Credit Default Swap

If you were wondering how Glenn Greenwald was going to figure out a way to not give an ounce of credit to the Obama Administration for fulfilling the progressive dream of pulling all American troops out of Iraq, oh boy are you not gonna be disappointed.

The answer is so flawless in its Greenwaldian-ness that it borders on self-parody.

Apparently, not only does President Obama not deserve any recognition for effectively ending the war -- the guy who was truly behind the pullout, the one the government doesn't really want, is (of course) American martyr Bradley Manning.

You know something? I'm not even linking to the piece. It's over at Salon -- feel free to find it yourself.

Forrest Rumsfeld

Asking for Donald Rumsfeld's opinion on the best way to handle the current crisis in the Middle East is like asking me for my secret to making a marriage last. The man fucked up literally everything he touched during his tenure as Secretary of Defense -- presiding over and playing architect of one of the most shameful, even criminal follies in American foreign policy history -- and yet because he's hawking a book right now, the TV news talking heads are treating his thoughts on the recent turmoil overseas as if they have even an ounce of credibility behind them.

Now comes this little revelation: A memo gleaned from Rumsfeld's own archives, written in 2003 to then Under Secretary of Defense Douglas Feith, that provides a window into the kind of breathtaking incompetence Rumsfeld's name would ultimately become synonymous with.

Seriously, read this and try to convince yourself it wasn't written by an 8th grader barely passing social studies.


Explain to me again why this asshole isn't right this very second being violated by the Sisters in a prison laundry room somewhere.

(via Andrew Sullivan & Benoit)

Quote of the Day

"He just gave them the best political gift they never deserved."

-- Rachel Maddow on President Obama's not simply conciliatory but almost congratulatory tone toward the previous administration on the subject of the war in Iraq during last night's address to the nation

Well, it's official: They got away with it.

I'm generally reluctant to hammer Obama too hard because he's already getting it from all sides these days, but as of last night the entirely pointless folly in Iraq that killed thousands of Americans, hundreds of thousands of Iraqis, led to the rise of an unopposed Iran, fomented hatred of the U.S abroad, and helped to sink our economy to the tune of billions of wasted taxpayer dollars has been relegated to nothing more than a controversial decision that the patriots in the White House were perfectly entitled to make -- rather than the crime of the century, which is what it really was.

That's the beauty of the Bush era: It fucked things up so monumentally that we have no choice but to concentrate on fixing the damage rather than tying ourselves up going after the assholes who handed it to us on a silver, shit-piled platter.

Quote of the Day

"Last American combat troops leave Iraq. I think President George W. Bush deserves some credit for victory."

-- John McCain, via his overworked Twitter feed

Yes, he deserves credit the same way BP deserves credit for essentially being forced to clean up the mess it made. If it hadn't fucked things up so royally in the first place, there would be no need for the effort put into making things right. You don't get to claim victory when the colossal screw-up you created finally limps into history. Backward logic at its finest.

On the plus side, at least McCain didn't figure out a way to turn this into an opportunity to flirt with Snooki.

You know something, now that I think about it: taking credit for something you're supposed to have done -- where have I heard that before?

"The President Is Near" (Originally Published, 1.16.09)

A disclaimer: What I'm about to say will probably offend the hell out of some of you. It only makes sense given that the source material I'm drawing from was considered so offensive by so many. I guess you'll have to let me know whether I get right up to the precipice without going over on this one -- or if I've finally just thrown myself off the cliff.

One of Chris Rock's most infamous bits postulates that there's a distinct difference between "black people" and "niggers." According to Rock, one of the qualities that makes the latter stand out as such an embarrassment to the former is that "niggers" will often loudly take credit and ask for affirmation for something mundane that they were supposed to do anyway -- they'll, for example, boast about taking care of their kids when any normal, well-adjusted adult, black or white, would understand that such a responsibility is a given and therefore not worthy of a pat on the back.

