You Got Wagged

Whenever I think back on the first year or so of this war (the one in Iraq in case there’s any confusion), I can’t help but think of the movie Wag the Dog. For the uninformed, the basic plot of the movie is that the president of the United States, in order to take people’s mind off a scandal he’s involved in, hires a Hollywood producer to “stage a war.” They rally the American people behind the phony war by using every possible gimmick they can think of to tug at the heartstrings and foster a sense of unity and patriotism. I actually hadn’t seen Wag the Dog until the Iraq war was about six months in and even though the movie was already several years old by that point the similarities between reality and fiction were downright eerie.

There was the compelling footage: In the movie it was video of a young girl running through the streets, dodging bullets while clutching a cat (which they CGI’ed in later) to her chest. In real life, there was footage of the Saddam statues being pulled down and the shots of Jessica Lynch being wheeled by on a stretcher.

There were the hit songs: In the movie, they hired Willie Nelson to compose numerous uplifting songs that would get people emotionally attached to the war. In real life, Toby Keith released “American Soldier” while the Top 40 producers infused quotes from soldiers, their families and the president into sappy pop songs.

There were media created heroes: In the movie, Woody Harrelson plays the war hero William Shuman (“Old Shoe”). In real life, Jessica Lynch gets a book deal and a movie of the week for being a cutie pie caught in the middle of a dramatic rescue attempt.

Then of course there were all the symbols: In the movie, the architects behind the war threw “old shoes” into trees and onto power lines in honor of the aforementioned hero. In real life, yellow magnetic ribbons and American flags with some variation of the slogan “Support the Troops” went on the back of every car on the road.

With the exception of the far-fetched idea that the entire war in the movie was completely made up Wag the Dog was, almost without exception, strangely prophetic of what would start happening in 2003. I’ve been thinking about that movie and its similarities to reality a lot over the last couple days as I read the book Last One In by Nicholas Kulish. The story is about a gossip columnist who gets embedded with the Marines at the beginning of the Iraq war. Amongst other things it explores how the media in this war totally dropped the ball and made a farce out of the whole operation by presenting a completely distorted picture of the truth, all in the name of better ratings of course. It talks about reporters smearing grease and dirt on their faces and posing for stand-ups in front of burning vehicles to make it seem as though they were right in the middle of some important battle. It talks about reporters making up stories about anything, even if it was ninety percent bullshit, just so they could fill airtime or print space. It’s a very intriguing (and funny) read, which I highly recommend.

Anyway, all that lead up was to preface the fact that Lynndie England has been in my head. Remember Lynndie England? She was the soldier who became the face of the whole Abu Ghraib scandal because of an infamous picture of her pointing at a naked prisoner while smoking a cigarette. She was sentenced to eleven years in prison for her part in the “torture” of Abu Ghraib prisoners. From the very outset of that whole Abu Ghraib thing, my spider senses were tingling. Something just didn’t sit right with me about the way it was handled, or covered, or just plain perceived. And even to this day, I can’t help but wonder if the whole thing was just another incident of the tail wagging the dog – like it was nothing more than a big smoke screen intended to rally us together while distracting us from something else.

There’s no question that this war has been far from popular. Even before the decision was made to invade there were people screaming, protesting, sending up righteous anger at what they viewed to be evil and arrogant American imperialism. The “architects behind the war” did everything they could to rally people together with the aforementioned songs, symbols, heroes and whatnot. But I think they also sensed that even the people who were in support of the war needed some kind of outlet for their own anger. Supporters needed to show everyone that they only supported the “noble” aspects of the war. They needed everyone to see that they weren’t merely blind “let’s-just-kill-them-all” warmongers who had no respect for human life. Abu Ghraib and the accusations of torture gave them that opportunity. It allowed war supporters and detractors alike to meet on common ground where they could direct their anger at a few mutually agreed upon patsies. And the media, as predicted, went right along for the ride.

In case we’ve all forgotten, the “torture” in question at Abu Ghraib involved stripping prisoners naked, letting dogs bark at them and forcing them (the prisoners) to form naked human pyramids. As far as I was concerned, that always qualified more as a dumbass fraternity prank than anything that might resemble torture. And at first it seemed like a lot of the conservative radio shows I listened to thought the same thing. But then all of a sudden even they joined the angry throngs in condemning the “torture”, boldly stating that those involved should be punished to the fullest extent of the law. And as I said, Lynndie England became the ultimate face of evil in the whole thing. So much so that I can’t help but wonder if she’s in jail right now because she was simply a pawn in some evil and fucked up game of wag the dog.

