SADDAM'S PSY-OPS:
SADDAM PUTS U.S. SOLDER UNIFORMS ON STRAY DOGS AND CATS
You may have read that tyrannical Iraqi dictator Saddam Hussein purchased U.S. military uniforms to play some of his dirty tricks.
All true. What they didn't tell you was that he ordered them doggy-size! These tot-sized Army and Marine camouflage-patterned jackets, pants, and little caps were for the stray dogs and cats of Baghdad. After dressing up the unlucky pooches, his psy-ops units treated them to a "MARTYR'S LAST MEAL" of sheep bones and grilled chicken.
Then they were herded into the windowless secret police trucks usually used for political prisoners on their way to Saddam's private torture cells.
After releasing the dogs and cats throughout residential Baghdad, at least a dozen pick-up trucks with loudspeakers mounted on top traveled through the streets blaring the message to watch out for U.S. devils who can morph themselves into dogs and cats.
Poor dogs and cats! Imagine the impact on the citizens of Baghdad who strongly believe in demons -- so much so that you'll always find that they place charms and amulets in their homes to protect themselves against the "evil eye." Suffice it to say that the little uniformed dogs and cats met a grisly end. In fact, a few of the pint-sized jackets were spied, blood-stained and nailed to front doors, accompanied by an ear, paw, or tail.
Suicide trucks, using women and children as human shields, faking surrender -- and, now this. Consider yourself lucky that you were not born a dog in Saddam's Iraq.
Friday, April 04, 2003
SUGGESTIONS FOR ALTERNATIVE PSY-OPS
I just read an article in the Washington Post by a reporter embedded in a Psy-Ops unit in Baghdad. Honestly, their tactics seemed laughable. Broadcasting SURRENDER NOW OR YOU'LL DIE seems a bit silly when you consider that Saddam Hussein virtually promised that the entire population is comprised of willing martyrs.
It would be quite interesting to be there. I would have my own suggestions for effective psy-ops. First, we have to identify the goals. Do we want the enemy to surrender? Or, do we want to feed their lust for death and martyrdom? Announcing you're willing to be a martyr seems like a dumb idea. Think about it -- with any skill at all, you can convince the suicide forces to detonate a bit early, or late, or in the wrong place. They still get to be martyrs, but they just don't take anyone with them. We see this all the time in Israel and the West Bank. If it weren't such an obscene desecration of the very idea of the sanctity of life, it would be an almost Southern Gothic Classic of tragi-comic and grotesque humor.
If I were managing psy-ops for a rag-tag, sleep-deprived and hungry army, dead-set on martyrdom, I'd play to their hankerings for the classic "blaze of glory" Samson motif. If you recall, Samson was the Old Testament character who vindicated himself at the end of his life -- after being stripped of his strength (by Delilah) and blinded -- he used his newly regained strength to destabilize the pillars of the temple. When the temple collapsed, he died, but so did a legion of his oppressors.
1. The SAMSON TRAP. Pretend to have a contingent of your elite fighters in a large temple-like building. It's best if it's a holy sort of building; hence the sense of outrage, desecration, and contamination-by-infidel will be the most unsettling. Somehow intimate that, gee, wouldn't it be wonderful to trap all the infidels inside, then take down the whole building? Of course, the idea that the troops are in there is an illusion. So, they take down the building -- with only themselves in it.
2. SUICIDE TAXI: Set up decoy checkpoints. Make them look like "soft targets" -- put up a tent, make it appear that it's an officer's planning tent. Put cut-outs of Marines in the tent, so there are shadows and silhouettes. When the explosives-rigged suicide taxi detonates right up practically inside the tent, no one is hurt, except the suicide taxi-driver whose sad soul has been liberated from the nasty earthly sphere. Losses: canvas and cardboard. Some clean-up time required.
3. MY GOD IS BIGGER & BADDER THAN YOUR GOD. If the Humvees are equipped with big speakers, why waste them on ineffectual tripe in which you put together a recording that begs all decent, hardworking aspiring martyrs to humilitate themselves in front of their felllow jihad-seekers by becoming a coward and seeking surrender (life) rather than a glorious (albeit ghastly) final blast? Come on. Even I can see that it won't work. I recommend blaring recordings of a high-pitched, shrieking male voice -- in Arabic -- doing a muezzin-type thing, but with different words. "My God is the real God The God of the Jews is the only ONE GOD. Your god is a weak, silly god. Your god is homosexual. Your god is out of date. Your god rubs sticks together to make fire. Our god is strong and righteous and good. Our god rides a horse and speaks English. Your god is out-of-date and useless. Your god does not protect you from tyrannical rulers!" The idea would be to stir them up so much that they become angry. With hot tempers come atrocities. Push them, trick them, deceive them so that they become enraged and blind with passion. They take themselves out. Their relatives will probably figure out what happened. However, by that time, it will be 20 later.
4. WACO IN BAGHDAD. Pump up the buildings with highly flammable gas. Then, throw in flares. Or, American cigarettes and nice, shiny lighters. The martyrs will do the rest for you, and for themselves.
