Ragged Glory

True to my word, I've been a bad, bad blogger in recent days. So I set out this morning to throw a log on the fire, scanning Google News in search of something worthy of barking in The Carnival.


As you marks are already well aware, I couldn't care less about The Pope or The Vatican or the millions of weirdos, Catholic and otherwise, putting on their choreographed show of wretched Jerry Bruckheimer-ish piety.

Next.

Third Infantry Division soldier awarded posthumous Medal of Honor. Well, what can ya say about that? Another American sacrificed on Bush's pyre of hate and conquest. Medal of Honor, wow. Those are pretty rare but we'll be seeing more in the years to come. How revealing of Bush's character that despite the circumstances of this man's death, our messianic monarch didn't feel compelled to attend Sgt. Paul Ray Smith's funeral. Pretending to cry is a difficult feat for even accomplished actors, so I suppose it is unfair to expect Bush to appear in such a somber setting.

"I get mad at him, because it's really not fair for him to be up there and I'm down here," laments the soldier's eleven-year old son. "It's like my best friend is gone now. I would rather have him back than have the Medal of Honor."

"Usually," said his eighteen-year old daughter, Jessica, "the father walks the bride down the aisle. And I'm not gonna have that. You know, I won't have him be there when I have grandchildren. He won't be there for my graduation."

"These people have turned cynicism into political art, routinely claiming in public to be supportive of children, education, veterans, and other popular constituencies, while maneuvering in the back rooms to gut budgets and programs that support these very constituencies. An especially disgusting example is Bush's recent gut job on the program that provides essential school aid for the children of our troops."

"Yes -- the very troops that he has put at ultimate risk to fulfill his war and oil fantasies in Iraq. In February, as gung-ho George was rallying the troops to go face death, his budget leaders were quietly pushing a plan to slash funding for a vital education program called Impact Aid. Created during the Truman years, this is a tried-and-true program that provides extra funding to local school districts that serve areas with large military bases."

Jim Hightower wrote these words for an article that appeared in The Austin Chronicle on April 4, 2003, the same day Sgt. Smith was killed by a bullet to the neck. This is how King George supports those on whom he calls to make "the ultimate sacrifice."

Next.

Peter Jennings and lung cancer. At long last, something he does as well as Edward R. Murrow.

What I will most remember about Jennings is listening to him first ignore and subsequently dismiss the many thousands of protestors who turned out for George W. Bush's first installation. As if the Bush v. Gore decision wasn't proof enough my country had just turned a dangerous corner, Peter Jennings' forced and fake portrayal of the inauguration provided the perfect soundtrack signaling a new role for the Fourth Estate: Propaganda for the Fascist Pig-archy. Chomsky would tell me the role was anything but new, and, of course, he's right; but the Golden Microphone took on a new character - more brazen and contemptuous of The Great Unwashed.

Jennings and the rest watched the United States Supreme Court install a president with no regard for votes cast or the rule of law we heard so much about during the Clinton years. It was a nakedly political decision made by shameless party hacks in black robes. News media icons briefly stood on the knife's edge before running back to the handle so they could thrust the blade into the soft, white belly of democracy.


"It's his day" he said of Boy King's inauguration. Of course, it was supposed to be our day - the people's day - but not in the haughty mind of Peter Jennings, whose gilded narrative was utterly disconnected from the tense, hostile scene being played out on my television. To the extent he acknowledged them at all, Jennings' voice dripped with disdain for the protestors. After that, I never once saw his mug or heard his voice that I didn't remember that sorry performance and all it portended.

Alas, poor Peter. He served the Fascist Pig-archy well, and he will continue to do just that until he's oh so poignantly dispatched from this mortal coil. See ya later, alligator.

Next.

"Neil Young" and "aneurysm" in the same sentence.

NEW YORK - Rock icon Neil Young left the hospital Monday and is recovering in New York after undergoing an operation last week for a brain aneurysm.

"The doctors said he is making excellent progress and expect a complete recovery," said Bob Merlis, publicist for the 59-year-old singer-songwriter.

The Toronto-born Young was scheduled to be the feature performer at Sunday night's Juno Awards gala in Winnipeg, the city where he met fellow rockers Randy Bachman and Burton Cummings and spent five formative years during the 1960s.

However, shortly after attending the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame ceremony in New York in mid-March, Young complained of blurred vision. An MRI scan revealed a dangerous brain aneurysm.

When I was a kid still listening to Motown, pop jingles of the time and the occasional hippie anthem, my brother Mike - the only brother I still have left - had a pale yellow Ford Ranger with an 8-track tape player. At eight years my senior, he was sulky and quiet, drug-addled and troubled, and he had little in common with his do-gooder kid brother. What bound us together, though was music. It was 1972 and I rode with him somewhere I've long since forgotten, but I'll never forget hearing "Don't Let It Bring You Down" for the first time. I was hopelessly hooked at ten years old. It was the lyrics which grabbed me and never let go. "White cane lying in the gutter in the rain, and you're walkin' home alone..."

People either get him or they don't. I never gave much thought to his voice, which, of course, is the first thing people who don't get him mention. It matched the lyrics and the varied sounds of his guitars, from folksy acoustic to the rusty ice pick which stabbed through my speakers' distorted signals.

I've long held him in high esteem because, as we used to put in days of old, I relate to him. The desire to immerse himself in everything. The periodic withdrawal into seclusion. The perfectionism. The reverence for Native American culture. An unabashed love of herb. The contradictions.


Neil Young is one of the few people I forgave for having an infatuation with Reagan, even though it pained me to learn my favorite rock legend could be just as short-sighted and vulnerable as everyone else. Still, it was a valuable lesson. He made up for it last year when he became an American citizen and campaigned against Bush. I've seen him a number of times and have often been surprised, even perplexed, by his performances. I never felt cheated no matter how much I paid for a ticket, even when I couldn't afford the luxury.

1983. Dallas, Texas. Fair Park Colliseum. He was kicking off the Trans tour there and it was my first time to see him in what was billed as an acoustic performance. It was to be my last rock and roll experience before going active in the Air Force and I was in a celebratory mood, though a little disappointed Crazy Horse wasn't there.

Trans marked his first foray into the world of digital music, and it was strange and exciting watching him program the instruments which would later accompany him on a revamped Mr. Soul. Neil didn't explain a thing to the audience. He just did it. We didn't know what the fuck he was doing. No one had seen a musician program anything onstage, and we were all genuinely confused, later to be stunned, by what we saw that night. Remarkably, I met his dad in the crush of the exiting crowd and he asked me what I thought of "Neil's new stuff." Shaking his hand, I answered "Beats the hell outta me but it was a great show." Critics hated the album. I loved it. Trans was on my Sony Walkman at every opportunity during basic training, and it was just the thing to alleviate my swollen feet, shin splints and aching heart.

I would see him several more times over the years, and I'm glad he'll be around to Roll Another Number For The Road.