Apres Levitt et Dubner, et à cher frère Cadre.

When America had industry we were in the unique position of being so big that you could feasibly dump a thousand miles away without creating an international incident. This is why we invented the biggest smokestacks, pumping waste into the air to fall dozens, hundreds, a thousand miles away. Our foundries poured poison into the heartland, and for a time as the Europeans looked at their own pollution problems and extrapolated to our scale, there was a real catastrophe on our hands.

Technology saved us, as it always does. The official history gives credit for smaller stacks and scrubber rims to the market, but the state and its scientist pals got what was needed done, and there was much rejoicing. And in time, as Reagan and the finance industry broke the industrial heartland and auctioned it off piece by piece, the need to throw poison into the air slacked off and the Yellow Sea took the acrid burden from Lake Erie. We could at last throw away Silent Spring, which sympathized with mosquitos; everything was all right again.

But Pandora’s box was stuck open wide, and three generations of growth and stagnation made China and ourselves coke and gas junkies. No matter how clean we cleaned our act, our looms and drive-trains were as ominous in their silence as unattended infants. The carbon flowed as the carbon must flow.

The Europeans again looked at their own pollution problems, the summer storm and winter drought and the rising of the sea, and they looked with alarm to us and to China, to Russia and to the second world, and we realized there was a catastrophe on our hands. We had stopped the destruction of the ozone long before we stopped the poisonous haze of sulfur, but the carbon was different, we were told: an integral part of who we were, and if that was to change we would need to gather electricity different ways. The wind, the sea, the sun, the atom - some source of free energy other than the earth’s ancient biomass would be needed.

But the people who survived the American economy had bottom lines to protect, and they saw denial as a better investment than cooptation. For a time there was a crisis as the bearded men who knew why we had seen the hurricanes from Hell were denied by billionaires in baseball caps. Wind farms are an eyesore, said they, and solar power is for fags. What we need is a way to keep on burning ancient carbon forever (for God will always furnish us with more).

Economists saved us, as they always do. To save our cities from the rising sea and the buffeting sky would require India and China to have nice things; what we needed instead was a pump, a giant pump, a big old hose as long as the biggest skygouging smoke stacks ever planned, so big you could pump poison into the air and it’d never come back. But what magical poison would save us from the carbon dioxide? How could we undo the greenhouse flux that had been a part of the Earth’s climate since life began to metabolize oxygen?

Sulfur dioxide, said they. We remembered the name but we couldn’t recall where from; the oil and coal men assured us it was from their pitiable complaints that they had to spend all this money throwing it away - when it could save us from ourselves! The market had finally come through for us, and the economists and their corporate pals got what was needed done, and there was much rejoicing. We could at last throw away Michael Moore and Al Gore, who were fat and had beards and sympathized with ecoterrorists. Everything was all right again.

The hose was delivered by the lowest bidder, not really a hose but a massive spire of a fine modern resin. They did a serviceable job, but they didn’t overbuild it; it wasn’t that expensive and we would just build more when this one started to degrade. A mainframe, for now inert, would work out how much sulfur needed to be in the air to maintain a permanent volcanic-style haze, to cool the Earth back down a degree and a half.

At the appointed date the sulfur levels were off by no less than ten percent, but that would be solved in time. There was concern in areas outside the thirty-mile circle in a near-abandoned rez no one could enter without permission that the hose was leaking; the contractors given the job of maintaining it affirmed that emissions were within parameters. The gas we had lost in the sky, said they, must have undergone a chemical change or floated into the sky. More plausible, surely, than some kind of conspiracy to cover up the poor construction of the pump.

Whatever its problems, the sulfur plan had given us back our freedoms - our lives, our liberty, our pursuit of carbon dioxide. We had not silenced the beardos but they no longer mattered; the plan had worked, and if it stopped working we could just build another plant.

Some time later they explained that the pump facility was old, and because of alarmists and nimby-pimbies it was hard to site them where we would have liked; because the sites we got weren’t ideal, didn’t have the access to refineries and strong security we had in Arizona, they were smaller and weaker. It was a sign of the concept’s strength, we understood, that what would work with one twenty-mile hose would work with five or ten. We had a site in Turkey; we had a site in Hawaii; we had a site in Tibet, in Rhodesia and Patagonia, two in the Northern Territory and one in Finnish waters north of the Arctic Circle. They weren’t as efficient as the older site, but they got the job done.