She really did make the perfect villain. Unlike Jessica Lynch who was cute with long and pretty hair, Lynndie England had short hair and mannish features. The infamous picture that everyone has seen shows her with a cigarette not only in her mouth – an obvious “dirty” habit – but actually dangling from her lips in a way that could only be described as white trash. And of course, she was seen standing next to a naked man, pointing at his penis no less. Everything about that picture conjured up four words: “white trash dirty whore.” It was easy for people to hate her. It became easy for people to condemn her. I wonder if there would have been the same reaction had it been an attractively longhaired and feminine girl in that picture. But the thing is I firmly believe that this is the only way this whole thing could have transpired. The architects of this particular Alternate Reality Game knew what they were doing. They would never have allowed a picture of a good-looking person to be “leaked” to the media in relation to this scandal.

I honestly feel bad for Lynndie England. She is sitting in prison right now for the oh-so-heinous crime of pointing at a man’s dick. The country needed a bad guy (someone other than George Bush) and they got one. It’s like the old Hebrew ritual of the “scapegoat” (and actually where the modern term originated from) where once a year the priest would place the sins of all the people onto a spotless goat and then banish it to the wilderness so the nation could once again become blameless in God’s eyes. Lynndie England was our scapegoat in every sense of the word. We put our own sins onto her. Everything that we didn’t like about ourselves when it came to this war manifested itself in her smirking, cigarette smoking face. We put our willingness to go to war, our eagerness to go to war onto her. Our own righteous justifications for war – terrorism, weapons of mass destruction, taking down an evil dictator, liberating a people – weren’t enough. Even for those of us who were in support of the war, there was still an unspoken well of guilt for the sins we were committing to accomplish what we genuinely believed to be worthwhile goals. We needed to put that guilt onto somebody else and send them away lest we (God forbid) blame ourselves. The architects gave us Lynndie England as a worthy sacrifice. And we accepted her eagerly.

And that sickens me. That’s why I don’t understand people that are currently against the war who were once in favor of it. What made you change your mind? The media’s reports? People claim that the war is being run badly. That very well may be so, but my question is: How the hell would you know? Because the media says so? Because some politicians say so? Do we seriously still trust these two disparate but irreversibly interlinked groups for our Truths? What is it going to take for us to stop believing every freakin’ word that comes out of their mouths? When will the dog finally start wagging the tail for once? Or better yet, when will the dog realize that its tail has become incurably infected and simply gnaw it the fuck off?

It's the little things that make you feel old.

In just over half a year I will be entering my thirties. But I’m not one to freak out about the fact that my youth is almost officially over. In a way, the last five years have been a gradual slope into adulthood anyway. Marriage, a kid, a job I held down for four straight years (a personal record), a beard, working in a field where people several years older than me view me as some kind of expert, starting a writing career in drips and drabs, another kid… In spite of it all, I still feel quite youthful and not at all like I need to worry about another decade coming to a close.

But two days ago I called the police on a neighbor who was playing his radio too loud. And yesterday... I bought an area rug.

My Daughter: The Bad Influence

It’s amazing how ten minutes in kid world can so often become a microcosm for life in general and, if you look hard enough, a fast forward glimpse into what these little rugrats have in store for you. Lauren and I recently took the kids down to the pool for an afternoon and Allison made friends with a little boy who was there with his mom. At three years old, Allison has pretty much grown used to always being the youngest kid in a group, but this boy was only two and it was obvious from the first moment that he was in love with Allison and would follow her anywhere. Allison must have sensed this too, because she almost immediately began testing his loyalties.

Standing on the side the two of them would talk for a second, then Allison would spontaneously announce, “I’m going over there,” and run to the other side of the pool. The little boy would have a moment of hesitation where he would look at his mom who was standing in the water, then at Allison who was beckoning him from twenty feet away. Then, making the hard decision, he would run, with many looks back, to Allison. His mom and I would swim our way over to the two chatting kids just in time to hear Allison once again announce that she was going to go back over there and run in the direction from whence we had all just arrived, forcing the little boy into another hard decision.

