The Left’s constant search for the Tom Joad Moment

Through out my life our buddies on the distaff side have been looking for what I would call “The Tom Joad Moment.” Remember near the end of The Grapes of Wrath, as Tom prepares to go underground he reassures Ma that he will be there in the wind, on the side of the people.

Well the #Occupy Whatever movement is right on the job. From the gourmet feed bags to the piles of money they seem to be ready for the revolution. Except when they’re not, ask them what they want and what they’ll do to get it they’ll answer “Hell if I know, what you got.”  Do they want jobs, well only if they get one in their desired personal niche that fills their desire for fulfillment and at fifty grand a year minimum. We finally see the ultimate intellectual collapse of the University bubble, twenty – something’s up to their keisters in debt without the skills to pay it off, and no desire to build those skills. So here we stand in Zucotti Park with winter closing in and the most highly credentialed lumpen proletariat in the history of industrial civilization begging for spare change. The Coffee Party and the No Labels Movement in dreadlocks.

About two weeks ago, M and I where sitting in Washington Sq. soaking up the sun. Basically doing what old folks are supposed to do. Over by the fountain a march was gathering, the usual SEIU purple, UAW blue, and Teamsters gold getting ready to march downtown in support of the #Occupandos. A young woman approached us passing out their two color flier and went into her spiel. As she proved the old proverb, “Better to be silent and be thought a fool, then to open one’s mouth and remove all doubt”, I asked the question I’d always wanted to ask, had you ever made anything and tried to sell it?

She thought for a while and answered yes to both questions. I didn’t push it, never did find out what her major was, but we started to get in to it. Seems she felt the world owed her, that the country was just too unfair, that her parents had worked all their lives and didn’t own a house. How this was supposed to mesh with her calling the collapse of the housing bubble a capitol offense just slipped by her. I should have asked her did she want her parents to be destroyed in the backwash, or was she happy that they had lost as little as they did? I’ll never know, you know how these off the cuff discussions run.

She even tried to pull a race thing on us, telling us that the Founding Fathers were all white business men and should therefore be discredited. At this point I had to tell her what I used to do, and I think it finally shook her a little. Well all the people who ever worked for me could never just start their own workshops, she whined, the system is set against them. How can we make a living just buying and selling. At which point I said but that’s what it’s all about just look around you, my gesture taking in the buildings surrounding the park; that’s the world you live in. But she never got it, the life of making and buying and selling and growing skills was just too complicated for her highly educated mind. Zinn’s “History of the American People” she could understand, but the actual life of the American People escapes her. Her understanding of modern finance is about as subtle as a Tom Otterness sculpture.

So what is this Tom Joad Moment, well that’s the moment when the Revolution comes to fruition, when the people rise up in their righteous anger and overthrow the Over Lords, when the movement becomes a weapon. Except there is one problem with thinking that the #Occupiers, or any of their more mainstream supporters, can use this weapon because it’s aimed at their own foreheads, as it always has been through out modern American history.

Back in the Sixties this weapon was fired three times, once in the cities, once in the rice paddies of South Vietnam, and once on the college campuses, it blew holes in the Left at each trigger pull. The inner city riots destroyed the cities in which they happened, some like Detroit and Newark are shells of what they were. Though the army in Vietnam was stretched it did not break, no matter how hard the organizers tried to create mutiny. As an aside, Jane Fonda is still hated by wide swaths of the American people as a traitor. As for the universities, the Gramcian Long March through the Institutions was a success, I’ll grant them that. The Left’s complete control of the levers of culture is a major metric of such success. But once the draft was dropped the peace movement went up in smoke, and any campus violence soured many on the Movement.

Because this weapon is so dangerous to those that wield it, is the reason that the #Occupandos sound so incoherent, to the point that some freelance Tea Partiers make the  mistake that the two groups are going in the same direction. Not bloody likely. The Tea Party’s desire for a shrinking of the size of the federal government and a return of power over spending to lower levels of government is the complete opposite to the #Occupiers desire to grow government through a destruction of the financial sector, the complete dissolution of debt, and the development of a type of Anarcho-Syndicalist political system built on “democratic” consensus, in other words the rule of the insomniac.