Our greatest fear, that terrorists or Russians or some other monsters would destroy our last hope because they resented the carbon scam being over, never came to pass, and even though dropping Earth’s temperature below its prior levels took until the 60s, the worst of the crisis was over.

The beardos would never be happy about our clever plan, and in their resentful anger they made the inefficient coral and plankton species dying out to be the sulfur-plan’s fault. A well-known blogger with a Harvard bachelor’s told a TV host that the ocean being more acrid than lakes was a big deal, and we laughed and laughed, because it always has been.

When the Arizona stack fell it hadn’t been our primary pump for decades, but that didn’t stop a lot of misguided concern about the carbon production of the Sinobanana’s trucks or new paracoal plants in unihabited Congolese desert. And there were calls for pump regulation by statists, and there were ignorant claims that no living thing had inhabited the Sea of Cortes since before the disaster. But we ignored their foolishness, and when the carbon dioxide production that buoyed our economy rebounded, we replaced the old Arizona pump with cheaper, less heavy stacks in Belarus, Saudi Iraq, and the islands the US had given Cuba in the 30s.

Communism’s corrosive effects linger on, as we all know, and the new plants had a few minor incidents - but those piled up, and before anyone (the beardos’ babbling aside) knew what was happening, we had random tides of dead fish and crop failures. Those failures got bad enough that instigators in Africa readily started riots, producing a real scare as the sulfur production slacked off. In the time it took us to build reserve facilities, the haze dropped badly enough that air passengers reportedly saw the ground at night and the Earth’s temperature had risen again.

Automation had saved us, as it always does. We threw away the local laborers and building inspectors and kept them out with drones and lasers, and we were at last free of their sympathizing with food-moochers and wobblies. The pumps would last a hundred years.

Mammals and bridges lasted fifty, and the Hoover Dam two hundred and twenty. Whether anything else from what we called Earth would write its names on the cosmos before the Sun erased Nixon’s and Gandhi’s I couldn’t tell you.

Behold this classy ad for some kind of fascist rally or something being held by Michelle Bachmann:

1) Couldn’t you have found something less lynchy than a lasso, what with race being in the news ex. Jackson Jive, a Georgia peckerwood making and promoting a veiled death threat to a representative from another state, and that entire classy NewsMax coup thing? It’s not like you really ever want to ask your constituents to fantasize about lynching the government, but now is a particularly bad time. Oh, who am I talking to.

2) It took me a few minutes to realize this next thing, and I find that depressing. I hate living in Nevada.

3) Madame Sturmtruppefuhrerin, I know you’re really enthusiastic about Real America stringing the coloreds up high, but if I may: in what conceivable way could you take back reins with a fucking lasso?

1) It was a dark and stormy night, and Pat Boone was depressed about the poor fortunes of his close personal and professional friend Bob Dole. As he prepared to cross the Canadian border and leave this undeserving nation forever, around the corner appeared the surviving Sex Pistols, each erect.

2) 1965: low Earth orbit. Edward White, doomed son of Texas, stepped out of his capsule, his tether carefully spooling him out into the void. While he knew that he could see less this way than he had in the capsule, and that in the grand scheme of things he was still just a high-flying sky-man, his eyes were filled with glory and a hope we know to be forlorn. Today would not be as planned, though: in the corner of his restrained, space-drunk vision he could make out a flash of the different, more beige gray his superiors had warned him of. He mentally reminded himself of his space revolver. He was ready for Leonov. He was ready to kill in orbit, or die in it. What he was not ready for was love.

3)Retirement had been good to President Bush. Nobody made him hang around horses any more, and he got to hang around in Kennebunkport as his station in life demanded instead of slumming it with those lazy-eyed Texan fuckers. He didn’t even have to sit down and shut up when Cheney had something foul to say any more. It had been a good day even before his manservant Sowadjec announced the arrival of today’s guest. Cybernetic boy-jockey in tow, Crown Prince Abdul-Aziz entered the room with a warm greeting, still gloriously toned beneath his assless robes after these long seven years. “Tonight you are the House of Saud’s camel,” continued the conservative heir, offering his hand and a greased velvet glove to his New England colleague.

