Why Didn't We Think of That?

Good God, it's been too long. Our blood is fairly boiling, but since we've been silent for a few days and we're enjoying ourselves we thought we would give you first peek at what may well be the most innovative, intriguing, pragmatic, law-abiding, and downright invigorating political-social idea of the last eight years.

Of course we didn't think of it ourselves. No, Friends, give a big hearty Swillcome to our new Assistant Senior Managing and Features Assistant, JT.

Believe it or not, just a few short weeks ago, JT was slaving away down in the mailroom, fighting off advances from some particularly randy recent Princeton grads (aside: if you want to keep journalism semi-profitable, hire folks whose parents can afford to support them for a year or two while you pay them slave wages or, better yet, they "intern" for free. It's pretty much standard practice in the business, and has the added bonus of keeping executive washrooms and editorial columns free from society's, ahem sturdier elements).

Hell, we understand. We try to avoid the mailroom ourselves. But when you have to go, friends, you have to go, and while looking for our keys on the way to the parking garage, we were unexpectedly seized by what felt like a thousand starfish running straight down our colon, and we had no choice but to dash into the unisex shitter that is usually reserved for all of the good men and women who work Downstairs.

Whilst spraying figurative mud on the back of the literal bowl, we found ourselves moaning the mantra that has comforted us for many moons and through many dark hours: "Impeach," we lowed, "Dear Christ it's tearing the ass right out of us I-M-P-E-A-C-H."

Now, you know we're not used to being contradicted. But on the perhaps mystically important third growl of "IMPEACH," a voice pointedly emerged from the stall next to us. What follows is what we heard, and, well, the rest is herstory:

"Fuck impeachment" the voice said. "I've got a new strategy: deport him."

Depor? Wha?

"Look, dick," the voice growled, "Houston Chronicle reports that Immigration Services is test-driving a new citizenship exam, featuring questions that emphasize not factual knowledge but the applicant's understanding of 'the meaning behind some of America's fundamental institutions.' So, for example, rather than being asked 'What was the Emancipation Proclamation,' as the exam does now, one might be asked 'What were some of the causes of the Civil War?' But then we get this... [here the voice paused briefly, we heard the sound of newspaper pages rustling, throat-clearing commenced, and the following was read aloud]:

Another possible question would delve into the
nation's system of checks and balances.

Currently, immigrants are asked "What are the
three branches or parts of government?" The
answer: executive, legislative and judicial.

But a draft test question asks: "Why do we have
three branches of government?"

An acceptable answer might be, so that no
branch is too powerful. . . . Or another
acceptable response might be, to separate
the power of government. . . ."

[What came next -- shoutingly, insistingly, righteously -- blew not only our mind, but the remainder of our pancreas straight through a starfish-shaped emergency exit, if you catch our drift. sorry. - ed.]

"ATTENTION NANCY PELOSI: PUT THE PRESIDENT UNDER OATH, ASK THIS QUESTION, THEN DEPORT, DEPORT, DEPORT!"

Genius will out, friends. And that's how you rise in the ranks of journalism, Swill-style.

Assorted Notes on Killing (Part VII)

We are both nearsighted and cagey, Friends, and we therefore refuse to speculate as to whether the future does or does not last forever. We can and will wholeheartedly confirm, however, that our post-election giddiness lasted but a few short days. Our liver and our door-knocking knuckles yet throbbed with painful satisfaction when we realized that mere personnel shifts aren't going to winch us from our national and global nightmare anytime soon.

What, you don't live in a national nightmare?

Lucky fucking you. Just wait. We don't know when it'll hit you.

What we and all longtime readers of the Swill do know, however, is that we are smack dab in that time of year when complicated minds turn to uncomplicated facts: that urine smells; that it's not darkest just before dawn but coldest; that meat doesn't grow on trees; that a bullet through the lungs produces a sort of luminous frothy spray; that arteries bleed brightly; that dark heavy drops disappearing in 100 yards mean muscle (and, in circles we inhabit, secondarily mean that somebody fucked up).