Well, that's all for tonight. I had contemplated dressing up dogs and cats in Saddam Hussein outfits, then inserting shreiking, ululating women who would say that the big American demons had transformed themselves into little demons and were on the point of morphing back into their super-warrior status. I rejected that as unworkable. What if the stray dogs you want to dress up have rabies?
I also rejected the idea of announcing, through Humvee-mounted loudspeakers, that the Americans are devils. The announcement would go one to say that the Americans not even human. They are descendents of space aliens who can morph at will into other dimensions and manifestations, and that they're on the verge of morphing into giant 30-foot owls who hunt at night and scoop up with their huge talons people as though they were field mice.
Today's journal has wiped me out. Au revoir!! & good night :-)
I just read an article in the Washington Post by a reporter embedded in a Psy-Ops unit in Baghdad. Honestly, their tactics seemed laughable. Broadcasting SURRENDER NOW OR YOU'LL DIE seems a bit silly when you consider that Saddam Hussein virtually promised that the entire population is comprised of willing martyrs.
It would be quite interesting to be there. I would have my own suggestions for effective psy-ops. First, we have to identify the goals. Do we want the enemy to surrender? Or, do we want to feed their lust for death and martyrdom? Announcing you're willing to be a martyr seems like a dumb idea. Think about it -- with any skill at all, you can convince the suicide forces to detonate a bit early, or late, or in the wrong place. They still get to be martyrs, but they just don't take anyone with them. We see this all the time in Israel and the West Bank. If it weren't such an obscene desecration of the very idea of the sanctity of life, it would be an almost Southern Gothic Classic of tragi-comic and grotesque humor.
If I were managing psy-ops for a rag-tag, sleep-deprived and hungry army, dead-set on martyrdom, I'd play to their hankerings for the classic "blaze of glory" Samson motif. If you recall, Samson was the Old Testament character who vindicated himself at the end of his life -- after being stripped of his strength (by Delilah) and blinded -- he used his newly regained strength to destabilize the pillars of the temple. When the temple collapsed, he died, but so did a legion of his oppressors.
1. The SAMSON TRAP. Pretend to have a contingent of your elite fighters in a large temple-like building. It's best if it's a holy sort of building; hence the sense of outrage, desecration, and contamination-by-infidel will be the most unsettling. Somehow intimate that, gee, wouldn't it be wonderful to trap all the infidels inside, then take down the whole building? Of course, the idea that the troops are in there is an illusion. So, they take down the building -- with only themselves in it.
2. SUICIDE TAXI: Set up decoy checkpoints. Make them look like "soft targets" -- put up a tent, make it appear that it's an officer's planning tent. Put cut-outs of Marines in the tent, so there are shadows and silhouettes. When the explosives-rigged suicide taxi detonates right up practically inside the tent, no one is hurt, except the suicide taxi-driver whose sad soul has been liberated from the nasty earthly sphere. Losses: canvas and cardboard. Some clean-up time required.
3. MY GOD IS BIGGER & BADDER THAN YOUR GOD. If the Humvees are equipped with big speakers, why waste them on ineffectual tripe in which you put together a recording that begs all decent, hardworking aspiring martyrs to humilitate themselves in front of their felllow jihad-seekers by becoming a coward and seeking surrender (life) rather than a glorious (albeit ghastly) final blast? Come on. Even I can see that it won't work. I recommend blaring recordings of a high-pitched, shrieking male voice -- in Arabic -- doing a muezzin-type thing, but with different words. "My God is the real God The God of the Jews is the only ONE GOD. Your god is a weak, silly god. Your god is homosexual. Your god is out of date. Your god rubs sticks together to make fire. Our god is strong and righteous and good. Our god rides a horse and speaks English. Your god is out-of-date and useless. Your god does not protect you from tyrannical rulers!" The idea would be to stir them up so much that they become angry. With hot tempers come atrocities. Push them, trick them, deceive them so that they become enraged and blind with passion. They take themselves out. Their relatives will probably figure out what happened. However, by that time, it will be 20 later.
4. WACO IN BAGHDAD. Pump up the buildings with highly flammable gas. Then, throw in flares. Or, American cigarettes and nice, shiny lighters. The martyrs will do the rest for you, and for themselves.
Well, that's all for tonight. I had contemplated dressing up dogs and cats in Saddam Hussein outfits, then inserting shreiking, ululating women who would say that the big American demons had transformed themselves into little demons and were on the point of morphing back into their super-warrior status. I rejected that as unworkable. What if the stray dogs you want to dress up have rabies?
I also rejected the idea of announcing, through Humvee-mounted loudspeakers, that the Americans are devils. The announcement would go one to say that the Americans not even human. They are descendents of space aliens who can morph at will into other dimensions and manifestations, and that they're on the verge of morphing into giant 30-foot owls who hunt at night and scoop up with their huge talons people as though they were field mice.
Today's journal has wiped me out. Au revoir!! & good night :-)
Thursday, April 03, 2003
PING-PONG MEDIA WARS
The media wars are making me feel like a ping-pong ball, smacked around, back and forth, between the no-holds-barred spin going on in this "brave new world" war.
