Let’s not kid ourselves. Among the many mistakes in Arthur Miller’s talented life (he divorced Marilyn Monroe after just 5 yrs) was his choice of title for The SINGLE GREATEST Story About American History’s Salem Witch Trials.
The Crucible. The Crucible? What’s this, Chemistry class? Are we grinding elements here to torch them with a Bunsen Burner? No wonder High School English was such a drag! We were stuck reading “The Crucible” when we could have been reading:
The Single Greatest WITCH HUNT in American Political History
How our young minds would have tuned to the salacious proceedings! We may not have had Smart phones and Twitter feeds back then, but we sure had our share of demagogues in the corridors of power. How much more quickly would Joe McCarthy have been taken down if only Arthur Miller hadn’t been such a pansy about his title!
I’ll leave you with a bit of wisdom overheard in my high school’s 3-corridor lav, a place where renegades and truants filled their lungs with smoke during the long years of forced reading. They seemed to have retained something of those lectures about Salem, about Washington, and about the natural state of man. None other than high school bully D. Whalon said, staring into the abyss of the toilet in the stall next to mine:
“If the turd floats, it isn’t a witch.”
Washington’s mighty Potomac, already a cesspool of toxic runoff and waste, might just be the place to test this theory in our modern day WITCH HUNT. And I wonder, if he were to be dunked unto its waters, would the hunted Don John himself sink? Or would the turd float?
It’s little wonder the hunt for a new FBI Director seems to have ground to a halt.
The country’s next top cop will be subservient to a criminal, whose charge sheet includes housing discrimination in NYC, fraud related to an eponymous university, bribery of a federal judge, tax and immigration violations, and sexual predation.
This Whitman’s Sampler of criminal acts doesn’t even get into current allegations of obstructing an investigation into collusion with a foreign entity to win the presidency. After all, they’re only allegations.
Continue reading Kush for FBI
What are Trump & Co. reading as they wing their way to Saudi Arabia tonight?
Two Pumps for the Body Man!
This black comedy set in Saudi Arabia does for American diplomacy what Catch 22 did for military logic: The enemy in the War on Terror can’t kill us if our own institutions kill us first.
Jeff Mutton walks the diplomatic beat protecting American officials in Saudi Arabia. An expert with guns and knives, grenades and rockets, he’s survived assaults and sieges, stabbings and chokeholds, car bombs, carjackings, criminal hits, and countless other enemy threats. But instinct tells Mutton the menace he now faces dwarfs all these killers combined. The fool!—his foot fetish has him in hot water again.
Part soft-boiled noir, part literary satire, Two Pumps for the Body Man is an unserious look at a serious situation, a grim reminder that no matter how high the barricade, how sharp the razor wire, there is no front line to the War on Terror. And the enemy is everywhere, even within.
“A wonderfully wacky consular bash in a place called The Kingdom, a nightmarish place straight out of Catch-22 where bureaucrats use very acronym under the sun… haywire bureaucracy at its finest.”
-Robert Bruce Cormack, You Can Lead a Horse to Water
(But You Can’t Make It Scuba Dive)
I may not be marching, but I refuse to be silent. The cause is just and the timing right. I will be counted among the marchers by rolling up my sleeves at home. A list of ways you can do the same:
1. Make the signs.
2. Airport/train/bus pickup for out-of-towners.
3. Pack their lunch (and a thermos of brandy).
4. Keep the young ones from burning down the house.
5. Wave to them when they wave to you on TV.
6. Hot soup on the stove.
7. Foot. Massage!
8. Bail money.
9. Encourage. Support. Participate.
Or, you could march.