Personally, I didn’t mind shadowing Allison all over the pool – that’s why we had come down here after all – but it was apparent this boy’s mom was tired and really didn’t feel like swimming back and forth just to follow her son while he followed a girl. When she and Lauren struck up a casual dialogue earlier, we’d learned that she had just had another baby about six weeks before and this was one of the first times she’d been able to get out of the house. But it was apparent her little boy was indeed prepared to follow Allison no matter how many times she ran away from him. And the more Allison scurried away, the less he looked to his mom for approval before pursuing. Sensing the mom’s lack of energy, I suggested to Allison that we stay in one spot. Not to be deterred, Allison immediately changed tactics and began subtly taunting her new little friend.

“How old are you?” she asked, knowing full well what the answer would be since she’d asked the same question a half dozen times already. It took the younger boy a few seconds to formulate his words and position his fingers into the correct number of digits to say, “I…two!” Allison would immediately shoot back, “Oh well I’m three!” After about the tenth round of this exchange with Allison asserting her numeric superiority, the boy actually started lying to sound better. “I…tree!” he said. Allison, knowing better (and knowing full well what she was doing I might add) would mock, “You’re not three! You’re two! I’m three!”

The mom, trying to keep her part in this whole thing as jovial and non-confrontational as possible stuck up for her son with a lame, “Oh he’ll be three in a few months won’t you buddy.” Allison looked at her, considering this for a moment, then looked at the boy and decided to taunt him another way. “That’s my daddy,” she said, pointing to me. “Your daddy’s not here.”

Oh crap. My stomach dropped. In five minutes time, she’d already progressed from a coy little game of cat and mouse, to throwing veiled insults at the boy, to now throwing veiled insults at his family. I was honestly rendered speechless. I couldn’t see scolding her over this. It was a perfectly normal three-year-old conversation topic after all and she wasn’t outwardly, blatantly mocking this kid by any stretch. But I knew better. We all did by this point. This wasn’t a mere casual observation on Allison’s part. It was a well-calculated dig hidden behind the mask of innocence. The boy’s mom once again spoke up in defense, “His daddy is at home watching his baby sister so mommy could go to the pool.” I jumped on this and rallied to the mom’s side, “Oh see, they have a baby just like us Allison. His daddy is home with the baby.”

Allison, already bored with this new line of dialogue, once again changed tactics. “I wanna jump, Daddy!” She shooed the little boy away with a flip of her hand then leapt three feet off the edge of the pool into my waiting arms. She looked back at her newfound puppy dog with a look that said, “See what I just did.” Earlier, before Allison and this boy became fast friends, he too had been attempting this same kind of stunt with his mom… only he didn’t so much jump into her arms as lean out until he was in contact with her hands, at which point he just kind of fell the rest of the way. I’m fairly certain Allison saw this and remembered it. Now, off the boy’s look of hesitation, Allison threw her arms around my neck, laid her head on my chest and said in a loud clear voice, “I love you, Daddy.”

That settled it. Even at two years old this kid knew that to impress a girl and steal her away from the current man in her life, he couldn't just match what she had done. He had to do it three times bigger and five times more dangerous. Just behind the ledge where Allison had jumped was a slightly higher ledge. Just behind that was a brick wall about two feet high. The little boy, who not ten minutes earlier had been afraid to jump from the ledge two inches above the water, was now attempting to climb the wall for a stunt that was certain to impress the cute little redhead who he was quickly falling in love with… if he didn’t split his head open in the process, of course. Fortunately, me, Lauren and the boy’s mom all had the good sense to stop him before he took a flying leap off Blind Man’s Bluff. One of us made up some lame but plausible excuse that would allow us to separate the kids before Allison could convince him to run away with her.

Like I said earlier, I’m so used to Allison being the youngest in a group of kids. By extension she’s almost always the shy follower, the one eager to please her friends… and even that is only when she isn’t deathly afraid of the other kids. But boy oh boy, I can already see that she is going to have the potential to be that girl who the other moms view as a “bad influence.” She speaks well. She’s sweet and courteous. She has a soft porcelain face that absolutely cries, “Innocence!” But let us not forget that fiery red hair and the temper that comes along with it. This kid is smart, shrewd, calculating. She’ll learn how to wrap people around her finger and use them to her liking. I only pray she uses them for good and not for evil. I don’t want to field phone calls from angry parents over why their son missed curfew. I don’t want to answer questions as to why one of Allison’s boyfriends ended up in jail over a dare. I really don’t ever want to think of my daughter as being that proverbial “Madonna and Whore” package. It does give me hope that when the boy and his mom finally left the pool, Allison watched him go, forlornly waving goodbye, and spent the next two hours sadly asking, "Where the boy go?" She really did love him. She just didn't know how to express it. Maybe we’ll just keep her away from the pool for awhile.