I suspect I'm not any different than anyone else. I'm an American. Therefore, any positive reports help me reinforce the idea we're liberating oppressed peoples from tyranny, and ridding the world of a kingpin figure who traffics in and subsidizes terror. That's what I want to believe. Granted, it's utopian. It's also pretty pollyanna-ish and a stance that's hard to maintain emotionally when one sees scared teenage soldiers dealing with unexpected guerrilla war tactics, and when one sees pictures of the victims of a war. Like all wars, this one is beastly and ugly.
I grab the remote control, change channels. A paddle of a different orientation smacks me across the table. I ping-pong to the other side as I am assaulted by the images of entrails, half-blown out brain pans, decapitations, dismemberments, wailing and devastated mothers and fathers, all accompanied by an angry voice that accuses us Americans of atrocities, of cruelties against the defenseless, of being evil, of being animals, being devil-spawn. It's like listening to an old Cold War-vintage anti-American propaganda film.
This seems extreme. However, I can sympathize with the individuals who have lost their loved ones. I see their point of view. Suddenly, I'm overwhelmed with shame, nausea, and a deep sense of humiliation for having intruded on someone's moment of grief.
Fundamentally, I'm apolitical. I just want to have a job, live in peace with my family and friends, and think that I'm somehow contributing my part in weaving the fabric of society -- the warp and woof that keeps us all together. I'm probably like everyone else.
Like everyone else, I find it tempting to succumb to the temptation of feeling self-righteous, morally unimpeachable, completely correct in my "take" of the world. Maybe it's a rather cheap sort of self-justification. I don't know. All I know is that such a mindset usually calms me.
Not now. I'm vulnerable to both arguments -- perhaps because the media representations are very hard-hitting, thanks to skillful editing and the ability to construct a film narrative that is very effective. Hollywood is more than 100 years old, and the lessons learned there have been seared into the consciousnesses of film editors and producers worldwide.
My problem is that I go along with the argument -- even if I do not quite believe either side. Both sides are presenting a very two-dimensional view of reality. The world is more complex than jingoistic cheerleading or condemnation.
However, what sticks to my consciousness like feathers to tar is the idea that I'm a monster for being an American.
I don't want to believe it, but I suffer a kind of existential guilt that is triggered by media rants that are no different than hate speech. (By the way, isn't that illegal?) I start questioning myself, my motives, my affiliations. I begin to feel shame, helplessness, despair. Self-loathing is not far behind. Should I believe the extreme media? Am I complicit in a huge conspiracy? Is this a scary high-tech, sci-fi war that has as a goal, a new brand of genocide? Am I nothing more than a greedy resource hog who feels completely justified in doing whatever is necessary in order to satisfy my narcissism?
Of course not. I must regain my perspective.
What does it mean to me to be an American? What are my core values? What do I believe? What is it about being an American that makes me so relentlessly utopian? Why do I so fervently believe that reform can help liberate other little guys (like me) so that we all have access to education, clean water and food, medical care, and a chance at dignity? Why am I so passionate about our core values of democracy, freedom, and our unalienable rights: the pursuit of life, liberty, and unhappiness?
Perhaps the fundamental tragedy of this ping-pong business of media wars is that it doesn't lead to true introspection. Instead, we're either feeling good, like we've taken the tough, but essentially correct moral high road -- or, we're feeling the deepest, most terrible kind of existential shame, yet helpless to do anything at all to intervene or "correct" the situation.
We have to hold fast to core values. Examine what it means to be an American. Why do (or did) people emigrate here? Is it from pure greed and the desire to live in a credit-card fueled vast Disneyland of a country? Or, is it for the ability to sleep at night, and look your fellow human being straight in the eye and maintain human dignity?
Here is a poem I wrote in response to these thoughts and feelings. It is supposed to be accompanied by music -- so don't judge it too harshly!! Okay, as a stand-alone poem, it is, undoubtedly doggerel.... but I wanted to speak to what I believe are core values that are quickly being lost.
an american anthem
by susan smith nash
**** **** **** **** **** **** **** ****
as you talk to your neighbor, do you live in fear?
as you pray in your churches, can others hear?
you are free, you are strong, you have dignity
because of lives, of blood, and our history
as you look in the night, do you see that dawn is near?
is your heart still beating for what you hold dear?
you are here, you have hope, you have liberty
because of minds, of hands, and the absence of tyranny
we are kind, we are brave, we are gentle souls
we are sons, we are mothers, we have many roles
many voices, many views, glorious diversity
we Americans, independents in blessed unity
don't forget you bear the name, American,
sing your name loud and proud like a national hymn
remember to use before you lose your cherished values
and spread the news far and wide that you refuse to be abused
when we talk to our neighbors, we have no fear
when we pray, we shout out so others hear
we stay strong, we stay free, we go on with dignity
thanks to lives and blood, shed in blessed unity
CHORUS:
Hand in hand and heart to heart
We know the place where we have to start;
Step by step from shore to shore
We must give of ourselves and then give more;
Brothers, sisters, fathers, and mothers
Hear our pledge to care for one another
Restore our spirits, so glorious and free
This land we love and our liberty.
© 2003 by Susan Smith Nash
Well -- so much for tonight's post. Let me know if you like it.
smithnash@earthlink.net
The media wars are making me feel like a ping-pong ball, smacked around, back and forth, between the no-holds-barred spin going on in this "brave new world" war.
