I laughed, I cried, I became a part of the problem, not the solution

Editor's note: For today, just call me Rantlicious.

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And I could go on and on and on/
But who cares?

Gnarls Barkley, "Who Cares," 2006

For a number of reasons, I haven't written anything predominantly political in a long while. For one thing, what with the almost-move to Canada in August and the beginning of the new academic year, I've lacked the concentration and mental powers to analyze and interpret the current domestic and international political situation in any sort of contemplative manner. I'm still not sure I'm there now, but I have to start somewhere.

People who know me and/or regular readers of this blog can attest that humor tends to be my schtick. It's fun for me, and perhaps even for those around me. However, what may be less evident is that it helps me cope. Within my psychological makeup, I seem to have two choices for dealing with the sorry state of the world, laughing or crying. (Ignoring doesn't seem to be an option, even if it sometimes seems as though that's what I'm doing.) When it comes down to it, I realize it's better for me and everyone I know if I choose the chuckle over buckling under the weltschmerz.

It almost goes without saying, though, that I've been unable to find anything humorous in the current situation--despite the absurdity and preposterousness of the times, and speaking of the times, despite headlines like the one in today's (24 September 2006) New York Times: "Spy Agencies Say Iraq War Worsens Terror Threat."

Say it ain't so.

I mean, who would have ever imagined that twisted little pretzel of reality three-and-a-half years ago when the rumblings of war and the rattlings of sabers first began? It just goes to show that conventional wisdom and common sense are truly dead--or at least desperately in need of image rehab--because clearly only long-delayed government reports (the study was completed in April and apparently this summer Washington completely exhausted the federal supply of toner and paper, probably on press releases about the war's many suckexcesses) and scholarly think-tank white papers can see things the way they really are.

As for the rest of us who thought otherwise from the Gitmo . . . erm . . . get-go, who actually speculated that all this meshugas in the Middle East might be a windmill-tilt in the wrong direction in the quixotic "war on terror," well, where were our credentials? Where were our facts? More importantly, where were our press conferences and photo ops? Why surely the rest of us were guilty of a namby-pamby, liberal wheezing, terrorist appeasing form of Islamo-fascist sedition because we dared question whether it might be wiser, geopolitically speaking, to "think outside the bomb" for a change.

And yet three and some (very) odd years later, here we are, in a burning Middle Eastern theater of war, our feet stuck to floor by chewed gum and spilled soda--or might that be spilled blood?--with nary an exit sign in sight. The smoke obscures our vision, the screaming agitates our soul, and the flames from this particular form of hell scorches our brains. Nonetheless, I'm sure like any good Hollywood blockbuster disaster movie, in the end we'll get saved from a deep-fat-fried denouement by someone cocksure and virile, like a pre-Scientology Tom Cruise. Won't we?

Which brings me to my third and fourth reasons for why I've avoided and evaded all things Iraqi, Iranian, Afghani, Lebanese, Israeli, Syrian, Palestinian, Saudi, Sudanese, and, for good measure, Venezuelan: It's just too damn overwhelming and too damn depressing.

Where does one begin to discuss the war, its pitfalls, its pratfalls, and its cat fights on the catwalk? With President Bush's recent speech to the United Nations and the playground tit-for-tat of Wankin' (Hugo Chavez), Blankin' (Bush), and Nutjob (Mahmoud Ahmadinejad)? With Donald Rumsfeld's early-September accusation that anyone who wuzn't fer 'em wuz again' em and was guilty of being a Nazi appeaser? With the "Secret Prisons Revealed!" teaser on the next episode of Gitmo-ry Povich? With efforts to legalize domestic spying without warrants even after the Supreme Court ruled such activities unconstitutional? With the farcical trial of Saddam Hussein? When the Geneva Conventions were processed into Swiss cheese? With 3,000 soldiers and tens of thousands of Iraqis dead?

Frankly, it's just easier to write about something innocuous like the dissolution of Whitney Houston's marriage, Clay Aiken's eternal "non-coming out" and continual hair-don'ts, or the homoerotic weirdness that is Jackass: Number 2. As a result, by taking the road less agonizing (and less likely to be booby-trapped) to travel, I run the risk of being called lewd or crude, of focusing on the ephemeral and inconsequential, of not being taken seriously. But, seriously, what's the point of saying anything more?

It's not like one more blog-ista engaging in a political rant is going to make a difference and change the outcome of the war--or even of the soundbites from next week's press conference. It's clear that our fearless leaders (leading us into temptation, delivering us unto evil . . .) are going to do whatever the hell they want, no matter how many people protest, no matter how many die, no matter how much destruction and hurt are caused, no matter (in a purely self-serving vein) how low the poll numbers go and how big the budget deficit balloons. Why bother? Especially when there's Jessica Simpson's career to consider or another missing pre-teen to worry over or a hurricane heading toward Bermuda to fret about?

Of course this is the plan, to keep us all part of what the Daily Show's Jon Stewart refers to as the "distracted middle." Folks, it's Wonder bread and circuses and Entertainment Tonight from here on out--or at least until they run out of body bags. Lord knows they'll never run out of excuses. Say amen somebody and pass the ammunition. Oh wait. They've run out of that, too.

We of the Never Never think the Far Right is crazy, destroying democracy to save it and all that jazz. We fear the Far Left could be even crazier, and we only have to tour San Francisco or tune into Pacifica Radio to clear up any doubts otherwise. Meanwhile, we're stuck in the middle confused, feeling ill-informed, overly anxious over $3 a gallon gas and $1,000 deductibles on our health insurance, and maybe just being a little too dispassionate about life outside our own backyards.

These people on the Left and the Right seem so sure of their convictions--or at least of whom they want to convict. What do we know about any of this? Wouldn't it be easier just to go along and let them have their way?

And by doing so, by giving up our own power to those who scream the loudest, who argue the best, who seem so sure of themselves, we end up doing absolutely nothing. Except talk to our friends and family members, make jokes at our leaders' expense, spend our free time praising the beauty of sunflowers, watching our new TVs, and scouring the shops for the perfect shade of cranberry or sage for a dining room rug.

Oh, and maybe vote every couple of years, no longer surprised that the choices on the ballot offer really no choice at all. Each one the same: The same suit-wearing, over-achieving assholes, whose parents, families, and friends didn't have the gumption to tell little George W. or Hillary R. C. or Bill F. or Nancy P. that there needs to be something behind the wind-bagginess of it all, that they might want to have a belief system, not just an extraordinary narcissism.

I promise for the next blog posting I'll do a spit-take or juggle or something.