I don't think I need to elaborate on why this was the first thing that came to mind as I watched last night's "Farewell Address" from President Bush. We've become used to seeing Bush delusionally deny his mistakes and outright failures, and God knows we've seen him drag ass when he should've been on the ball. But last night, as Bush proudly proclaimed that whether or not you agreed with his decisions you have to admit that he did, in fact, make some decisions, it hit me like a sledgehammer the number of times over the past eight years that he's expected credit and acclaim for doing the bare minimum his job requires. The sheer volume of instances in which he tried to pass off the merely mediocre as something spectacular.

When you think about it, it's maddeningly ironic that someone who really has done so little while in office -- who's made almost no serious effort and typically tries to get away with working as few hours as he can -- managed to screw up the country as monumentally as he did. Bush is regularly in bed before 10pm, regardless of what might be on his agenda or could be in need of his attention; he's taken more vacation time than just about any president in recent memory; he's intellectually incurious in ways that would embarrass a 6th grader. And yet, he touts all of this -- this 9-to-5 ethos -- as proof that he's doing what needs to be done, as if working on a Saturday and skipping a lunch or two qualifies as going above and beyond the call of duty.

If you believe Chris Rock's definition of the word, then Barack Obama cleaning up the messes left behind by George W. Bush is just another example of a strong, intelligent African-American having to undo the damage done by -- well, you get the picture.

Obama may be the first black president of the United States, but I think it's pretty clear what Bush was.

(Update: Looking back on this quickie piece, no one should assume that I don't have issues with a few of the things that Barack Obama has and hasn't done since taking office. But make no mistake: the man still towers head and shoulders above Bush.)

The Weakest Link

Andrew Sullivan, Josh Marshall and, as I mentioned earlier this week, Bob Cesca are all grabbing onto the torture-Iraq War nexus story with both hands right now.

And with good reason.

It's rare that I hype a news item, particularly one that would at first glance seem to require a bent toward the conspiracy-minded, but this is one of those things that has to be very seriously looked into. It's no exaggeration to say that if it's true that the Bush-Cheney White House ordered the torture of foreign prisoners specifically to establish a link -- completely unreliable at the time and inevitably faulty -- between 9/11 and Iraq, it would be the largest criminal conspiracy in the history of this country's executive branch.

From Josh Marshall at Talking Points Memo:

"More and more the timeline is raising the question of why, if the torture was to prevent terrorist attacks, it seemed to happen mainly during the period when we were looking for what was essentially political information to justify the invasion of Iraq."

A message to the people in power now: Do not brush this shit under the rug.

Update (from CNN story): "(The torture program's) principal priority for intelligence was not aimed at preempting another terrorist attack on the U.S. but discovering a smoking gun linking Iraq and al Qaeda."

Those are the words of Lawrence Wilkerson, Colin Powell's chief of staff during his tenure as secretary of state.

Seriously, read the story linked directly below and tell me Cheney shouldn't be in handcuffs right now -- or maybe up against a wall out behind the Hague.

CNN: Top Powell Aide Says Torture Helped Build Iraq War Case/5.15.09

Related: True/Slant: Taibblog: Being Anti-Torture Doesn't Make You Pro-Terrorist/5.11.09

If the Shoe Fits: Post Script

"The root of Dubya's historic failure as president is illustrated in his comment, 'I don't know what the guy's beef is.' Once again his own words betray his colossal ignorance of any perspective but his own. After eight years he still doesn't get it."

-- cdnlib, commenting on yesterday's "If the Shoe Fits" piece in the Huffington Post

If the Shoe Fits

With the inauguration of Barack Obama approaching and the merciful coup de grâce that it provides for the entire Bush era, I've been trying to come up with a way to properly put into perspective the last eight years of American history. I've wrestled with the best possible means of conveying the enormity, the totality, of George W. Bush's catastrophic failure as president of the United States. I've been looking for the right words to describe the lasting impact that this administration's incompetence, treachery and corruption will have not simply on the way our country is viewed by its own citizens and those around the world, but the damage done to the very institution of the American presidency.