The MySpace Generation... who cares?

I was cleaning out my computer this week and stumbled across something I'd written back around election time. It was originally written with the intent of submitting it to one of the local alt papers around here, but I apparently never found the time to actually finish and polish it. It was in pretty jagged shape when I came across it this week, but I thought the ideas I was presenting were good and valid and worth seeing the light of day. So I fixed it up a bit and, even though it's a little dated, I figured I'd finally share it with the world at large. Enjoy.

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WE ARE THE MYSPACE GENERATION… AND WE COULD CARE LESS
by Brian Hodges

I received a rather long internet forward on my MySpace bulletin board this week which basically said, "Hey couch potato, make sure you go out and vote next Tuesday!" Like most forwards that don't involve filling out surveys or watching videos of indie rock bands on treadmills, I gave it a only quick skim before devoting my attention to more pressing matters like creating my own South Park character and scanning for hotties amongst my friends' friends list. I fully expected the bulletin and all its content to fade from memory by the time I logged off the site. But before clicking away to post an animation of some fat chick having sex to a friend's comment area, my eyes happened upon one particular line: "They're calling our generation the Apathetic Generation."

The composition of this particular bulletin indicated an author of better writing skills than your typical 14 to 23-year-old MySpace user, so it made sense that the original poster was probably someone closer to my age and the apathetic generation to which he referred was my own. Born in 1978, I've always been rather confused as to which generation I technically belonged. A quick check of Wikipedia simultaneously places me in Generation X, Generation Y, The MTV Generation and something called "The Boomerang Generation." But no matter which "our generation" the author was actually indicating, I could only assume that the "they" to which he alluded meant the people of our parents' generation, which for the average MySpacer means the Baby Boomers.

Normally an attack like this doesn't bother me enough to give it a second thought (isn't that what apathy is all about?), but for some reason this particular criticism, made in this particular context, stuck with me well after I'd finished approving new friend requests and changing my profile song to "Crazy" by Gnarls Barkley. What this nameless "they" was saying, according to the author, was that despite being faced with a war, a nuclear threat, human rights violations and a laundry list of other issues, "our generation" is still too lazy and uncaring to go out and vote. I went back over the post several times and the more I read that one key line, the more self-righteous my apathy became.

When "they" say "our generation" is apathetic, what "they" are really saying is that "we" aren't like "them." "We" don't do all the things "they" did at our age. "Our generation" doesn't mobilize for reform on college campuses. "Our generation" doesn't march on the Capitol building waving placards and hurling slogans. "Our generation" doesn't engage in civil disobedience while singing defiant folk songs. And "our generation" certainly doesn't rally around political candidates who might end the tyranny, bring peace to our country and harmony to the world. If this is what "they" mean by an "apathetic generation" then I guess I'd say "they" are right.

But can "they" really blame us? After all, "they" are "our generation's" role models. "They" thought trying to change the world was all noble and groovy for about a decade or so until they realized there was more money to be made selling real estate. "They" were all about fighting The Establishment and standing up for the little man until "they" realized they could use their law degree to defend The Establishment against little man's lawsuits and earn a fatter paycheck. Woodstock, Marin County, the Sunset Strip, places where "they" used to hang out, smoke dope and say, "Love is all you need," are now nothing more than giant spaces for them to build luxury condos and hang billboards advertising Big Macs, timeshares, and the next season of Big Brother. "They" were passionate. "They" were going to make a difference. And yet look at what "they" produced. Frankly, I think things might have turned out better if "they" had taken a cue from "our generation" and just said, "Eh, whatever."

