What Do I Know?

A Uniquely American Homecoming

Back from Iraq - and suddenly out on the streets | csmonitor.com.

NEW YORK – Veterans of the Iraq and Afghanistan conflicts are now showing up in the nation's homeless shelters.

While the numbers are still small, they're steadily rising, and raising alarms in both the homeless and veterans' communities. The concern is that these returning veterans - some of whom can't find jobs after leaving the military, others of whom are still struggling psychologically with the war - may be just the beginning of an influx of new veterans in need.

Do we really have to point out the irony here?

Okay, maybe we do. What the Bush administration says, and what it does, are not even on the same plane of existence. But you knew that.

Did you know there are lots of military men and women who know the truth about Bush? Who'd like nothing better than to serve a commander in chief who can find Iraq on a map? A CIC who knows how to pronounce "nuclear"? One who has a passing knowledge of military acronyms, like AWOL?

Or even a commander in chief who cares more about the welfare of military members than military contractors.

I heard someone say the other day she didn't support the military, painting the troops with the broad brush of partisan political gripe. I hope this attitude is isolated, but I fear it's not. With stories like Abu Ghraib and this, I'm afraid one day the tide of public opinion might turn. I've heard stories of how Vietnam vets were spit upon and ridiculed, despite the fact most of them never signed up to fight some guy named Charlie in a rice paddy far from home.

That's why I'm happy to see that Democrats Abroad UK is sponsoring a program to send care packages to troops deployed to the Middle East. We're sending cookies (known as "biscuits" here), bourbon balls (apparently they're more transportable), DVDs, books--anyone know where we can get a good deal on Kevlar?

Yes, we Democrats DO support the troops. For now, we'll send cookies. In four years, we'll restore veterans' benefits.

A Uniquely British Homecoming

After watching Ellen MacArthur's champagne-soaked homecoming yesterday on BBC, I got to view something I've never seen on American TV. Another homecoming, this time the homecoming of soldiers killed in Iraq.

It was sad and solemn, imminently dignified, and the very least these soldiers deserved. Draped with the Union Jack, their coffins left the huge C17 plane, held aloft by their fellow soldiers-at-arms. I watched and mourned with the rest of the country, including the dignitaries who'd come to honor the dead: Geoff Hoon, the Defence Secretary; Princess Anne, Honorary Air Commodore of RAF Lyneham; and other military chiefs. (Not that the cameras ever showed them; this ceremony was about fallen heroes, not famous faces.)

What I want to know is, why can't Americans mourn their dead soldiers the same way?

Are our soldiers not as brave? Did they perhaps do something shameful before their deaths, that their homecoming is hidden from the public? Maybe they were gay, and violated the Don't Ask Don't Tell rule. Maybe they were cowards, who ran from the bullets and shrapnel that felled them.

Maybe there's something better, more upbeat to show on American TV--another press conference by our defense secretary, another speech by our president.

Maybe they were just ordinary men and women, not the superheroes of our movies and imaginations, and thus not deserving of the American public's adulation.

Whatever the reason, I'm glad I got to watch these fine British soldiers make their final trip home, serenaded by a military band, their too-short life stories told by a solemn BBC announcer. (The cameras avoided showing the families, out of respect for their privacy.) I thought about our own soldiers' anonymous returns to the country they thought they were defending, the fathers, daughters, brothers, mothers...

The ceremony ended, the hearses slowly drove away, and BBC cut to the studio. The anchors swallowed hard, and went on with the news of the day.

I wiped the tears that had gathered (my upper lip's not quite as stiff as these Brits') and I wondered:

Don't our fallen heroes deserve the same?

You Row, Girl!

The Isles are all atwitter today as Ellen MacArthur is expected to pull into Falmouth any hour now, after setting the round-the-world solo-sailing record last night somewhere off the coast of France--71 days, 14 hours, 18 minutes and 33 seconds after starting her journey. She returns a hero, though tempered by reports of constant "wingeing" (whining?) on her weblog. (Hey, it's hard enough blogging every single day, without having to contend with doldrums, 30 foot waves, and obstructionist fish!)

There were also complaints her journey, sponsored by B&Q hardward stores, was so high tech it hardly counted as human achievement, that her journal entries describing an encounter with a whale weren't quite up to Melville. And worse, that her lack of a stiff upper lip, illustrated by her online "psycho babble," might have permanently damaged the national psyche.