I tried, but I just couldn't come up with a way to put the necessary exclamation point on the whole thing. I didn't think anyone could.

Until yesterday -- when somebody did.

There's plenty of debate raging today over whether the actions of 29-year-old Iraqi journalist Muntadar al Zaidi were completely justified, at the very least understandable, outright despicable, or some combination of all three. Likewise, many are arguing over whether being pelted with footwear is a fitting punishment for George W. Bush; is the sight of Bush ducking for cover as a citizen of the country he's left in war-torn shambles hurls shoes at him something to applaud, laugh at, or be horrified by?

From a practical standpoint, it's indeed a frightening thought that someone could put himself in a position to harm the president of the United States and not be stopped until after the attack; obviously, if al Zaidi had been carrying a weapon more powerful than a pair of size 10s, we wouldn't even be having this discussion right now. There's an argument to be made that regardless of the many sins of George W. Bush, he's still nominally the president and should be afforded the respect that comes with the title. But maybe it's the fact that he wasn't shown even a modicum of respect by his attacker -- that he was shouted down and debased like a common criminal -- which illustrates just what he's done to the office he holds: He's turned it into a global punchline. Bush has taken the most revered position in the world and utterly bankrupted its authority. His failure as a leader is that absolute.

Think about it: Have you ever heard of something like this happening to an American president? Could you imagine it happening to any other president of the United States -- anyone besides George W. Bush?

What occurred yesterday would've been unfathomable in years past.

The fact is that, at this moment and for all intents and purposes, there really is no president of the United States. George Bush isn't simply a lame duck; he's a non-entity -- a completely ineffectual and irrelevant presence who still rides around in Air Force One only as a matter of academic circumstance. He's the ghost president -- stuck in political purgatory, waiting for Barack Obama's oath of office to finally put him out of his misery and usher him and his administration into the light. In the meantime, the enemies that his disastrous policies created see the once-cocksure cowboy stripped of his six-guns and consider it all the proof they need that he's never been anything more than a small man with a big title. As far as they're concerned, not only is he not the sheriff anymore -- he decimated what it means to be sheriff in the first place.

He did it by, among other things, invading Iraq under false pretenses and costing the lives of more than four thousand American soldiers and more than a hundred-and-fifty thousand Iraqis -- Iraqis al Zaidi claimed to be honoring by insulting George Bush in what in the Arab world are the strongest possible terms.

Since yesterday, Muslims and Arabs throughout the Middle East have not simply rushed to the defense of al Zaidi -- they've praised him as a hero. They say that he spoke for the millions of Iraqis and millions more Arabs throughout the region who feel that they've suffered at the hands of the Bush administration's foreign policy for the past eight years. They say that he'll go down in history as the man who stood up and did something many would've thought impossible by lashing out at the president of the United States. They're talking about putting the shoes he threw in a museum as a lasting symbol of defiance.

What Muntadar al Zaidi did has instantly become the stuff of legend.

But I'll bet that as far as he was concerned, he wasn't doing anything but denouncing the man who destroyed his country. He didn't see George Bush as the president of the United States -- he saw him as nothing more than a criminal, a murderer.

And it's not his fault for having that view so much as it's Bush's for abusing his office to the point where it no longer held any value.

I have no doubt that Barack Obama will salvage the good name of the presidency and that he'll be able to do it with almost no effort. In many ways, he already has.

But it's a shame it was ever allowed to be so mistreated in the first place.