4) Once again, Lee and John were eager with anticipation, sporting a boner and bonah respectively as the limo streamed into view of the warehouse. But today John’s wife and her Greek lover knew how to keep the safe-word unsaid. Little did either know that they had already begun their last tango in Dallas.

[5] “And thanks to my guests, Ollie North and Bay Buchanan. America salutes you. God bless all of you at home.” Another day, another Hannity’s America, another hundred thousand dollars. But as the swarthy hive took down the set for the night, Sean noticed Colonel North wasn’t leaving — and, as Roger Ailes and Rupert Murdoch swaggered in with a gleam in their old, wet eyes, Sean realized his endless fidelity was about to be repaid, his love for the GOP consummated. Tonight the Republican Party would make an honest woman of him.

(6) In a sinister dacha in the Crimea, a man in a particularly cruisy wheelchair snickered openly at his own perfidy with his friends Alger Hiss - codename ALES - and Josef Stalin. “Oy,” said Rosenfeldt, “always with the betraying of America’s doughty Aryan allies.” He squealed with girlish delight as he noticed that Stalin’s balls also had tiny, angry moustaches, and then took out his big queer cigarette holder in order to slosh them around in his stupid mouth.

Via Greenwald, here is Digby on the taser and its accompanying rise in social torture and authoritarian police behavior. I link this for two reasons: (A) I agree with her 100% on this and (B) I once supported the development of microwave non-lethal weaponry, at least in theory. I’ve increasingly come to believe that American politics makes it simply too tempting to trust domestic forces with. (Not that, what with indifference for the actual rape of Posse Comitatus instead of imaginary FEMA death camps, that distinction is going to matter long anyway, but we might as well postpone the inevitable.)

The tea-party assholes have hilariously worthless precedents - Slacktivist’s favorite, because he’s been on a semi-laudable indignation kick lately, is a group of petulant idiots that called itself Indignation in the 50s and 60s. What they represent right now is the right-wing fringe dusting the rust off of its paralegal oppression skills; while they didn’t technically control Bush II or his Barebones Parliament, placating them with shows of state force was a major objective of Republican policy for long enough that they’re now a major component of the GOP as an organization - too major to beat down or ignore in polite company.

Like the fascists before them, the teabaggers’ animating spirit is one which worships authority figures by general acclaim. They were loyal squadristi for Bush, and the unprecedentedly awful selection of Palin was in large part a misguided effort to get their gatekeepers to accept the Republican ticket as a new batch of Bold Leaders worth following off a cliff. Because of what drives people into the political right in modern America - identification with a mythologized white, monocultural rural ‘Heartland’ by people dependent on townships or large cities - Palin’s mob were middle-aged office types pretending to be angry old rural cranks. In groups they indulged in the only thing driving them as an ideology - a deferred culture. These are people who couldn’t tell cow from steer to save their lives and who subscribed to sappy Georgics by wealthy jagoffs; people who imagine black hordes teeming in the inner cities waiting to take their land away but who live and worked in the cities  and own the land on which their house sits if any at all; people who had never uttered a word in righteous anger but imagined themselves right-revolutionaries; Aryan separatists without any particular desire to separate themeslves; people who have bought a gun more than once but never a box of ammunition. White-flightists without anything to fly from, Goetz cheerleaders who would not save a fellow man if his mugger was an octogenarian.

It is only among one another, and when accompanied by their ever-indulgent cultural and political authority figures, that they can find cultural satisfaction. The Heartland per se has a rich and varied cultural life, but they want nothing to do with it and would generally mistake the average camper, shooter, or other outdoorsman for a hated DFH. So they must in some capacity attach themselves to leadership figures - little else provides cultural validation for the kind of person who tells others they like country music (I’ve heard this repeatedly, in spite of ‘country and western’ being the preferred term for what they mean) and yet will not sit through a C&W track that isn’t about ragheads.