I suspect I'm not any different than anyone else. I'm an American. Therefore, any positive reports help me reinforce the idea we're liberating oppressed peoples from tyranny, and ridding the world of a kingpin figure who traffics in and subsidizes terror. That's what I want to believe. Granted, it's utopian. It's also pretty pollyanna-ish and a stance that's hard to maintain emotionally when one sees scared teenage soldiers dealing with unexpected guerrilla war tactics, and when one sees pictures of the victims of a war. Like all wars, this one is beastly and ugly.
I grab the remote control, change channels. A paddle of a different orientation smacks me across the table. I ping-pong to the other side as I am assaulted by the images of entrails, half-blown out brain pans, decapitations, dismemberments, wailing and devastated mothers and fathers, all accompanied by an angry voice that accuses us Americans of atrocities, of cruelties against the defenseless, of being evil, of being animals, being devil-spawn. It's like listening to an old Cold War-vintage anti-American propaganda film.
This seems extreme. However, I can sympathize with the individuals who have lost their loved ones. I see their point of view. Suddenly, I'm overwhelmed with shame, nausea, and a deep sense of humiliation for having intruded on someone's moment of grief.
Fundamentally, I'm apolitical. I just want to have a job, live in peace with my family and friends, and think that I'm somehow contributing my part in weaving the fabric of society -- the warp and woof that keeps us all together. I'm probably like everyone else.
Like everyone else, I find it tempting to succumb to the temptation of feeling self-righteous, morally unimpeachable, completely correct in my "take" of the world. Maybe it's a rather cheap sort of self-justification. I don't know. All I know is that such a mindset usually calms me.
Not now. I'm vulnerable to both arguments -- perhaps because the media representations are very hard-hitting, thanks to skillful editing and the ability to construct a film narrative that is very effective. Hollywood is more than 100 years old, and the lessons learned there have been seared into the consciousnesses of film editors and producers worldwide.
My problem is that I go along with the argument -- even if I do not quite believe either side. Both sides are presenting a very two-dimensional view of reality. The world is more complex than jingoistic cheerleading or condemnation.
However, what sticks to my consciousness like feathers to tar is the idea that I'm a monster for being an American.
I don't want to believe it, but I suffer a kind of existential guilt that is triggered by media rants that are no different than hate speech. (By the way, isn't that illegal?) I start questioning myself, my motives, my affiliations. I begin to feel shame, helplessness, despair. Self-loathing is not far behind. Should I believe the extreme media? Am I complicit in a huge conspiracy? Is this a scary high-tech, sci-fi war that has as a goal, a new brand of genocide? Am I nothing more than a greedy resource hog who feels completely justified in doing whatever is necessary in order to satisfy my narcissism?
Of course not. I must regain my perspective.
What does it mean to me to be an American? What are my core values? What do I believe? What is it about being an American that makes me so relentlessly utopian? Why do I so fervently believe that reform can help liberate other little guys (like me) so that we all have access to education, clean water and food, medical care, and a chance at dignity? Why am I so passionate about our core values of democracy, freedom, and our unalienable rights: the pursuit of life, liberty, and unhappiness?
Perhaps the fundamental tragedy of this ping-pong business of media wars is that it doesn't lead to true introspection. Instead, we're either feeling good, like we've taken the tough, but essentially correct moral high road -- or, we're feeling the deepest, most terrible kind of existential shame, yet helpless to do anything at all to intervene or "correct" the situation.
We have to hold fast to core values. Examine what it means to be an American. Why do (or did) people emigrate here? Is it from pure greed and the desire to live in a credit-card fueled vast Disneyland of a country? Or, is it for the ability to sleep at night, and look your fellow human being straight in the eye and maintain human dignity?
Here is a poem I wrote in response to these thoughts and feelings. It is supposed to be accompanied by music -- so don't judge it too harshly!! Okay, as a stand-alone poem, it is, undoubtedly doggerel.... but I wanted to speak to what I believe are core values that are quickly being lost.
an american anthem
by susan smith nash
**** **** **** **** **** **** **** ****
as you talk to your neighbor, do you live in fear?
as you pray in your churches, can others hear?
you are free, you are strong, you have dignity
because of lives, of blood, and our history
as you look in the night, do you see that dawn is near?
is your heart still beating for what you hold dear?
you are here, you have hope, you have liberty
because of minds, of hands, and the absence of tyranny
we are kind, we are brave, we are gentle souls
we are sons, we are mothers, we have many roles
many voices, many views, glorious diversity
we Americans, independents in blessed unity
don't forget you bear the name, American,
sing your name loud and proud like a national hymn
remember to use before you lose your cherished values
and spread the news far and wide that you refuse to be abused
when we talk to our neighbors, we have no fear
when we pray, we shout out so others hear
we stay strong, we stay free, we go on with dignity
thanks to lives and blood, shed in blessed unity
CHORUS:
Hand in hand and heart to heart
We know the place where we have to start;
Step by step from shore to shore
We must give of ourselves and then give more;
Brothers, sisters, fathers, and mothers
Hear our pledge to care for one another
Restore our spirits, so glorious and free
This land we love and our liberty.