Foreign Affairs

Just a week after a startlingly candid appearance on The Daily Show -- one in which she thrashed the U.S. news media for its anemic coverage of the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan -- Lara Logan has been transferred from the CBS News Baghdad bureau to Washington, D.C. In addition to the reassignment, Logan's getting a new title: Chief Foreign Affairs Correspondent. (If moving an international reporter stateside and giving her a confusingly contradictory title makes any sense at all to you, congratulations, you can be an upper-level news manager.) Now it's being reported, however, that Logan -- who's admittedly as beautiful as she is bright -- was recently involved in a somewhat contentious love-triangle while stationed Baghdad. Supposedly, Logan was sleeping not only with a married U.S. State Department contractor, but also with CNN war correspondent Michael Ware (whom I've met a couple of times and share several very good mutual friends with). While Logan's sex life is honestly none of my or anyone else's business, so long as it doesn't affect her ability to do her job, reading about the details of this story brought back quite a few memories for me. In March of last year, I wrote a piece that, for the first time since starting this little experiment of mine, got into some detail about my relationship with my ex-wife -- the woman whom readers of Dead Star Twilight know as Kara. The overall point I was trying to make was that it takes a certain type of person to work in a war zone -- and to actually be drawn to work there. My ex-wife was this type of person. I'd imagine Lara Logan is as well. Here now, is that column from last year: "Bulletproof Hearts."

I don't function very well without my wife. Though I have no doubt that many would view this as an opportunity to lecture me on the gathering storm of inevitable co-dependency, I actually believe it to be somewhat quaint and, in my case, a damn nice about-face from a past that's overflowing with positively atrocious behavior. Unfortunately, this simple truth means that when Jayne and I are apart for extended periods, I find myself oddly disoriented, unsure of what the hell to do or how to do it.

Case in point: she's gone right now -- away at a conference for two days -- and I've probably opened and closed the refigerator door ten times without actually removing anything. I just stand there vacantly staring into it as if expecting the margarine to stand up and begin explaining string-theory to me. So far at least, it's failed to do so and thus the mysteries of the universe remain just that -- mysteries.

I admit to having the monotony broken a short time ago by one of the more maddening quirks of the apartment in which my wife and I pay an unforgivable amount of money to live. Our intercom system -- the one which lets us know that any manner of small, non-English-speaking persons has arrived with our food delivery and would now very much like to be buzzed in -- creates a sound that rivals a jackhammer in volume and ability to irritate. This would be little more than a minor inconvenience were it not for the fact that the button tends to get stuck, which means that if we can't explain the situation to the person six floors below -- this is where the whole non-English-speaking thing becomes a pitfall -- one of us will be forced to go downstairs and unstick the button while simultaneously stifling the urge to beat the utterly confused bastard at the door into a coma.

It's even more annoying when someone walks by and hits the button just for the hell of it.

Having not ordered food -- I'm still determined to allow my refrigerator the time it apparently needs to show some initiative and suggest something worthwhile -- I assumed that one of these phantoms was the culprit when the jackhammer unexpectedly went off in my apartment a half-hour or so ago. As is typical, I swore loudly, then put on my shoes and took the elevator down to the street level. When I threw the front door open in a rage, standing there, a few feet from it, was a small Asian man with a messenger bag slung over his shoulder.

"Did you hit 6C?" I barked.

He returned a look that I recognized; it was the same one my dog used to make when he had recently come to the conclusion that my couch didn't meet the required level of canine fecal matter necessary to be considered truly tasteful.

"No -- no," he returned, looking anywhere but directly at me.

I huffed, fixed the button and went back upstairs.

A few minutes later, I was making yet another trek to the refrigerator when I noticed a white leaflet on the floor directly in front of my apartment door. It was then of course that the full breadth of Fu Manchu's nefarious plot became clear: He had basically just punched a bunch of buttons until somebody finally let him in, then he littered our building with restaurant fliers.

Normally, this would've been thorougly infuriating, and it was -- until I picked up the flier and took a look at it.

It was relatively unassuming -- the latest in an infinitude of Chinese restaurant menus my wife and I find under our door. This one however was inscribed in bold letters with what has to be the best blurb in the history of promotion -- an endorsement so impressive that it no doubt has the Zagat and Michelin people contemplating a change of career.

It read simply:

"The best Chinese food I never try it before!"
-- Said by many customer

And with that, all was forgiven.