Though the institutional Left will try to bolster the #Occupiers with support in the MSMOakland as the garbage and violence become too great to hide. A similar point is coming in NYC as our illustrious mayor realizes that these people are no friend of his. The real problem happens when the trigger is pulled and the ensuing violence blows up in the Left’s face.

They say the Harold Pinter was the greatest dramatist of the twentieth century, he seems an acquired taste to me. But his two person play Trouble in the Works seems like it was written for this moment. JimG33

A Tale of the Jihad

An American Emir

It is the last day of school and I know my life is about to change. Father had finished his studies and we would soon return home to the bosom of our large and powerful family. Though I am only seven years old, and this is the only life I know, daddy says I will soon cherish our new life.

Billy, a boy in my class approaches, stands right in front of me, and looks me straight in the eye. He is just my height, with blonde hair and blue eyes. He speaks, but his voice is that of a grown man not a second grade boy.

“Why are you killing us?” he asks

My own voice is also that of a man, “Because you will not submit! We have made the Call to you and not only will you not submit, you will not even acknowledge the Call! We will keep up the Jihad till you collapse and submit. Till then, it goes on.”

He turned from me then, and walked back to the other children. Someone had brought a boom box and that song by the Archies - Sugar, Sugar had the kids doing that bouncy dance that American kids do. He turned to me once more and faded into the crowd.

2

I woke with my ribs wrapped in bandages and a throbbing pain up my side.

“Missed me again, Kafirs!” I thought, but that one was damn close.

They had hit the wrong side of the house and I had been struck by parts of a collapsing wall. Well, inshalla, only Allah knows the time of our death and he hasn’t called me yet. He has more work for me to do, and I know what it is. I build weapons, not bombs built of C-4 and cell phones, but those built in the minds of men. These men can carry any weapon presented to them, anywhere in the world. A little training, a little luck, and many Kafirs and apostates die at the hands of my creations. These couriers may also die, or be taken alive but no matter, with my Internet Da’wa many more will follow and the Jihad will continue as it must. Because that is all that matters, the expansion of this Deen, this Religion, to the entire world, that is what Allah demands, and that is what I live for.

A nurse approaches in her white abaya, only her dark eyes visible above the veil. She seems to me to recall the promises of Paradise, when the abaya will be of lace and she will present me with fat fruits and holy wine as we rest in gardens of green with bubbling streams. I feel myself swell below and know I’m more banged up then really hurt. In Saudi Arabia her attending to me would be truly haram but we are not in Saudi Arabia and we can’t afford the extra costs of a Mutaween, the morality police, here. She checks my blood pressure, takes my temperature, and prepares to remove my IV. Again I am stuck by how much we depend on Kafir science, but in the future we will wean ourselves from this dependence, and return to the science in the Quran and the Hadith, the medicine of the Prophet (PBUH) and his Companions, since only Allah can know the time of our death.

The Doctor enters and reassures me that I’m going to be fine.
“Your driver is outside, as soon as we are done here you can leave and get back to work.” He says.

It seems everyone knows who I am. My chest swells with pride, well as much as it can while so tightly wrapped, and yet this means that the next person I meet could be the targeter, the one that will set the bull’s-eye on my head. But Inshalla, all is in the hands of Allah, in the time of Allah, in the way of Allah, Inshalla.

3

I am riding at the head of a great host, I have become Kahlid ibn al-Wahlid, the Sword of the Prophet, and the Caliph Umar smiles on me. Behind me I can hear the thunder of the hoof beats of the cavalry, the flapping of the battle flags, and the heavy breaths of the straining animals. The stallion I ride breathes deeply, and is unafraid. It’s almost as if he wants that rich city that sits glowing in the morning sun as much as I do.

