Monday, October 1, 2007

Another From The Cringe Files

Man, do I feel like shit today -- physically, emotionally, spiritually. Woke up from a violent dream in the silent early hours to puke (but nothing came), not because I'm fighting a festering bug, but because I fear what's coming down the pike. Reading Seymour Hersh's latest missive, which you've all seen by now (or are wise enough to remain in darkness), kicked over whatever fragile emotional balance I've been able to sustain of late. It could be worse, of course. I could be in another country, waiting for my neighborhood to be firebombed, or be hit by a related atrocity. The only thing to fear in my actual neighborhood is the general apathy, or the old man who measures his lawn with a plastic ruler. Being on this side of the WMD makes that possible.

It doesn't help that I'm feverishly working on the Dem book, reviewing a series of criminal actions and capitulations by the mules over the decades, the latest being the passage of Kyl-Lieberman, which opens the door to aggression against Iran. Reading more and more about this wretched party's love of war, domination and destruction leaves a rancid taste in my mouth, and I try to imagine just exactly what it is that many libloggers are defending, even when they are "critical" (which normally translates into "Why are the Dems doing this? I just don't get it!"). And please note that the new book is supposed to be funny, or at least satirical. That's what my editors are hyping in their upcoming catalogue. Yeah -- I really feel the funny bone throbbing these days. Didya hear the one about the cluster bomb, the Persian rug merchant, and the invisible prophet? It goes a little something like this . . .

Sometimes I wonder if Hersh is a CIA psy-ops agent, deliberately spreading panic among those who pay attention to current events in an effort to freeze and demoralize us. Would that come as a surprise? Anything's possible on this hellish plane, and it takes a sturdier soul than mine to face without flinching the gathering war clouds. I can see why Bukowski remained drunk while tapping out poems of pain, loneliness, regret, desire, and fractured love. Once I'm through with the Dem book, I may go in that creative direction and explore the manias that drive people to behave as they do. I touched on this in "American Fan," but failed to seriously yank out the roots of our brutal mindset and set them aflame, preferring instead to be funny and cute, concocting little routines for my personal amusement. No wonder Noam Chomsky dismissed my book. But then, Noam's not known for his love of sports.

Once I stop shaking and sputtering, I'll get back to the old Son grind, with jokes and essays aplenty. And if you can, do send some money and love to Arthur Silber. Arthur's a valuable resource. I don't know how he does what he does without flipping out completely.