They’re easy to please, these starved creatures; a lot of liberal writing about Palin misses how profoundly lazy she was even about what she was supposed to be good at - race-baiting. All it took was her butchering ruralist panacea by Hitler admirers to get them shrieking for blood on their own. It has been a hard time for them, because Palin - in spite of their fervent hopes - has been shown weak, and they cannot tolerate that even with all the media-blaming they’re capable of. They’re without a leader and desperate, and every time one comes along it turns out he’s unsuitable - philandering, brown, a terrible speaker, not willing to demand Samantha Smith be exhumed and burned at the stake on whistle-stops. The tea-party movement inadvertently gave them a new, inferior outlet; the idiots responsible, Armey and his 2.0 scene creatures, simply concieved it as another in an endless supply of corrupt Leninist vanguard spectacles; instead it took on a life of its own, a way of reliving that fascist Woodstock that was the Palin campaign.

But the problem is that certain obstacles exist to what the mob can be allowed to do if it has a head. Palin, in her resentful, dim way, understood that; she had Sarah to worry about, and the moment those hick idiots threatened Number One they were out in the cold. Fascist moments aren’t really meant to survive their leaders; I don’t anticipate the teabaggers surviving in any serious form past 2010, because either they will so obviously alienate the rural and exurban populace they parade around in a crude, savage caricature of that the Party will have to crack down, or because the even marginal success of the GOP will lead to an orgy of overreach followed by bone-crushing failure. After all, the mob might be the same type of people, but their manipulators are distinctly subpar, jumped-up frat-boys like Armey instead of the slick, professional corporate thugs that pulled their forefathers’ strings. They don’t have any concept of laying low, their idea of grand strategy owing more to 300 or high-school football than Grant or Caesar.

Even so, the guns are an unsettling development, and worse is the smarmy, evil complex of responses by their unhinged quasi-leaders. Part of the problem is that degradation of those leaders; nobody who actually believes in gun rights would be such an impossible tool as to suggest that carrying at a Presidential function is appropriate, let alone validate that view by trying to make the debate into one about perfidious Wobbly thugs agitating against pre-adult employment. For someone who did, even the best-case scenario that would produce - the gun-toting nuts petering out and the incident simply passing as an awful and singular one - would be a serious threat to public acceptance of their Second Amendment views. The worst-case scenario is like being a Carcano stockholder in 1964.

Their leaders are not ideoogues, or to the extent they are are only second to their allegiance to Number One. But even so, if they were cannier manipulators they would understand how horrible this is for everyone involved, not least of which being them. But they’re not. After all, you have to break a few omelettes to give 110%, don’t be niggardly, huh huh huh. Hut hut hike! You have the floor, Senator Douchefag.

• Peter Gabriel’s song “Rhythm of the Heat” (Security, 1982), tells about Jung’s visit to Africa, during which he joined a group of tribal drummers and dancers and became overwhelmed by the fear of losing control of himself. At the time Jung was exploring the concept of the collective unconscious and was afraid he would come under control of the music. Gabriel learned about Jung’s journey to Africa from the essay Symbols and the Interpretation of Dreams (ISBN 0-691-09968-5). In the song Gabriel tries to capture the powerful feelings the African tribal music evoked in Jung by means of intense use of tribal drumbeats. The original song title was Jung in Africa.^[56]

(As an introduction, see the seminal Brecher/”War Nerd” article, War Of The Babies.)

One of the great hand-wringings of the xenophobic right (often at cross-purposes with itself, as one sees in our Minutemen regarding Islam with indifference and the hyper-Zionists begrudgingly admitting that Latinos pose no threat to the West)  is the idea of birth-rates. The fundamental assumption is that niceties of personality and ideology can be divined from birth as readily and unchangingly as eye color or handedness. This often produces an apparent contradiction in ideology - simultaneous panicking about both the deficiency of a target ‘culture’ and the rate at which its members give birth. This is pretty much the indicator idea for xenophobia as an ideology - with the exception of the crudest, most superficial and unapologetic racists, they must square away the idea that something besides an inferior genome is at work.
The idea of rampaging Moslems is the animating horror in Europe and among fantasy-Zionists; it is passed off as hard-nosed and realistic, but relies more heavily on fantasy and ideology than the most airy-fairy Wilsonian. Whether or not the data bear it out (it generally doesn’t), one of two presumptions arise: the ignorant set and the dishonest set.