We have been riding north for months in the valley of the Euphrates, taking town after town and sending the booty back to Medina in the form of gold and slaves, but that is only part of it. Since I left the service of the Quraysh, and joined the forces of the Prophet I have lived only for him and Allah. This is why I fight, and this is why I can feel the wings of the angels brush my flanks when I ride. My men can feel it too and they are eager to serve. When I lose a sword they pass me theirs, even though it may mean their death, for they know that I will send many of the Infidels to Satan with it, and the doors of Paradise will swing wide for the Holy Warriors.

We are almost in range now and I can feel, rather then see, the army dividing, sweeping around the flanks of the infidel army guarding their main gate. As the cavalry begins to unmask the infantry the arrow storm is sure to begin. But no matter, it will not stop that trumpeting mass behind me. We can maneuver before them, and their backs are against the wall. Many will die today, but only at Allah’s will, in Allah’s time, in Allah’s way, Inshalla.

4 

My wives are so happy to see me that the night has been memorable. I know how lucky I am to have two cousins that like each other and love me, no continual quarreling as at the house of Omar Shah. Sometimes I feel he must have to beat those girls to get anything done.

Omar is waiting outside, and as we drive to the video production facility we discuss how to deal with the near miss and use it as a recruiting tool. Ideas flow back and forth till I remember The Battle of the Bridge. True the Muslims lost to the Persians as their horses were frightened by the Persian elephants, yet the Muslims returned and broke the Persian line. Comparing the drones to the elephants is just the kind of metaphor that has worked in the past, showing the Americans as a cowardly race without the ability to fight face to face.

Habib bin-Malik the Engineer is waiting at the facility and wants to talk bombs and strategy, but Omar and I have a script to write. He‘s a good man, and his underwear bomb would probably have worked, if only the courier hadn’t sweated on it for the entire three hour flight. But in the war for the minds of men, media work is half the jihad.

5

As they emerge from the jetway it seems the angels of Allah already cover them with glory. They stand in a nimbus of light even after a fifteen hour flight from the Philippines. I quickly make contact and we take a rental car to the apartment that will be their home for the next few weeks. They settle in and we begin to talk of life in the camps, the Sheik’s state of health and that of his companions, also the level and toughness of the training. Much mint tea is consumed and as the sun comes up they go to bed and I begin working on their new identities.

It takes me about a week to get the driver’s licenses, false passports and other documents to build their new paper selves. We rent a car on a stolen credit card and drive to Virginia, through the heart of Dar al-Harb, the House of War.

One could easily be seduced by the sparkle and glitter of this land. The great mountains and prairies, the glowing cities and their many ways of finding a path from the life that Allah calls you to. The very idea that one should live one’s life according to a search for happiness, this is not the way of Allah. This illusion of liberty, this is the exact opposite of the life lived in the shadow of the Prophet’s (PBUH) great call. Submission to the Law of Allah, Islam, is all that matters.

In Virginia I pass them on, they change their identities again and prepare to travel to their Amir in Boston. In my new mosque I have one more chance to preach to them before they prepare for martyrdom. I speak on the life that the Prophet’s (PBUH) message calls us to, that life without this deen is an empty one and that only Allah knows the time of our birth and the time of our death. Again I can see the nimbus about them as the angels’ aid and strengthen them as they did the Prophet’s forces at The Battle of Badr so long ago.

6

Omar and I are taping in one of the desert camps, the tapes will be used as backdrops to the video of my next call. Many will see it, and the most determined will come to us. Here they will be broken down and rebuilt as weapons of jihad.

Between working the film crews and our script writing, Omar, Habib and I have been in deep discussions about tactics. Maybe after the failure of the printer bombs and the failures of execution by our last couriers; our tactical thinking needs a complete overhaul. Rather then sending bombs to specific addresses in the Dar al-Harb maybe we need to train cadre that can build bombs where they sit. Maybe we should drop this obsession with airplanes and study the tactics used at Mumbai as a new template, a combination of car bombs and random gun violence. The Major at the American fort has turned out to be our most successful operation. Maybe we must try for more simplicity. By using this tactic in random American cities every few weeks we can paralyze the country, which of course is the very idea.