© 2003 by Susan Smith Nash
Well -- so much for tonight's post. Let me know if you like it.
smithnash@earthlink.net
Tuesday, April 01, 2003
British marines complain the American soldiers are "cowboys." Europeans accuse President Bush of being a "cowboy."
Cowboy? This is bad? Reading the headlines led me to contemplate what it means to be a cowboy -- in Oklahoma, in the world.
Apparently there's a difference. I had no idea until the war, and epithets came hurling, primarily from Europe. This surprised me. In France, I had found that cowboy boots are (well, used to be) coveted fashion statements. In Switzerland, a very fashion-forward Turkish physician friend of mine doted on his own cowboy boots. But things seemed to have changed. "Cowboy" was the one word that seemed to be accompanied by the most venom and disdain. That absolutely floored me -- as an Oklahoma, the word "cowboy" is in no way insulting, unless, perhaps it comes accompanied with "redneck."
"Cowboy" is bad? I was still incredulous as I gazed into my closet and looked fondly at my cowboy-inspired high-heeled boots, my bolo ties with double-terminating quartz crystals mounted in the center, and my turquoise-encrusted silver jewelry. "I Wanna Be a Cowboy" -- a campy Adam Ant or Milli Vanilli-type of song from the late 80s floated through my head. It was one of my favorite songs to do aerobics to, and as I jumped to the beat, I couldn't help but think of my favorite cowboy, the Lone Ranger. The Lone Ranger was a marvel of sartorial swish (a la cowboy) and emotional restraint -- always leading the force for the decent and the upright. Granted, he called his Indian sidekick Tonto, which means "fool" in Spanish. But, Tonto slapped him right back with "Quien No Sabe," which means, loosely, "the guy who knows nothing" or just basically "bonehead."
Cowboys always seemed a bit boneheaded to me. Maybe it was because they were always so plain-vanilla and transparently virtuous. How dull. There were always outlaws to catch, but you couldn't call them "cowboys" -- they were simply outlaws. Oklahoma, especially during pre-Statehood days, was a lawless place of outlaw hideouts, shell-shocked and landless ex-soldiers. The only way they could make a buck was to hire on as a mercenary soldier for the U.S. army -- or prey on the migratory herds -- the settlers heading west for California gold or a Mormon garden of polygamous delights. There were also the return trips -- the trains laden with gold, the Pony Express with hauls of paper money and gold -- gold, gold, gold. But -- these were outlaws, not cowboys!
In Waurika, Oklahoma, there is small museum honoring the Chisolm Trail, a cattle trail used to move longhorns, black angus, and other beef cattle from Wichita Falls, Texas, to Wichita, Kansas. Approximately 3 miles from my childhood home, a historical marker indicates where the "Dave Blue Trading Post" once stood, approximately a third of the way along the trail. In visiting these places, one comes to realize that the historical cowboy was not a hot-head. You had to be precise, skilled, and patient to take a herd of 1,000 or so head of cattle on a 3-month trek. Along the way, you'd eat beans, cornbread mush, lard, meat, raisins and dried apples, washed down with hot black coffee. You'd carry a gun, but it was for self-protection or bagging dinner. At age 30, you'd look 50, with sun-wizened features, thin muscles like ripcord, and legs already bowed by too much time in the saddle.
Now, the cowboys definitely didn't have much time with women. They also didn't carry much alcohol with them. Perhaps that's where one could say they were hot-heads -- I don't know. But, what do you expect? Sailors in port, if you want my opinion. Some gold coins jingling in the pocket had to lead to a tingling-all-over feeling -- get "lickered up" and head for the brothel. At least, that's the red-blooded approach. Like sailors, though, they certainly did spend a lot of time with the guys, assiduously avoiding the company of women and the middle-class incarceration of matrimony and squiring offspring.
Hence, my favorite view of cowboys -- and, what I always thought was the prevailing one. Cowboy: hard-working guy on a horse, the embodiment of earthy, simple, self-reliance. Or, alternatively, Cowboy: campy fashion statement, all decked out in fringe, embroidered roses, long Custer-like hair, shiny silver spurs, intricately tooled leather boots. For me, it could be either Buffalo Bill or king of the gay rodeo. In any case, an innocuous fop, a campy exaggeration of maleness and inarticulateness that, on a good day, masquerades as stoicism.
Even our cowboy-inspired icons and mascots have that double-edged element -- cowboy as hard-working, simple upholder of rugged, honest work; or, flashy, fringed, tinkling like a windchime as he walks, pearl-handled stud. The earth-god and his campy, frippery-dripping antithesis.
Neither corresponds to the Scary Cowboy the Europeans seem to know and despise. Wow. What film are they watching???? Tombstone? Doc Holiday? Ma Barker and her boys? Billy the Kid? Belle Starr? Hey. These are outlaws, not cowboys!!! If they have any connection to the bovine fleet, it is only as cattle rustlers. Cattle rustlers were outlaws, not cowboys!!
One of these days, someone will have to have an International Conference on Cultural Cowboys and attempt to straighten out the wrong-headed mythologizing. Or, the reporters could come to Oklahoma City and visit the Cowboy Hall of Fame and bore themselves silly looking at all the accoutrements of cattle behavior modification -- a hundred varieties of barbed wire, a myriad of branding irons and patterns, hand-made saddles, spurs, and saddle blankets.
