tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13285187894069203232024-03-08T19:56:47.887+01:00Anthony St. John, TheWordWarrioranthony st. johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13340645719618934812noreply@blogger.comBlogger92125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1328518789406920323.post-32957063452071432312010-02-01T11:22:00.003+01:002010-02-01T11:26:45.770+01:00How I Repelled the Advances of<br />Roman Catholic Pedophilic Priests<br /><br /><br /><br />When, in Italy, nonne and nonni are at their wits' ends caring for their grandchildren whose father and mother are at the factory or office, they threaten their little hyperactive ones with this cutting admonition: “If you don't stop misbehaving, we'll call the Germans!” When, in New York, my Irishamerican grandmother or her husband lost their patience with me and my sister and brothers, they discouraged us with these words of caution: “If you don't stop showing bad manners, we'll send you to a school where the Irish Christian Brothers teach!” I often wonder whether it would have been more brainy to smack us on our backsides with a curt jolt to our overactive nervous systems instead of filling our tender sentiments with empty threats (I never studied with overtly sadistic clerics) that had no bases in reality and only occupied our minds with junk ideas—enough of them already! Why not tickling? Wouldn't that have done the trick? My parents and grandparents could have tickled my short-lived aggressiveness out of my nerve endings, and because I would have been in fits of hysterical laughter, I would never had been able to file a cease and desist order against them in juvenile court. <br /><br />The centuries-old despotic streak of the Roman Catholic church (RCc) is well documented. Whether it be the cruelties authenticated during the Inquisition, or the blessings bestowed on nations stringently promoting colonial and imperialistic evildoing, or the collusion with the atrocious Nazi regime (Bavaria, Hitler's stomping grounds, is a citadel of Roman Catholicism) during World War II, or the gratuitous patronage offered to fascist military dictators in Southamerica, or..., there is no doubt that the RCc serves not always as an eleemosynary spiritual leader bent on encouraging the Christian virtues it so vociferously exacts others to simulate. Nothing and no one is perfect, you might say.<br /><br />Nevertheless, we have an earnest discrepancy here when we set about finagling a logic which might in some determined fashion legitimize the actions of one of Christianity's most powerful spiritual institutions, and a divergence even its wishy-washy but authoritarian RCc archpriests and women servants married to God cannot contravene. Out of the mouths of pious religionists affiliated with the RCc, which I know best, there oodles a barrage of love, peace and hugs for all of us which does not trip the light fantastic with many of the actions of the RCc carried through during the two long millennia that it has subsisted.<br /><br />Two direful personal observations taken from my university and military days come right away to my mind and these offer further cogent evidence that bear witness to the megascopic sanctimoniousness of the RCc. The first is its loathsome frame of mind with regard to women. Females are not only deprecated by RCc clerics themselves, the warped dogmas of the church's canons serve to handle women as second-class, docile laborers assigned to cook, clean and, above all, teach little Catholic rascals their catechisms and the Ten Commandments they will so diligently, so relentlessly disobey and then constantly seek forgiveness for their infringements of them. When I attended St. Bonaventure University, I was stunned one day in World History class when an often drunk Franciscan friar, nicknamed “The Spike” for his harshness, instructed the three female students in our class of thirty-five (set in alphabetical order by “The Spike”) to “occupy the front row, cross your legs, and close the Gates of Hell.” All the “Bonnie men” in the room ripped out with huge roars of laughter. The three ladies sat petrified in silence. At St. Bonaventure sadistic pranks were frequently perpetrated not only on female co-eds, even nuns who attended the learning “institution” were victimized by often drunk, childish “Bonnie men” trying desperately to be something they were not. If only James Joyce had attended St. Bonaventure University! His A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man would have enjoyed a slew of additional anecdotes testifying to the stupidity of untested, horny Roman Catholic boys endeavoring to be adult males. <br /><br />It is late August 1967. I am sitting in a Continental airline's Boeing 707 at Travis Air Force Base, California set for takeoff to Saigon—via Guam and Manila. There is only one “class.” The whole plane is divided into two sections: one and the other of rows of three from forward to aft. Still, officers are at the front of the jet. I'm to the left, seated five or six rows from the front, in the middle. On my left, at the window seat, is a US Army chaplain. Captain. (Captain is the entry rank for lawyers, doctors, dentists and religious types into the US Army—those who have something to say to you and something to ask you to pay for! RHIP. Rank Has Its Privileges!) He tells me he is a Trappist monk on leave from his monastery “so I can go to Vietnam to help the boys.” We talk some in flight, but for the most part, like most of the others in the plane who are not drunk, we remain mostly mum about our feelings and are immersed in thoughts of what might befall us. We are told we are descending and will land at Guam for a fuel stop. As we touch down, I see to my left ranks and ranks of B-52 bombers! The sight is shocking. I give up counting—there are so many! The Trappist monk, to my amazement, is fanning crosses, is blessing the B-52s!<br /><br />Then there was the Fourth Division's caput chaplain, a full-bird (chicken [sic]) colonel, Irishman from Brooklyn, New York. This person of grotesque appearance was a blustering, overbearing character who made no bones about pushing his Roman Catholicism wherever he visited throughout the Fourth Division's base camp. Every so often, in his freshly-starched fatigues and boots spit-shined by Vietnamese workers who were permitted to work in the BC for $1.00 a day, a polished chopper reserved for high-ranking officers would carry him to the battlefield to give general absolution to the troops. One day when I was jumping up and down with nervousness about an impending combat assault into unknown enemy territory, the chaplain's copter clock-clocked above and spiraled down to meet us at our “saddle up” area. About to be inserted first into a suspect enemy location in waves of three-a-breast Huey choppers, all members of my forward observer party then those of the infantry company to which we were attached were terribly anxious thinking whether or not we would jump into open fields and find ourselves on a “hot” LZ (landing zone). The warriorlike man of the cloth walked over to the largest group, and without saying a word or even asking if there might be any Roman Catholics there, put a purple sash (stole) around his neck and began absolving all in sight their sins—he too fanning crosses over the men! After confession, the colonel returned to base camp to count communion wafers for the next day's mass and then went on a priggish binge pulling Playboy centerfolds off the walls of soldiers' barracks! (Guess the name of the patron/patroness saint of the Artillery!) <br /><br />A more contemporary transgression—that has caused the declining RCc not only outpourings of protest and has dishonored it irreparably demanding of it astounding accumulations of its wealth—is the scandal of pedophilia that has concerned an abundant number of its brothers and sisters and priests. Throughout the world, high-ranking RCc authorities have scurried to squelch the thousands and thousands of victims' revelations of maltreatment perpetrated by Roman Catholic churchmen and churchwomen. The RCc officials have offered the unfortunate characters monetary compensation if they waiver their legal claims and refuse to accept media coverage which might detail the events of their sexual abuses many of which were suffered at so tender an age, it would take a lifetime for them to come to grips with themselves and finally muster the courage to admit that which they were subjected to by the promiscuous religious associates of the RCc. <br /><br />Papal crackerjacks of legalese have not been successful in crunching down the outrages caused by decades-old pedophilic dereliction in Ireland and the DisUnited States, but they have had success in France, Italy, Portugal and Spain where the RCc holds powerful sway in the media and political institutions. The “Devil” would need to be interviewed to determine the exact number of RCc clerics involved in sexual abuse among themselves and others not belonging to their religious secret club.<br />The thought of pedophilia at once brings a sense of repulsion to most individuals. This astonishment very often also provokes the curious to investigate the subject, and today there are innumerable websites where access to unnatural sex acts—even among animals—is casual for those who still do not own pedophilic predilections. <br /><br />The repugnance for pedophilia is rooted in the notion that an unknowing, ingenuous child (boy or girl) is overwhelmed, seduced by a consenting adult (man or woman) who performs sexual acts that normally are the reserve of willing adults (mature individuals)—only. It is understood that a child is neither prepared nor competent enough emotionally to respond to the sexual inclinations of an adult who is both sexually more sophisticated and indeed more clever about the exigencies of life. In a pedophilic relationship, the child is someone who is initiated abruptly into the sexual rite without having the astuteness to say yes or no. Not only is the child's body invaded, his or her mind is interpenetrated by an individual whose lasciviousness is superimposed on the injured one by means of verbal deceit and trickery which could not have been contended by the minor.<br /><br />When a priest or brother or sister engages in pedophilic matings, the disapprobation is magnified further. We do not expect those—for example, politicians—who constantly preach to us concerning our manners of performing, to flout the rules established for all of us to obey. We feel betrayed when they do so. We believe we have been duped. (The voting records of Northamericans testifies to the “faith” they hold in their politicians!) Ecclesiastical double crossing has encouraged many Roman Catholics to abandon the RCc, and today the RCc is in a scramble to recoup the religious formidableness it once possessed. (It took the RCc four-hundred years to accept the teachings of Galileo Galilei [1564-1642]! When will it permit gay and non-gay marriages among its spiritual leaders?) <br /><br />Yet, there is another aspect concerning religious pedophilia which should be mentioned. A youngster who is inveigled by a clergyman or clergywoman is approached by an individual who is a symbol of an institutionalized say-so, dominance. The brother or sister or priest is garbed in those robes which relate to a two-millennia tradition that basks in an almost universal acquiescence. It is often easier for an ecclesiastic, whether male or female, to lure because he or she is propped up with a visible assurance that is spontaneous—as when a police official flashes his badge before us and wants to see our documents or a pregnant woman requests a seat on a bus. A child can be more easily overpowered sexually by a pedophilic reverend than by an old man or woman, with children as their preferred sexual object, sitting on a park bench. Consequently, mothers and fathers of children, who frequent Roman Catholic religious and social activities, must be cautious. Kids are not to be left alone with brothers, nuns and/or priests. Beware of the confessional. Many, many sexual impieties have been committed in confessional boxes. <br /><br />From when I was a boy of twelve years (1957) to that of being a young adult of twenty-one (1966), I lived the most dramatic and depressing time of my life. For it was during that period that I had to succumb to the pedagogy of the Roman Catholic church dictated to me by priests and an occasional nun. I recall suffering enormously trying to understand why I had to accept various nonsensical precepts—merely obligated to believe them as a matter of faith. This tore at my intellectual faculties strenuously primarily because I felt alone, with no one to sync with my notions. It was a joyous day for me when I was “let out” of St. Bonaventure University's internment camp of Roman Catholic religious dogma. (See St. Bonaventure University: A Gulag of Militaristic, Sexual & Philosophical Indoctrination on www.scribd.com/thewordwarrior.)<br /><br />I have reported the five Irishamerican Roman Catholic priests, who I believe approached me seeking illicit sexual relations, to Barbara Blaine and David Clohessy of the Survivors Network of those Abused by Priests (www.snapnetwork.org) not because I was victimized by them, I was not, but because my “testimony” might help others who reluctantly could have been their sexual prey. I support the efforts of SNAP, and I am perspicacious enough to know that the RCc does not hold the registered trademark on pedophilia—nevertheless, many of its members are foremost practitioners of sexual perversion in which children are the preferred sexual object.<br /><br />Why did I not become pedophilic quarry for the priests who were my instructors for almost a decade? There are two main reasons. The first regards the respect for women which, inadvertently, was the norm in my upbringing. My mother, some aunts and older female cousins held positions of authority in public and private organizations in New York, and these “role models” encouraged me, at a very early age, to come to expect that women were, like men, held in high regard by society in general. It was a terrible awakening for me when, in later years, I would come to learn that women did not enjoy the high esteem that many of my family members experienced working as professionals and managers in the not-terribly-so feminist 1950s. However, from 1957 to 1966 I carried with me the idea that gentlewomen were on an even par with gentlemen socially, politically and economically. Therefore, their role and my part to be with them, was what I envisioned for myself as I grew older. <br /><br />Secondly, my sexual disposition is decidedly focused on females. There are a number of reasons for this. One in particular is the fact that when I was a small boy, five girls, who shared an apartment with their widowed mother and lived directly above my family, took an interest in me and frequently served as my babysitter. I received their affection and goodwill and I recollect best that time when I reflect on a passage from my manuscript, Why I Live Beyond the DisUnited States of Northamerica:<br /><br /> ...I was in the back seat of the car with three of the sisters.<br /> The girls were all modestly dressed and wore pants or shifts<br /> over their drying bathing suits. Their lightweight summer wear,<br /> colorful blouses and tee-shirts, let me view their anatomy with <br /> intense interest, and I remember peeking at the depression <br /> between one of the girl's breasts—made visible by her wearing<br /> of a loosely-fitted shirt top—and taking peeps to take in<br /> more of this lass sitting closest to the window on the right<br /> side in the rear of what was, I can only guess now, a Ford<br /> automobile. Or, was it a Chevrolet?<br /> I was fascinated by the mounds of flesh protruding from<br /> the chests of these girl-women. I counted ten “lumps” under <br /> the cotton clothing covering the bosoms of the five sisters.<br /> I would never have dared to make an effort to touch these<br /> enormous, marshmallowy-like protrusions which I did not<br /> even know incorporated—on their tips—protuberances, <br /> lactiferous ducts of the girls' mammary glands, which opened<br /> and from which their milk would one day be drawn to nurture<br /> baby girls and baby boys. I know not why I did not make <br /> real this cogent want. The wish to do so, however, was<br /> embedded obsessively in my boyish desire, and in the years<br /> to come would torment me excruciatingly. My day would<br /> come, but I had to wait for it. I sank back down into the<br /> seat of the car, into a sort of puerile puzzlement. I was too<br /> green indeed to murmur the smooth, silver-tongued word<br /> “Why?”