On the way back to the production facility, our talk bubbles over with these new ideas. We know that not only will we have to change the more advanced aspects of our training regimen, but the choice of who to send will become harder and more deliberate. Our conversation lasts long in to the night, and I fall into bed exhausted.

7

I am in the feasting room in a camp in Afghanistan. A table board groans with the banquet set before us. The great Sheik spreads his arms in greeting and we begin the meal. In the center is the bowl of Kabsa, the lamb and partridge still hot from the cooking pit and spread on its bed of rice. Raisins, pine nuts, onions and almonds are worked through the mix like fossils in a piece of Moroccan shale. Around the central bowl many smaller bowls present themselves to us. Steamed vegetables, and Lentil soup vie with bread and olive oil, with salt for seasoning. Bowls of olives sit next to plates of shish kebab, the mix of lamb, beef, peppers and onions sending rich steam to perfume the air. Couscous on a vegetable stew, set beside plates of hummus for bread dipping. We consume cup after cup of rich Arabic coffee, along with much mint tea.

On the side of the table with the great sheik sits the lesser sheik from Baluchistan, the mastermind of the raid. With him are the Egyptian Dr. and a Saudi prince, the plane he rode in full of trucks and cash for the movement, also the falcons that supplied some of this bounty. Across from them sit the pilots, so ready for martyrdom, already seeing the Gates of Paradise standing open for them.

Through out the feast they all discuss the raid and how the Great Satan will be hit hard, so much harder than the attack on the warship last year. This should bring them to their knees. Now they will hear the call, now they will know the pain of defeat.

As the sun sinks, and we prepare for the evening prayer, the great sheik reaches into his bisht and from the pocket pulls forth two small boxes. He passes one to each pilot. They contain ivory toothpicks and the pilots glow with pride.

Then it is off to the mosque for the evening prayer, tomorrow will be a full day.

8

Omar and I have much to do today so we will be travelling in separate cars. As Omar’s driver heads toward the camp and I’m about to enter the passenger side of mine, Omar’s car vanishes in a cloud of flame. I start to run back to the house and the last thing I see is white flame and a red mist.

9

Major William “Billy” Murchison eased off the firing stud and sets the Reaper on autopilot. It had been a long shift but the target had been eliminated, and he shifted command to Lt. Williams. He could take the ship back to base, and he needed the hours. As the Major punched out, started up his car, and prepared to go home he thought how strange his life had become. During two tours in Iraq he’d flown his F-16 on many infantry support missions, rocketing houses used as fortresses, bombing hard points, where ever the FACs had sent him. Beside the fact that he just loved to fly he was a weapon. The fighter he strapped on was just a way to bring him and his warrior’s mind to the fight. As he drove home he knew that that was what he still was, would always be. Though the enemy was half a world away he was still the weapon. He had to understand this before he could become a good Reaper pilot, and he had become very good. For the flying he was building a Long E-Z in a hanger at the local airport, by next summer he would be flying again, really flying.

As he pulled up to the house he saw his daughters dancing at the end of the driveway. Someone had set up a boom box and the girls were all dancing, bouncing to the undying strains of Sugar, Sugar by the Archies. The music brought him back to his youth when the song was climbing up the charts with a bullet. It was a joy to watch the girls just having fun as Whitney cooked dinner, that was one thing he gained by this way of war. He could watch his family grow. As he stepped out of the car Whitney was at the door with his Martini. Life is good.

JimG33

Warren Buffett, the Anti-Millionaire.

            Most Boomers remember The Millionaire, a TV show from the golden era of black and white and small screens that fed our dreams of riches without sweat. A stranger would show up at your door, a little florid in his suit and tie, and tell you that he was a representative of John Beresford Tipton, WASP names still held power then, and you were to be the recipient of a cashiers check for One Million Dollars. The story would then unfold as the working stiff figured out what to do with this windfall.