If there's anything "our generation" has learned from "them", it's that politics is not the way to change the world. We tried it out for a while… more to see what all the fuss was about I think. During the 2004 Democratic and Republican Conventions, "our generation" descended on Boston and New York and tried to capture some of the allure of the late sixties. We marched. We protested. We spoke out on matters we only kind of understood. But the trend died quickly… probably when all the young men realized this particular political revolution wasn't manifesting with its own sixties-style sexual revolution. And as soon as it became apparent that those hot Blue State chicks weren't putting out after the rally, we went back to work at Best Buy so we could save up enough money to buy a Razr phone with internet capabilities – allowing us to check our MySpace while on the go.

Maybe "our generation" doesn't vote. Maybe we don't give two shits about who ends up controlling Congress next Tuesday. But does anyone among us – from "our generation" or "theirs" – really and truly believe that a different set of politicians will be the thing that brings about a new and better America? "They" have already proven their own lack of faith in the power of the vote by moving on from the passionate activism of the 1960's to the apathetic consumerism of pretty much every decade since. All "our generation" is doing is skipping over "power of the vote" and going straight to apathy.

That being said, "our generation" is far from apathetic. We do care about things. We really do. It's just that right now, honestly, we have no idea whatsoever how to fix the mess that "they" created. Perhaps it will come to us in time. Perhaps what looks like apathy is just "our generation" unconsciously biding its time, watching and waiting until "they" vacate the premises. We know there's nothing we can really do as long as "they" are still in control, so why waste "our" time and "our" energy on useless rallies and campaigns that will only serve to get another one of "them" elected? Better to just sit here quietly, listening to our iPods, playing Final Fantasy, and deciding which MySpace friends to put in our Top 8 List. Who knows, maybe MySpace will become the platform where the new revolution begins. Maybe with every silly blog we post, with every YouTube video we embed, with every slutty self-portrait we upload, we will slowly but surely come together as one unit who will finally bring down The Establishment "they" were ultimately powerless to stop. And unlike the misguided stunts "they" pulled in the preceding generation, our tactics will be less likely to get us shot by the National Guard.

So to all the "they's" who want to call us "The Apathetic Generation," we say enjoy your election next Tuesday. We won't be there, but we'll be thinking of you. And when your solution to everything once again fails to solve anything, we'll be here, predictably not caring. We'll just keep on doing what we do everyday; hanging out on MySpace and waiting for you to die.

It's not like we were watching porn or anything

I don’t generally find myself having the same usual hang-ups with my daughter’s playtime that a lot of parents tend to have. I don’t freak out when she crawls in dirt, runs through puddles or climbs on things she’ll most likely fall off of. I have been the recipient of multiple double takes at the park where other parents stop dead in their tracks, wondering if I truly just said, “Sweetie why don’t you roll in this mud instead,” or “Honey if you’re going to throw rocks, throw them that way.” I’m equally lax when it comes to language. I don’t use the word “silly” to describe something when the word I really mean to use is “stupid” or “dumb.” I don’t shush Allison when she starts talking about “poopie” or “pee-pee.” I don’t give her timeouts for saying, “butt” or “crap.” Off those same double takes, I usually respond, “Hey that’s why those words are there… so she doesn’t say ‘ass’ or ‘shit.’” But a few weeks ago, even I found myself putting the kibosh on what is normally a fun and innocent game we play – all because I was afraid of what other parents might think. And justifiably so I think.

A little backstory on this game. Allison is at that age where she’s really learning how to manipulate words and language. Rather than simply parroting stock phrases that she hears from us, she’s realizing now that she has the ability to rework the structure of her sentences in order to elicit various responses. It’s simple stuff really, mostly substituting one word for another for comedic effect: “Twinkle twinkle little TIGGER. How I wonder what you CINDERELLA!” A turn of phrase like that will generally set off a good five to ten minutes of Allison and I trying to top each other with our zany substitutions. One popular version of this game is to alternate the names of various body parts into our base phrase of choice: “Oh no, I stepped on your… [foot, eye, elbow, chin].” Of course, because Allison is at the potty training age, and because she has a baby brother who gets his diaper changed about a thousand times a day, words describing the various male and female genitalia will inevitably come into play: “Oh no, I stepped on your… [butt, tushie, nipple, penis, balls].”