<br /> Overwhelmed in the simplemindedness of my callow<br /> singularity, there was nothing for me to do but absorb the <br /> sensory voluptuousness that spun around me lodged there<br /> in the back part of that Ford—or Chevy. Women's breasts<br /> and pretty dresses and wavy hair were not the only <br /> impressions that landed ingratiatingly on my organ of<br /> thought left there to commingle ultimately with a lifelong<br /> peppering of imprecise feelings which, in toto, would<br /> constitute that what I am.<br /> For instance, there were scents to get a whiff of. Suntan<br /> lotions. Lipsticks. Deodorants. Nail polishes. Makeup. <br /> The odor that swelled out from an opened handbag. <br /> Chewing gum. Hair that had been shampooed at the showers<br /> along the beach. Perfume? I can't remember. But I do recall,<br /> later in life, I could be strolling down a street in Caracas <br /> or Rome and if a woman passed me by, buzzing away <br /> and leaving me in the downdraft of her perfume or makeup<br /> foundation, a precise fragrance, I could be drawn back <br /> twenty—even thirty—years to a place in time and space and<br /> to a woman I desired and loved. I could see her face and<br /> easily summon up the surroundings of a room, a restaurant<br /> where we shared the joy of being together.<br /> As we traveled home to Brooklyn, a myriad of aromas were<br /> fanned about my face, from all directions. From time to time,<br /> they coalesced to create one unique trail of a pleasant <br /> air that swept through my nostrils and stimulated me<br /> into a goofy self-satisfaction. Otherwise, one outstanding<br /> redolence, perhaps a maquillage or a sticky aerosol used<br /> to hold hair in place, would impress me and I would <br /> download this smell into my personal cornucopia where<br /> it rested with the many others—gleeful reminders to me<br /> of the distinctions possessed, I assumed, by whichever<br /> member of the gentle sex.<br /> And Music!!! To this day, I possess almost perfect images<br /> of the radio's speaker with a chromed grill protecting it<br /> and the two black knobs flanking it: one for tuning and<br /> the other for volume/on/off. Under one nub there was a<br /> metal ring that could be manipulated to control the tone<br /> and vary it from high to low. The antenna was on the left<br /> side fender of the car and through it a hodgepodge of<br /> popular music waved through the car to the merriment<br /> of all of us. One girl snapped her fingers. Another kept <br /> time to the Music by tapping her foot. A couple of sisters<br /> sang. One clapped to the beat. When a song faded away,<br /> the girl in the “shotgun” seat immediately turned the <br /> tuning knob searching to come up with another hit record<br /> for us to sing and hum within our ecstasy which was<br /> enclosed in the closed quarters of an automobile and not in<br /> the open space of, for example, a dance floor. I cannot<br /> construct a list of the songs I heard that evening coming<br /> home from the cool beach and then flowing happily into<br /> the sweltering streets of Brooklyn. It surely was not the<br /> rock n' roll era. In those days Nat King Cole, Ella Fitzgerald,<br /> Frankie Lane, Tony Bennett, Frank Sinatra, Peggy Lee, <br /> Louis Armstrong and a host of other post-World War II<br /> musical phenomena held sway in the recording industry.<br /> And today, when I hear the Music of these hall-of-famers,<br /> I wonder if it was their songs we had enjoyed in that car<br /> returning to 310 Devoe Street on a sultry summer's night.<br /> Jerking home—with the shifting of gears—to Brooklyn in the<br /> congested beach traffic and yearning earnestly that I could<br /> remain forever in the bosom of my five-member <br /> sisterhood—all of whom I thralled at my beck and <br /> call!--it would have been preposterous to think that I<br /> could ever have roused in my mind the idea that Woman<br /> and Music would come to be such an integral component<br /> of my essence and abide in my psyche for the rest of<br /> my life. There was no way for me to guess my forthcoming<br /> and I unquestionably could not even have rationalized,<br /> at my tender age, that I, too, would one day flourish to be<br /> as complete as were the five girls with me in the car. I was<br /> a boy being bombarded by bevies of empirical impressions<br /> which I was powerless to categorize or interpret.<br /> The way home was closing the more on Williamsburg.<br /> The mademoiselles were fretting about the swelter, <br /> foreseeing doing something more tantalizing after, and<br /> trying their best to make the time flash by faster. Naturally,<br /> I was delighted with the delay. Nothing in this world had<br /> been before more pleasing to me than being now with my<br /> five young unmarried women. I had it in my heart to stay<br /> in saecula saeculorum in this serendipitous state. I was bent <br /> upon nailing this splendid time to the wall—to keep it there.<br /> I selfishly sought to pickle myself in the juices of this<br /> thrilling companionship trusting that it would be conserved<br /> for my eternity.<br /> Maybe about an hour before getting to our destination—my<br /> sunburnt skin and beginning-to-growl stomach had levied on<br /> me an-end-of-the-day drowsiness and I had perched my<br /> head on the top of the front seat—that inamorata, closest<br /> to the window (was her name Pat?), took me into her arms<br /> and laid my boyishness on the cushioning of her bosom!<br /> I limpened in the tenderness of her geniality. Her smells<br /> enveloped me right off. I was wrapped in that field of<br /> energy that emanated from her flesh and blood, and as<br /> tickled pink as a piglet in a pigpen, I curled up cozily and<br /> every once in a while switched the position of my head<br /> in order to find an even softer place amongst her doughy<br /> front or to sample the texture—to see if it was equal to<br /> the other portions—of another part of her two breasts.<br /> Never once did the desire to quaff upon her cross my <br /> mind. I did not seek nutrients. Eating was the last thing<br /> on my mind. I craved emotional contentment. And I<br /> was filling myself up with barrows of it. There was<br /> nothing that could have made me happier than this<br /> sensation of proximity to a woman. I could not doze off...<br /><br />There was no way a male religionist—wreaking of cigarette smoke, dressed in black, the sleeves of his cassock snowed upon with chalk dusk, his breath bringing on the smells of beer or whisky, his skin coarse—was going to come so near to me where he might attempt to entice me into joining in with him in the performance of salacious sex acts. Amen!!! <br /> <br /> <br /><br /><br />Authored by Anthony St. John<br />1 February MMX<br />Calenzano, Italia<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />* * *anthony st. johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13340645719618934812noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1328518789406920323.post-87929643714316368212010-01-01T13:40:00.000+01:002010-01-01T13:41:36.153+01:00<strong>What I Am <br />Most Proud Of...</strong><br /><br /><br />I write well.<br /><br />I write poetry.<br /><br />I appreciate Beethoven.<br /><br />I prize many varieties of music.<br /><br />I enjoy reading the English version of<br />Marcel Proust's<br />A la recherche du temps perdu<br />translated by G K Scott Moncrieff.<br /><br />David Hume is my preferred philosopher.<br /><br />I am indebted to Jean-Paul Sartre and Bertrand Russell.<br /><br />I delight in the company of others.<br /><br />I can make people laugh.<br /><br />I use public transport exclusively.<br /><br />I was interviewed by Larry King.<br /><br />I have not been in the DisUnited States of Northamerica since 31 December 1975.<br /><br />I am an atheist.<br /><br />I was born in Brooklyn, New York.<br /><br />I did not permit the Roman Catholic church to quash me physically <br />or intellectually.<br /><br />I have kissed three Italian princesses:<br />La Principessa Marcella Borghese, La Principessa Giorgiana Corsini, and<br />La Principessa Fiona Corsini.<br /><br />I did not murder when I was an artillery officer in Vietnam.<br /><br />I fight with my words not my fists.<br />I am TheWordWarrior!<br /><br />I admire beautiful women.<br /><br />When I watch a sporting event, I mute the sound.<br /><br />I renounced my DisUnited States' citizenship.<br /><br />I am a mitigated Marxist.<br /><br />My electric bill is the lowest in my apartment building.<br /><br />I read at least four or five or six or seven books at a time.<br /><br />I possess a built-in instinct for what is insincere.<br /><br />I have refused to recognize the three medals I was awarded for service in Vietnam.<br /><br />I relish cigars.<br /><br />I survived an airplane crash.<br /><br />I listen to classical music (www.wqxr.org and www.retetoscanaclassica.it)<br />every day.<br /><br />I outlasted two armed robberies.<br /><br />Every time I encounter an Italian priest or sister,<br />I ask them if Hell is big enough to accommodate 57,000,000 Italians.<br /><br />I pulled through two 122mm Chinese rocket attacks on the Cambodian-Laotian borders.<br /><br />I outlived assorted mortar barrages in Vietnam.<br /><br />I understand the Venezuelan people.<br /><br />I have two doctors: Dr Diet & Dr Repose.<br /><br />I comprehend the Italians.<br /><br />I am a fan of Roger Federer but hope he has no “stupid” or criminal skeletons in his closet!<br /><br />I walk as much as I can.<br /><br />I bicycle for pleasure.<br /><br />I suggest that young children be disciplined by tickling them—not<br />slugging them.<br /><br />I was discharged by the State of Florida's<br />Division of Family Services because I refused to swindle <br />Afroamericans living in the ghetto of Fort Lauderdale <br />where I served as a social worker.<br /><br />I was a journalist for three newspapers.<br /><br />I was a copy editor for Venezuela's English-speaking daily.<br /><br />My sensitivity for people's suffering and the incredulity I possess in watching them do all they can to worsen their condition.<br /><br />My respect for Nature.<br /><br />I do not own a motor vehicle.<br /><br />My will to preserve the natural resources I depend upon.<br /><br />My hope in the future.<br /><br />My utilization of the computer and Internet.<br /><br />The varied work experiences I have had in my life.<br /><br />The extensive listing of subjects that influence my reading. <br /><br />I have no respect for Tony Blair, John Bolton, Thomas Friedman, Francis Fukuyama, Al Gore, Stanley Hoffmann, Samuel Huntington, Robert Kagan, John Kerry, Henry Kissinger, Charles Krauthammer, William Kristol, John McCain, Norman Podhoretz, George Will, Paul Wolfowitz,...and others of this ilk.<br /><br />I admire Daniel Bell, Fausto Bertinotti, Hugo Chávez, Noam Chomsky, Hillary Clinton, Paul A Cohen, Rodney Dangerfield, Richard Dawkins, Simone de Beauvoir, Barbara Dorris, Vittoria Franco, Eric Hobsbawn, Martin Jacques, Peter Lavelle, Karl Marx, Alain Minc, Robert Reich, Don Rickles, Joan Rivers, Ségolène Royal, Edward W Said, Israel Shamir, Peter Singer, Sun Tzu, Gore Vidal, Oscar Wilde, Howard Zinn,...among others.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Updated: 29 December 2009<br />Anthony St. John: www.scribd.com/thewordwarrior<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />* * *anthony st. johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13340645719618934812noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1328518789406920323.post-28556752867326469872010-01-01T13:39:00.001+01:002010-01-01T13:39:56.257+01:00Lamento per L’Europa<br /><br /><br /><br /><strong>Terra del Sole Calante</strong><br /><br />Calderone ribollente in famelica disperazione<br />Per ritrovare i sapori del Passato.<br />Tu cerchi di proiettarti in avanti<br />Sull’energia della Tua logica <br />E di speranze non ancora idealizzate.<br />Tu invochi la Tua storia<br />Per rinvigorire le Tue fantasie.<br />Ti avvinghi stretta al Tuo orgoglioso io<br />Screpolato e corroso dalle intemperie.<br />Ti sforzi di far crescere nuovi fiori<br />Dalla putredine delle Tue tormentate memorie.<br />I Tuoi giovani, annusati da squadre di cani al guinzaglio,<br />Violentano-odiano nei Tuoi stadi<br />Strisciati con allettamenti elettronici<br />A premere morbidi e colorati bottoni di plastica.<br />I Tuoi vecchi serpeggiano stancamente verso ministeri della sanità in rovina<br />Dove i medici si trastullano con i moduli<br />E riempiono schedine del totocalcio.<br />I Tuoi vicini dell’Est—<br />Arroganti, sordidi—<br />Si aggrappano a Te<br />Pretendendo rudemente ciò che bramano e credono dovuto.<br />Tu, Europa, siedi imbalsamata—<br />Impregnata dei succhi del Tuo spregevole tempo che fu.<br />I Tuoi politici dilettanti spiegano bandiere<br />E i loro poteri vergognano—<br />Vergognano!—<br />Questo Nostro mondo.<br /><br /><br />Anthony St. Johnanthony st. johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13340645719618934812noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1328518789406920323.post-68728681221127044312010-01-01T13:37:00.000+01:002010-01-01T13:38:18.872+01:00<strong>A Lament for Europe</strong><br /><br />Land of the Setting Sun<br />Caldron simmering in hungering desperation<br />To regain the smacks of the Past.<br />You seek to lunge ahead<br />On the energy of Your logic<br />And hopes not yet lionized.<br />You call upon Your histories<br />To lend strength to Your phantasies.<br />You coil up hard on Your proud self<br />Wrinkled and weather-beaten.<br />You struggle to nurture new flowers<br />On the dry rot of Your haunted memories.<br />Your youth, sniffed upon by strapped canine squads,<br />Rape-hate in Your stadiums<br />Striped with electronic rejoinders<br />To press softly-pliant, gaily-tinged plastic buttons.<br />Your elderly curl their ways to bankrupt health ministries<br />Where physicians fool with forms<br />And fill in football pools.<br />Your neighbors to the East—<br />Brazen, sordid—<br />Yank towards You<br />Roughly extracting for exacting theirs craved for.<br />You, Europe, sit pickled—<br />Soused in the juices of Your scummy heretofore.<br />Your dabblers in politics set flags unfurled<br />And their powers shame—<br />Shame!—<br />This Our world.<br /><br /><br />Anthony St. Johnanthony st. johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13340645719618934812noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1328518789406920323.post-9133657954920069592009-12-15T11:07:00.000+01:002009-12-15T11:10:08.890+01:00Plastic Flowers for Italians<br />Butchered in Auto Accidents<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Just as in any other Christian, particularly Roman Catholic, nation where religion molds overly the social, economic and political mores of its inhabitants, there is a premium especially, in Italy, on objects that reflect miserableness whether they be crucifixes, hermetically-sealed glass coffins containing dead-for-centuries holy people, statues dripping with blood, priests with holes in their hands, bleeding sacred hearts...ad infinitum. From my perspective, these symbols prompt the Italians I live with to accommodate a unique disposition that induces them to lament. And they do it so well! But what is worse, Italians expect you to join in with them in sharing happenings which, in other cultures, might not be thought of as being edifying. Italians want to be felt sorry for. The “catch-22” here is that if you do commiserate, you are doing yourself a good deed, and for that you should be thankful to the Italians for this blessed opportunity. An Italian will not thank you. You must thank him or her. By giving thanks, you submit. Nothing pleases the racist Italians more than your recognition of their quasi-fascist sense of superiority, their contrived haughtiness. Half of the Italians live in the 1930s; the other half live in the 1960s. These desperate souls are struggling in vain to be something they are not without acknowledging the dreadfully tragic consequences of their actions which are often violent and self-destructive.<br /><br />It is customary to see plastic containers or milk cartons holding flowers attached to poles or fences near to where an automobile or motorcycle mishap killed an often inebriated or doped Italian causal agent. Years ago there used to be real flowers in these make-shift recipients, but today they are plastic and in some places, where collisions are frequent, ten to fifteen bouquets might be visualized in rows—propped up there sometimes for years, the artificial floral arrangements now blanched by the sun and covered with the soot and grime from passing buses, trucks, cars, scooters and even, on occasion, horse-drawn carriages. <br /><br />One late morning in Sesto Fiorentino, I approached the bus stop where I was to wait to travel on to Firenze. About four or five metres beyond, I could see a young woman kneeling down and preparing to set up a composition of “live” flowers which laid on the pavement in rolled newspaper pages right next to her. I went over.