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Look at This F-ing Guy #59
Who bites the hand that feeds
Below is a series of tweets in response to a press request sent by my editor only a few days ago. The press request was a standard request for a pre-show interview and passes to shoot the show for a review, or so I thought. We got the interview, but apparently the request for press passes is some kind of “angle.” I’m getting ahead of myself though.
The artist did not call myself, Poppycock, or DisarrayMagazine out by name; hence, why I’m not calling this person out. Whether cowardly or respectful to not put our publication on blast, I will return the favor. I own everything this artist has ever made, and because I liked him so much, I have also become a fan of the label, buying almost everything by everyone on the label, and getting my t-shirt quota filled at his storefront. What I’m saying is: I’m a FAN.
I'm no better at this than THIS guy? P.S. You see my logo here? Nope.
We give u a press pass so u can put ur logo on pics of us & upload parts of our show to YT? What a deal! Our fans’ll take care of that, thnx
Then why even do the interview? You want the coverage, but only on your terms. You seem to think that the skills of your fans are on par with those of a trained photographer and semi-seasoned writer? Okay, I’m not Noam Chomsky over here, but I like to think that I can compose an article more articulately than, “Show wuz off the shizzle! Fuckin’ rocked it, bro! Love your shit!” Also, I am pretty sure I can out shoot a 14-year old kid with an iPhone, given half a chance.
I don’t slap a logo on my photos. Period. I know this is SOP for a publication, but the writer/photographer doesn’t decide whether a logo gets slapped on anything. For me, it has always distracted from a photo, but I just work here, bro. Then again, don’t you slap your name on everything under the sun to promote yourself? So, what? Are websites not allowed to promote themselves in a similar manner? It’s not the same thing, but it’s close. I’m just saying that I’m better at what I do than the average fan, and we need fans at our site, too, so at least reserve judgement until you see the care I bring to my work.
In the days of ‘zines, show reviews held value because they’re the only way you’d know how a show went unless someone you knew attended.
“In the days of ‘zines”? Correct me if I’m wrong, but it is still the days of magazines, sir. Have you heard anyone ask, “Whatever happened to magazines? I miss those.” They are everywhere, and they aren’t all terrible publications.
Not to toot my horn, but I freelance for a website which averages 30,000 hits a month. I am beginning to develop a tidy sum of hits on this blog, too. They seek us out to discover new things and read our articles. No one goes to Jimmy Joe from Topeka for their cultural queues. I have a platform. How many people can Joe Blow reach on FB? Maybe 300 friends? Well, most of them probably won’t read his show review “note,” so let’s say about 100 people. If you do a show in LA for 300 people, then they will reach a potential audience of 30,000…Hmmmm. This leads us to the next tweet…
These days, when websites & writers ask for “press passes” to review a show, I can’t see the benefit. Oh…post-show promo? Cool angle, bro.
…”I can’t see the benefit”? 30,000 hits? I am worth the tweets, YT posts, and FB photo albums of one packed venue. Me. One guy. That’s my “angle.” I am doing this as a writer who will reach people. You know, new fans, the thing everyone wants as much as Jimmy Fallon seems to think they like extra cash back, but if you don’t want the coverage I will happily relax at home with my girlfriend instead of agonizing over my thesaurus at 3AM to do justice to your show.
Hey, I get it. You’re big time. You’ve been all over the world and done shows on every continent but Antarctica. You have almost 30,000 Twitter followers. You are established like the monolith among the monkeys; Stanley Kubrick is directing your shit, but you gotta snap at the hand looking to feed you? Call me crazy, but despite the fact that you’re a juggernaut of self-promotion, I am betting you’re not exactly beating the ‘zines off with a stick.
You can have your fans do your work. They will even pay for the privilege, but I’m not charging you either. I am a fan that can “take care of that,” asking only for the free entry and press pass to do it better than anyone else in that room. You might like the taste of blood, but slow down Gandhi, you’re killin’ ‘em.
As of publishing this, I have deleted these retweets from @myownfalseidol to protect the identity of this rapper, but mostly to protect me from being drawn and quartered on FB or Twitter. Frankly, he and his fanbase scares me. Seriously.
Frustrations of The Level-headed: Refugees of The Battlefield
or: Schizophrenic Feelings of Whether I Want to Travel on Your Highway
When I was growing up I was taught that yelling was rude. I was taught that name-calling was wrong and hurtful. There was the idea that sharing was caring, and that giving was better than receiving. I grew reciting “treat others as you want to be treated” and I was instilled with the idea that women are not to be disrespected. I think these are all lessons that we can agree on, and lessons you will or have taught your own progeny. It seems though, that these lessons are not worth their salt in the arena of public discourse. I have never seen a megaphone used for anything but venomous language and name-calling. Libel, slander, anger and hate-speech are the flavor of the month. Pull their hair, gouge eyes, and fight dirty; anything to get your point across. As times and tensions reach a boiling point I wonder whatever happened to calm conversation and open-minded discussion. What happened to respect and constructive criticism? As factions in the world dig in deeper and abandon the no-man’s-land of the middle, it seems we are getting further from progress, and are devolving in to some queer blend of Mad Max post-apocalyptic survival and Warrior-esque gang mentality. No one wants to come out and play anymore.