After a quick internal debate over whether or not my mastery of the English language was strong enough to become one of the restaurant's "many customer," I threw the menu away and went back to the refrigerator. Still no string-theory.

I'm loathe to admit it, but years ago I likely would've looked upon this sort of reprieve from a current relationship as an opportunity to at most fool around with someone other than my partner, or at the very least masturbate in every room of the house. The former is out of the question these days because I'm very much in love with my wife, the latter simply because, A) my sex drive isn't quite what it used to be since undergoing brain surgery last year, and B) I live in New York City, which means that there's only one room in my residence to speak of; any attempt to vary my masturbatory patterns would be sorely lacking in creativity. Instead, I willingly turn my attention to a combination of writing and mental preparation for tonight's season finale of Battlestar Galactica.

Oh yeah, and watching Blood Diamond again.

I say again because my wife and I curled up on the couch last night and watched it together, each of us enjoying the movie quite a bit, which is what led me to make the rare commitment to a second viewing. In addition to being a disturbing and wholly necessary tutorial on both the reality of the diamond trade and the brutality of the constant political upheaval in Africa -- upheaval which goes largely ignored by many here in the states -- it boasts excellent performances by its lead actors. Leonardo DiCaprio and Djimon Hounsou are each phenomenal and unquestioningly deserved their respective Oscar nominations; Jennifer Connolly manages to capture the enigmatic quality -- equal parts seductive and repellent -- that drives someone to willingly and consistently travel to the worst places on the planet and risk his or her life in pursuit of the news.

I'm very familiar with this quality -- I've had plenty of personal experience with it -- and yet it remains "enigmatic" simply because I have yet to fully understand it, and I'm not alone in this nescience. I know this however: It's very easy to fall in love with; it is almost impossible to live with.

A couple of weeks back, I left the insular quiet of the Upper East Side and hopped a cab down to, quite literally, my neighborhood's polar opposite -- the Lower East Side. I had been invited to a small party by one of my co-workers and relished the chance to spend a little time engaging in a ritual which long ago became foreign to me: drinking and complaining about the business. Before I even left my apartment, the party already had the distinction of being the first social event I'd be attending in years without Jayne on my arm (she wasn't feeling great and had decided to sit this one out). When I arrived, I quickly realized that the gathering was unusual for an entirely different reason: In attendance were reporters and producers from several networks' Baghdad crews, all of whom were not only familiar with my ex-wife, but had shared the kind of indescribable, singular intimacy with her that can only come from dodging mortar rounds together for extended periods of time.

They knew everything there was to know about her -- which meant that they almost surely knew everything there was to know about me.

A quick history lesson: My ex-wife and I were the worst couple imaginable.

Each of us was insanely passionate, notoriously short-fused and brutally caustic. Like many couples whose individual partners share combustive characteristics, we created a volatile mixture which simmered for quite some time before finally exploding altogether. It's only in hindsight however that our most indomitable shared trait becomes clear: Neither of us was willing to accept that we were exactly the same; neither wanted to admit to having the same negative personality traits as the other -- it was easier to just blame each other and be done with it. I needed an escape, so I did drugs; she had looked for an escape from the beginning, so she subconsciously pushed me away. I was selfish and irresponsible -- constantly looking for something more, while trying to keep the status quo; she insisted on keeping the status quo solely out of obligation, while constantly craving something more. We both loved strongly, but neither of us would truly commit. We were each flawed in ways neither was willing to discuss or possibly even admit to. Our relationship never should've lasted more than a month at the most. We were foolish for trying to turn it into a lifetime.

The most common word I've heard used to describe my ex-wife is "rigid." She's indeed tough-as-nails -- exuding a masculine sexuality and drive that makes her enticing in a way that seems almost supernatural. It's likely always made her an object of infatuation to those who perceive the idea of taming her to be the ultimate challenge. I have no doubt that it's the progenitor of this kind of rough-and-tumble bravado which drove her to take a job as a network field producer. What that progenitor is, I now have my suspicions.