Ignorance

The ignorant set is simply blind to any historical or foreign case of immigration or demographic change. It accepts blindly the idea of continuity to first settlement or, in Europe’s case, a more fantastic but academically sanctioned idea of ethnic autochtony. In this view, one is the product of an endless succession of ancestors exactly like one, living in around the same place in roughly the same way and with roughly the same values and appearance. It’s intuitive at first - most of us know our immediate ancestors well enough and are constantly reminded of how much like them we are in various ways - but it breaks down on even casual investigation. This is why “racialism” or “white separatism” or any other form of I-just-love-my-people-ism is doomed to swift failure - it isn’t an internally coherent ideology and has a profound temptation to indulge in contempt for the other. And so the ignorant set comes to parade out the most popular and respectable slurs for the other, producing a kind of coherence and truth from mass repetition and crowd acceptance.

Dishonesty
The dishonest set, on the other hand, is familiar with the contradictions in this ideology, and is more defensive and dishonest about it. They attach themselves less openly to politics and more to “scholarship” and “opinion”. They call themselves “politically incorrect” and revel in the assumption by their friends in the media, government, and economy that those who spurn their views do so because they are too bold for them rather than because they are disgusting. They view the coherence of reality (which their partially-sealed world allows them to see as alternate) as the result of a political and intellectual conspiracy, and they tend to regard disfavored groups outside of the target group as complicit in this. (This has to be the primary reason for the continuing edge of anti-black paranoia in the elite of the American Jewish community.)

Most of all, though, the dishonest set requires an overweening ideology to produce the appearance of impartiality. They’re not afraid of the looming ropy dick of the swarthy interloper, see, they’re afraid of the destruction of their civilization. And as such, they go to great lengths to confuse “culture”, “religion”, “civilization”, “ethnicity”, and “race”. This, coupled with the 19th-century relict idea of demographics as potential for national military strength, produces the Face Fascists Dolan discusses in the eXile article.

As xenophobia becomes politically profitable, the simpler kinds of cultural elitism, provincialism, and chauvinism come to be tinged with bigotry, to be used as stalking-horses for the cause - and because the dishonest outnumber the idiots, paranoia and a conspiracy-driven mindset set in. Other, unrelated causes are dragooned in or grilled for failing to do so. (Thus the attempt by anti-Latino activists to take over the Sierra Club because Mexicans are bad for the environment, the constant, feigned concern by open misogynists about the welfare of innocent little Paki-factories under the swarthy hand of the impostor Mahomet and his Alcoran, et alia.) And there is no satisfaction at, nor real concern for, the achievement of any one objective. When they have banned headscarves it becomes minarets, when they have banned minarets it becomes teaching in Arabic, when they have banned teaching in Arabic the future of civilization depends on brown children wearing green badges.

Part of the reason that this kind of thing receives social acceptance is that most people are fairly easy to manipulate, and operate mainly in terms of superstitions and personalizations. In Europe especially, the outsider is regarded as a fecund savage who requires foreign support to shit indoors - this image is far easier to accept than challenge, and persists even among those who know plenty of outsiders - because all things being equal people seem to prefer having two contradictory data to replacing one datum with the other, and they have a great facility in selectively reinforcing existing knowledge. It is, if anything, easier for someone to form an indelible image of Muslims as a ticking time bomb waiting to flood civilization in children and circumcise their women if one is on good terms with the Husseins and their two-point-four children — after all, it is easier to refute an idea than an observation, and the Hussseins shouting at each other once is worth as much as a thousand honor-killing stories.

My feeling as regards all of this has always been that the correct response is that of Colin Powell (a career military man whose political ignorance is as much to blame for the Iraq war as anything) - not to refute the image of the outsider but to counter and better it. That the reality of the immigrant is and always has been a hard worker and contributor to the economy, that the immigrant family is one convinced at least that a life exists to be made in the new country, that people like them made America a world power and are all Europe can hope for to do the same. You might never convince a soul that Barak Husayn Dhimmitude is a fiction concocted by liars and bigot, but Kareem Rashad Khan’s story is every bit as easy to tell - and has the advantage, in the long run, of being real.