Through rose-colored glasses, beer goggles, or through the kindness of time’s distortion of fact, some would say that times used to be simpler. Maybe there was a time where things were simple; in the primordial ooze, as a single-celled organism. I am betting there was less tension. Once we crawled out of the oceans, things got as complicated as our evolving DNA structures. Since man could think we have been at odds. You would think that with enough time and a further developed frontal lobe for cognitive thought, we would have gotten to a point where the responsibilities of our place in the world would weigh on us to make the best decisions. But alas, we have not gotten to the point where the greater good is in our minds, but that we just want to be right, and that if we’re right in this camp, then they are all wrong in the other camps. A flawed construct if there ever was one.
Religion is in this vein, and I’ve written on it extensively. Really? You think you got it right, and everyone not following your path is damned? It seems a bit obtuse and even grandiose to think that you interpreted the message of the all-knowing exactly as he intended it. The ego on you knows no bounds, and that kind of pride and closed-mindedness must be a sin. Maybe, just maybe you aren’t right? Maybe you are on a good path, but is being “good” not enough, God cares about my diet? God cares about my impure thoughts, my cursing, my acceptance of His son? Really? Don’t you think he might not be the type to hold a grudge or get bogged down in the details? That is after all, where the Devil is? No matter, I’m sure your particular interpretation is exactly right as a Protestant, and those naive Lutherans are fucked. Jesus, get over yourself.
Besides religion is the political system, which is connected very closely to the social construct of today. Does everyone need to yell so much? Megaphones, protests, name-calling, Hitler references, occupations, “my way or the highway,” “love it or leave it,” and “you’re either with us or against us.” Is this the path to understanding one another? Closed minds and open mouths only makes for a cacophony of bad noise falling on deaf ears. Today we see factions broken off and dug in, ready with a salvo at any moment to smear and defame one another. Republicans, Democrats, Tea Party-ers, Libertarians, Independents, and now Occupiers. We have seen any one of these groups split in to it’s own group, just as religion has done over the last few thousand years. Each party thinks the other is poison for the America we can be. They think their exact way is the only way, and that we are doomed if we don’t change everything now. Seriously, we need to change everything, start over, and rebuild from the ground up. Not one of these parties wants small tweaks and concerted efforts, they want their agenda installed en complet without deviation. They’ve got the perfect plan to fix everything. That damned ego, again.
While most are arming themselves with facts, figures, clever signs, bull horns, organizing community action, smearing the “enemy,” and designing t-shirts as they raise funds for their cause, I can’t help but feel that Sun Tzu would look upon the current landscape and be proud that everyone read his book. He would fill with pride as political armies followed every rule of warfare he outlined so long ago. He we are, trying to make progress as a society, trying to rise to a grander place, and the tactics we are using are that of invading armies!? We want to take the next step, and we are trying to do so in combat boots and a military load out. There will be no progress with fists and a war-cry. When you treat someone as an enemy, they will play that role, and fight back.
In all of this hatred and obtuse thought processes, the real victim is society and refugees of the nation of the level-headed. Those poor people trekking across expanses of war-torn ground in rags with all they have to their name on their backs. Spires of smoke dot a barren landscape and the newest statistics and campaign slogans are exploding in the distance as mortar fire from great distances. Libelous shelling, slanderous espionage, trench warfare. Meanwhile, those that just want compromise and progress in any form walk a trail of tears just hoping not to be ambushed at any moment.
The tension has broken our spirits. Why can’t we come to a table and talk? Why must every victory be Pyrrhic, and every step forward be a stumble? Is every subject worth all-out war from the utterance of the first talking point? Can’t we just do something good? Why is funding schools a political pawn? Do we really need to hold a gun to the temple of grandma’s Social Security check and slowly back out of a conference room? Must it be all or nothing on a moot point like pot or gay rights? Are you crazy, or do you actually believe what you’re saying? I know, you’re just trying to whip up controversy and distract us from actually wanting action. Anger is a great distraction from inaction. Hold your position and never lose that hill, no matter how many suffer in the campaign. Speak robotically and never honestly. Hold to party lines because you need support, if you deviate from the group you will be picked apart by the wolves encircling your camp.
This hellscape is no place to raise a child, and no place to attempt a compromise. Your desire for an end to the bloodshed will be interpreted as weakness. Hold strong to the credo of your particular faction, anything less is flip-flopping, and mutiny. Only trust the man next to you if he agrees with you, but the moment you smell dissent then you bayonet his ass and throw him into the open grave with the rest of the “enemy combatants.” No group even has a white flag here. Surrender is not an option. You hold this hard-line to the death. Progress be damned, and the suffering of your countrymen, just don’t lose any ground. Stick to our guns, man our posts, and give no quarter. If we don’t try to take an enemy position, the we can never lose a battle, so we stay entrenched and whether the seasons.
