get into it, and you can bet that despite the laundering opportunities this whole shell game afforded him, old Saddam wasn't a happy camper. You don't get to be the next Saladin by moving paper around. They don't respect that over there. That's for soft societies, like ours.

The Talk Of The Ladies' Luncheons

2004-11-16T18:08:00.000-05:00

I suppose it is inevitable that I should be remarking upon this. My remark consists of assigning all of you, at least the ones whose knees quake from having your delicate eyes exposed to such images, to go and find a dictionary, and seek out the entry for the word "war". Not later, NOW.

As a hint you will note that it comes somewhat after "walk" as in "walk in the park", but precedes "warmth" as in "the warmth of your mommy's breast". The latter of which is rendered impossible if not moot absent men of strong will and iron constitution who go into theater to do what men do. (Mohammetans have, shall we say, rather different plans for your mommy's breast, do you get my drift yet?)

Oh, but that doesn't stop the ladies from getting all a-flush in their drawing-rooms because one of our boys did his duty, now does it? "Oh Lordy be, my stars, I do declare, I didn't know that people could die in wa-arrs. I feel a spell comin' on." What a spectacle this is. What a sorry, soft lot we have become.

I'll bet Rommel never had to put up with this kind of dog and pony show.

I have commented elsewhere

2004-11-16T11:07:00.000-05:00

For those interested I have commented elsewhere. Find my name.

UPDATE: That site's cowardly owner is messing with posts, breaking my link. Just to go the site itself, and find my name in one of the comments sections.

UPDATE II: Perhaps this link shall not be broken. If not, find my name.

World of difference

2004-11-16T10:39:00.000-05:00

My mentor, who reads this journal and who I shall call simply "Edwin", has clued me in to a potential seeming incongruity. This is only his way of ribbing me, mind you, but he points out the irony that I - with my well-known (to him) disregard for the halls of academe - am now at the stage in my life when I do venture to teach the occasional community college class myself.

Hardy har, Edwin. Hardy har old man.

I hasten to reveal, then, lest it truly be an issue, that I took up lecturing only at the personal request of the college's provost, as a personal favor, for we were compatriots long ago in an ill-fated venture best left undescribed. But suffice it to say that if my readers cannot tell the difference between a gentleman itinerant lecturer doing so for pleasure, and a coddled Intellectual sucking on the lifetime emasculating teat that is Tenure, then we have a real problem, as I shall get nowhere with this journal.

Response to a comment 2

2004-11-16T10:10:00.000-05:00

Someone using the handle of "the UNPOPULIST" (I shall keep my feelings on populism to myself - suffice to say that it has its place) writes:

Welcome to blogging, and what is undoubtedly the most extreme blog-oddity of the moment, The Iraq War Was Wrong Blog. "Daisy the Lamb," is one of the alter egos of "the Proprietor" of that site, which he uses (you guessed it) to talk to himself in comments.

Consensus is, he's a satirist. A MAD one.

I take the time to explain this because I linked to you earlier today, and he reads the blog, so I think I'm how he found you.

It's childish stuff. Disregard.

I would express gratitude for the tip, but I am quite capable of policing my own reading myself, thank you very much. Further, your tip to disregard is not well taken.

In private childishness is best disregarded but in the public square, to which - sadly - even the mad satirist you speak of (if that's what he is) now has access because of technological advance, it must be met head-on, scolded, and disciplined by men of sufficient stature, knowledge, and experience. I assure you I am well aware of the consensus vis-a-vis the intent of the journal in question; I doubly assure you that it changes not my aim here one whit. Satirist or not, the person behind that site is spewing filth - yes, filth, every bit as toxic as the pornography so loved by our European brethren - and I for one have no intent to let it stand unchallenged or unopposed.

There is a war going on, as they say, and the sad truth is that we have a democracy, whose warfighting abilities are continually undermined by the morale-sapping yapping of postmodern "ironic" twaddle. If the young dance-hall-haunting layabouts too lazy or soft to volunteer for war were to entertain only each other with their oh so clever "irony", as they do with their homosexuality and their hashish, that would be one thing. But to place it on the world-wide network for all to see - including our weak-minded enemy foot-soldiers - is quite another.