<br /><br />“May I ask what you are doing, please?”<br /><br />She looked up startled and responded compactly, but very softly:<br /><br />“I'm composing these flowers for my brother.”<br /><br />“Your brother?” I quizzed.<br /><br />“Yes. He was killed here four years ago in a motorcycle accident.<br />I come here every month with flowers for him.”<br /><br />I told her I was very sorry and she nodded her appreciation very demurely.<br /><br />She was a comely individual and exceptionally sensitive in the way she expressed herself.<br /><br />I wanted to do something for her.<br /><br />I changed the tone of my voice somewhat to express my seriousness.<br /><br />“Do you really think your brother would want you to be here so sad<br />commemorating his brutal death again and again and again?<br />Don't you think he would want you to go on with your life--<br />to be happy, to be free from the gloominess this tragedy causes you?”<br /><br />In an instant, she burst out sobbing.<br /><br />Her face was red as a beet.<br /><br />I put my hand on her shoulder to soothe her.<br /><br />Suddenly, she stood up.<br />Erect.<br />As if she had been regenerated.<br />She closed in on me and abruptly hugged me almost violently.<br />“Thank you.”<br /><br />She walked away.<br /><br />The flowers remained on the sidewalk.<br /><br />I refused to call after her.<br /><br />When she turned out of sight at the corner,<br />I picked up the flowers.<br /><br />I returned to the bus stop.<br /><br /><br />I waited for a beautiful woman to pass by,<br />and when one did, I presented the beauties to her.<br /><br />She was taken aback.<br /><br />“For me?”<br /><br />“Of course!”<br /><br />“But why?”<br /><br />“You are beautiful!”<br /><br />Her face was red as a beet, too.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />* * *<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Authored by Anthony St. John<br />15 December 2009<br />Calenzano, Italyanthony st. johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13340645719618934812noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1328518789406920323.post-59920475952111171012009-12-01T12:37:00.000+01:002009-12-01T12:37:09.728+01:00Anthony St. John, TheWordWarrior<a href="http://anthonystjohn.blogspot.com/2009/12/why-i-pity-john-mccain-john-kerry-al.html">Anthony St. John, TheWordWarrior</a>anthony st. johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13340645719618934812noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1328518789406920323.post-15440969462857091192009-12-01T12:30:00.003+01:002009-12-01T12:36:38.334+01:00Why I Pity<br />John McCain, John Kerry &<br />Al Gore<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />I was a Brooklyn Dodgers fan, watched games at Ebbets Field, and first baseman Gil Hodges (number 14) was my hero. A mythical being charges you with a sense of hope in some future which you know nothing about except that it is coming. You desire to imitate your hero because his past brought him to a hereafter you might also want to savor. Above all, a hero is doing something appreciated by all, and we look up to him or her with respect and admiration. It is natural to want to be like them.<br />Of course, there is the allure of the game before us in the stadium, on TV, or on the Internet. The contest gives a sense of security. The regulations are fixed and one cannot contest the umpire or referee. We can cheat on our income tax returns, we can talk a cop out of giving us a ticket, we can lie and call in sick when we are not—but on the field, on the court, the ref is high-and-mighty. At the game, we more or less feel that things will be managed in a logical, fair-and-square manner. Just the opposite of our material lives. And we want our heroes to be not only extraordinary in the ways they entertain us, we also wish that they play by the rules so that they appear impeccable in our phantasy worlds. <br /><br />It is undignified that we make heroes of sport figures more than we do of writers, scientists, philosophers, physicians, poets or others who might be actually doing more to benefit our time to come than one making a winning jump shot at the buzzer. We are significantly more precarious in our outlooks on life than we are fixed contentedly in them. Sport suffices to fill some inexplicable gap germane to our dire straits. <br /><br />Naturally, sports are more useful than street fights or warfare. Sports serve to distract us from the tedium of our lives, and when we sit down in a stadium or colosseum to enjoy a sporting event, we enter into the spirits of our heroes and become oblivious to the difficulties we are experiencing at home or in the office. The Greeks were the first to elaborate on this relevancy. Of course, it is not the responsibility of sport to encourage us to read a book or attend a symphony. We should likewise recognize that players are stressing both their bodies and intelligences to limits most of us fail to come near to doing so. This is one of the reasons we applaud them. <br /><br />In this article, I wish to discuss that which is not heroic. And more, I wish to expand on the consequences of making something larger-than-life out of something crass and perverted: in other words, I want to zero in on an enormous distortion of The Truth that I witnessed during the Vietnam “War” and the consequences of its calamitous aftermath which still haunt the psyches of the citizenry belonging to the DisUnited States of Northamerica.<br /><br />No military maneuver, whether it be a Brobdingnagian battle or a single incursion, will succeed without a network of an indefinite quantity of materiel backing up its soldiery. Soldiers need to eat, sleep, be medicated, be entertained, be paid... An army that is furnished to the hilt stands a better chance of winning the group action than one which is wanting in giving its troops that what they require. The DisUnited States of Northamerica is an illusionist at offering the world the idea that it is so well-equipped it might dot the globe with its state of the art weaponry and most modern ground forces. There is no doubt that the DUS has been successful in the past (World War I and World War II) in supplying its troops with an adequate amount of provisions to get the war job done, but Vietnam, Iraq and Afghanistan have corroborated the notion that the most sophisticated armaments and the most galactic dollar investment are not the sure bets they were before. And because the DUS's forces are scattered among almost eight-hundred bases throughout our terrestrial planet, their supply networks today are less efficient and, indeed, less agile when responding on the pickup. (The Art of War by Sun Tzu!)<br />My case in point, notwithstanding, is the Vietnam “War,” or better said the Vietnam Debacle. From its inception this military police action was haunted with doubt and confusion about its intended purpose and eventual outcome. The DUS was split sometimes violently as the intervention protracted itself for many years. Apart from the deaths (58,209) and wounded (304,704), the emotional scars caused by the conflict are still ostensible today even so two other foolish expeditionary penetrations divide the DUS and stress its financial stability dangerously. There is in the air the horrible idea that a war, whatever one, has to be won in order to “correct” the failure, the defeat, sustained in Vietnam still trivialized by hawkish elements with the repugnant word “Nam.” <br /><br />But what put one of the many monkeys on the DUS armed forces' back during the Vietnam conflict was the new conception of an air force, army and navy force fed to new recruits and seasoned lifers alike and boosted vigorously by an ex-president of the Ford Motor Company, the Vietnam era's budget-minded paper pusher and corporate plumber Secretary of Defence Robert McNamara. RMcN fought hard to bring DUS forces into the managerial world making them parts of his enormous hydraulic-like system, yet he miscalculated so miserably not only what it meant to be a soldier, he actually envisioned the instauration of a new type of warrior thus opening the door to the creation of the modern electronic fighter—to the delight of anti-DUS guerilla elements located everywhere, naturally. If protesters objected to RMcN's orders, they were quickly flushed down his drain. His pipe dream eventually clogged the entire defence scheme and even today the DUS's military complex is staggering about perplexedly in an embarrassing confusion to the delight of not only ferocious radicals, even old World War II friends are busting their guts laughing at the absurd performance. <br /><br />Our Southeast Asian forces were so top-heavy with business-like paperwork and administrative rigmarole, soldiers were constricted to do everything but what their mission intended them to accomplish: to soldier! As a junior officer, I was expected to learn something about everything. We were to participate in community affairs near our duty stations. We were encouraged to further our studies by mail at some university if we expected to gain rank. We were assigned to attend courses which had nothing to do with soldiering but did enhance our managerial potential. After Officer Basic Course I was assigned to teach in a missile training battalion, but when I was sent to Vietnam I was attached to a field artillery outfit—with the “guns” as a redleg would say. I had forgotten how to “lay the battery” by the time I was assigned to the Fourth Division in Pleiku by the Divarty full-bird CO, Colonel McAllister. RMcN wanted managerial clones to robotize the Art of Warfare. Being able to bomb the world to smithereens was the armed forces' logic for being superior to all other opponents. <br /><br />I want to relate something now again that has shocked so many people before who have listened to me say it. It regards the logistical formation of forces in the Fourth Division (Pleiku, Vietnam) when I languished in it from August 1967 to the first part of 1968. At Pleiku was located the Snowflake Division's base camp—on the outskirts of the poverty-stricken Asian city. Citizens from Pleiku lined up each morning to be searched before being admitted to the Bravo Charlie to clean quarters, work in the kitchen, shine boots, run errands, clean tanks and jeeps, etc. The BC was a city in itself. About 20,000 inhabitants or so. The commanding officer of the base camp was a major general, two stars, named Peers. The BC was a beehive of activity as soldiers performed carbon-papered administrative chores, prepared hot meals for the troops on the battlefield, maintained helicopters and aerial observation planes, operated the PX, doctored the sick and wounded...in other words, a BC was the backbone of an organization which existed to execute the Vietnam mission. For every man in the field, there were seven or eight backing him up in BC. Individuals serving in BC were sarcastically called “base camp warriors” because the BC was rarely attacked by an enemy which was largely composed of guerilla forces. General Peers once had to order all arms locked up in BC because drunken Snowflake Division troops were shooting themselves and their comrades so often! A shot in the calf was called The Million Dollar Wound inasmuch as it would keep you out of the field. In Bravo Charlie, then, was the place to be if you had to serve in Vietnam.<br /><br />The place where supply sergeants could steal left and right. Where stolen guns and rifles could be sent home to National Guard armories and then sold to paramilitary kooks in the DUS. Where Afroamericans, who often comprised 30-40% of infantry companies in the field, could be threatened with battlefield duty if they misbehaved. Where officers connived for their next duty station and higher rank. Where extra R&Rs were bargained for. Where soldiers received care for unheard of strains of syphillis. Where sergeants re-upped two or three times more to pilfer more. Where sergeants from the south of the DUS had cocktail parties for weeks celebrating the deaths of Martin Luther King and Robert Kennedy. Where sundry packs for grunts in the field were stolen and sold on the black market. Where division brass were entertained by Vietnamese-French prostitutes flown in from Saigon dressed in Red Cross uniforms. (RHIP: Rank Has Its Privileges!) Where graft and corruption went amuck. BC was such a disgusting pisshole, I preferred to be on the battlefield. <br /><br />On the field of battle you did not have to shave or take a shower for a week or so. You might find a cobra or a bamboo pit viper in your hootch one morning. You could get malaria in the Central Highlands. If you did not take your anti-malaria pills to get out of field duty, you might end up in a tank filled with huge chunks of ice. Your armpits were bleached white from the salt tablets you were taking. Maybe 40% of your artillery rounds were duds. Your M-16 worked like a piece of junk, and you would wish you had an AK-47 like the LRRPs (Long Range Reconnaissance Patrol scouts). You might go without supplies for a couple of days because helicopters could not land on the mountain top where you were dug in. You might be killed by an errant US Army artillery round or the door-gunner of a Huey helicopter or a 750-pound bomb dropped from a US Air Force jet. You could be drenched by monsoon rains beating down incessantly for eighteen hours a day, and then go to sleep with rain-soaked boots on. You might get a “Dear John” letter. Your feet could ache with jungle rot. Without sundry packs, you could clean your teeth with salt and use leaves instead of toilet paper. Where officers were called by their first names and where they would be murdered later on in the “war” by fraggings. Officers and enlisted ones were not of the same mindset. Humping with the grunts on the battlefield did not endear you to the base camp warriors; no, they just kept thanking their lucky stars they were not in your boots. In the field you could lose your body, but in Bravo Charlie you could lose your soul. <br /><br />Believe me when I say I never saw a journalist or photographer when I humped with my FO (artillery forward observer) party (recon sergeant and telephone operator) and with the grunts in the jungles bordering Cambodia and Laos. (Artillery types, although they advanced with the grunts, were not entitled to receive the Combat Infantryman's Badge or something analogous to it.) Division SOP (Standard Operating Procedures) prohibited non-combatants from going to the field. If a combat photographer came to the battlefield, he (not “she”!) did it after the smoke had cleared and with permission. In BC you could find reps from print and TV organizations representing the world's media conglomerates. They were carefully controlled and buttered up ridiculously—naturally. The United States Army was fanatically media-conscious in Southeast Asia, had been in the past, and continues to be so today. Horrendous crimes committed by DUS troops against the inhabitants of their host country were swept under the public relations rug with the complaisance of the media. <br /><br />Al Gore served as an Army photographer. His mother is remembered for whip-cracking the career of her senatorial husband, and when Al was up to the political gainsay himself she coached him so: “Al, SMILE, RELAX & ATTACK!” Those words served the calling of her husband and would suffice for the election campaign of her dearly beloved son when he sought the highest political position existing in the the DisUnited States of Northamerica. AG's mother had as a mission the swearing in of her son as a President of the DisUnited States—that task which she had not been able to accomplish for her husband. Al smiled and smiled and smiled. A good guy. And, oh, don't you forget it, a war veteran—not a Vietnam “War” veteran! AG did not need to brag about his military “service.” There were staff members to remind obeying journalists that AG wore his Army uniform proudly and served his country patriotically—something which the sons of editors of National Review did not! Politicians serving their country had PT-109 on their minds and still remember today how military service blessed JFK's chances of becoming a president. It was rare to see politicians' sons on the battlefield. They served in the logistical rear, base camp, where William F Buckley, Jr—even Gore Vidal—and others of this ilk could once be found. AG got away with not serving in the field but to his credit he did not brag about his Vietnam days inordinately. We cannot call him a hero!