O what awful things I must do for Czechoslovakia, thought Vaclav Havel as George Bush ineptly plundered his ass. It had begun as a threesome, but Reagan had to be repeatedly reminded whose mouth he was fucking, got tired, and was now just watching. Unfortunately, as the senior official in the room, he had to be placated.

“Oh yes! Is democracy balls deep in ass!” He affected the absurd accent to avoid being mistaken for Margaret Thatcher. “Yee-haw! Yankee come home!” The former CIA chief was cold and businesslike, the way he had always been.
The silent vice-president quickened in his thrusts, the best sign he had ever gotten that the dismal work was near its conclusion. “Yes, cowboy! Win big game! Win it for Gipper!”

Reagan looked up, his every inch of flesh sagging over something or other, with a newfound twinkle. “Yeah, Ivan! I’m going to soak you like I did Hitler!”
Silence, then, as George climaxed. A few awkward seconds later, Ronald, noticing, made a series of loud, obviously fraudulent noises and gradually worked his half-limp dick back into his pants.

“Is good, gentlemen. Is new dawn for democracy.”
“Please help clean up the President, Mr. Havel.”
“Sure, is okay.” He picked up the toupee, carefully avoiding the obvious sticky patches, and delicately placed it on Ronald’s spear-bald head. He then reached to pull down the President’s fly when suddenly he snapped into activity.

“God damn it Rock I’m a married man! You can’t just suck me off in public any more, and no one’s more sorry about that than - Oh, it’s just the Russky.”
“Am Czech, your majesty.”
“Here’s looking at you, kid.”
Havel looked to the Vice-President, who nodded curtly, and he finally zipped up the elder man’s fly and moved to flee the room.

O what awful things I must do for Czechoslovakia, thought Vaclav Havel.
“Oh, and Vaclav?”
“Yes?”
“Get Klaus and Friedman on your way out, would you?”

Although it lacks any statistical punch, Blumenthal’s interviews of American assholes in Israel would seem to suggest the point I made earlier: the Americo-Israeli project seems to disproportionately produce voters in Israel who have no interest in Israel as anything but a political project. I imagine that if one were to poll American Israelis, one would find a disproportionate level of antagonism towards Obama in the wake of Cairo and Netanyahu’s dickery.

1. I’m really hoping to see some Republican flack characterize her as an illegal (besides reliable fascist G. Gordon Liddy) in the next couple of months, because
(a) it’s the single dog-whistle they seem to get the most mileage out of; and
(b) it’s legitimately and infuriatingly easy to get Latinos to accept tirades about filthy illegals at face value instead of recognizing the entire genre as one blatant ethnic slur after another.

2. Obama’s choice to go through the nomination process in the traditional timeframe is a good one, especially in light of the serious cross-purposes the Republican Party and its constituents are working at in re. despicable wop-a-doos. While it might be somewhat challenging for a White House which has yet to fully acclimatize to the relatively glacial pace of news and opinion outside of the Internet to spend seventy whole goddamn days on this one issue, that cuts both ways - there’s a long, long time for the miasma of The Base to seep out, and two months is a long time for the Republicans - whose strategy so far has been one of constant escalation, stoking an entitlement to fascist outrage as politics - to keep shit under wraps.

3. In light of the recent tragic murder of one of the country’s three late-term abortion providers by a survivalist lunatic, I have to wonder if as moderate a justice as Sotomayor seems bound to be on abortion is wholly appropriate, even in light of the benefits that exist in her presence. I like to think that sharing the court with misogynist jackasses like Scalia & Son will radicalize her a little, but I’m not holding my breath.

4. It’s a pity that with God as his witness Jeffrey Rosen will never blog again. Now who is going to get paid by a liberal institution to imagine that sensible centrist Obama will finally have his Sister Souljah moment rebuking this terrible identity politician and her extreme brownness?

5. If the phrase “we owe a tremendous debt of gratitude to Obama for helping us out the extremist bigots who helped shatter our solid national majority and lose us elections from Alaska to Virginia” or some variant of it fails to come up among Republican political veterans or commentators during or after this fracas, the Republican Party is a walking corpse.