The "irony" will be lost on such as our Arab Jidahi enemy, I assure you. The latter will take away from it only that we are, as a culture, profoundly unserious, which raises soft, flabby men. Although that is not so far from the truth, I would prefer them to know no more or less than that we mean business - and it is partially to this end that I have started up this public journal.

Good day.

Response to a comment

2004-11-16T01:03:00.000-05:00

Someone calling herself "daisythelamb" left a barely literate comment in my journal as follows:

P. Wallach Hedge: Hi greetings just wanted to drop by and tell you (seem to be badly informed) Iraq war was/is/will be wrong! You seem smart (saw lots of "collage" type words i.e. dictum, modality, fulcrum, ect) so why this stance (Iraq war right?)? Most of American intellegencia seems to agree with us (left)(Iraq war was wrong).
Off topic but, not sure why but, I am picture you as looking like Monopoly man? If true do'nt freak I sometimes have strange physic qualities.

Havea day,

To respond, Miss (or Mr. - you never know these days) daisythelamb,

I am of the mind that the pseudonyms we choose reveal something essential about ourselves. It is interesting, if not surprising, that yours combines the lamb - symbol of weakness and sacrifice - with the daisy. You're probably too young to remember this, but a frilly daisy was used to take down a guy we liked to call AuH2O. Probably the last major politician we've had who understood the true nature of power and approached public life with a sense of maturity. (I was never all that bowled over by Mr. Hollywood Bonzo myself.)

As for you and your intelligentsia, I have no truck with the type you mean. Ivory tower parasites with their cowardly Gramscian slow march, it's all so passive-aggressive, isn't it? Take your typical college professor. How can one even begin to respect such a man? The primary qualification of the intelligentsia is that they sit writing grant proposals all day, generously granting each other other peoples' money in an incestuous ourobouros. This is a world for phony sissies and chattering women; it almost by definition excludes anyone who knows anything about the world, who has experience with the physical, with moving things, lifting things, killing things.

You show me an intellectual who has lifted a gun, and I'll show you an ex-intellectual.

The real world, and its cold unforgiving realities, is for grownups, not teacher's pets who never stopped seeking their gold star and now live ensconced amongst a never-ending pre-arranged parade of nubile, 18 year old impressionable minds to worship them and their delicate egos. The so-called intelligentsia has nothing of interest to say about the real world, let alone Iraq, to answer your question.

As for how you choose to envision me, this I cannot control. It is in the nature of the written word that the reader must use his (or her) imagination, and will supply an apt or inapt image, as the case may be. This is true of the great literature - I am sure that I envision Huck Finn in a different, and more historically accurate, way from you - and it is true here as well. You probably intend the Monopoly-man image to be a derogatory one, but I assure you I consider it a compliment. The Monopoly-man is actually a perfectly respectable, if forgotten, American archetype, a symbol of a time when the business of America was business and men who knew this could make a name for themselves if they worked hard.

Now it's a world for day-care ninnies and "sensitive" latte drinking emasculating Mr. Moms who spend more time behind the stroller than the lawnmower. To complete the analogy therefore I suppose I shall imagine you, Miss Daisythelamb, as the thimble.

Good day.

Morale in the age of Electronic Gossip

2004-11-15T20:46:00.000-05:00

For better or worse we live in the age of the internet which, to my mind, whatever benefits it may endow, has the primary effect of ennobling the proverbial "two housewives gossiping over the backyard fence" as a respectable pursuit. Twittering gossip about the leaders and the men they lead, and the actions they take, once relegated to puerile caricatures in dreary plays and puppet shows for peons, is now both realistic (in Technicolor!) and democratized. Anyone can do it.