<br />Two-faced John Kerry did. Listen to what this insincere, hollow one said after his tour of duty in Vietnam when he served as leader of the Vietnam Veterans Against the War: “They...raped, cut off ears, cut off heads, taped wires from portable telephones to human genitals and turned up the power, cut off limbs, blown up [sic] bodies, randomly shot at civilians, razed villages in fashion [sic] reminiscent of Genghis Khan, shot cattle and dogs for fun, poisoned food stocks, and generally ravaged the countryside of South Vietnam.” All of this is true. I can verify that DUS troops in Vietnam on very, very many occasions acted with criminal intent. They disgraced themselves and their country and did not help the DUS to honor its name nor its intentions such as they were. (How long would you trust your child with Lieutenant William Calley?) The worst, nonetheless, was accomplished by B-52 airstrikes that carpet-bombed to their deaths hundreds of thousands of innocent people. Most citizens of the DUS do not want to face up to these facts. They prefer to wrap themselves in their red, white and blue flags and deny historical facts. So be it. I can only say that those who lost their beloved ones in DUS bombings (The Americans are a wonderful people—if they aren't bombing you!) have not forgotten and will never do so. Hypocrites such as John Kerry are out for themselves and not Justice. <br /><br />Well, then. Double-tongued John Kerry, who once harangued DUS involvement in the Vietnam Debacle, in 2004, accepting the nomination for president at the Democratic National Convention, did not present himself as the leader of the Vietnam Veterans Against the War, but did boast that he was a proud veteran of that war and announced to the crowds, hawkishly, that he was “reporting for duty!” He even had film clips of his Vietnam “War” experiences. How he ever staged that is something that perplexes me. Did he pay the Viet Cong to act out for him? Deceitful JK criticized the Vietnam Debacle and then used it to promote his political fortune. He wanted his cake and wanted to eat it, too! What's wrong with that? Nothing! Would it not be difficult to find an American who did not think his political representatives were two-faced liars! Why should JK be credited with speaking coherently and honestly to his constituents? Citizens of the DUS expect their politicians to lie. Why should we think JK would even consider speaking The Truth to them? JK lost. He is a loser. He looked to wiggle his way to success. Not very elegant. Not in the least uplifting. We cannot call him a hero!<br />John McCain graduated from the United States Naval Academy in 1958. He was ranked 894 out of a class of 899—a perfect tally for anyone wanting to be President of the United States! This Navy brat had a lot to live up to: both his grandfather and father were four-star admirals in the US Navy. JMcC was a hotheaded boozer and party boy at the Academy, and later in flight school, was famous more for the planes he crashed than he was remembered for his flying dexterity. In Vietnam he distinguished himself by accomplishing bombing missions against an enemy that possessed no air force capable of retaliating against him or his confrères. There is no record of him shooting down an enemy aircraft! When he was shot down, he was cared for, cured and eventually returned to the DUS after being used as a bargaining chip with bets being placed on his grandfather and father's high naval rank. He was not slaughtered as he had massacred Vietnamese women and children from the air. JMcC claims he sustained injuries in a Vietnamese POW camp that have remained with him since, yet he was able to pass physicals that returned him to full flight status after his much-publicized incarceration. It would be difficult to prove the extent of JMcC's POW sufferings; he has stated that he was in solitary confinement for two years. Yet it would be equally arduous to believe him because, after all, he is a DUS politician and qualifies himself as being an underhanded pathological prevaricator. And he speaks through his teeth! Not very refined. We cannot call him a hero! <br /><br />The Truth-O-Meter tells it all! But why are Northamericans so afraid to face the music sounding off against their maliciousness and conceit? Better worded, why would the Northamerican community and their associates vie so vehemently to cultivate reputations of being bullies and self-righteous fanatics? To scare others into submission? Because they possess such a boorish view of human nature and contend with it to dominate and contain it? For the fight per se? Due to the fact that they are overanxious, endangered? Seeing that they lack confidence in themselves, they demur? It is difficult to join a debate which delves into the inner core of the Northamerican psyche. There is trepidation to do so. It is much easier to skirt issues without going all out trying to resolve them. Have you ever heard of a give-and-take entitled “What It Means to Be a Northamerican?” Who would sponsor that? Goldman Sachs? <br /><br />What is clearer to the observer who does not belong to the Northamerican community than it might be to the Northamericans themselves, is the fact that there exists a huge amount of hostility directed at the DisUnited States, and in recent years it has crystallized beyond anyone's expectations. This has been achieved, in grand part, by the exponential utilization of the electronic communications' revolution now in rapid forward motion. The DUS is regarded as the prima facie of modernity and “progress.” It is alluded to continually as being the most powerful, most influential nation on Earth. As such, granted, it will bear the gratuitous criticism of others for being exaggeratedly proud and self-confident as a res publica even when it might not desire to be so. But those who cannot enjoy the material resources of the DUS and are violent in their attacks against the excessive and unconscionable modus vivendi of many Northamericans, are not uniting under the banner of enviousness but are singling out Northamericans for their human wickedness and abandonment of those ideals—generosity, justice, global fraternity, respect, to name a few—which others who tend to have not see in others who indeed have too much of. For many observers of the Northamerican scene, it appears that Northamericans cheat and steal Mondays through Fridays, and on Saturdays and Sundays ask forgiveness for their sins before beginning all over again on Monday morning. Citizens of the DisUnited States are loathed in all parts of the world, and in their inebriated amour propre, they refuse to perceive this actuality. Rather, they trust, quite remarkably, that their path is the one all should travel and they hold fast to the notion that they should be simulated. <br /><br />It is therefore quite logical for Al Gore, John Kerry and John McCain to position themselves within the realm of The Untruth instead of The Truth. They feel obliged, as political representatives of their people, to cater to their constituents' weird opinions of themselves, and if a question of morality does spring up, the most convenient alibi is that they must follow the herd's quest, “in this our glorified democracy which abides by the wishes of the people.” Those people, almost most of them, clamored to have the murderer, William Calley, released, pardoned from his guilty conviction for the assassination of innocent children, women and elderly folk during the My Lai massacre. “Rusty,” today, cannot sleep and is haunted by the memories of his killing spree. (Some weeks after the My Lai massacre, I was assigned to the 11th Infantry Brigade [Americal Division] and served as the Brigade Artillery liaison officer for Colonel Oran K Henderson, the commander of the AO in which the butchery befell the innocent Vietnamese villagers. Colonel Henderson, then on the BG [brigadier general] list, was later accused by some of ordering the carnage, but was vindicated in court-martial proceedings. In the mornings, I flew with him in his spic n' span “C&C ship” (Command & Control Huey helicopter) to survey our AO. He was hung over every time and what I remember most about him was his ordering our copter pilots to ascend as quickly as possible to a 3,000-foot altitude so that we could be out of small arms fire! Never once did he offer his C&C ship as a MEDIVAC for infantry troops blown to bits by booby traps [90% of which were US ordnance!] in the heavily mine-infested My Lai AO. Colin Powell, who also served in the same AO, never went to bat to seek Justice for the victims of the My Lai mass murder.) <br /><br />Might is right? When you've got them by the balls, their hearts and minds will follow? The hatred of the Northamerican people has no terminus ad quem. Any faction which disagrees with them is subject to the most vociferous, antagonistic charges, and these intolerable ones, these fanatics stew in the sauces of their self-righteousness and misconception. What hope is there for them.<br /><br />I feel discomforted for Al Gore, John Kerry and John McCain. They are intellectual cowards. They are pathetic. They possess not the gumption to go beyond. To lead their fellow countrymen to a new order that would bring respect and admiration to them...to cause the DisUnited States to be regarded as a competent, mature real thing throughout the world...to act as beacons of Justice and peace for all the globe to steer towards...to set the pace for the implementation of a world order equitable and worthy of being imitated by others...to be, simply, authentic leaders and not mendacious crowd followers.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Authored by Anthony St. John <br />1 December 2009<br />Calenzano, Italia <br /><br /><br /><br /><br />* * *anthony st. johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13340645719618934812noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1328518789406920323.post-4608941292786862112009-11-15T07:59:00.001+01:002009-11-15T08:00:52.357+01:00Listen to the Death Rattles of Western Civilization!<br /><br />The Perfect President <br />of the DisUnited States of Northamerica<br /><br /><br />The principal purveyors of cultural, economic, political and social policy extending heavy-handed rule over foreign nations, these Death Rattles of Western Civilization—Canada, France, Germany, Italy, Japan, Spain, The Netherlands, The DisUnited Kingdom, and their kingpin, The DisUnited States of Northamerica—now find themselves challenged as never before notwithstanding their often turbulent histories. Having lost any sensing of authority and/or authenticity, these Concocters of Consent, their consent!, these Rulers of the Truth, their truth!, these Proponents of Judeo-Christian “Democratic” Capitalism, their capitalism!, now have their backs against the wall. Vicious societal agitation against them, oligarchic socialists (olisocists), is rampant throughout the world. Uncertainty is a certainty. Foreboding is the order of the day. It is as if a grand conflict, a universal war (World War III/Universe War I) is looming in the inner selves of people—still again! Is an Armageddon between The Haves and The Have-Nots in the offing? A super clash, to outdo all others, set on its deleterious course centuries ago? Who is going to redeem Western Civilization? Who is going to pull The Old World out of its nosedive? Who is going to call the tune for The New Europe? Who is going to skipper us through our Sea of Hypocrisy? Superman? Batman? Spiderman? <br /><br />Why not the striking John Sidney McCain III? (McCain in 2012!) No other Northamerican politician is so in sync with his country’s animating spirit. His curriculum vitae substantiates my assertion. Born 29 August 1936 of Scots-Irish and English ancestry, McCain III boozed his way through the DisUnited States Naval Academy (1958) as did McCain I (grandfather) and McCain II (father)—both four-star DisUnited States' Navy admirals. McCain III graduated almost at the bottom of his class (894/899) thus qualifying himself as a potential Commander-in-Chief of the DisUnited States’ armed forces and manager of the world’s largest bureaucracy, the Pentagon. During his active duty military career, McCain III crashed many DisUnited States' Navy jets yet not one of the enemy's when he served in Vietnam. Nevertheless, like his antecedents, the Navy brat bombed to smithereens an untold number of Asian people, including women and children. Quick-tempered McCain III was held prisoner in the Hanoi Hilton where the erratic hothead dictated the rules to his turnkeys who stood in awe of his family background and even offered him repatriation terms because he had made anti-DisUnited States propaganda confessions. Rank Has Its Priviledges. He is a church-goer, naturally, and switched from Episcopalian to Baptist in a vote-getting scheme set to woo the southern DUS’s constituency. With a pathology of power stirring him on, he divorced his first wife disfigured in an accident, married the heiress to a beer distributing company who bankrolled the political ambitions of this pol with a John McEnroe temperament (he smashes million-dollar Navy jets, not tennis rackets!), and hooked up with Mafia-faced Arizonian shady characters to realize his political illusions. <br /><br />The DUS’s citizens are privileged to still have the chance to select this time a Presidential Professional Bomber, who talks through his teeth, to represent them all over the world. (The Northamericans are a wonderful people—if they aren’t bombing you!) With his finger on The Button, McCain III, the DUS’s first PPB, with a vendetta on his agenda, would surely bully for the DUS all the way across the globe. He does it his way! Northamericans should not lose this unique opportunity to select a half-pint, semi-psychopath who might turn out to be a bona fide Dr Strangelove. <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Have a nice nightmare!<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Authored by Anthony St. John in Exile and Sweating in the Sweltering Heat of Tuscany<br />1 July 2008<br />Updated 15 November 2009anthony st. johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13340645719618934812noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1328518789406920323.post-63641699031324844792009-11-01T07:38:00.001+01:002009-11-01T07:44:20.195+01:00<strong>Excessive Cheese Intake Obstructing French People's Brain Activity</strong><br />FASTEN YOUR SEAT BELTS!<br />Here Comes...<br />Le Nouveau Moyen Âge!<br /><br />This gem of wit by the French agent provocateur and philosophical economist Alain Minc very much more than any other quip sums up for me the state of mind of, at least, the world's industrial nations' conglomeration: “Hier, nous avions le droit d'être fatalists par optimisme; nous devons désormais être audacieux par pessimisme.” Or, as the song-poem goes: “Desperation keeps us strong...It's a terrible beauty we've made.” Spandau Ballet. Not even a Jean-Paul Sartre philosophical tractatus could, if it would, salvage this Western “Civilization”--this spent European continent which André Glucksmann declares “doesn't have a brain in its head.”<br /><br />Voilà! Well now... There certainly was not enough grey matter in France on 6 May 2007 to push Ségolène Royal over the threshold and into the Presidency of the Republic of France (Presidentess of Europe?). We knew so way before the national vote casting: The “Un million de femmes s'énervent” campaign for pledges counted not more than 20,000 signatures (mine included!) only days before the final showdown; then, the vain attempt to secure votes from the third place first ballot winner—that horse breeder's boots bogged down in conciliatory pony dung—proved to be an exercise in futility. We had before us a splendid woman, oozing with dignity, tact and outspoken courage. A femme who rallied against France's electronic neo-fascists; who made a great effort to lift the largest country wholly in Europe out of the post bellum doldrums of its fictitious well-being where it had been marinating for decades; who had no fear of a recalcitrant, desperate Roman Catholic Church waning more and more each day with every passing scientific discovery; who fought tooth and nail against an entrenched olisocism (a Lagardère-Pinault-Arnault troika); who attempted to bring France—this cheesy subgenus of a puny Europe that bounces like a counterfeit coin—before the international community dressed in the overalls of a legitimate nation looking honestly to make friends, not allies, with all peoples throughout the world; and, who pleaded with all French citizens to ask not what France could do for them, but what they could do for France. A truly golden opportunity blown away by the winds of intransigent shenanigans. Merci beaucoup.