In short, Friends, the killing time is upon us. Time to put away the long knives, because short knives are more efficient (and don't threaten to perforate one's colon if one happens to sit upon them for too long). Time to rub oil over the leather pouch your mother brought you back from vacation when you were eleven, and time to rub your grandfather's "Old Timer" knife over a white stone with just a few drops of oil; time to wish you had listened a little more closely when your grandfather was trying to give you what is turning out to be -- however briefly -- truly useful information. Time to prepare yourself for truly understanding the cycles of life, for freezing your ass off, for communing with the great outdoors, for connecting with family, for acknowledging History and Nature.

In short, it's time to invoke a number of romantic categories in order to justify obtaining meat from the wilderness rather than from the grocery store or the bistro. Experience tells the Swill that if enough of these categories are invoked -- and if the language is gauzy enough and one appeals frequently enough to Tradition -- one might just barely escape being branded a mouth-breathing redneck (or worse, a Communitarian).

This is only part VII in what promises to be at least an VIII-part series, Friends, and it's going to be an early morning as we make the great treck north, seeking neither fame nor fortune but merely a plate full of dinner without Safeway's moniker tattooed upon the main course. We have a bottle of Hoppe's #9 that is calling our name, an assload of wool socks to pack, and some quiet thoughts to entertain.

But we promise to get back to you in just a few days with Conclusions We Have Drawn.

Our Influence Spreads

Sweet sweet SusanG over at dailykos has (perhaps unwittingly) adopted our "Inhabit the Frame" strategy, which -- in terms of our tactical acumen and political-theoretical savvy -- pretty much makes us the Ken Mehlman of this week.

Without, of course, all the crushing defeat and self-loathing.

Now This

Is how you start restoring a sense of justice -- if not justice itself -- to a democracy.

Yes, Friends, Democracy Now -- the exception to the rulers -- has reported that "The president of the Center for Constitutional Rights, Michael Ratner, is heading to Germany today to file a new case charging outgoing Defense Secretary Donald Rumsfeld with war crimes for authorizing torture at Guantanamo Bay." Read more.

UPDATE: Well, as long as we're charging people with war crimes...

Election Hangover

We're not speaking metaphorically, Friends, but rather with a resolute attention to literality that is appropriate when one is counting votes.

Yes, after many hours of worrying, calling, walking, shilling and shrilling, we took a few hours last night to get so drunk we could hardly see. Then, realizing that a half-finished job is a job poorly done, we got so drunk we couldn't see at all. At $1.50 per pint of the allegorically and patriotically appropriate Pabst Blue Ribbon, we exchanged our canvassing clipboard for a $20-bill and went to work with a resolute vengeance. Shouted "Fuck You" at big-screen televised images of Joe Lieberman. Bummed and smoked a Camel straight for old times' sake.

Yes, Dear Friends, we put the "ass" back into "assiduous."

Is this perhaps why we are incapable of doing anything today besides staring demi-blankly at the computer screen and hitting the "refresh" button every fifteen seconds? Is this why we can't shake this feeling that seems to comprise equal parts glee and unnamable dread? Could filling our belly with two gallons of Pabst Blue Ribbon be the only reason why we're only able to muster half of a fist-pump this afternoon?

There is, after all, much for which to be thankful. As Glenn Greenwald writes:

All of the hurdles and problems that are unquestionably present and serious — a dysfunctional and corrupt national media, apathy on the part of Americans, the potent use of propaganda by the Bush administration, voter suppression and election fraud tactics, gerrymandering and fundraising games — can all be overcome. They just were.

Indubitibly cause for a celebration, and we're not ones to fuck with a well-earned day of rest and Schadenfreude.

