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'I'm the decider' terrifies me. How scared are you?
"I'm the decider." Dear Lord, Little Uptown, at age 4, speaks better than the President. Does Bush not sound like a petulant elementary school kid asserting himself on the playground?
The problem is, the playground is the planet. And the petulant child is in charge. And the "shake-up" in his staff doesn't mean the entrance of a savior--that is, anyone who will pop the bubble of illusion and introduce the White House to reality.
I write today because many Americans--by the polls, most Americans--finally live in reality. And they are asking, as several readers have e-mailed me to ask: What can we do to stop the President from going to war with Iran?
I have read. Prayed for guidance. Nothing works. I can't find a lever I can use to stop a war that a dozen crazy, stupid men seem to insist is necessary.
Tony Blair has apparently sent signals that England won't even be part of the diplomatic process this time--he seems to grasp that's just a comedy routine we enact before we get down to the bombing that was always our intent. In the New York Times today, Thomas Friedman writes that he would prefer a world in which Iran has the bomb to a war "carried out and sold to the world by the Bush national security team, with Don Rumsfeld at the Pentagon's helm."
Tony Blair. Tom Friedman. If Jesus appeared on TV to condemn Bush, it wouldn't matter. The President and his cronies hear nothing, see nothing, learn nothing. They're making history. The wind is in their faces. They feel brave. And that--how they feel--is all that matters.
And the rest of us? As I go about my daily life--which is, ironically, progressing blissfully well (knock wood) --- I look at my interactions as if they're happening in a dream. Here I am at the gym, pumping iron. Pitching my services to a media company. Writing here, now. And the clock is ticking down to a zero-hour known only to men who will carry out the orders of "the decider."
Yes, you want to scream. But to what end? Society is a covenant of manners. It's amazing enough that we go through our days pretending we'll never die. Now we have to pretend that our "surgical" nukes will kill only a few people (in fact, they can result in huge casualties). And that the second war we start won't mean retaliation that reaches our cities, our loved ones, us.
I've been compulsively playing 'The Animal Years,' the great new CD by Josh Ritter. Last night, listening to a song called "Girl in the War," the penny dropped--it's about a guy whose girlfriend is fighting in Iraq. Some telling lyrics:
the only thing I know to do/Is turn up the music and pray that she makes it through/
And that reminds me of "Franny and Zooey," by J.D. Salinger, a classic that's now ignored but was gobbled up by readers when it was published in 1961. "Zooey" ends with a phone call to Franny, the youngest of the Glass sisters, from Zooey, the youngest brother. As the conversation winds down, Zooey recalls something that happened decades ago, soon after he started doing a radio show called "It's a Wise Child" with his siblings: He got a lecture from his brother Seymour:
Seymour'd told me to shine my shoes just as I was going out the door with Walker. I was furious. The studio audience were all morons, the announcer was a moron, the sponsors were morons, and I just damn well wasn't going to shine my shoes for them, I told Seymour. I said they couldn't see them anyway, where we sat. He said to shine them anyway. He said to shine them for the Fat Lady. I didn't know what the hell he was talking about, but he had a very Seymour look on his face, and so I did it. He never did tell me who the Fat Lady was, but I shined my shoes for the Fat Lady every time I ever went on the air again—all the years you and I were on the program together, if you remember. I don't think I missed more than just a couple of times. This terribly clear, clear picture of the Fat Lady formed in my mind. I had her sitting on this porch all day, swatting flies, with her radio going full-blast from morning till night. I figured the heat was terrible, and she probably had cancer, and—I don't know. Anyway, it seemed goddam clear why Seymour wanted me to shine my shoes when I went on the air. It made sense.
Same conclusion as Josh Ritter. Shine your shoes. Turn up the music so you're in a better mood. Does it make a difference? Probably not. But courage just might consist of getting it right nonetheless. You think?
The problem is, the playground is the planet. And the petulant child is in charge. And the "shake-up" in his staff doesn't mean the entrance of a savior--that is, anyone who will pop the bubble of illusion and introduce the White House to reality.
I write today because many Americans--by the polls, most Americans--finally live in reality. And they are asking, as several readers have e-mailed me to ask: What can we do to stop the President from going to war with Iran?
I have read. Prayed for guidance. Nothing works. I can't find a lever I can use to stop a war that a dozen crazy, stupid men seem to insist is necessary.
Tony Blair has apparently sent signals that England won't even be part of the diplomatic process this time--he seems to grasp that's just a comedy routine we enact before we get down to the bombing that was always our intent. In the New York Times today, Thomas Friedman writes that he would prefer a world in which Iran has the bomb to a war "carried out and sold to the world by the Bush national security team, with Don Rumsfeld at the Pentagon's helm."
Tony Blair. Tom Friedman. If Jesus appeared on TV to condemn Bush, it wouldn't matter. The President and his cronies hear nothing, see nothing, learn nothing. They're making history. The wind is in their faces. They feel brave. And that--how they feel--is all that matters.
And the rest of us? As I go about my daily life--which is, ironically, progressing blissfully well (knock wood) --- I look at my interactions as if they're happening in a dream. Here I am at the gym, pumping iron. Pitching my services to a media company. Writing here, now. And the clock is ticking down to a zero-hour known only to men who will carry out the orders of "the decider."
Yes, you want to scream. But to what end? Society is a covenant of manners. It's amazing enough that we go through our days pretending we'll never die. Now we have to pretend that our "surgical" nukes will kill only a few people (in fact, they can result in huge casualties). And that the second war we start won't mean retaliation that reaches our cities, our loved ones, us.
I've been compulsively playing 'The Animal Years,' the great new CD by Josh Ritter. Last night, listening to a song called "Girl in the War," the penny dropped--it's about a guy whose girlfriend is fighting in Iraq. Some telling lyrics:
the only thing I know to do/Is turn up the music and pray that she makes it through/
And that reminds me of "Franny and Zooey," by J.D. Salinger, a classic that's now ignored but was gobbled up by readers when it was published in 1961. "Zooey" ends with a phone call to Franny, the youngest of the Glass sisters, from Zooey, the youngest brother. As the conversation winds down, Zooey recalls something that happened decades ago, soon after he started doing a radio show called "It's a Wise Child" with his siblings: He got a lecture from his brother Seymour:
Seymour'd told me to shine my shoes just as I was going out the door with Walker. I was furious. The studio audience were all morons, the announcer was a moron, the sponsors were morons, and I just damn well wasn't going to shine my shoes for them, I told Seymour. I said they couldn't see them anyway, where we sat. He said to shine them anyway. He said to shine them for the Fat Lady. I didn't know what the hell he was talking about, but he had a very Seymour look on his face, and so I did it. He never did tell me who the Fat Lady was, but I shined my shoes for the Fat Lady every time I ever went on the air again—all the years you and I were on the program together, if you remember. I don't think I missed more than just a couple of times. This terribly clear, clear picture of the Fat Lady formed in my mind. I had her sitting on this porch all day, swatting flies, with her radio going full-blast from morning till night. I figured the heat was terrible, and she probably had cancer, and—I don't know. Anyway, it seemed goddam clear why Seymour wanted me to shine my shoes when I went on the air. It made sense.
Same conclusion as Josh Ritter. Shine your shoes. Turn up the music so you're in a better mood. Does it make a difference? Probably not. But courage just might consist of getting it right nonetheless. You think?