<br /><br />It makes no sense that France thinks it has the gumption to cultivate la politique de l'autruche and play political hardball, not soft, on the ever-expanding international scene. Limp-wristed Gaullist status-quoticians want this land area, a little less than the size of Texas, to tighten its belt, turn in on itself, and draw others unto France instead of stimulating bonds with those beyond this realm 16% of which is over 65 years of age. The conservative approach. What for centuries has been the safe methodology. Can France afford to mellow still in the memories of its Past? Can France conjecture that it can chip in to be part of the leadership of the globe when its own turf is rife with dissent, dangerously polarized, hamstrung by the very economic rules and regulations it goes up against in speeches and prayers tended to less fortunate developing populaces, when it talks with a forked tongue basing its legitimacy on standards that only French citizens might comprehend...ad infinitum! Is a France, stuck in the xenophobic, racist rut of its Past, going to impress any others who refuse to kowtow to its haughtiness and are not electrified by France's image of itself smoothly camouflaged with soft skin creams, suntanned-by-lamp youth, and swankily dressed and cutely coiffed political artistes vying for a piece of the ever-dwindling Political Pie?<br /><br />France sorely wants to give it the medieval stab! And to prove it is not ribbing us, on 16 May 2007 it crowned, as President of France, a tsar puérile, the first French president with a facial tic...El Hombre Macho. A fogeyish braggart who swears he is going to whip France into law and order and bring economic miracles to this Land of Phoney Excellence! France's Number One Cheese Salesman will shuffle a spineless, passionless, hedonistic France and take its GUCCI-PUCCI set for a whirlwind of nationalism and fiscal anal-hoarding. He yearns to achieve what other European politicos were impotent to effectuate: to manage the creation of a post-World War II body politic fit for all European people. (We wish him luck with this Europe which buries Kremlin atheists at solemn high funeral masses and rescinds war orders for princes for “the good of the troops!”) One can just see this King of France on a visit to Africa—to shore up desperately-needed natural resources for his megalomaniacal castles in the air—pleading with Africans to forget those colonial days which even today keep large parts of them in misery and starvation. As would the King of Spain, on a visit to Venezuela to deal for lower oil prices, begging Venezuelans to dismiss from their minds the 14,000,000 Southamerican and Centralamerican natives massacred by Spanish marauders...or the King of Italy, Silvio Berlusconi, on a visit to Russia to bargain for cheap gas prices, imploring Russians to stop thinking about their 30,000,000 dead sacrificed during the fight against Fascism and concentrate more on pasta dishes...or the King of Hamburger, on a visit to Japan to secure permission to open fast-food outlets not far from the ground zeroes of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, suggesting that the Japanese people not recall the devastating effects of the world's first use of belligerent atom bombs. The President of France can wave all the French flags he so wishes, he can sing La Marseillaise as loud as he desires for as long as he wants, but nothing will change the spirit of the African people who have had to submit to the criminal abuse administered by those French nationals who still today connive to deprive Africans of their basic human rights. The game has changed dramatically and not as the French would have it. And to react to this transformation, this stuck-in-the-mud France, with the personality of a squeezed lemon, has selected to play Bully on the Block! There are Republicans in Washington DC with more brains than that! Am I not right, Professor Glucksmann?<br /><br />French conservatives have had too much a share of pessimism and negativism to offer. They have grouped together to form palsy-walsy social, cultural, economic and political ties which serve the inclusive general concept that a government should dole out political and civil honors according to wealth. The French conservative is not interested in offering a fair shake to his fellows, and he excludes them from power circles with the justification that life demands a political philosophy which exalts the nation and a select group of individuals above all others, and that severe economic and social regimentation, plus the forcible suppression of the opposition, are necessary measures to exercise stringent control over the masses who are considered inferior to the nobler and more privileged French conservative. I deny this philosophy and its aspects of myopic gloom. I look for programs which show liveliness and interest in good things. Which look with hope to the future. Which signal danger, but communicate love and understanding. “Human behavior leads to make-believe, disequilibrium, frustrations, lies, or, on the contrary, it becomes the source of rewarding experiences, in accordance with its manner of expression in actual living—whether in bad faith, laziness, generosity and freedom,” said Simone de Beauvoir. I wish that all people enjoy their lives in a spirit of unselfishness, lucidity and unsusceptibility and I beg the new President of France to come to his political and human senses and yield to the ideal that all men belong to the same community where equality and justice for all is the common goal.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Authored by Anthony St. John<br />19 May 2007<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />* * *anthony st. johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13340645719618934812noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1328518789406920323.post-76295000975525946482009-10-01T11:21:00.000+02:002009-10-01T11:23:14.429+02:00A Tender-hearted Partial Roster of People<br />with Whom I Wish to Dine<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Roberto Baggio<br />Daniel Bell<br />Tony Benn<br />Fausto Bertinotti<br />Beyoncé<br />Jeff Bezos<br />Clarissa Burt<br />Aldo Busi<br />Andrew Carnegie<br />Leonardo Cemak<br />Jackie Chan<br />Hugo Chávez<br />Noam Chomsky<br />Michel Classens<br />Hillary Clinton<br />Paul A Cohen<br />Richard Dawkins<br />Pierre Durand<br />Jenna Elfman<br />Elizabeth, Queen of England<br />Lynette Federer<br />Roger Federer<br />Vittoria Franco<br />Franco Gabrielli<br />André Glucksmann<br />Cindy Gomez<br />Hala Gorani<br />Germaine Greer<br />Kathy Griffith<br />Tony Hadley<br />Jenny Harrison<br />Paris Hilton<br />Whitney Houston<br />Eric Hobsbawn<br />Dr House<br />Martin Jacques<br />Hu Jintao<br />Nicole Kidman<br />Naomi Klein<br />Paul Krugman<br />La Principessa Fiona Corsini<br />Spike Lee<br />Jay Leno<br />Gong Li<br />Jet Li<br />Madonna<br />Claudi Martini<br />Johnny Mathis<br />Giovanna Melandri<br />Alain Minc<br />Michelle Pfeiffer<br />Vladimir Putin<br />Laura Rasero<br />Robert Redford<br />Robert Reich<br />Don Rickles<br />Giulia Righi<br />Joan Rivers<br />José Luis Rodriguez<br />Jim Rogers<br />Ségolène Royal<br />Jerry Seinfeld<br />Brooke Shields<br />Jurg Siegenthaler<br />Peter Singer<br />Chang Sisi<br />Wolfgang Sofsky<br />Christopher Smith<br />Joseph Stiglitz<br />Lester Thurow<br />Livia Turco<br />Gore Vidal<br />Alessio Vinci<br />Vittorio Volterra<br />Karen Wilkinson<br />Tiger Woods<br />Gong Xixiang<br />Jean Ziegler<br />Andrew Zimmern<br />Howard Zinn<br />Greta Zografaki<br /><br /><br />Updated 19 September 2009anthony st. johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13340645719618934812noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1328518789406920323.post-61729019920251276052009-09-01T10:59:00.002+02:002009-09-01T11:05:44.501+02:00Why the Central Stupidity Agency<br />Refuses to Reimburse Me<br />150,000,000 Renminbi <br />for My Highly-sophisticated <br />Foreign Affairs' Consultations (Gulp!)<br /><br /> <br /><br />If any one of you reading this letter-essay have ever been tempted to think that the Central Stupidity Agency (CSA) and its Agents of Stupidity (ASs) were indeed intelligent, you will never be enticed to do so once more provided you follow this article to its satisfying finale. You are about to enjoy with me a reassessment of many of my international experiences and the hindsights we may draw from them now and, regrettably, did not do so in the Past. This is not a “I told you so!” lament. It is my way of celebrating my own intelligence. I do not claim to be a genius on the subject of foreign affairs, nor do I affirm, boasting, that I possess an éclaircissement to all the disorderlinesses caused by the misplays and wrongdoings which I have witnessed perpetrated by the CSA and its ASs. In fact, I believe my abilities are directly proportionate to the inabilities of the CSA, and many other normally nimble characters would have reached the same assumptions I have had they only had had the opportunities to have had shared my observations. The beat goes on.<br /><br />It all began in the autumn of 1975—at a public phone in the lobby of the Gainesville (Florida) Hilton hotel where I called the FBI office in Jacksonville to ask for advice. Lucia and I had decided to leave for Caracas near the end of the year. I knew almost nothing about Venezuela—its language, religion, customs and practices, history, collective memory, the value ascribed to its heritage, public spaces, and specific landscapes. I did know that the Venezuelans had spit upon Richard Nixon long before the Northamericans did and, of course, it was an oil-producing nation—just doomed to be so.<br /><br />Planning shortly to live happily ever after in the arms of Lucia in The City of Eternal Spring, I asked for some guidance about Venezuela wanting to know if there was anything I should be wise to before heading out. Vaccinations? Visa? Passport? The agent with whom I spoke told me to call the Central Intelligence Agency (sic!) because that “outfit” was updated better on foreign affairs. He gave me a telephone number to call.<br /><br />A man answered but never identified himself. Nor where he was nor what office he was in. When I enquired who he was he abruptly interrupted and asked me why I was calling. I told him. Then he queried me as to why I was seeking employment. I wasn't. I wanted to know about Venezuela. I related to him that my girlfriend had invited her friend, Pablo, from Caracas to meet me in Gainesville. Pablo was the right-hand man of the minister of the Ministerio del Ambiente y de los Recursos Naturales Renovables, the highest-budgeted ministry in the Venezuelan government at that time. The guy at the other end of the phone then was curious to know if I wished to be “contacted” when I arrived in Caracas. “Who knows...I just might need some help there alone and distant from the United States.” An “insurance agent” would visit with me when I was in Caracas. He did not say when or where. <br /><br />Being lovestruck, it didn't dawn on me at the time that I was a perfect catch for a CIA recruiting officer fishing for apprentices. I had a university degree in Philosophy. I was an ex-Army officer (on the captain's promotion list) already with a SECRET security clearance. I had served as the S-2 (Intelligence Officer) for the corps of ROTC cadets at my university. I had reported for three newspapers. And I might add, I am a lateral thinker! I was recipient of the “The Wayward Missile Award” and had been called “Loose Cannon” while I served with the field artillery! Most of all, I am an “outside the box” theorist. (“A standard recommendation for reform—one made regularly by people discovering these problems for the first time—is to encourage “outside the box” analyses that challenge conventional wisdom and consider scenarios that appear low in probability but high in consequence. To some, this sort of intellectual shake-up might well have led the intelligence system, rather than Tom Clancy, to anticipate the kamikaze hijacking tactic of September 11.” Reference: Foreign Affairs, January-February 2002, page 49.) But there was a little problem: I'm not a joiner; and it was Vladimir Nabakov who had reminded me that spies get shot.<br /><br />Even though the Central Stupidity Agency would have been ludicrous not to have desired to have one such as me on their roster, they were not going to ask me to work for them! (Thank goodness!) It was for me to go crawling to them. The CSA hunts for supporters. Believers. Sycophants. It covets minions. Individuals who are predetermined and apprehensive. You must be of an unenthusiastic nature but raring to go to authenticate yourself, to give yourself some legitimacy by devoting your being to a strident cause. This amalgamation requires that a candidate be a conforming non-conformist. A contradiction in terms. A double-bind situation. An aspirant must exhibit exceptional abilities to think tangentially yet be disposed to submit to a last word. Any contestant who reaches beyond the control sphere might be stomached for his or her incomparable flair—if he or she is beyond doubt an important element—but this temperament cannot be remunerated in the context of such a person's career profile. If you want to feel free you should not join the Central Stupidity Agency! You must think pessimistically about everything. You must have an enduring faith in “The Company.” They are Jesuit-like. They know something about everything but nothing about what is obvious. And you better not be an atheist!<br /><br />No “insurance agent” ever met up with me in Caracas. But that was not necessarily simply because I was surrounded by CSA goofballs where I worked: first, at The Daily Journal newspaper, a bulletin board for government undercovers traipsing through Southamerica; then at the Ministerio de Infomación y Turismo. I must append here a very freaky story I had read in the DJ and which hinted to me that even if an “insurance agent” was to accost me, I could not communicate with him or her about my “dealings” with the CSA. The article stated that the CSA had been infiltrated by “moles”--it was not said who or where they were—and that the CSA was taking precautions to remedy the state of affairs! How could I be sure that an “insurance agent” was a “mole”--or not. I was on my own. I could not believe anyone. It was one of the most liberating, joyous days of my life!<br /><br />When George Tenet announced his resignation from the Central Stupidity Agency in June 2004, effective 11 July 2004, he made the following statement: “We are not perfect...but we are very, very, very good....” Don't believe him! Look, rather, at the history of the world for the past sixty years and decide for yourself whether or not this planet is a better, safer, calmer place to live on. And please do not offer excuses for the catastrophes that these swivel chair warriors have concocted for millions of innocent people who have had to put up with their often megalomaniac shenanigans. I am going to prove to you how and why the CSA is chock full of dimwitted personages who are doing the DisUnited States of Northamerica more harm than benefit, and I will draw upon my experiences with them in New York, Vietnam, Venezuela and Italy to do so. <br /><br />The CSA ASs I knew were tense, grim and lived their lives strenuously: playing hard ball at work, but “soft” hard ball when they lightened up. Always the confrontation, the competition, the obsession to control. With the perks they possessed, the ASs had also been given extravagant opportunities to take the Rests & Recuperations that allowed them to regain their composure and verve. But once these breaks were interrupted, they were back again stressing themselves at their sinews convinced they were not only performing a patriotic service, but were also persuaded that they were executing some metaphysical, religious good turn that would reap them rewards not only in this world, but in what they believed to be an afterlife. Dog is their copilot. These Simple Simons do not sustain that the separation of Church and State should be sanctioned.<br /><br />In this reading, my dear reader, I want to put the spotlight on only three CSA ASs with whom I broke bread: William F Buckley, Jr, editor of National Review, Clem Cohen and John Sullivan. Three pals. Three enormous egos. Three marionettes. Three footboys. Three extremists.