Over the next few days, however, we suspect we'll need to get to the bottom of the dread, or at least gesture to skimming the scum from the top of the pond. When we do, we'll be sure to fill you in on the complicated matter of Why You Should Be Happy But Not That Fucking Happy. Until then, let us put away our long knives, pet the cats, read a book, and sip some tea. For weeks, it has seemed inappropriate to speak of anything but the election; today, it seems inappropriate to speak of it too clearly.

It's Not Too Late

To Do More Than Vote.

Everyone Agrees

We are often approached by conservative (sic) friends, who say "Swill, how can I vote against my party, my President, my dreams, my hopes, my fears, my family. I'm a conservative, after all, not only in terms of my registration, but in terms of my identity."

Here's one for you, kids, from that liberal rag-sheet The American Conservative (a publication with which we have our -- ahem -- issues, but which is reliably to the left of the New Republic about 75% of the time).

Go ahead and read it. Yes, it turns out that even Conservatives (sic) agree: the GOP is a sickness, and it's the duty of every Conservative to vote against them on Tuesday.

Enough already.

The Virtues of Complainte

At this late date, friends, it should come as no surprise that we advocate objections, complaints, outrage, irritation, agitation, and general gadfly-by-nightery. We believe that calls for collegiality and comity are generally little more than thinly veiled attempts to quell dissent and stifle the sort of genuinely agonistic discourse that once -- perhaps in a mythical long ago -- looked like democracy, unfettered inquiry, etc. If we were more Continentally piquant in our thinking, we might even proclaim that consensus is little more than the carnival masque of hegemony, the pleasant soundtrack that enables the deepest of grotesqueries.

You'll further note that the Swill has historically displayed very little patience for firm distinctions between speech and action, between "writing" and "doing something."

Today, friends, we're going to ask a little something different of you, and it's a not inconsiderable request: Put Up or Shut the Fuck Up.

Don't want to live in a gay-baiting, incompetently militaristic, Intelligently Designed, imperial theocracy? Don't want all the downsides of fascism without the compensatory consolation of an efficient railway? Not entirely convinced that mercury is the nicest spice in your fish soup? Think that women should be able to make the choice about when and under what conditions they're going to reproduce?

Well, do something besides complain. The $100 that you sent is fine and necessary -- Thanks! -- but we don't have time right now to lecture you on direct action, fungibility and monetary theory and shit.

Call your local candidate's campaign office. The fact is that you can do something useful -- even if it's only sit in the warm comfort of your own living room and make a few phone calls. Hell, you can even make a few phone calls from somebody else's living room: just go HERE to sign up.

If you like your current representation, and your particular congressional representative isn't running for re-electation right now, or if your particular congressional representative or governor or whomever is in no danger of losing his or her seat, you might think about the fact that your representative doesn't run the whole fucking show. Are you too busy? Are you too tired? Does it seem like a hassle? Are you nervous about calling strangers, or having doors shut in your face?

Boo fucking hoo. Shut the fuck up. We're hardly asking you to storm the Bastille.

You get the point, and we've already written too much for too few people. We're off to spend the next few days in a major metropolitan area, knocking on doors and convincing people to get off their asses and vote for the people we want to represent us.

"Why" you ask?

Well, not because we think we can have a noticable effect. Not because our messiah complex would ever find an outlet in something so quotidian as working in an election. Certainly not because we would lay claim to the baddassery of that guy whose portrait appears above.

No, it's because we would be ashamed to complain if we had spent this weekend taking care of chores, catching up on our reading, or watching sports, or grading papers. And we don't want to shut the fuck up.

We'll see you on Wednesday.

UPDATE: Here's another MoveOn way to get involved this weekend, even if you only have 20 minutes to spare.

Apropos of Absolutely Nothing

We find ourselves unaccountably amused by the following headline.

Bush und Kerry lassen die Funken Fliegen

Although perfectly standard German, our mirth probably has something to do with conflicted, condensed, and dispensed nostalgia for the Clinton era.

Not Bad

But if we were in charge of this campaign, we might have added something about this (PDF) result of the Iraq invasion and occupation. We suppose that's why we're not in charge of campaigns.