This is ugly. This is the way it’s been done for so long, so we don’t know anything else. Politics is a battlefield today, not a summit or a meeting of the minds. Everyone has it wrong but you. Religion is the same. Blood is shed because faith galvanizes your soul to the point that the only option is to wipe out any other option. It’s no different in social discourse. People have died for an idea. I suppose an idea is a fine reason to die, but it does nothing but to further entrench the factions. As the rise of a possible new faction, Occupy, becomes a more real reality, there is a new army joining the fight. An army with no plan, no leadership, and no real exit strategy. Just another army ready to stay until everyone else has died. The Patchouli Party, maybe. It’s catchy. But as another group enters the fray, the only outcome is louder anger, and new ammunition in an ever evolving battle against progress. The only answer is for everyone to put aside their pretensions, put down their guns, and work together to clean up the mess and get somewhere, anywhere. A nation cannot withstand this kind of extended battle, and I know the level-headed refugees just want an end to the war. It has done nothing but wear raw the hope for anything but more of the same. Put down the bull horn and talk to each other, not at each other for once. We can’t take much more of this.
Is it better to have Pwn’ed and lost, than to never have Pwn’ed a Noob at all?
There rages today a battle between three schools of thought in video game design. The gaming industry is a multi-billion dollar business. Studios bank hundreds of thousands of dollars, maybe millions, on the success of a title. It is imperative that a triple-A title make the money it needs to make, just simply to recoup money spent. Titles can spend years in development before seeing the first glimmer of light on the shelves. In this epic battle of art and commerce there are the three schools of thought to approaching the game modes a player experiences that can translate to big money and longevity in the player’s game library; single player campaign, co-op game play, and multiplayer.
I would love to go all the way back, to the beginning. This could be a ten page piece if I took the time to write about the genesis of games with competitive being one of the first apparitions of gaming via Pong. Could move on to Super Mario Bros., Contra, then to Goldeneye 007, and beyond. If I were a college student I could write my Master’s thesis on this complete history from one console to another, with a fair detour in to the PC gaming lifestyle of MMO’s, and all of the psychological conditions they feed in to, but you’re not reading this for that. Let’s be honest, I’ll end up covering those topics in their own time, and in their own essays. Today we seem to find ourselves battling with the specter of trying to please everyone all the time with titles that spread themselves thin over multiple playing types, doing none of these justice and leading to fatigue through watered down versions of what could have been epic games.
The single player campaign seems to be the one and future king of the gaming world. For years now we have seen the advent of multiplayer make this foregone style of gaming be ignored, or somehow left as an afterthought to just be a preface to great multiplayer modes. The single player mode is the place where a player can, and damn well should, become so immersed in a vividly designed world that every failure is crushing and every win is Epic. Deep inside of ourselves as people is this desire to overcome great odds. The psychology of setting our gaming character against seemingly unconquerable odds, the endless onslaught of men or creatures thirsting for our blood, or the great forces that are set to destroy our world, is what games are about at their very core.
A player becomes this character, a designed set of shoes for us to fill. The excitement and the crescendos of battle and winning chapters, or objectives, is what fuels us. A story, a truly compelling story on the level of oscar-winning scripts, compels us to move forward and to press on even though we might actually feel fear or adrenaline coursing through our veins. This is no spectator sport like watching TV or movies. In a single player campaign where we are the last hope, a survivor, or a License to Kill carrying badass, and we want to win. We desire to save our planet, or the girl, or just ourself. The single player campaign, when designed as perfect in it’s coding as in it’s artistic polish, is one of the most rewarding experiences a player can have.
What has come to the forefront of a lot of games, due in part to the online gaming technology of today, is multiplayer modes. This style of play saw it’s infancy, and in my opinion it’s pinnacle, with a game like Goldeneye 007. I argue that it is one of the, if not the, greatest video game ever created. Goldeneye showed us what putting more than two people on a map and setting them against each other can do; see 
Deathmatch for details. Multiplayer went global with the advent of XBox Live and the like, pitting gamers on different continents against one another to award a top player. There are objectives, team play, head-to-head matches, and a dozen more game types. Today we see millions of people playing the likes of Halo, COD, and GOW, online at any time of day in any time zone. This playing mode has rewritten the codex for all-time great games.
We started seeing it with really the grandfather to all multiplayer games today, Call of Duty: MW. Halo did it, too, but not to the level that COD did it. These are two powerhouse franchises, Halo has seen it’s reign end with the final installment in the series, Reach, though we are set to see MW 3 
released September 2011. The games in these series were defined by a balanced and exciting single player campaign, but achieved Epic status with the longevity and ingenuity of their multiplayer experience. Now after a few titles, people didn’t even really care for teasers or screenshots of the single player campaign, they wanted to hear about the multiplayer. There was a shift in compelling story and more attention paid to the multiplayer maps and upgrades. Whole teams of designers were assigned to just the multiplayer to get it right. I am betting 9 out of 10 people who bought Halo: Reach got online and played multiplayer Deathmatch before they even looked at the campaign mode.