<br />I will speak the least about WFB, Jr because his life is best illustrated by me in another article of mine, William F Buckley, Jr: Profile of a Right-wing Fanatic posted on www.scribd.com/thewordwarrior. Enjoy reading it, and tell me what you think.<br /><br />Clem Cohen was the most affable of the ASs that I was to meet—and the most pathetic, unfortunately. I would have liked very much to have been his friend, but CC had no time for friends, for life. He was a CSA workaholic and obsessed with the cold-blooded mission set out for him by his Langley superiors. <br />Clem Cohen was on the masthead of The Daily Journal listed as a “director,” but he was my boss at the Ministerio de Información y Turismo (MIT) to which I had been transferred by the “directors” of the DJ. I had never seen him even once during my six-month stint at the DJ. Clem was from Brooklyn, New York as I was. This did not endear him to me because I had not been to New York since 1968 and Florida had sort of undone some of my New Yorkishness. <br /><br />CC was very much unsettled with himself. As other ASs were, he, too, was extremely intelligent and fluent in at least four languages and had a knowledge of two others. He was pressured but quick—so nippy as to be on the verge of ill health. One day when I was called to his office to discuss the rewrite of a speech I was editing, he jumped up on his swivel chair, mimicked a monkey, and kidded with me that he was going “bananas.” On different occasions, I tried to help him as best I could to calm him down, although I had no success. People in the office told me he was diabetic, but I possessed no verification of this information concerning his health. It would not have surprised me that he was. CC was always in a hurry. He downed his lunches dashing to return to our offices. He had three or four phones on his desk, and I frequently saw him holding a receiver in each hand while he spoke to two people at the same time. He was a compulsively hard worker to the exclusion of other interests and gave me the impression that his job had control of him rather than he having control of it. He was driven to accomplish yet I never saw the harvest of what he had planted.<br /><br />CC was Venezuela's “media czar.” Each and every word written about the government of Venezuela passed his scrutiny before being sent out to the world. At MIT, he was always in contact with the DJ. MIT utilized ten telex machines that hummed twenty-four hours a day. Our newsrooms were the most forward-looking I had ever seen with the exception of those at The Miami Herald from where I once reported. All of the people I worked with spoke two or three languages with varying degrees of proficiency. CC had to read all their work before it was transmitted. Articles. Speeches. Press releases. Anything and everything originating from the Venezuelan government were checked and double-checked by the overworked Clem. It was handy for CC to have me in his service because I could spruce up the repeatedly dreadful English copy that he had to deal with. I had no muscle to change any of the contents of that which I edited. CC was paranoid about his mastery over media material. Often, I saw French, Italian, English, Spanish, German or Arabic texts spread across his desk which was constantly in a state of confusion and glutted high. Journalists from all over the world representing important newspaper or television companies passed through Clem's office unceasingly. The place pulsated with excitement and energy. I remember speaking one afternoon with Bernard Shaw of CBS who was one of the most kindhearted journalists I had ever met in my life.<br />CC was poles apart the other CSA personnel I knew and who were excessively rigid in their opinions and very often uptight, self-righteous and lacking senses of humour. Clem surely could be a hard worker and an extremely difficult boss to work for, yet he never asked his underlings to do things he would not do himself. He was a man you came to respect. He had a kindliness for others that reaped him support and collaboration when he was dealing with those he managed. He would tear out of his office running to a meeting with the ministro of MIT, Diego Arria, screaming final instructions to three or four of us on his way to the elevator. He worked too arduously. Too relentlessly for his physical well-being. It was CC who gave me the idea that the CSA was comprised of a “left wing” and not just the “right wing” (a Hegelian tit for tat?) which had impressed me so much at National Review and The Daily Journal. CC was more open-minded than the doctrinaire parrots of the conservative force, and if I remember correctly, he spoke well of John F Kennedy with me—but not very revealingly. It was not easy to take Clem's mind away from his work which, I had the notion, was creating more discombobulation than it was inventing creative thinking.<br /><br />Each and every of the ASs I looked at carefully were goaded with a zeal which distinguished their moral fibre. They were high-minded men. Persons with faith not in themselves. Profoundly convinced they were performing a good turn on behalf of their country—right or wrong! They were religious. Practitioners. They entreated, in church or synagogue, to be able to do their best for the United States of America. They sought protection from the enemy during their prayer gatherings. They walked with four eyes checking all angles. Overly attentive. Curious. Intelligent. Thinkers both on their feet and on a bar stool. From their military experiences they grasped the importance of keeping their ties fit properly and their gig lines tidy. They could be conservative dressers toting Samsonite accessories; or, they could be fashion plates decked out in European tailored suits with Italian leather briefcases and luggage. Their watches. Their pens. Their belt buckles. Every bit of them attended to to execute the task delegated to be brought to a conclusion in favour of the United States of America. The zealots, hyped with putting on their best act, squirmed and oiled their ways through the labyrinth of details and enigmas indispensable to their superiors in Langley, Virginia. <br />John Sullivan was a tall, solidly-built Central Stupidity Agency AS who had as his AO (Area of Operations) the whole of Southamerica. I first met him at MIT after he had had a hushed-up conference with CC. He was not fixed to any duty station. He scrambled about Southamerican capitals using Business Week as his cover. After a brief tête-à-tête, he left me so: “Let's have lunch some day.” He was very sure of himself. Too much so for me to like him. He wore the troubles of the world on his shoulders. He was strained. He had a mission. He was holier-than-thou and a tad arrogant reminding me of William F Buckley, Jr. Was he that “insurance agent?” Was he a mole? Years later we met again at the Tamanaco Hotel, and the trim, decked out with muscles JS looked surprised when he saw me: “You still here?” I responded so: “Yeah, I'm still waiting for you to keep that lunch date!” He was embarrassed. He balked. He told me he had a dinner appointment with a Puertorican lady, but before I could let him off the hook, he caved in and invited me to dine that evening, too. John wanted to give me the impression that he was a man of his word. Like most ASs in the field and not behind a swivel chair, JS also valued the virtue of being precise. When you are meticulous you can count your accomplishments with satisfaction without regretting later that you had left something out; or, if you did, you could remind yourself that you at least had carried through on the most of them! JS was overly scrupulous. Irish Roman Catholic. As we dined, I would get an inkling into why he was so.<br /><br />John led the conversation for most of the time we three sat together. The lady with us at the hotel's restaurant hardly ever uttered a word, nor did she appear peeved—didn't even, I think, hide any sentiment of being annoyed at my presence—and this caused me to think that she was an employee and not a romantic chum of JS. JS called to mind1 that he was divorced. <br /><br />“First thing every morning I go to mass and communion....” JS told me it was especially easy to find Roman Catholic churches in the early mornings throughout Southamerica—easier than coming across them in the United States. His revelation made me think immediately of William F Buckley, Jr, and I informed him that I had worked for WFB, Jr's National Review in New York. JS said: “Bill Buckley is a sailing mate of mine!” I reacted surprised. Just imagine! JS gossiped about many things and his speech was rapid fire and obsessive. He was verbalizing at one point when he cited “The Company” as a reference to some fact he had mentioned. “The Company” was not “insurance agent” so I had to remind myself that I could not voice anything about my Gainesville Hilton hotel conversation, but I clandestinely wished JS would eventually, during the meal, come up with those two magical words. He never did. But was he a mole?<br /><br />Another slip of JS's tongue was this: “The Middle East is going to blow any day now!” That statement would stay put in my cranium for decades, and all through the eighties and nineties hardly a week passed by when I would open up a newspaper or search on the Internet a Canadian, English, French, Northamerican, Spanish or Venezuelan newspaper expecting to discover that World War III had begun in the Middle East exactly where JS had predicted it would that day in the Tamanaco Hotel in Caracas. When the Twin Towers were attacked first in 1991 and ten years later in 2001, JS came to my mind instantaneously.<br /><br />John Sullivan made another personal “leak”--by now he was under the influence of the one-after-the-other drinks he had imbibed—while we were discussing the food which had been served to us: “I eat on the go. I don't enjoy eating.” When I made a cute “Didn't your mother breast feed you?” aside, I thought JS's date from San Juan would bust a gut trying to hold in her laughter which she did not want to express—thus convincing me further that she was a subordinate and not a person passionate for JS who had given me the idea he could not cultivate a close relationship with anyone, including himself.<br /><br />After dinner, the Puertorican woman left us and JS accompanied me to the front door of the hotel. It was close to eleven o'clock. He asked me how I was returning home. “Like always,” I said. “By bus.” John let me know, as if I didn't know, that it was not wise to travel on buses late at night in Caracas, hailed a cab for me, and put 15 bolívares in my hand. I thanked him for the evening spent together, and gave him one last chance to utter “insurance agent.” He stood stiffly, robustly. He was doing something he had to do. His frame was solid, athletic. I could see that he had been trained to defend himself with his hands. I shook his hand. He went off. I entered the cab, and as it drove off en route for La Florida where I lived, I had the sensation that my world had crumbled on down on me, and I felt again as lone as I did when I had bereaved the loss of Lucia to cancer. But worse. I had once again been betrayed by my country. As if Vietnam had not been enough! The no show of the “insurance agent” was a very bitter pill for me to swallow, and I have often checked off that infidelity logically reasoning that an administrative mix-up was the root cause. “We Take Care of Our Own” was lost on me. I had been left on my own still again. In Vietnam, my country did not give me the opportunity to be a hero for it; and, in Venezuela, my country did not give me the chance to say “f**k y*u” to it. Nevertheless, from that day on I have never been convinced that CC and/or JS were not one of the Soviet moles The Daily Journal had put its readers to the wise about. Why should I be?<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />* * *<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Having divulged to you three mini psychological profiles of three ASs subservient to the Central Stupidity Agency, three drumbeaters who were permitted to use their political and religious visionary speculations to taint the interpretations of their analyses clouding those deductions with chitchat and muddiness, I wish now to concentrate on three of the gross miscalculations of the CSA that I, personally, have corroborated and, with alarm, reported on attempting to bring to light the misconceptions of these detrimental courses of action:<br /><br />I<br /><br />My first revelation was reached with perceptions of the nature of the events I had studied after they had happened—regrettably. When I met Paul Fritz for lunch in Zürich in 1985 (PF, literary agent for Peter Benchley, John Cheever, Stephen King, Mario Puzo, Gore Vidal, Tennesse Williams, Toni Morrison, Norman Mailer, James Michener, Issac Singer, Ian Fleming, et alia, in German-speaking Europe and who died prematurely of a stroke in Florida on vacation) he accosted me with these words: “I read the first 180 pages of your The Hippie Lieutenant manuscript and I know why no one will publish it in the United States!” In fact, some of the most prestigious houses in New York had nixed the work.<br /><br />The Hippie Lieutenant, my trilogy about the Vietnam “War,” recounts one, of the many, of history's most tragic events, and the three books put into focus the horrible miscalculations of the United States' government that destroyed a large portion of a people's lives and homeland. Further, this Asiatic “police action” ruined the lives of countless millions upon millions of Northamerican soldiers and their families and friends; and, it caused the DisUnited States of Northamerica to lose hope not only in itself and its ideals, but also in the future of its citizenry. The end of this nefarious debacle left the DUS with only one recourse: to adorn itself in the vesture of arrogance and revenge and seek a vindication of its unlawful behavior by any means. Who, in the DUS, would want to read about that!<br /><br />II<br /><br />The affable Paul Fritz thought it wise to leave The Hippie Lieutenant in his desk drawer saving it for a more opportune, later date—when hopefully the DUS would have come to its senses. <br /><br />My trilogy about Venezuela, Men Without Honor, Women Without Love, activated PF's taste buds the more, and with it he made a valiant effort to have it published in Germany on my behalf. <br /><br />These three tomes hit on still another Northamerican diplomatic fiasco, and they clearly distinguish the Venezuelan “good guys” from the “bad guys” in cahoots with greedy Northamericans and their coterie of Washington governmental officials, sleazy journalists, two-faced university professors, petroleum Robber Barons, corrupt bankers and financial advisers, and all else who had collaborated ignominiously with the Venezuelan oligarchy known as The Twelve Disciples. My production predicts (predicted!), with passion and careful elucidation, that the Venezuelan people would revolt against the insupportable injustice that they were being subjected to. And they did.<br /><br />A copy of the first segment of Men Without Honor, Women Without Love was consigned to my niece, Bernadette (a DUS naval officer visiting me from the Sigonella Naval Air Station in Italy where she was assigned as protocol officer) with my explicit instructions that the manuscript be hand-delivered to DUS intelligence personnel.<br /><br />III<br /><br />I have lived in Italy since 1 May 1983. Here, too, the patterns of stupidity, greed, and corruption run in tandem with those I bore witness to in Vietnam and Venezuela. Each place shares similar spectacular anti-democratic, oligarchic traits that would shock most Northamericans who cherish the tenets of their constitution. Each one is enclothed in a different style, yet each one overlaps the other with their substances of deceit and malfeasance. <br /><br />Italy is falling apart at its seams. It is more than knee-high in putridness, and a day does not exist—at this writing—that some Italian political pundit will not warn Italians of one threat, or another, that is debilitating Italian democratic values.<br />Some of my articles about Italy can be found on www.scribd.com/thewordwarrior, and I am collecting, as I have been for many years, notes, clips, newspaper articles and the more so that I can eventually finalize my thoughts in a book that I have tentatively named Italy: A Despairing Frivolity Floundering in Its Chaos of Ignorance.