News from Home I don't get a lot of phone calls from old friends back home. Relatives, yes, but not so much from those who probably know me best. They say your friends are the people you would pick if you could choose your relatives, and missing the old ones fondly is one of the many things I check off in my head before going to sleep each night. But, I mean, it's not like they're dead or anything. They just don't drop a line very often. In no way does this diminish the value of the friendship. Rather, it makes one appreciate that outreach when it is received. For example, I always enjoy hearing from my buddy Mick, the mechanic from Prairie Ronde. He called to talk about what he refers to as "the news". "You see the news?" Probably. I read the paper every day, although it isn't much of a paper. I stalk the Internet as well, getting the various takes from the strangest corners of the world. What's up? "Well, man, the Iraq thing sucks these days. Five guys got killed yesterday, twenty the week before that - did I miss any?" Couldn't tell you. It's like counting sheep anymore. The numbers keep piling up, and you get tired of counting them. Only you can't fall asleep, but the sheep keep jumping over the turnstyle, with the occasional, gun-wielding British cop chasing them. So you just stop counting. We're in a generational conflict, though, one that requires our patience. Otherwise, we'll be called un-American. "Nobody's said that to me, and I bitch about the war all the time. Play Bob Dylan songs on the stereo at work, stuff like that." They just don't want to get dirty, disheveled and lumped up. "Yeah. Anyway, I hear they're going to be bringing the boys back home, as early as next spring, maybe. Think it's true, or is it just more BS to keep the people's heart rates down?" It's a ploy. From deep in his bunker in Texas, Dubya told everyone that pulling out too soon would send the wrong message to the enemy. Trust me, our troops will be in Iraq as long as he's in office, or longer. McCain was talking about permanent bases in Afghanistan. Of course they'll want the same thing for Iraq. You know why? Because it means permanent jobs for Halliburton and the old military industrial complex. "Who's 'McCain'?" That's not the important thing. Our troops are going to be sitting out there, their asses hanging in the breeze, for a long time to come. As long as people keep buying those "Support the Troops" magnets for their cars, the administration figures they can get away with it. "You shouldn't put those magnets on your car, Paul. They scratch up the paint job. Down there, even if they don't, it's like a reverse-tan when the paint fades everywhere but under the magnet." I get that. So what else is going on? "Oh, I don't know. I saw in the news that the Shee-yites want their own region, with the oil and the seaports, and that the Kurds want their own region with their own oil, too. That just leaves Baghdad in the middle, with no money, no oil, no power, just a bunch of pissed-off Arabs. What happens then?" "Shee-yites?" "Well, I was mispronouncing it before, and the way I said it really offended someone. I was saying..." I can imagine. What happens, though, is that a breakup into ethnic enclaves would create the conditions for a civil war. It's bound to happen anyway, if you can believe the predictions of the CIA, and we have no reason not to. "Why is it that these people of different religions can't all just get along? Aren't there examples around the world of where that happens, like here in America?" They don't like America, Mick. They would never want to emulate us, except for bluejeans and the iPod. And corruption in politics. I guess, if you want to look at a place where opposites have been forced to get along, there's Northern Ireland. They seem to have reached an accord... So, uh, did you get the Godbullies album I sent you? "Yeah, man. Plastic Eye Miracle. I'll get it burned onto a CD and send it to you." Cool... I'll let you go, then. Oh, hey, one more thing. I'm coming up there in November. If I happen to need one, get I can get my hands on a shotgun, twelve-gauge pump? "Sure, man. Any time." Thanks, Mick. I owe you one. Paul Heller 8/12/05 << back to the archives
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