Is this necessarily a bad thing? A shift of technology and game design has both fed in to, as much as it created, a desire for more interactive online gaming experience. Is it foolish to think that millions of players online are wrong for not wanting a better campaign mode? I don’t think this is the case. The downside to this is not that the multiplayer is hurting the solo campaign, but that everyone and their mother is trying to copy or one up the competition by shoe-horning in a multiplayer in to games that don’t lend themselves to one in the first place. Bioshock 2, Assassin’s 
Creed: Brotherhood, the upcoming Rage; these games don’t need a multiplayer, but the masses have spoken, with their wallets, and they say that you need one or you go to hell. Hell, in this case, is the video game store as used copies for trade-in toward the purchase of a game WITH multiplayer.
I for one feel that multiplayer is not a mode that should stand by itself as a major selling point for a game. I am a story kind of guy. I want suspense, thrills, tension, and consequences, in my games. I want a world so immersive that I might check my corners entering a room because I just spent six hours doing it every time I kicked in a door. I want lines of dialogue to run through my head an hour after I’m done playing. I want the desire to get back in to the world as soon as my eyes can stand it and I don’t have that pesky thing called ‘work’ standing in my way of getting to the next checkpoint. Multiplayer is the mode that you go to after the story, a place where you can pick up where you left off in the story, or play it out in a different way than you did alone. Multiplayer does work in COD since it is a military blueprint of a game and it lends itself perfectly to killing more men and taking wins or objectives in the same manner that you did in the campaign mode, but this is one of few titles and genres that can facilitate this integral multiplayer that doesn’t feel bolted on for the good of sales.
What of the other mode I mentioned, co-op? This poor bastard child of gaming has not seen a lot of days in the sun recently. Few, very few, games embrace co-op play through a campaign, and even less often view it as a mode that can stand alone. Who wants to play with just one to four people when you can fight 32? Co-op finally got it’s due with the release of Portal 2. Co-op play has it’s very own campaign that operates completely separate from the single player campaign. It is it’s own 7-10 hour game where two people get the feeling of the Epic win in solving their way out of testing rooms as a team. Poor co-op has been bred in to multiplayer up to this 
point in recent years, but with Portal 2, the best puzzle genre game of all-time and top ten overall game of all-time, co-op finally got it’s day in the sun. It is two people working together to complete a campaign together. Though many have flirted with it over the years, Portal 2 nailed it with a campaign all it’s own that is arguably better than just the solo campaign; the co-op actually improves on a stellar solo, which is almost unheard of.
There have been exclusively-multiplayer titles, but those have failed mostly. There isn’t enough story, enough background, enough foundation, on which to build a solid multiplayer people care about. Where does that story come from? Solo campaign. Co-op can further explore a world is a rewarding dynamic duo sort of way, enhancing the joy and wonder a player can feel as part of a two man wrecking crew. Multiplayer seems to have soured a lot of developers in creating a long and fulfilling solo campaign, Homefront showed us that. I think we need to realize that technology and creativity have finally reached an apex where one mode is no longer sacrificed for the sake of the other. We can have our cake and eat it too, even if the cake is all a lie.
The moral to all of this biased chin-wagging is that each of these gaming modes has validity in the industry. Each has it’s unique place as a way to further a story, prolong the longevity of a title, and to engage the player in a new way. You need the story, and the multiplayer can let us live it out longer, but you can’t rob Peter to pay Paul by welding a multiplayer to everything and mucking up the game on the whole by trying to do too much; and for God’s sake give co-op a chance. Could a little teamwork be such a bad idea?
Solo campaigns will always be my bread and butter, and what I think the cornerstone of a title should be, but multiplayer and co-op present a unique manner to get yet another fix of a world you were willing to save, even if it meant your life in the end credits. 
History has shown that some of the saddest or most fulfilling moments are not when your name tops a leader board or you just prestiged for the 20th time, it’s when you die at the end, when your little sister is taken from you, or when you must conquer all odds to fend off the invading forces hellbent on destroying Earth and eradicating the human race. These are the moments when our skin prickles, our palms sweat, and our hairs stand on end. These are the moments players reload for, and they’re not found in the fucking Lobby.
Obi-Wan Bin Laden: More Powerful in Death than in Life?
or: FUCK YES, FUCK YES, FUCK YES. Finally.