This site is a perfect example. In days gone by wars were fought far from home, on blood-darkened battlefields. Men fought and they killed, or died, and then they came home in chariots or caskets, either way leaving the offending images on the battlefield and in their deep memories, nothing to gloat or swoon over, just visual flashes of crimson and char to be pondered over, but undiscussed, as one bounced one's grandchild on one's knee.

Now they are spread all over the globe for every coed and debutante to cluck over.

The effects on the morale of the West, that civilization which we defend, are there for all to see. Every photograph paraded around saps one more bit of our culture's manliness. Every TV news "Special Report" on casualties, or accidents, or prisoner abuses, increases our womanly timidity.

Combine this with the Arab Way Of War, a cowardly systematic alternation between provocation and special pleading, which is designed to prey directly upon that weakness, and you can see the problem.

I do not advocate direct censorship mind you, but any military planner or civilian leader needs to be aware of this problem. It's not going away. There are measures which can be taken of course but in the meantime, as citizens all you and I can do is turn up our noses.

Bio

2004-11-15T19:11:00.000-05:00

It is enough, I think, or should be, to say that I am a sixth-generation American and a patriot. I am partisan for my country and make no apologies. That being said, it is still my responsibility to show, to borrow the words of our Founding Fathers, a decent respect for the opinions of mankind in explicating our exertion of power, whenever we choose to do so, as we have done in this recent cycle. Indeed, this online journal shall partially fulfill my responsibility to that end.

Personally, I have achieved moderate to, some would say, high success in at least two business ventures, punctuated by an enjoyable if frustrating stint in the public service. In sum, some two decades of this were spent abroad, at times in places best left unsaid and better left to the mists of memory. Currently semi-retired and living in anonymity, apart from the occasional semester spent teaching at a lovely little community college which shall remain nameless. Seven years ago, largely on a whim, I took up flamenco guitar; it is a pleasing hobby, although I am largely self-taught. I am able to live comfortably, if not extravagantly; it is quiet that I value above all else now, and so fortunately my current situation, a modest home bordering on a beautiful little forest where I can walk my two dogs, requires that I visit the cattle-herd world of supermarkets, hardware stores, mega-malls and gasoline stations no more than perhaps three times per month. It is, all things considered, a good life.

The name under which I post is a nom de plume, as some will have already surmised, as I highly value my privacy. The name P. Wallach Hedge is just what it sounds like: a literary reference, albeit one you will not recognize, for it is the name of the protagonist of my (unpublished) semi-autobiographical political-espionage novel in three parts (The Realignment Crescendo: Black Marbles White Marbles (part 1), Maelstrom Of Wills (part 2), and The Beacon Atop The Eagle's Perch (part 3)), which was in fact largely completed last winter but for which I still seek a publishing arrangement which would entail acceptable remuneration and other considerations.

It is one of my guilty pleasures that I do still enjoy following baseball; something about the nature the game helps to mask the passage of time, remind me of what once was. It is by accident of where I was born and raised, rather than because of my current location, that I remain and always shall be a (now) San Francisco Giants fan. The deal was sealed ever since the day Bobby Richardson broke a young boy's heart.

I do venture down to take films from the local library now and then. I have a distinct preference for the classic films; call me a fuddy-duddy but something about the so-called "realism" of modern filmmaking, with its gratuitous violence and sexuality, leaves me cold. It warps the mind, for despite the moniker, it is not at all like the real thing. And actors today are like children posturing at recess. James Stewart: now for my money, there was an actor.

There are other things I could mention - the family that once was, the children who are grown now and seen mostly at Thanksgivings, glimpses of grandchildren in digital photographs attached to electronically mailed epistles. But, enough. These things are but trivia now. In this world there are large movements, and small. I am here to shed the small and discuss the large, as I lay out the groundwork, drawn from my experience and knowledge, for why the invasion of Iraq in 2003 was entirely appropriate to the circumstance.

If you're reading this - well, that's all you should need to know, frankly.

The Zeroth Casualty

2004-11-15T18:13:00.000-05:00

You've heard it said that Truth is the first casualty in any war. Not so.