Whatever.

For those who can't get behind Ellen, here's another hero, another British woman who braved the wide sea on her own, but in a rowboat, not a high tech "trimaran" with GPS positioning, a Royal Airforce helo hovering overhead, and 12 webcams.

Debra Veal set off in 2001 to row across the Atlantic in the Ward Evans Atlantic Rowing Challenge, accompanied by her husband Andrew, an experienced rower. Though she'd only learned to row in the last year, she looked forward to the challenge, and a little time alone with hubby.

Nine days later, her husband left the boat after coming down with an uncontrollable fear of the ocean. She continued alone, battling the sea, dodging supertankers, and befriending sea turtles. Here's an excerpt from her Top Ten Worst Moments:

Who'll Tell Miss Piggy?

I know, you people think British telly is the greatest: those BBC comedies, the great dramas, non-stop Friends reruns, and the adverts...

Well, your telly envy can cease now.

Televisions all over Britain have been emitting the most godawful racket, in between Oasis tunes on VH2, after Channel 4 broadcasts of The OC, even during ITV's coverage of the great Blair/Brown smackdown over who gets to be Prime Minister this time 'round.

It's positively the most graceless sound to hit the airwaves since former members of the Star Trek cast turned to singing.

It's the Crazy Frog ringtone commercial. Now, take another look.

As Anne James, 34, says,

...the horrible frog has a little willy.

That's right. The world's most annoying TV commercial is also pornographic, not to mention anatomically incorrect. Frogs, it turns out, don't have willies. ("Is that a GUN in your pocket, Kermie?" Piggy asks slyly. "Umm, yes," says Kermie. "Badda-bing-bing-bing-bing-bing!")

What I want to know is, what's next? Our juicebars are lecherous pools of porn, our tellys have been invaded by willy-waving frogs--next thing you know, the Superbowl will cease being good, clean, family entertainment.

Overheard at James Wolcott's

I'd link to my favorite purveyor of wisdom ("blogger" is too ignoble a description for the author of Attack Poodles), James Wolcott, here, but the post in question has been corrupted. (Not sure if it's a nude juicebar that's responsible, or if true evil is afoot.)

But the article Wolcott referenced, by Eliot Weinberger in London Review of Books, makes for compelling reading. It begins:

Link: LRB | Eliot Weinberger : What I Heard about Iraq.

In 1992, a year after the first Gulf War, I heard Dick Cheney, then secretary of defense, say that the US had been wise not to invade Baghdad and get ‘bogged down in the problems of trying to take over and govern Iraq’. I heard him say: ‘The question in my mind is how many additional American casualties is Saddam worth? And the answer is: not that damned many.’

In February 2001, I heard Colin Powell say that Saddam Hussein ‘has not developed any significant capability with respect to weapons of mass destruction. He is unable to project conventional power against his neighbours.’

That same month, I heard that a CIA report stated: ‘We do not have any direct evidence that Iraq has used the period since Desert Fox to reconstitute its weapons of mass destruction programmes.’

In July 2001, I heard Condoleezza Rice say: ‘We are able to keep his arms from him. His military forces have not been rebuilt.’

On 11 September 2001, six hours after the attacks, I heard that Donald Rumsfeld said that it might be an opportunity to ‘hit’ Iraq. I heard that he said: ‘Go massive. Sweep it all up. Things related and not.’

It goes on:

Citizens Against Nude Juicebars and Pornography

Sometimes the headlines just write themselves. I swear, I didn't make that one up (thanks to Amy Sullivan at The Washington Monthly for alerting us to this breaking news). CANJBAP is actually a group in South Dakota--yes, the good red state of South Dakota, home of Tom Daschle, Mount Rushmore, and juicebars gone bad. (Has anyone checked to see what Lincoln's wearing under that slate?!)

Seems things got out of hand when Bob Rieger wanted to open a bar and was denied a liquor license. So he opened a strip club instead, with a juicebar on the side. (Combining "strip club" and "juicebar" in the same sentence--much less the same building--sort of confirms the arguments against mixing the species, doesn't it? I knew GMOs would get out of hand one day.)

Now, don't get me wrong: I'm against nudity. Call me a proud prude. I avoid death not because I fear the hereafter but because the undertaker will see me in the altogether. ("Hey, get a load of this one!" he'll shout to his mortuary buds. "No way SHE'D make it at the juicebar!")