In the glowing aftermath of the announcement of the death of Osama Bin Laden, at the hands of US forces, there is a haze I cannot escape. Everything should be sunshine and lollipops. With this symbolic blow to terrorism with the removal of it’s figurehead from this mortal coil, there are reports of celebration in the streets. Facebook and Twitter are booming with status updates and 140 character tweets of the happiness, excitement, even tears that come after nearly ten years of fighting and wondering where in the world is Osama Bin Laden. We have spent Billions of dollars that was originally based on a manhunt for the men responsible for that date (I refuse to directly reference it since it has been prostituted as a political ploy and weapon in elections). Vindication might suffice as a word to express my personal feelings on the matter; retribution might be appropriate, too. The President used “justice” in his speech tonight, but I don’t know if he addressed the real issue at hand, nor should he have. We will leave the cynicism and the twisting of this moment in time to the pundits and the news outlets (and me). The one thing we all need to think about is whether he is now more powerful a martyr than he was a man?
Finally
I don’t want to shit in your cornflakes or rain on your parade (we might be justified in having one for the guy that pulled the trigger), but it seems we must be cautiously hesitant to think that this will just dissolve a hardened, extremist group like Al-Qaeda. The death of Bin Laden is only going to galvanize an already grizzled bunch. He has been martyred by the Great Satan. Darth Vader was warned by Obi-Wan that if he was struck down then he would become more powerful than you could possibly imagine. Now Osama has finally given his life for the cause at hand like an empty robe falling to the ground. His followers and comrades will stop at nothing to justify his death, honor his memory, and meet now not only a harem of virgins, but Osama himself, on the other side.
In my lifetime there has been nothing more blood-curdling or earth-shattering than walking in to my first class in September so many years ago and seeing the first tower burning, live. I was so confused, didn’t believe, I couldn’t understand. Once I understood I remember hearing Bush speak and wanting only blood for blood. That metallic, salty taste on my tongue made the hair bristle on the back of my neck. I wanted heads on pikes, men drawn and quarter, I wanted men sentenced to be “hung by the neck until dead.” I wanted Old West justice, and if anyone was fit to deliver it then ol’ G.W. was the Texas boy to do it. For a moment I was elated that we had an illiterate redneck at the helm. He was the man who could slake our collective thirst and put meaning to this awful event, tying on it a nice like bow made from the innards of men foolish enough to mess with Texas.
But is was slow going and it has gotten so complicated over the years that most of us forgot what we had initially been fighting for; that justice that Obama spoke of tonight. There is no explaining away our actions in the middle east as a whole, mostly I’m ashamed and angry as an adult now. I became so jaded and tired from the justifying and legitimizing and most of all the double-speak of “strategic victories” and “progress on the ground” that I just wanted to bring all the boys back and admit we had no idea how to get one guy, one symbol, that could alleviate some of the psychological burden that we collectively felt.
Today, some of that was lifted with this announcement. I was never afraid of terrorists. It was never a feeling I felt. I was never scared to fly, afraid of a bombing, and it never effected my daily life except as an inconvenience or something that got my ire up. Today was the most genuine nostalgia I have had for my child-self. I can finally explain to that teenage boy that we got that bastard. He can look up at me with the hope and bloodlust and he can finally rest knowing that the head of the snake, the one that bit and poisoned his youth so long ago, was cut off. I would send him off to bed and pour myself a drink. Hell, what am I saying, I’d pour a drink for the both of us before he went to bed. Then I could sit down in a chair and realize all that happened today was the next chapter, not the end of the book.
I don’t think any of us are kidding ourselves. I might have just been obtuse as a kid, but I can see all the cynicism in the tweets and the status updates today. This moment is tainted by the ten years that preceded it, and beyond. Like drinking from a putrid pool of water after nearly dying of thirst crossing the Sahara; worry about the gut rot later. Sage Francis wrote almost immediately after I heard the news on Twitter: “Donald Trump and Sarah Palin are already asking to see Osama Bin Laden’s death certificate! This is getting ridiculous now.” Among others are, “BREAKING: Apple takes credit for finding Bin Laden through iPhone secret tracking. ‘We told you it was a feature, damn it’ – Jobs,” “When you run out of the house to join the Osama is dead rally in DC, when does grabbing the beach ball cross your mind as a good thing?” Possibly my favorite I’ve found is, “Beloved character actor Osama bin Laden, star of TV’s ‘Fox News’, dies age 54.”
Right now, as I type, there are hundreds of men setting timers, spooling det cords, and sewing vests for the purpose of attacking America forces renewed by the thought of their now martyred leader. Instead of one man’s calculating and absentee leadership, each cell will invariably mobilize itself and act on it’s own accord with no central leadership. This is now Project: Mayhem and in death, he has a name, his name is Osama Bin Laden. Stop it. His name is Osama Bin Laden. This is crazy. His name is Osama Bin Laden…what is going to follow in the next few weeks will be escalation. We may have cut the head off the snake, but there isn’t only one snake, and they are all irradiated with like three heads; these groups are Cerberus, the hell-hound. The next 72 hours will be very tense. They will want immediate satisfaction. We have got the new terror alert system after doing away with the Starburst color wheel we had gotten used to using, and this new one consisting of only two levels is going to get a workout over the next six months.