Back to the party -- it was about an hour after my arrival that it became clear to the Baghdad people just who I was.

The reaction was, well --

"YOU'RE CHEZ?" one woman practically screamed, with equal parts shock and bemusement -- immediately calling the others over so that they too could get a look at the circus freak.

I just smiled and nodded in resignation.

Yes, yes -- it's me -- THAT GUY. The asshole -- in the flesh. Thanks for coming. Make sure you tip your bartenders and waitresses on the way out.

I was almost sorry I didn't have a pedestal handy.

Understand, it's one thing to have an unseemly past -- one in which you regret nearly everything you did and didn't do; it's something else entirely to meet people for the first time who already know every repugnant detail -- every rotten secret -- from that past. Disconcerting doesn't even begin to cover it.

For the next half-hour or so, I did my best to keep the conversation upbeat -- despite the knowledge that I had already been judged and convicted and now stood before my ex-wife's co-workers as exposed and vulnerable as the day I was born. I spoke highly of my former love; I spoke truthfully about my own mistakes -- my search for a measure of redemption -- and my recent successes and newfound happiness. I spoke honestly about my love for Jayne and the strength of our relationship; I smiled a lot and did my best to take the whole uncomfortable situation in stride.

I learned that my ex-wife is now dating a photographer who works with her. In fact, one noticeably strange moment came when someone actually suggested calling my ex, right there and then, and putting me on the phone. Another woman quickly dismissed the idea, intimating that it would upset the current boyfriend. Admittedly, the possibility that I might be perceived as a threat was something that I turned over in my mind for a few minutes, curious as to whether my memory existed as some sort of specter in my ex's life -- confused at this thought, given her abrupt and unequivocal exit from our relationship.

After awhile, the garrulity turned toward another topic and I was left to drink my beer in relative peace. Thankfully, my inquisition at the hands of the Babes of Baghdad was quickly followed by a quiet conversation with the host of the party -- my co-worker. She's a cool, sweet, funny, smart and attractive twenty-five-year-old with whom I've forged an odd little bond recently. This was initially due to the fact that she'd been unlucky enough to fall hard for an overseas field producer herself, and was facing the same obstacles and difficulties I had once faced in dealing with that particular personality type.

I offered an opinion or two -- refusing to lecture -- confident in the belief that she's doing just fine figuring it out on her own.

Discussing it with her, however, had a surprising affect on me: It helped me to at least better understand what years ago was so torturously incomprehensible. I listened to what was happening to my friend and I recognized the behavior immediately. The man she cared about sought solace in her arms, but was never fully there. His passion was alluring and consuming -- but also fleeting; despite the trappings of adulthood -- particularly the dangerous, important job -- he was, in reality, little more than a selfish child.

It all finally added up.

"Baghdad" isn't merely a place -- not for people like the man who has my friend's heart; not for people like the woman who once had mine. It's an idea. It's where you run to when bullets and bombs don't terrify you but commitment to another human being and the very thought of an ordinary life does. It's where everything is transient, nothing lasts, and caprice is not only accepted but rewarded -- rationalized as an unavoidable by-product of the job -- in actuality, the very reason the job held such appeal in the first place.

The progenitor I mentioned earlier -- the basis for her bravado?

Fear.

Fear of never being able to lead a quiet life; fear of becoming restless and unwittingly hurting someone who loves you; fear of failure. The job becomes the perfect excuse for never having to take on that most daunting yet rewarding of life's responsibilities: the care of a human heart.

About two-thirds of the way through Blood Diamond, Leonardo DiCaprio's character asks Jennifer Connolly's why she does what she does -- why she puts herself in the line of fire time and time again. He asks if she's a thrill-seeker; she responds, "Three out of four ex-boyfriends say that I'm not happy unless my life is in a constant state of crisis."

At least one ex-husband understands, and he's happy not to be a part of it anymore.

He's grateful though for the learning experience -- and even more grateful for what's come into his life since.