The next time some European suggests that hot-headed, unconscionably violent, uneducated behavior is "cowboy" and intractably American, I'd like to refer them back to other cultural stereotypes -- Roundhead, anyone? a scorched-earth Viking "were"? Or, perhaps a football hooligan....
Reductive labels used to insult someone always take the fun out of something. I prefer the stereotypes to maintain their prismatic, polychromatic glitter, with all the ambiguities and refractions of meaning and signification that accompany an entity that is both ultra-macho and ultra-queen, both pedantically dull and infinitely ironic.
Ahhhh, cowboys! How I love your swish and swagger!
Cowboy? This is bad? Reading the headlines led me to contemplate what it means to be a cowboy -- in Oklahoma, in the world.
Apparently there's a difference. I had no idea until the war, and epithets came hurling, primarily from Europe. This surprised me. In France, I had found that cowboy boots are (well, used to be) coveted fashion statements. In Switzerland, a very fashion-forward Turkish physician friend of mine doted on his own cowboy boots. But things seemed to have changed. "Cowboy" was the one word that seemed to be accompanied by the most venom and disdain. That absolutely floored me -- as an Oklahoma, the word "cowboy" is in no way insulting, unless, perhaps it comes accompanied with "redneck."
"Cowboy" is bad? I was still incredulous as I gazed into my closet and looked fondly at my cowboy-inspired high-heeled boots, my bolo ties with double-terminating quartz crystals mounted in the center, and my turquoise-encrusted silver jewelry. "I Wanna Be a Cowboy" -- a campy Adam Ant or Milli Vanilli-type of song from the late 80s floated through my head. It was one of my favorite songs to do aerobics to, and as I jumped to the beat, I couldn't help but think of my favorite cowboy, the Lone Ranger. The Lone Ranger was a marvel of sartorial swish (a la cowboy) and emotional restraint -- always leading the force for the decent and the upright. Granted, he called his Indian sidekick Tonto, which means "fool" in Spanish. But, Tonto slapped him right back with "Quien No Sabe," which means, loosely, "the guy who knows nothing" or just basically "bonehead."
Cowboys always seemed a bit boneheaded to me. Maybe it was because they were always so plain-vanilla and transparently virtuous. How dull. There were always outlaws to catch, but you couldn't call them "cowboys" -- they were simply outlaws. Oklahoma, especially during pre-Statehood days, was a lawless place of outlaw hideouts, shell-shocked and landless ex-soldiers. The only way they could make a buck was to hire on as a mercenary soldier for the U.S. army -- or prey on the migratory herds -- the settlers heading west for California gold or a Mormon garden of polygamous delights. There were also the return trips -- the trains laden with gold, the Pony Express with hauls of paper money and gold -- gold, gold, gold. But -- these were outlaws, not cowboys!
In Waurika, Oklahoma, there is small museum honoring the Chisolm Trail, a cattle trail used to move longhorns, black angus, and other beef cattle from Wichita Falls, Texas, to Wichita, Kansas. Approximately 3 miles from my childhood home, a historical marker indicates where the "Dave Blue Trading Post" once stood, approximately a third of the way along the trail. In visiting these places, one comes to realize that the historical cowboy was not a hot-head. You had to be precise, skilled, and patient to take a herd of 1,000 or so head of cattle on a 3-month trek. Along the way, you'd eat beans, cornbread mush, lard, meat, raisins and dried apples, washed down with hot black coffee. You'd carry a gun, but it was for self-protection or bagging dinner. At age 30, you'd look 50, with sun-wizened features, thin muscles like ripcord, and legs already bowed by too much time in the saddle.
Now, the cowboys definitely didn't have much time with women. They also didn't carry much alcohol with them. Perhaps that's where one could say they were hot-heads -- I don't know. But, what do you expect? Sailors in port, if you want my opinion. Some gold coins jingling in the pocket had to lead to a tingling-all-over feeling -- get "lickered up" and head for the brothel. At least, that's the red-blooded approach. Like sailors, though, they certainly did spend a lot of time with the guys, assiduously avoiding the company of women and the middle-class incarceration of matrimony and squiring offspring.
Hence, my favorite view of cowboys -- and, what I always thought was the prevailing one. Cowboy: hard-working guy on a horse, the embodiment of earthy, simple, self-reliance. Or, alternatively, Cowboy: campy fashion statement, all decked out in fringe, embroidered roses, long Custer-like hair, shiny silver spurs, intricately tooled leather boots. For me, it could be either Buffalo Bill or king of the gay rodeo. In any case, an innocuous fop, a campy exaggeration of maleness and inarticulateness that, on a good day, masquerades as stoicism.
Even our cowboy-inspired icons and mascots have that double-edged element -- cowboy as hard-working, simple upholder of rugged, honest work; or, flashy, fringed, tinkling like a windchime as he walks, pearl-handled stud. The earth-god and his campy, frippery-dripping antithesis.
Neither corresponds to the Scary Cowboy the Europeans seem to know and despise. Wow. What film are they watching???? Tombstone? Doc Holiday? Ma Barker and her boys? Billy the Kid? Belle Starr? Hey. These are outlaws, not cowboys!!! If they have any connection to the bovine fleet, it is only as cattle rustlers. Cattle rustlers were outlaws, not cowboys!!