What might be the good to come out of this? Well, the greatest good will be as symbolic as his death. We might get renewed anti-terrorist cooperation, new cooperation in areas we didn’t have it, and an overall feeling that our military ineptitude can be lifted for the time being. Pakistan is most definitely going to politically bend over and spread ‘em after looking like jerk-offs and terrorist sympathizers with Osama having been in Pakistan when we found him. There might be a statue or parade for the man that killed Osama, justifiably so. Maybe a bronze statue of the soldier mid-war cry, holding up the severed head of Osama in one hand and a machete in the other. Too gruesome? Well, my 16-year old self would disagree with you on that, and I’m betting the you from ten years ago would, too, if you were honest with yourself.
Obama is now untouchable in the next election. War time Presidents get re-elected, that’s just a fact, and now with the blood of Osama spilled on what I can only assume were Italian marble floors in a mansion in Pakistan (Lucy, you got some ‘slainin to dooooooo), he can basically phone in a campaign. Like Zim capturing the smart bug in Starship Troopers, it’s a great victory, but it is only the beginning of the rest of the war. This was, though, the culmination of a “vow” Obama made during a debate in 2008, to find and bring to justice Osama Bin Laden. He fucking did that. That. Just. Happened! If the GOP field was weak-kneed before, they are even weaker now. Who wants to drunkenly fall into the wheat thresher that is Obama 2012? This is the drum Obama gets to beat for at least the next 24-months before anyone tells him to put it away. There is no amount of pundit BS and side-chatter that can break the results of this day. Bin Laden is dead. Election day cannot get here soon enough; don’t want this “dead terrorist” smell to wear off before then.
A monster no more.
This Middle East crap is all a fucking mess, and “if it ain’t, it’ll do until the mess gets here.” This was my generation’s great evil. The man hell-bent on destroying and upsetting the natural order of the civilized world. Enjoy the fruits of our long harvest. Yes, we’re cynical, we’re cracking jokes, and maybe I’m looking for the dark cloud instead of the silver lining, but this was not just a symbolic and real blow to terrorism and it’s most insidious voice, but this was like me killing the monster that lived under my psychological bed. I was never afraid of him, but the idea of him. Osama’s image and martyrdom will live on forever, no hyperbole there, but at least we finally put that SOB six feet under, which gives me just a little bit of that metallic, salty taste of blood in the back of my throat that I have wanted for so long.
Side note: If anyone fucking says, “mission accomplished” to me I will sock you right in the nose, though. That phrase is as dead as “winning.”
This is a room full of people that love you, sorta
or: If you don’t seek help today, America, then you cannot have any contact with any of us; that includes Canada
[EXCERPT]
…
The mediator can feel the tension, and knows the outcome if the pressure is not released. With a deliberate cough and throat clearing that could have easily been a thunderclap in the silence, he decides to begin. We can distract them long enough until it is time for the guest of honor to arrive, he thinks with a well-established lump in his throat.
“OK, well, while we’re waiting I would like to go over a few things so we are all on the same page and we can present a united front.”
“Sure, that won’t make him nervous, us, a united front, haha.” pipes up one of the more doubtful figures in the room. The mediator knows that this was the sentiment of a lot of the people in the room, doubt. It was confirmed by the flutters of laughter that went up in the room.
“C’mon, Canada, that’s not constructive.”
“Well, Switzerland, what do you think America is going to think when he walks in this room and sees all of us circled up in here, aye? I have got ten bucks says his first instinct is to pull on us and throw bombs, troops, and aircraft carriers at all of us.”
Libya shifts in his chair accompanied by a creak from the floor while he stirs his coffee distractedly.
“I’m sorry, Libya, that was low. I know you’re suffering through that right now.” Canada tentatively puts a supportive hand on his shoulder. “See what is happening here, Switzerland? We are not ready for this. If we are going to talk to America it needs to be one on one during diplomatic visits and in the U.N. like we should. We can form resolutions, take a strong line verbally with America, maybe that will be enough if we just…”
Switzerland cuts him off, taking control of the meeting again. “Hey, you know that is not going to work. America has a history of manipulating all of you in to doing his bidding or bending to his will. Strong words mean nothing to a super power of deception and war-profiteering on the level of America.” Switzerland looks every person in the circle in the eye as he speaks. “This is an intervention, to tell America how much we love him, but to tell him that his love hurts us more and more and we all suffer. We’re an international community, we’ve got a lot of history with America in this room, and we need to tell him exactly how we feel and give him no choice but to get help, or we will never speak to him again.” Everyone shifts with a chorus of creaks and half-coughs as their coffee or glazed donut command all of their attention.
“Vietnam, don’t you want to speak your piece? Tell America how the Agent Orange, the village burnings, the rape of your country, the after effects of use of chemicals, effected you? Don’t you want to express how the change in warfare in Vietnam hurt you?”
