I dismantled the shed and built a boat. Basically, Katrina made me ill, and I wrote a song about it, and I felt better. Now the song is making other people feel ill. But they too will feel better soon, and forget, and the bodies will rot, and the malls will be built, and Karl Rove might get indicted, but so what anyway? Katrina, perhaps, awakened some to the maggot-ridden core of American politik, and some of those some are now baying for blood, as is the natural, base, response to such things. But so what?
Jeff Wells wrote the following today, with his usual pithy eloquence:
"John Dean once said there was a cancer on the White House. It can appear now as if the cancer is the White House, and all America needs is a good Bushectomy. That's a start. But the cancer is metastastic, and it didn't begin at the top five years ago. Whoever's indicted and for what, it's just a start. 9/11 wasn't the brainchild of Karl Rove, it just played one on TV. The covert networks of intelligence, drugs, arms and terror had been in place long before - even during Democratic administrations, for all the good that did - and the pattern of opening doors for Atta and friends while looking the other way was well established before November, 2000. Bush can be blamed for much, but there is much that remains beyond the reach of nominal leaders, even if they are wicked.
I don't mean to be the wet blanket here. I just want to suggest that the prize is more than a few heads on a plate, or even an entire White House. It must be, if it's to mean anything more than another false dawn."
Do you see? If all we do is keep writing songs about Katrina and feeling better, we are fucked and stupid. We have to hang on to that disgust, by the goddamned throat, with both hands, but somehow not let it consume us. I don't know how to go about doing that, and I got myself into a dark and terrorful place trying last month - my solution was to do a full 180 and forget it all in a weekend of self indulgence, which made me feel awesome, like kids on cartoons mean when they say awesome, but it didn't help. I know it is something to do with balance, but I have yet to even come close, and I am still in danger of turning into Wobbly Headed Bob.
See, Wilma is coming now. Earthquakes fuck millions and it barely registers. Blair knew Bush wanted to go beyond Iraq. Even a so called Labour Party will allow plastic fascism to enslave its people. The British train babies to blow up babies, they say we're past the cold war and Blair buys enough Nukes to take out God, and the former President of Indonesia admits that the Bali bombing was planned and carried out by the Indonesian military at the behest of "Western powers".
And my little brother Alex writes, "I realise I've come so far that all it takes for me to look at someone through pink sunglasses is for them to show a (singular) sign of being interested in me. Which could be catastrophous, if not cadaveric, if either of those were words.
This means I am too keen by half and also not half keen enough.
And ultimately lazy."
All of you completely got that, right? Right! Right.
"So," he continues.
"Ray Tanner, my landlord, came out with the best one liner of the day yesterday.
The news said that the public opinion poll said that nobody cared if the new tory leader was taking cocaine.
Ray Tanner, (who usually at this point would mention the unsuitability of tomatoes in the diet of someone of a common blood group) said:
"I took cocaine in number 11 downing street."
Ian came second, when we were watching the turner prize and the nominee, standing next to a shed, said:
"well I dismantled the shed and built a boat, then I dismantled the boat and built a shed, so it's a sort of palindrome."
"It's a shed."
Then later a weatherman said that a cold front was flirting with northern ireland. That's the bronze."
AHAHAHAHA! Do you see?
On a lighter note, there are new photos in the pictures section Photos of me. Oh me. Me me me. Holla at yer lad.