            Warren Buffett is the renegade son of Mr. Tipton, rich beyond the dreams of Croesus, but looking to find a government patsy to dole out the wealth that will assuage his soul. The idea that he would go from house to house is just so beneath him, better he get The President to do it. “Barry, may I call you Barry? If only I and my plutocratic buddies could give more, I mean really more, could we ease your burden?”

            And so The President travels the length and breath of the land, from sea to shining sea, wearing out his marching boot leather like Adlai Stevenson did before him (Another name from the time of the fading WASP ascendency). As he berates and batters us in the vain hope that we’ll EAT THE RICH in an Abbie Hoffman type version of a Roman orgy, and yet we still lay here, like a bunch of lolling Chris Christies, waiting, hoping, praying for his return to Chicago, a city that deserves him.

            Warren still waits, the idea that he could raise his salary, as if he got a salary, to the level of his secretary and therefore pay an amount that would make him happy always seems to escape him. I expect more op-ed pieces over the next year, but should they amount to more than moral preening---- well, I’m not holding my breath. JimG33

Hatred ?

When I was much younger and was first looking into bookstore windows one of the best sellers was Mine Enemy Grows Older by Alexander King. I had no idea what it was about but I loved the title, the idea that you could go through life with an undying enemy. That he didn’t defeat you, nor you him, you just glared at each other from across the street as the years rolled on. I feel that way about Che Guevara T-shirts.

There he is the face that landed on a million chests. The jaunty beret, the wind swept curls, the eyes turned firmly on the future. Folks just don’t look down a little lower to see that he’s wading in a river of blood up to his knees.

You see, after Fidel, Che and Raoal took Cuba, and all that could get out got out, it was time to grab what was left. First the comrades from the Sierra Mastre like Huber Matos, gone to the growth of the Party. Then the large land holders and industrialists had to go.  We couldn’t have them working the sugar plantations, the nickel mines, the rum distilleries and the great cigar rolling firms for their own profit, now could we. Then they began to treat the island as an unbroken horse, they would ride her till she bucked no more and was broken to the saddle, then they would ride her until she was broken to the plow.

The peasants and small holders held on as long as they could, but a militia without a stiffening backbone of soldiers can only last so long. Some died in the bush and some in the fields, on the land their grandfathers left them. The rest were captured and brought back to Havana to the great prison there. Here the death penalties were handed down and the prisoners awaited their fate.

Those who have seen Paths of Glory know what a firing squad is like. The prisoner stands before the soldiers, and the squad follows the commands.

“Load, Shoulder arms, Ready, Aim Fire,” at the command the triggers are pulled and the prisoner drops. But there is one thing you might not have known. Only one soldier has a load in his rifle, all the rest shoot blanks. That’s so the load of guilt doesn’t get to heavy, especially if there are just too many sixteen-year-old boys with their fathers waiting in the wings. So Che had his office just one floor up from the killing ground so he could deliver the coup de grace. That was the last shot making sure the prisoner was dead. A nine mm to the head and the job was done, his favorite Czech Tokarev doing the job.

After the counter revolution was crushed, Che travelled the world. To the Congo with Laurent Kabila, on to Vietnam and General Giap, then back to Bolivia to put his well published revolutionary theory of the Foko into effect. The idea was to gather a core of revolutionaries in any country that was ripe. To this core a gathering of the committed could rally, and the Revo would be on. Bake to Mao’s Laws and presto-changeo, another “People’s Republic.”

Only one problem, Che was a man of 1493, the Indios of Bolivia were from 1491. He knew no Quechua; they didn’t care for his Spanish. They had no problem with the government, and no desire to create one. So he bounced around the country, bumping into walls, till they tracked him down and killed him.

At the end he tried to get back to Cuba, “They will pay you if I am freed,” he said. One wonders, did he feel he would be the dancing monkey in a traveling revolutionary road show?  At the end his last photo shows what the last photos of Billy the Kid, and Dillinger show, just another load of clay sliding back into the mud from where we all come.

So that’s my hatred, not of the folks who wear the shirt, they have no idea. Nor of the ones that print them, they have no idea either. Just that this blood thirsty bastard gets off scot free. JimG33