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />* * * <br /><br /><br /><br /><br />The Central Stupidity Agency has miscarried dismally in the execution of its mission. This is so for a number of reasons only three of which I will relate now. The organization is bent of “converting” other nation-states so that they conform to what the CSA regards as the moral utopia of all time: Judeo-Christian “Democratic” Capitalism. This theorization is to be fostered, at all costs, throughout the world whether through the force of economic persuasion or the clout of armed intervention. (The people of the DisUnited States of Northamerica are wonderful—if they are not bombing you!)<br /><br />In opting to stamp down on the world for “its own good,” the CSA has programmed, falsely, the global extension of its economic, militaristic and political power thus compromising the security of the DUS itself. The DUS's military forces at home are unfortified, and those scattered throughout the globe are threadbare.<br /><br />The worst, for me, consequence of the CSA's incompetence has been the fact that the DUS has lost so much respect in the eyes of other nation-states it is being taken less seriously the more, day after day. The CSA and its ASs tugged too hard and did not reckon that it would have been best to have treated others as they themselves hoped to be treated. The arrogance of the CSA has assigned the DUS to the dubious position of being in a state of never-ending harm's way.<br /><br />My dear reader, do you really believe that I am serious about cashing in 150,000,000renminbi in compensation for my intelligent intelligence disclosures? You would be crazy if you did simply because the Central Stupidity Agency would never admit it had gone astray, and inasmuch as the government of the DisUnited States of Northamerica is on the verge of bankruptcy, it could never come up with the funds!<br /><br /><br />Toodleoo...<br /><br /><br />And, have a nice nightmare!<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Authored by Anthony St. John<br /> 1 September 2009<br /> Calenzano, Italy <br /><br /><br /><br /><br />* * *anthony st. johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13340645719618934812noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1328518789406920323.post-82910994633706179872009-08-01T19:51:00.003+02:002009-08-01T19:58:14.643+02:00I Am Sick & Tired of the One & the Other<br />Western Civilizations<br /><br /><br />I am nauseated. Appalled. Not a day passes that the two Western Civilizations do not fire up my ire. The only solace I embrace is that both WCs (WC I & WC II) are more outraged with themselves than I am with them. I ask myself: How may I be satisfied knowing this? I just cannot. Everywhere my eyes see for me, I am reminded of William Blake's couplet:<br /><br />A mark in every face I meet,<br />Marks of weakness, marks of woe,<br /><br />One should think that with all the attention that is allocated to health, diet and exercise by the proud, greedy and jingoistic, there would be at least some somebodies basking themselves in the sunshine of their lives. But no. Everyone is aflutter. Strained. Running helterskelter. I sense I must break loose...the same sensation that vexed me in Caracas, Venezuela a bit before the city, senseless, careless and hopeless, broke into a bloodcurdling violence that wiped out two thousand people over one weekend. I feel I am smothered by self-serving simpletons who care nothing for the society they pertain to and expect only to gratify—the faster the better—their personal cravings for appointments and trappings. They do not consume to possess; rather, they are possessed to consume and fail to take into account that half the world subsists on subunits each day. When hundreds of millions of earthlings are addicted to such a dog-eat-dog modus vivendi, only this clear-cut conclusion might be drawn: We are living in very dangerous times. (I've got to get out of this place!) Ante bellum?<br /><br />If any of you reading this essay know what a history book is, you might be fascinated again when you recall that after the fall of the Roman Empire, the Roman Catholic church confined WC I to such a perfect state of betise, five-hundred years, a fourth of its entire existence, were needed before Europeans could come up with an original idea. And when they did, off they went on a binge of study and investigation attempting to stimulate all others to reason and urging them not to kowtow to the ridiculous prescriptions, bombarding and hoodwinking them day in and day out, prescribed by the men of the cloth and their tyrannous churches. Their efforts were often in vain. To refute the fantastic claims of knavish popes and fly-by-night philosophical clerics, a huge measure of intellectual elbow grease would have to be applied. When the Protestant Reformation got under way, when Roman Catholics and Lutherans sought to cut each other's throat, scientists in the north of Europe became more inclined to rebel against Rome. Great scientific, artistic and literary accomplishments were to thrive with the removal of much of the authoritarianism dictated by religious hundred-percenters. <br /><br />Christianity, the opium of the people, the politically correct panem et circenses, had then kept the world benumbed for five-hundred years, and today it wishes desperately it could only put everyone in quietus once more before the fall of WC I and WC II. Just to calm things down a bit—to give all the opportunity to reflect! To try to recoup! There is no chance for that to hap. We are already experiencing a transitional movement marked this time by an exclusively scientific revival expressed in a flowering of inquiry and scrutiny—a people's front that will make Copernicus, Tycho Brahe, Gilbert, Kepler, Galileo, and Newton look like catechumens. The Japanese are realizing the dreams of Leonardo da Vinci. The Northamericans are taking long strides on behalf of biotechnology and electronics' problem solving. The Chinese are revolutionizing their country with their hope for progress. Science is demolishing the fairy tales of religions. Each and every day, the pope must denounce each and every scientific improvement—interpreting scientific discipline as a menace to Rome's sagging potency. <br /><br />One peril must be thwarted with verve: Science cannot become the domain of individuals who group together to form palsy-walsy social, cultural, economic and political tiers which serve the inclusive general concept that they should dole out political and civil honors according to wealth. Rather, they should be interested in offering a fair shake to their fellows, and ought not to exclude him or her from their scientific power circles with the justification that life demands a philosophy which exalts Science and a select group of individuals (scientists) above all others, and that severe economic and social regimentation, and the forcible suppression of the opposition, are necessary measures to exercise stringent control over the masses who are considered inferior to the nobler and more privileged scientist. Is it highly unlikely that Science will not become a sort of religion? <br /><br />The pope had a dream. He dreamt that all Christians throughout the world resembled the Italians. That they adored the pope not because he is a Heavenly symbol of Christianity, or religion, but rather for the reason that he is a symbol of Earthly power. An economic potency whose tentacles reach out end-to-end across the globe from its city-state headquarters. He envisaged that his subjugated ones paid homage to him as an extraordinary political and economic influence, and that they, as do the Italians so fervently, would always rally to his side, like blind sheep, regardless of what he dictated from the Vatican HQ. Vatican, Inc, the first global conglomerate, having now kept The Boot simmering in the Age of Darkness Part II, has cultivated a symbiosis between knee-jerking Italians and the whims of an autocratic hierarchy of elderly prelates, mostly Italian, living in sin and the memories of other centuries (laudatores temporis acti). Anti-scientific. Superstitious. High-handed. Italians grovel most accommodatingly for them. They know not what better to do. Why should they? Their schools are the worst in Europe. Their level of instruction between the ages 25-64 is the lowest in Europe. A fourth of the Italian population has an elementary school diploma. Ten percent of the citizenry possesses a university degree. Sixty-six percent of the residents are medium to high illiterates. Only 38 out of 100 read one book a year. Half the homes in the nation do not have a book in them. Ronald Spogli, Bush administration out-going ambassador to Italy said this in his 2009 bitter swan song: “Italy, be careful! You risk economic disaster. You cannot continue in this way and be considered an economic power if your university system continues to be a national tragedy. It is embarrassing that there is not one Italian university in the top two-hundred posts of rated international universities.” Italians are the perfect ones to follow the dictates of senescent, unmarried men dressed in medieval garb. (From Outrageously Offensive Jokes II, by Maude Thickett, Pocket Books, A Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc: New York, 1984; pp 81-83. ISBN: 0-671-50362-6: “When the mate of a female gorilla in the Chicago zoo dies suddenly, a replacement is desperately needed. After all attempts to get another male gorilla fail, the zookeeper is frantic. The female's heat is almost over, and it will be months before she can be mated again. Traveling home one day, the zookeeper sees an Italian construction worker without his shirt on. The man is covered with hair. Why not? The zookeeper approaches the construction worker. How would you like to make an easy $10,000 bucks? The Italian asks warily who the zookeeper wants killed? No one. You just got to make it with a gorilla at the zoo. No one would even have to know. What are you fuckin' crazy? Get the hell out of here yells the Italian. Well, if you change your mind, here's my card. When the Italian gets home he is still angry and he tells his wife what happened. Stupid! You know what I could do with an extra $10,000 bucks! Call that nice gentleman up and tell him you'll do the job. Reluctantly he calls the zookeeper. Okay, I'll do it, says the Italian. But I want you to know there are three conditions. The zookeeper is ecstatic. Anything, you name it. One, I'm only doing it once. Fine says the zookeeper. Two, I'm not gonna kiss her. And three, if there are any children, they must be brought up Catholic.”) Italy is floundering in a Chaos of Ignorance. It is no longer a Comedy of Errors (Andrès Glucksmann, French philosopher: “The Italians are the funniest buffoons on a continent without a brain in its head.”)--it is a Tragedy of Errors. Italians illegally build apartment buildings with defective materials in earthquake-prone zones, and when these edifices collapse, they beg for funds throughout the world. Priests, bishops and bankers rub their hands with glee as donations come pouring in. The Italians are the wealthiest mendicants in Europe—not the poor, denigrated, hated, abused ROM peoples. www.transparency.org lists Italy as the most corrupt nation in Western Europe. The New York Times: Italy is a country more used to managing emergencies than plans that might prevent them. Gore Vidal: The Italians have an astonishing ability to cope with disaster which is so perfectly balanced by their absolute inability to deal with success.<br /><br />It would be nonsensical to reflect on the state of the two Western Civilizations without examining the determinant of religion, particularly Christianity, in particular the Roman Catholic church. And one must not be jumbled so as to think that Italians alone suffer the heavy-handedness of religion. The French, Germans, Greeks, Portuguese, Spanish—many others—are also looped with “theological virtue” meddling in their social, militaristic, economic and political concerns. Perhaps only in the DisUnited States of Northamerica there once existed some sort of limp-wristed attempt to separate church from state—without much success. When we now mull over the disconsolate predicament of Western Civilization I and Western Civilization II, the spectre of religion must be kept in mind as a causal factor accounting for the decline of the Western Civilizations. It would be scoundrelly to do otherwise.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />W E S T E R N C I V I L I Z A T I O N I <br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Loredana, 47-year-old divorced law school graduate obliged to work as a secretary for a multinat in Italy, comes from Naples. She is obese—nervously jovial. Resists pig-headedly to provide for her only child, a 21-year-old university student in Rome. L is Roman Catholic to the bone. Touts a crucifix on a necklace. Like most Italians, she never goes to church. To her way of thinking, the pope is very much more important than Italy's prime minister primarily because the pope's ambit of influence throughout the world is indeed far more efficacious than the puerile antics of any of Italy's political sapheads. The pope is what makes The Boot consequential in the eyes of the world—not a fascist-like Silvio Berlusconi or some other similar clown-like figure. Irrespective of L's mirthful Napolean-like super- patriotism, her rambunctiousness which edges on the rude, and her garlic-smelling breath, I gravitated to her for her intelligence and skittish, conversational wit. Yet, one day, she shocked me in my tracks when she cornered me alone and whispered this: “When are you Americans going to nuke those bastard Muslims?” I wonder which psalm she found that in...?<br /><br />I tend to think that fifty percent of racist Italy cerebrates the same way but would admit so with a more cautious choice of words, while another ten to twenty percent would concur with L but by keeping their thoughts hush-hush. The preconceptions of the Italians (“We are not racists. We are Italian racists. We hate everyone.”) are a cancer that is metastasizing at an enormous pace now that the global economy is feeble, now that Italy's rock-bottom birthrate has coerced Italians, against their volition, to accept foreign workers to take on the menial jobs Italians (and other European nationalities) decline to assume.<br /><br />Europe and the British Isles are on the brink. Throughout this continent, there is a malaise consuming the heart and soul of an excessively proud people who for virtually two millennia dominated the arts, the sciences, history, learning, economics and politics—often employing un-Christian-like methods—and lit up a beacon for the world to fix upon. Europe is now flaccid. Almost fagged. It is scrambling to hold out—to stay afloat in the swirl of Science and Progress (contested modernity) that is annihilating its traditions, institutions and...religions. <br /><br />Three readings of import gauge for us Western Civilization I's descent into obliviousness. The first is WC I's impuissance to reload its shrinking population. It might seem legitimate that a civilization that has endured for just about two thousand years could have learned, by now, how to replenish itself and rest vivacious and prosperous. But no! They just can't. Throughout this continent, without a brain in its head, no notice consumes the least attention of its taxpayers as does the demographic tribulation. The continent itself is super-populated. Most countries in Europe and the British Isles are wearied with water supply depletion, the lack of precious natural resources, and social in-fightings. It is logical that Europe should reduce its population, but it is illogical that it does nothing to stabilize the maturation of its citizenry in order to guarantee that its stock will be steadily, rationally rendered. It is also stunning that transnational resettlements, within this so-called “Union of European Nations,” the European Union, are ridiculously marginal. Uneducated, often desperately poor individuals from Africa, Southamerica and eastern Europe are flooding in to fill the posts that European inhabitants, now once again somewhat prosperous, refuse to occupy. With an immigration which is frequently prey to the depraved lawlessness, injustice and racism of the Europeans, their criminal elements, and pandering, corrupt politicians, Europe's mañana will be fraught with dangerous social unrest and unheard of displacements within the staid social fibres of conservative European institutions still strained from last century's two world wars.