One of these days, someone will have to have an International Conference on Cultural Cowboys and attempt to straighten out the wrong-headed mythologizing. Or, the reporters could come to Oklahoma City and visit the Cowboy Hall of Fame and bore themselves silly looking at all the accoutrements of cattle behavior modification -- a hundred varieties of barbed wire, a myriad of branding irons and patterns, hand-made saddles, spurs, and saddle blankets.
The next time some European suggests that hot-headed, unconscionably violent, uneducated behavior is "cowboy" and intractably American, I'd like to refer them back to other cultural stereotypes -- Roundhead, anyone? a scorched-earth Viking "were"? Or, perhaps a football hooligan....
Reductive labels used to insult someone always take the fun out of something. I prefer the stereotypes to maintain their prismatic, polychromatic glitter, with all the ambiguities and refractions of meaning and signification that accompany an entity that is both ultra-macho and ultra-queen, both pedantically dull and infinitely ironic.
Ahhhh, cowboys! How I love your swish and swagger!
Monday, March 31, 2003
Our troops have a very difficult task, and there are a number of uncertainties that face them. We have to admire, appreciate, and respect their self-discipline. It is distressing to me that the "atrocity card" is already being played against them by the media and vested interests.
I think that our Marines are showing a great deal of discipline and restraint. Of course, I'm not there.
As a person of an essentially "dove" persuasion, I wish everything could have been resolved diplomatically. I'm still hopeful (okay -- call me naive).
At the same time, it's important to understand the factors and conditions that go into decisions that are made in combat. When the enemy attempts to turn every animate and inanimate thing into a weapon -- and further -- the idea of suicide attacks and "martyrdom" is not considered a war crime; well, we're looking at diametrically opposed realities.
The reasons for being in the war zone seem less important than the task at hand: staying alive & helping your brothers stay alive. The technocrats who involved the little people in their beef are far, far from the battle.
Lately, it's been fashionable to call the "liberals" the "useful idiots."
Let's think back to the way Lenin first used the term. He pointed out that the little people are conveniently used as "idiotas utiles" -- expendable pawns -- in the great chess game of ideology and resource-control.
I think we need to have compassion for all those who find themselves caught in a war zone.
I think that our Marines are showing a great deal of discipline and restraint. Of course, I'm not there.
As a person of an essentially "dove" persuasion, I wish everything could have been resolved diplomatically. I'm still hopeful (okay -- call me naive).
At the same time, it's important to understand the factors and conditions that go into decisions that are made in combat. When the enemy attempts to turn every animate and inanimate thing into a weapon -- and further -- the idea of suicide attacks and "martyrdom" is not considered a war crime; well, we're looking at diametrically opposed realities.
The reasons for being in the war zone seem less important than the task at hand: staying alive & helping your brothers stay alive. The technocrats who involved the little people in their beef are far, far from the battle.
Lately, it's been fashionable to call the "liberals" the "useful idiots."
Let's think back to the way Lenin first used the term. He pointed out that the little people are conveniently used as "idiotas utiles" -- expendable pawns -- in the great chess game of ideology and resource-control.
I think we need to have compassion for all those who find themselves caught in a war zone.
Here's an article that's getting a lot of attention. It's graphic & possibly exploitive (depending upon whether or not you think it was simply designed to elicit a response from the audience) ... or, if you believe its purpose was propagandistic // psy-ops.
US Marines turn fire on civilians at the bridge of death
Mark Franchetti, Nasiriya
The Times
March 30, 2003
http://www.timesonline.co.uk/article/0,,2089-628258,00.html
mirrored at http://www.informationclearinghouse.info/article2479.htm
It's a controversial article. I'm going to defend it, though.
In my opinion, the article is excellent, and deserves to be out there.
Compared with slim-on-details reports from embedded reporters, this actually has some substance. It reminds me a lot of the memoirs from former Marine that I've been reading. The article wasn't just empty blather -- it actually says something. I thought it was effective partly because it reminds of what war really is. War is not the video game or a big-budget film with special effects that we saw when we watched the CNN version of GW-I, nor is it the global armageddon that the anti-war protesters have predicted.
In addition, I thought the article effectively demonstrated why one is forced to, in essence, shoot anything that moves when guerrilla warfare tactics are being used. The people who are really guilty of the civilian deaths are the guerrilla fighters who changed the rules of the game. The Iraqi irregulars put a chalk circle in the sand, then expanded it so that it encompassed each and every member of the Iraqi population. Using guerrilla tactics and strategies virtually guarantees that one's own innocent women and children get killed. I hate to be harsh, but there it is.
They used to say that you can always tell when a Russian army had been through a village, because every living thing has been killed (even the dogs), and the wells are poisoned. As brutal as that may sound, those approaches evolved from something -- right? Many of these tactics evolved in response to the enemy's own ways of fighting.