Vietnam half-heartedly agrees with a shrug of his shoulders and unintelligible sounds of agreement.
“What about you, Iraq? Afghanistan, you’ve been occupied against your will for nearly ten years, you must have some feelings to express. And you, Japan, Germany, Italy, Mexico? You all have stories of how America’s love of ‘democracy’ and even Manifest Destiny has effected you.” Switzerland looks around the room and smiles. “I see strength in this room, a room united to give America the help it needs so badly. Today, with your bravery and willingness to express how America has hurt you most, we can get America the help it needs and turn America in to an international participant, not the bully that it is now.”
The whole room stops what their doing as a large guffaw sounds from outside, in the driveway. All eyes turn to the front door as a pair of foot steps can be heard on the walkway and a loud and obnoxious voice floats through the wood and glass to be heard by the room’s occupants. Lumps appear in throats as fight-or-flight syndrome begins to hum in the back of the minds of a few of the intervention’s participants.
The British accent of England can be heard between the boisterous words of the other man, America. As the rough sound of wiping feet on the welcome mat can be heard, the silhouettes of the two men fall on the stained-glass in the front door, bathing their forms in a colorful mosaic that was disarming, knowing what both men had been capable of over the years. The door handle signals a grip, and as it swung open slowly, everyone braced for impact.
“HA HA HA HA! That’s a good one, you Limey SOB! I remember the last time I was in the Philippines I had about 1,000 Pesos burning a hole in my pocket and desire rippin’ a hole in my jockeys…” America finally looks in on the group of people in the room as his chiseled jaw goes slack and pupils dilate with the rush of adrenalin. His now gaunt face darts between England on his left, a gentle grip around America’s shoulder giving the impression of ‘you’re not leaving’ while being reassuring, and then back at the group a few times.
“What the hell is this, Limey!? I thought this was a bachelor party you were bringin’ me to. If I didn’t know any better…”
…
“OK, let’s all take our seats.” Switzerland gets up as everyone sits back down. The confidence is palpable at this point. Switzerland looks to the one person who hasn’t spoken yet, England. England looks back and nods knowingly, it was his turn. Switzerland now sits as England stands and takes a place in front of America from across the semi-circle. America looks a bit hurt now, a little shaky and a little weaker, his rough and prickly exterior replaced by slightly dropped shoulders and arms no longer folded now laying in his lap awkwardly fiddling. His best friend is now about to tell him what-for. This must be tough.
“OK, well, here goes nothing, g’vnor. Listen, America, you know I think you’re great. You’re like my best mate, ya know? Think of all the wars we have fought together, how many times you’ve bailed me out, or how many times I have gotten your back when everyone else was against you…Sorry about that, Iraq.” Iraq nods and waves a hand dismissively. “We go back a long time, I know we don’t like to talk about it, but you know we were once one in the same. You were our most favorite colony. I mean, bloody hell, you were the arm of the queen’s country across the world. We made you, you can’t doubt this. Without us you wouldn’t be. You wouldn’t be the brash, loud, and ridiculously pompous country you are. I’m kinda proud of you, but I am ashamed a bit, too. If it weren’t for you declaring independence you’d sill be ours, and maybe things wouldn’t be how they are, you wouldn’t be the schoolyard bully you are.”
America has sulked visibly as he listens to his best friend call him a monster. Eyes wrapped in cellophane tears, the emotion is only just being held back.
“America, you know I love you, and in the past I would have stood behind you, supporting you with troops and whatever you needed, even if you wanted to invade Australia. If you decided that the world no longer needed France you know we would be right there with you, saying it is the right thing to do and that history will justify the demolition of the Eiffel Tower, pretentious wank, that thing. But you have changed, and you have dragged me in to so many crazy capers and adventures like some insolent Huck FInn, that you can’t even script the kinds of things we have done together. Iraq, Afghanistan, the Gulf War, The Great War, WW II, ‘peacekeeping efforts’ in Africa. Bloody hell, think of all the things we have completely ignored like famine and suffering in the Congo, Darfur, South Africa. I mean we have basically turned our backs on the motherland, mate. But seriously, it has to stop, America. I can’t go out there on the stage anymore and just go along with whatever you say. I can’t be the Sundance to your Butch Cassidy. The days are gone where I can be the Watson to your Sherlock. If you don’t seek help, then I’m afraid you’re going to have to justify your nutty schemes and hilarious capers…on your own, mate.” England’s voice quivered slightly as he neared the end of his letter, and as he sat down he could do little to hold in his emotion behind a monocle and top hat. The tuxedo was now clearly a bit much for an intervention; the cane was really ridiculous.
America quivered now, red-faced and stiff. No one spoke for a minute. You could have heard anthrax drop in the room until America stood up suddenly and took a deep breath. It was a long wind America took in to his breast. He then exhaled slowly and spoke in a thundering tone.