Like I said, I normally consider this to be a pretty innocent game, but a few weeks ago we were hanging out with my sister and her future in-laws when Allison suddenly decided to play. Unfortunately, the base phrase that she chose on this particular occasion was, “I want to kiss your…” Now she started off by saying “hair,” but I knew where this path would eventually lead. All I could think was that these people had met me once. They didn’t know what kind of person I was. Where was their mind going to go when Allison inevitably said, “I want to kiss your… [well, ya know].” Because I know where my mind would go: “Holy shit (because ‘crap’ would not be an adequate expletive in this situation), this guy is totally pedophiling his daughter.”

Now I didn’t want to create undue attention or perceived guilt by outright ordering my daughter to stop that now. So I tried laughing it off and saying, “No, you don’t want to do that.” But she persisted, thinking this was some new part of the game I’d just made up. “Daddy, I want to kiss your… beard!” Paralyzed and unable to think of any better diversion, I just laughed and said, “Naw!” hoping she would end it on her own. But no. “Daddy, I want to kiss your… neck!” At this point I asked her to come show me how she jumps off the kitchen table and we vacated the living room before the irreversible phrase could be uttered.

I realized that night that this is how most parents must feel when they see their three-year-old smearing mud on another kid’s clothes. Of course in that particular scenario there’s probably very little chance that the incident will result in jail time or child services being called into the fray. I really do still think the game is perfectly innocent, but holy crap.

Take twenty-six!

I can remember producing TV shows back in college and how we would often put more effort into editing the blooper reel than anything else. The bloopers would usually end up being the longest segment of the whole show. These days every good DVD has a blooper reel in its special features section and people like Dick Clark manage to devote entire hours of prime time TV to nothing but snippets of celebrities screwing up on camera. What is it about bloopers that we find so damn entertaining? Why do we get such a kick out of watching somebody mess up a line, or drop a prop or bust out laughing in the middle of a take?

Personally I think bloopers are yet another byproduct of our voyeuristic mentality these days. It lets us take a glimpse behind the curtain, beyond the façade of all these characters we know and love. Even though logically we know those actors aren’t really like the characters they play on TV, and even though we know the news anchors can’t possibly be that dignified and professional every hour of every day, even though we know all that, our brains still can’t distance themselves from those perfect on-screen personas. Even imperfect TV characters always know exactly what to say at exactly the right moment. When they lose an argument, even in defeat they still have something witty to say. Nobody ever storms off muttering swear words under their breath and coming up with a worthy comeback five minutes too late like we would. These people are too perfect to be real. Which makes sense of course because they’re not real. But bloopers are our only real reminder of that. Bloopers are rare moments when that curtain is pulled back and our brains can finally see these perfect people for what they really are: lame and stupid and, above all, human just like us.

You’ll be watching bloopers on, say, the DVD for Home Improvement and the chick who plays Tim’s wife, Jill, will suddenly realize she said the wrong line. You see her bottom lip tuck under her teeth, hear a brief “Fff…” followed by a bleep and you realize, whoa, Jill just said “fuck”! Jill! You know, Jill? She was always so motherly, so matronly, so almost prudish in her mannerisms. The very idea that she could ever conceivably stoop so low as to say such a four-letter word on ABC of all places, the channel owned by Disney for crying out loud, between the hours of eight o’clock and nine! Why, she never would. But then you see the blooper reel and realize, “No seriously, JILL just said the fucking F-word!” No way. Way!

The funniest bloopers are when some really composed newsman like Walter Cronkite messes up a standup for like the tenth time and in frustration blurts out, “Ah shit.” They bleep the “-it” out of course so all you hear is “Ah sh-” but you know what he said… and it amazes you. Oh my god, Walter Cronkite, the most poised, unruffled man in America, just got mad enough to say the “S-word.” Not only that, he said it over something really stupid. It wasn’t like he was expressing frustration over some particularly dramatic news event like, “Ah shit, President Kennedy was assassinated today,” or, “Ah shit, forest fires ripped through Southern California this week,” or even, “Ah shit, we lost another battalion in Vietnam.” It was, “Ah shit, I can’t seem to say, ‘One smart fellow, he felt smart,’ for my report on J. Edgar Hoover.” How stupid is that? That’s the kind of dumb non-issue that we would say “shit” about. But not Walter Cronkite. It somehow feels good to know that even somebody like that shares those little human moments with us. Perhaps it means we’re not the gigantic losers we think we are. Hell if even Walter freakin’ Cronkite can’t keep it together without letting fly with the cuss words, maybe I’m not such a putz after all.