Now, I know you can take this argument too far -- essentially blame victims of genocide for their own genocide, etc. But -- to get back to the article -- I thought it was utterly brilliant in depicting the realities of war, and the way that survival approaches evolve. People have complex brains -- the same person who took out a combatant can protect and feel sympathy for something else -- it happens all the time. However, Hollywood tends to make the emotional landscape too cut-and-dried, and reduce human behavior to a simple formula. Examples include Saving Private Ryan and Schindler's List.
This article follows the great tradition of works of literature that came out of war. In the 20th century, most depicted the Great War and WW II. Have you read The Forgotten Soldier, by Guy Sajer? It's an outstanding book -- made into the movie, CROSS OF IRON.
To me, what is happening is that Iraq is quickly degenerating into the sort of thing the U.N. peacekeepers have been involved in -- Bosnia // Kosovo // etc. I suspect that the outcome will be more or less the same as in Yugoslavia ... the Iraqi equivalent of Milosovich will finally be ousted. However, perhaps it won't degenerate into five autonomous regions (the area is already plagued with enough of them -- Naxchivan, Kurdistan, Nagorno-Karabakh, etc etc)....
What a mess.
Mark Franchetti is a brilliant writer. He listens to the human heart and hears its contradictory beating. I hope there is a blog that archives his articles.
US Marines turn fire on civilians at the bridge of death
Mark Franchetti, Nasiriya
The Times
March 30, 2003
http://www.timesonline.co.uk/article/0,,2089-628258,00.html
mirrored at http://www.informationclearinghouse.info/article2479.htm
It's a controversial article. I'm going to defend it, though.
In my opinion, the article is excellent, and deserves to be out there.
Compared with slim-on-details reports from embedded reporters, this actually has some substance. It reminds me a lot of the memoirs from former Marine that I've been reading. The article wasn't just empty blather -- it actually says something. I thought it was effective partly because it reminds of what war really is. War is not the video game or a big-budget film with special effects that we saw when we watched the CNN version of GW-I, nor is it the global armageddon that the anti-war protesters have predicted.
In addition, I thought the article effectively demonstrated why one is forced to, in essence, shoot anything that moves when guerrilla warfare tactics are being used. The people who are really guilty of the civilian deaths are the guerrilla fighters who changed the rules of the game. The Iraqi irregulars put a chalk circle in the sand, then expanded it so that it encompassed each and every member of the Iraqi population. Using guerrilla tactics and strategies virtually guarantees that one's own innocent women and children get killed. I hate to be harsh, but there it is.
They used to say that you can always tell when a Russian army had been through a village, because every living thing has been killed (even the dogs), and the wells are poisoned. As brutal as that may sound, those approaches evolved from something -- right? Many of these tactics evolved in response to the enemy's own ways of fighting.
Now, I know you can take this argument too far -- essentially blame victims of genocide for their own genocide, etc. But -- to get back to the article -- I thought it was utterly brilliant in depicting the realities of war, and the way that survival approaches evolve. People have complex brains -- the same person who took out a combatant can protect and feel sympathy for something else -- it happens all the time. However, Hollywood tends to make the emotional landscape too cut-and-dried, and reduce human behavior to a simple formula. Examples include Saving Private Ryan and Schindler's List.
This article follows the great tradition of works of literature that came out of war. In the 20th century, most depicted the Great War and WW II. Have you read The Forgotten Soldier, by Guy Sajer? It's an outstanding book -- made into the movie, CROSS OF IRON.
To me, what is happening is that Iraq is quickly degenerating into the sort of thing the U.N. peacekeepers have been involved in -- Bosnia // Kosovo // etc. I suspect that the outcome will be more or less the same as in Yugoslavia ... the Iraqi equivalent of Milosovich will finally be ousted. However, perhaps it won't degenerate into five autonomous regions (the area is already plagued with enough of them -- Naxchivan, Kurdistan, Nagorno-Karabakh, etc etc)....
What a mess.
Mark Franchetti is a brilliant writer. He listens to the human heart and hears its contradictory beating. I hope there is a blog that archives his articles.
Sunday, March 30, 2003
the "reality tv" of war coverage is absolutely the same as the unreality "reality tv" of war. highly manipulative.
the problem with war "reality tv" this time is that it's hard to watch much of it without losing objectivity due to the intensity of the emotions elicited
it's a lot different than the "reality tv" we've come to know and love
-- instead of the voyeuristic thrill we may get via "the bachelor" et al, with war tv we are witnessing spectacle-making and/or private grief.
such coverage can make one feel helpless
It can also engender a horrible sense of shame. should we really be watching the overwhelming grief of a family that has lost its son, father, mother or daughter? should we be watching their suffering? it's informative, but is it ethical? do we destroy our humanity a bit by watching?
I don't know. These are just a few musings.
the problem with war "reality tv" this time is that it's hard to watch much of it without losing objectivity due to the intensity of the emotions elicited
it's a lot different than the "reality tv" we've come to know and love
-- instead of the voyeuristic thrill we may get via "the bachelor" et al, with war tv we are witnessing spectacle-making and/or private grief.
such coverage can make one feel helpless
It can also engender a horrible sense of shame. should we really be watching the overwhelming grief of a family that has lost its son, father, mother or daughter? should we be watching their suffering? it's informative, but is it ethical? do we destroy our humanity a bit by watching?
I don't know. These are just a few musings.