“YOU JUDASES! You turncoat, Benedict Arnold, sons of bitches! Think of everything I have done for you! Afghanistan, who armed you in your fight against the Russians in the eighties? Me. Germany, you know you had that ass kicking coming when you invaded Poland and France. Japan, as I have said, I am sorry about the whole ‘nuclear bombs’ thing. It seemed like the right thing to do at the time. Mexico, you know you would have spent the gold on tequila and whores, which is what we spent it on, so don’t go all high and mighty with me about it being YOUR gold. We won that war fair and square, we occupied Mexico City, deal with it. Iraq, well, yeah, it was BS that got us there, but you can’t tell me you wanted Saddam to stay in power. Sure it was unjustified, but hey, it was our fault he took power in the first place, so we were just finishing what we started.” He turned to England now. “Oh, England. Et tu, Brute? We have gotten so close after the whole revolution thing. F the Queen, and F you. What a load. We have had some great times, and don’t act like I was ‘dragging’ you in to anything. You would all be speaking German if it weren’t for me stepping in after Japan woke the sleeping dragon, baby. I have formed this world as it is, for better or for worse. Japan, who is reaching out in your time of need right now, who is raising money and sending relief workers and the Red Cross your way? I am.”
Japan scoffs, “You’re raising money via text message. You are literally phoning it in.”
“Hey, it’s not my fault it’s all people want to do for you. Pearl Harbor, Mother Fucker, Pearl Harbor. We’re still bent out of shape about that. ‘A day that will live in infamy…’ Remember that!? Dick.”
Switzerland tries to bring order. “OK, it is clear we are all a little heated right now. Let’s take a deep breath and think about what we’re sayin-”
“Oh, shut up you Alps loving bastard. You’re legs are atrophied from your never taking a stand on anything. Would you have liked for WWII to have ended differently? Would you like to have terrorists just run amok all over the world? I’m doing the best I can right now with the shit I’m given. Hitler, Mussolini! That was no easy task, my friend. I have made the tough decisions, made the tough calls. It is me, America, that has kept even the most tenuous grasp on civilization up to this point; it’s my hands that need the washing when order is restored, order you get to enjoy! I will admit, there were some miscalculations, maybe some decisions made on incomplete information that led to unplanned and undesired consequences, but I will not sit here as all you countries who have benefitted in even the slightest, from my supposed ‘malfeasance,’ sit in judgement of me, telling me I need some help. You have all needed my help at some point, and you’d be nowhere without it. You don’t just need me, you WANT me to be the antihero in all of this. Pile it on, go ahead, I am America. I’ve got the biggest stick and I’m one to USE IT. A pox on all your houses you ungrateful bastards!”
There was silent outrage as America took deep and ragged breaths after such a tirade. Everyone looked at one another and back at America, who now buttoned up his suit and slicked his hair back in to place with a return to composure.
Switzerland tries to reason. “America, I can understand your frustration-”
“Oh really? You can get it? Only thing you get is the metric system you Minaret-hating fence-straddler!”
Canada chuckles, but stays silent and puts his hands up in defeat when in the cross hairs of America’s stare for a moment.
Switzerland keeps his composure, now. “That may be your opinion, and you’re entitled to it, but we came here for you to seek help. Are you willing to go to diplomatic rehabilitation? Are you willing to learn to respect UN power and law and act in accordance with the same laws you accuse others of breaking? Are you willing to drop this fruitless war on terror and respect a nation’s sovereignty, delaying war until every other option is exhausted? Are you willing to give diplomacy and open debate a chance before just bombing your problems in to submission, or locking them away in prison without trial? Are you willing to take a course of action in the future that might break the cycle of anti-American sentiment around the world with open arms in place of close fists? Are you willing, America?”
All the countries waited, breath bated, as America searched the faces, the walls, the furniture, for an answer. America knew full well what had become of him, a man embroiled in far more than he could handle. A man so prideful that victory must be snatched from the jaws of defeated, even if such victory was to be desperately pyrrhic in it’s aftermath. So large he had grown that he forgot the weight on his shoulders that the burden of decisiveness bared on him. He felt it now more than before. He was a young country, an adolescent country, forced by his position to mature faster than he would have liked, and should have otherwise been allowed to. No country less than three hundred years old should have been saddled with terms like ‘promised land’ or the ‘land of opportunity’ like he was. So many mistakes, so many lies, he was tired now, aged far beyond his years. He knew he was only able to do his best through great trial and, often times, great error, but to stand by his decisions and convince those around him, as much as himself, that it was the ‘right’ thing to do, whatever that meant to him anymore.
America looked around and then to nowhere in particular, the look of a war-hardened man, the ‘1,000-yard stare,’ they called it. Searching for an answer in anything, everything, nothing, all at once. Everyone waited still, now unsure of what will come from the maw of the most feared and least respected man in the room.
They all still felt hope, mired in doubt, as he pondered his answer that would effect the course of history forever…