No, what raises my ire is this:

Link:
Nude Juice Bar Survives Legal Challenges
.

"There's a line between right and wrong," [CANJBAP co-founder Maxine] Pulse says. "And it seems like anymore nowadays that line has got all jumbled up."

No, there's not a "fine line" against right and wrong, there's a huge honking chasm! I.e., this is wrong. This is right.

Second, "anymore nowadays" is redundant, and therefore grammatically WRONG! Just go ahead and take a flying leap over that chasm, Maxine!

The irony here, of course, is that the patrons of the "juicebar" are the same boneheads who voted out "liberal" Senator Tom Daschle in the last election. (How do I know? Because liberals avoid naked juicebars like the plagues they no doubt fester. We also prefer The Nation to pornography. Go figure.)

Now that the Democratic Party is looking for new slogans that appeal to right-wing voters, might I suggest: "Democrats: We Support YOUR Right To Get Nasty At Juicebars."

We Just Wanted Our Country Back

A year ago today, a dream died. It was a grand dream, one previously held only by those in the highest realms of political power, by those with money, influence (often the same thing) and the hubris to wield it.

They called it a movement, a revolution, a cult. They called it strident, idealistic, naive. They called it youth. They called it audacious. They called it crazy.

We called it Dean for America.

Litterbugs, Repent!

Link:
England Gets Cleaner But London Remains Filthy.

LONDON (Reuters) - While parks and leafy lanes are getting cleaner, a survey published on Wednesday showed that London still holds the ignoble title as the dirtiest place to live in England.

London managed to score only 43 points out of 100 for cleanliness, compared to the east of England, the most pristine place to live with a scored of 72.

The survey found overall standards had risen 4 per cent, with 44 per cent of areas deemed "good" or "satisfactory" and only 4 per cent rated "poor."

"For the first time in years, a national survey has shown improvements in the state of England," Alan Woods, chief executive of "Keep Britain Tidy" said in a statement.

I'm not surprised to read London is getting filthier, but the rest of England getting cleaner? They must be living on a different island (perhaps Rockall Island, population 0).

The island I live on--approximately the size of Pennsylvania, population 60 million--is a litterbug's lair. There's an appalling amount of trash strewn about the highways, streets, and sidewalks of once-fair Brittania. On a two-mile stretch of the A40, enough litter has accumulated to fill a good-sized lorry or two. Plastic bags wave jauntily from the trees, orange peels wait for decomposition along the sidewalks, crisps wrappers remind me constantly I'm not in Kansas anymore. (I never was, actually, but I bet it's cleaner than Bucks County.)

And even worse than litter, which can at least be overlooked, is graffiti, which shouts to be noticed. On the way to Oxford I saw scrawled on an embankment "Thank God For Jesus Christ," to which someone had added "Amen!" Defacing public property, no matter the degree of one's religious fervor, is just tacky. (In the old days of Oxford, such messy fanaticism would have been rewarded with a burning at stake.)

I think the problem is there's no sad-eyed Native American icon to prod the national conscience. Perhaps William the Conqueror could be enlisted to come back, wave his sword around a bit, and shame the Tesco-shopping descendants of the once-proud Angles and Saxons into cleaning up their act.

If not, I'd consider bringing back the stocks.

Oxford: Where Dodos and Academics Happily Coexist

Who can resist a "sweet city with her dreaming spires"? Hey, count me in! Oxford, a university town some 50 miles from London, is England's answer to Harvard. (Never mind the fact Oxford was here centuries before Harvard ever thought of asking any kind of question, much less inspired imitators. Just who influences whom, I've found, depends on how one pronounces "zebra".)

The city of Oxford has thoughtfully shunted traffic around the edge of the city centre, leaving the inner streets an exhaust-free zone (after a few days in England, one appreciates that). Parking is plentiful, but comes at a cost: for a three hour ticket, I fed all my spare change--£4.50--into the meter. I needed to unload some of that weight, anyway--a full day of walking lay ahead of me.

Unfortunately, I'd come on a Monday, when most of the museums were closed; the rest didn't open until noon. But this didn't dampen my spirits--I'm an American, after all, and hopelessly optimistic, not to mention awfully impressed by anything 800 years old.