Rather, I would put it another way: There is a zeroth casualty. It is that aversion to death which is common to all humans.

This aversion must be overcome by the men of strong will in order for war - that awful necessity - to run its course fruitfully. And that, in a nutshell, is what I mean by the zeroth casualty.

At some point it is inevitable that I will be addressing the recent much-discussed Economist study purporting to show that the war has engendered a median of some 100,000 excess deaths in Iraq. Now, I shall leave it to others, the bean-counters and engineers, to debunk the study's methodology, data analysis, et al. But let us be generous to the rabble of the Left and stipulate that, indeed, the excess-death ledger contains six figures.

The unstated corollary is that this fact values the war's cost out of the price range of decent society. This corollary is nonsense of course but it makes for a useful pillow for the weak to cry on.

Now, leaving aside Stalin's much-cited dictum regarding deaths and statistics, the question which citizens of strong character must ask themselves in response to such piffle is: What is the activation energy?

In chemistry, activation energy is (to give as plain an explication as possible) the energy required to overcome some group of chemicals' natural resistance to approaching each other or combining, in order that some desired fruitful reaction may proceed. In our case the reaction in question is the toppling of the Hussein regime and its control over the lucrative oil fields of Uruk, in a geopolitically significant pivot point for that region. The benefits of this reaction proceeding are transparent; the activation energy is raised by the presence - as exists in all Western societies - of the dove faction. The dove faction points at numbers - a hundred thousand, ten thousand, a thousand, it matters not - and proclaims them "too high". This is what they do. It has always been thus, as it shall ever be.

Ultimately, the question of whether we accede to that verdict is identical with the question of whether we shall be a strong society or a weak one, a long-lived nation or but a flicker in the evolution of human history. You must choose.

Test 2

2004-11-15T17:48:00.000-05:00

Another test; I am attempting another test in the same vein as before, only, using a slightly different modality. If all goes well the difference shall be transparent to the reader.

A Test

2004-11-15T17:41:00.000-05:00

This is a test post. As I travel often in my current
situation of semi-retirement, it will often prove
necessary for me to make posts via email. I am
endeavouring to verify the functionality of this option.

The Sincerest Form of Flattery

2004-11-15T16:31:00.000-05:00

Hello and welcome to my new endeavor.

This web journal, to which I expect to be publishing on a semi-regular basis, is intended as a vigorous defense and explication of the roots and justification for the invasion of Iraq which President Bush initiated in the Spring of 2003. In case you are interested, I originally conceived of this web journal as a direct response to this piece of logorrhea, so feel free to peruse that site at your leisure for background and motivation. It and its feebleminded adherents should give you some idea of the remedial instruction which, sadly, seems to be required among some of our fellow, often younger, citizens.

Mind you, I am well aware that there is a tentative but significant bare majority of opinion which considers "The Iraq War Was Wrong Blog" [sic], which is to where the above link points, to be a particularly manic form of parody. I have decided that nevertheless its sophistry and asininity cannot go unrefuted. Too often the World Wide Web fails to police its own information junk-piles. Consider me a trained specialist in this regard; the less said the better.

I shall attempt to replicate much of the aforementioned's blogroll as a jumping-off point, to put us on an even footing. The people on it need to be made aware that drivel will be met with fact, puerility with virtue. And irony, if that is the case, is something I consider to be fun & games for children and women. The world, unfortunately, contains threats which must be met with adult sobriety and singleness of purpose.

This is simply not the time or place to be polluting our worldwide information network with fatuous nonsense, for incredulous consumption by our enemies or their weak-minded foot soldiers.

Citizens, this is a fulcrum moment, an inflection point. We have just passed through a crossroads, a Presidential election of monumental import, and barely come out of it with our national soul unscathed. But the road ahead is precarious. As we make the journey together then, it is crucial for morale and unity to remind ourselves of one thing:

The 2003 invasion of Iraq was the proper and appropriate course of action.

I expect to be expounding upon this point in future posts.