<br /><br />History is another WC I bête noire. The historical baggage that WC I must lug is one that offers no hope to those plugging the holes to keep WC I from plummeting into an abyss of helplessness. There is no stretch in this world where WC I is not famous for its freewheeling depredation and bloodshed. At a time when WC I needs most to join with others beyond its borders in order to cultivate political and economic advantage, doors are being slammed in its face by those whose long memories remember the long rifles of European and British conquerors. The horror perpetrated by European military conquest and colonization for centuries is to this day ingrafted in the psyches of those peoples whose progenitors writhed under the execution of that violence and slaughter.<br /><br />Thirdly, WC I was not only adept at bringing havoc to those beyond its boundary lines, it distinguished itself in the last century as the foremost suicidal, genocidal element within its own limitations. There is not a nation in Europe, or the British Isles, where you cannot find the blood of centuries squishing under your feet. There are so many war memorials to History's dead, one is led to conclude that there is no use in convincing these war specialists, these nation states, that another possibility exists. Veterans parade the medals of their past atrocities. Politicians laud the battles of the Past. It is as if the people of Europe, expended psychologically and incorporeally, would accept World War III as a natural consequence, as a matter of course, of its bloody history—naturally insisting that the DisUnited States of Northamerica, Western Civilization II, wage its battles for them! Just ask L! Hedonistic Europe—draped in pretty shoes, dresses, gadgets and babble—is so cocooned in itself, struggling to forget its hideous past, that it finds it strenuous to roll over in the morning to go to work. How could it roll over to war, even survival, if it was called upon to defend what little courage and dignity are left to it? <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />W E S T E R N C I V I L I Z A T I O N I I<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Fancy that you are the leading man or woman of a Broadway theatre success that has merited international acclaim. It is five minutes before your next presentation. In your dressing room they are applying the final touches to your make-up and costumery. Your cell squeals. Your mother and father have been killed in a car crash. Three minutes to curtains up. Your manager looks you straight in your eyes and says you will become a theatrical legend when the media learns you still went on knowing about the tragedy. He fills a glass of water. Escorts you to the wings of the stage. Thirty seconds to go... He gives you a pill and tells you to gulp it down. Then he pats you on your back and says: “Just do it!”<br /><br />Barack Obama, forty-fourth president of the DUS, knows too well too that the show must go on. Of course, he is not alone. His overly-confident demeanour is fused with the backing of a federal police that he thinks is just and efficient, a spy system that he holds to be intelligent, a banking and financial oligarchy he wants reinforced, and a foreign affairs' policy that interferes with governments all over the world and which shakes the hands of Berlusconi and Sarkozy's bagmen. Still, BO is a media publicist's dream. His image reflects the 3-point shot at the buzzer that wins the game. He is an ante-hero with nothing yet to be heroic about! His icon is the symbol of the DUS's desperation to keep the show going on.<br /><br />But for how long might this hypocritical entertainment proceed? How long can BO fake moves? Pass his ball? How long will we continue to say “Yes we can?” When will we start crying “No we can't?” When 2008 closed its cooked books, it became clear, finally, to most citizens in the DUS and the world, that the Horatio Alger figment of the imagination, The American Dream, was really a nightmare haunted with graft and corruption. That it had been debased for a couple of centuries. That to maintain the wild lifestyles of the richest of the richest, most of the rest of the world had to “kick in” and even remain in their states of destitution and helplessness to keep those richest from getting less rich. With its chums (the other industrialized nations), the DUS cut up the world at whim, established 800 DUS military bases around the globe, overturned governments here and there, wielded the carrot (the Christian Bible and its tenets) and the stick (bombs and missiles), and strongly insisted that the best political and economic system in the world was its own idea: Judeo-Christian “Democratic” Capitalism. The Best and the Brightest? The Worst and the Stupidest. The Central Intelligence Agency? The Central Stupidity Agency. The DUS has done more harm to its fanatically righteous crusade than any enemy might. And it was Plato who promulgated the education of an elite group of leaders! There does not even exist an iota of political prudence (Kant). (With enemies like this, who needs friends?) Left to simmer in its debilitating arrogance, Western Civilization II will implode upon its own con job.<br /><br />The most stultifying cogent evidence of this is the game plan that has been sketched out on the whiteboard. Already, we can perceive that there exists the formidable urge to nurse the horrific economic flop back from intensive care to where it was before: that is, to restructure it; not do away with it! Substantially, those who prodded the DUS to the muddle it now suffers are the same who have been recruited to rectify the existing, embarrassing financial circumstances. Their minds are out of use. They can go only one way...their way.<br /><br />There once was economic chat about the cycles of profit and then loss. Remember? “Every sixty years—or so.” Nowadays these time frames have contracted drastically in proportion to the annihilative financial pyramid schemes set in motion by the obsessive amount of avarice and putrescence within the mindset of the political system's components and its bedfellows, the business community. There are wars in progress which no longer can spend the DUS out of its economic miseries. Banks are failing at a brisk rate. The experts are dumbfounded and their fingers are crossed. Politicians are in-brawling within their own lodges but passionately set on placing blame on the opposition. There is no consensus on what best must be done to escape the downward spiralling. Everyone is praying, like the Italians, for a miracle!<br /><br />When the DUS was King of the World's Economic Mountain, it was indeed far more easy to control the vicissitudes of the DUS's economy, and a great part of the world's that it for so long influenced and so often manipulated. This dream world exists no longer. The uncanny growth of other nations, bent on modernizing their economies and cultures, now confronts the DUS with the incubus of a global, helterskelter competition it not any more is capable of dealing with. An avalanche of maverick capitalism, uncontrollable and ever present, is making of the DUS the recipient of the same medicine it dosed out munificently for decades. The DUS is being swamped with the covetousness and dishonesty that it once meted out itself with its ludicrous sense of superiority and self-righteousness now characterized not as the image of itself as a model that all should imitate, but one for all to put up with or more often than not now...hate. <br /><br />BO, you don't have a dream. You have a nightmare! You are the leading man in a tragedy whose cast is chock full of imbeciles and criminals. Within the milieu of discord and disgrace in the DUS you are trying to wrangle together the forces that you think will pull back up, by the boot straps, the DUS. But who are these individuals? These schizoid goofballs who attend religious ceremonies on the weekends and cheat and steal as best they can during weekdays? Who are these dimwits who make up your dramatis personae? They are lying lawyers who have born witness to the fact that citizens of the DUS need to pay through their noses to obtain justice...they are stockbrokers and financial “experts” who advise their clients to stash their winnings in secret bank accounts in Europe, the Caribbean, etc...they are mendacious congresspeople and senators most on the take...they are ministers, priests and rabbis who spend more time with their bankers than they do with their flocks...they are ambitious university professors helping the DUS government to invent new weapons of destruction...they are doctors with one hand on the scalpel and the other on their stock reports...and worst of all, they are the millions and millions of DUS citizens who wish they had the same opportunities to pilfer and swindle as do their gangster-faced Robber Baron shining examples!<br />President Obama, just as E = mc², politics has come, deplorably, to mean Politics = Economy + Religion. You cannot reel around the world preaching honesty, love, honor, and uprightness when everyone outside the DUS knows that the citizens of the DisUnited States of Northamerica are the best rip-off artists in existence. The world is laughing at your slick Pope-like homilies. Nice words. Refreshing bromides. After your platitudes—from high above—have mesmerized your foreign audiences, those same individuals turn their backs on you and the unprincipled DisUnited States of Northamerica. Sorry about that, BO. (Incontrovertible Proof That Citizens of the DisUnited States of Northamerica Are So Sorrowfully, So Sanctimoniously Stupid: www.scribd.com/thewordwarrior.)<br /><br /><br />BO, I leave you with this quote from Martin Jacques's When China Rules the World, Chapter 8, page 271:<br /><br /> ...As a consequence, the rise of China as a global<br /> superpower is likely to lead, over a protracted <br /> period of time, to a profound cultural and racial<br /> reordering of the world in the Chinese image.<br /> As China, draws countries and continents into<br /> its web, as is happening already with Africa, <br /> they will not simply be economic supplicants<br /> of a hugely powerful China but also occupy a<br /> position of cultural and ethnic inferiority in an<br /> increasingly influential Chinese-ordered global<br /> hierarchy... <br /><br /><br />President Obama (President Carter?), you will not be able to get your act together. I doubt you have either the sophistication or strength to deal with the exterior dramatic collisions that will beset your administration, and simply because the DisUnited States of Northamerica has for far too long disregarded the realities of the world in which it exists. <br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Authored by Anthony St. John<br />Calenzano, Italy<br />1 August 2009<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />* * *anthony st. johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13340645719618934812noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1328518789406920323.post-89465216094329277802009-07-05T08:06:00.002+02:002009-07-05T08:13:17.243+02:00Why I Live Beyond<br />the DisUnited States of<br />Northamerica<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />The philosophical psychiatrist, R D Laing, was endowed with immense courage, vision and vigour, and by reason of his unique skills made valuable contributions to psychiatry and caused to come to be events which startled and disrupted long-established analysts of the mind. Laing was a member of that mental health infantry squadron carrying out a mission meant to clear the way for the main body of troops. His insights into schizophrenia, the world’s most debilitating mental disease, will never be forgotten.<br /><br />Like many illustrious warriors favoured with superhuman eminence, Laing’s first jumps, off the high board into the murky pools of the unconscious, neurosis and psychosis, were belly flops. Heroic in nature, Laing did not return home from battle after his preliminary overthrows. He climbed up far above the ground again, lunged, cut through gloomy waters, and touched bottom where he scraped his skin and bruised his bones yet more. He went back again and again and again and persevered, until his death, searching for something new in the treatment of mental patients.<br /><br />From page 102 to 104 in Self and Others, Laing’s masterpiece, he talks about a little boy of five who runs to his mother holding a big fat worm in his hand, and says, “Mommy, look what a big fat worm I have got.” She says, “You are filthy—away and clean yourself immediately.” <br /><br />The mother’s response to the boy is an example of what Ruesch (1958) has called a “tangential response.” In terms of the boy’s feeling, the mother’s response is at a tangent. She does not say, “Oh, yes, what a lovely worm.” She does not say, “What a filthy worm—you mustn’t touch worms like that; throw it away.” In this response there is a failure to endorse what the boy is doing. A state of transitory confusion, anxiety or guilt might be generated in him.<br /><br />Bateson, Jackson, Haley and Weakland in their article, “Toward a Theory of Schizophrenia,” Behavioural Science (1956), discuss this condition and term it the “double-bind” pattern. According to the authors, the likelihood of such a configuration exists when these six elements are present: two or more persons; repeated experience of the state of affairs; a primary negative injunction: “Do not do this. I will punish you if you do;” a secondary injunction conflicting with the first at a more abstract level, and like the first, enforced by punishment or signals which threaten survival: a negative gesture, a tone of voice, a posture, etc; a tertiary negative injunction prohibiting the victim from escaping from the field: false promises of devotion, affection or love; and, the absence of these constituents when the victim learns that his or her universe is composed of, essentially, double-bind patterns.<br /><br />The victims, in this scenario, are caught in a mesh of contradiction between two conclusions and they cannot decide how to act or react rationally. He or she cannot make a sane choice. The prey is deceived and, to survive, must mislead others to protect himself or herself. They learn to reject what is genuine, and lay blame on what is unreal or real ridiculing as immature what might in fact be responsible. Persons trapped in this double-bind pattern cannot establish a sensation of genuineness with another human being. <br /><br />When I pranced home from Vietnam in August 1968, I began to enjoy one of the most beautiful times of my life: I had made it home successfully--alive! I was in one piece and had not been seriously wounded or maimed! I had read seventy-two books in Vietnam where I had not wasted one moment! Vietnam had not brought me to the nightmares of mental instability, and if people want to say I am “crazy” nonetheless, I tell them I was the way I am long before my tour in Southeast Asia! Good comes from Bad; Bad comes from Good. Perhaps the most fortuitous souvenir—what I cherish the most—that I hold from the horrible twelve months I passed in the Central Highlands with the Snowflake Division near the Cambodian and Laotian borders (Pleiku, Kontum and Dak To), and in the Chu Lai and My Lai locales of the Americal’s area of operations, is this: My life had been threatened so many times that when I came back to New York and set off to unwind so as to become a normal person all over again, I was so exultant that the tension of combat had been eliminated, I stayed in a secret state of euphoria for months. And from that day, I have valued my life the more—certainly much more because it had been put in jeopardy by elements beyond the expectations of my own wishes.<br /><br />There were a couple of “Welcome Home from the War” gestures from relatives and friends, and I’ll never forget the doorman at the Essex House who greeted me with a “Welcome home, Lieutenant,” gave me my room number, saluted me, and pointed the way to where I found a complimentary bottle of champagne and a bowl of fruit. After a pair of weeks passed by, I “escaped” to Florida. I had to get out of New York and I followed my plan, formulated in Vietnam, to do so. I did not really comprehend at that time why I had to break away from my much-loved New York. I would understand later on.<br /><br />It did not take me long to gather that I had achieved the status of having a new unsavoury reputation: Vietnam Veteran. In fact, my relatives were the first to hint to me that my service to my country was of dubious make-up. I was told, flat out: “The Army screwed you, you should screw the Army!” I was dumbfounded when it was suggested that I fake back pain, go to a VA hospital, and obtain a lifelong disability check! I think it was this mind-set which instigated in me the predisposition to reflect at that time upon the level-headedness of the United States of America—and quite seriously so. I had to know why my fellow countrymen and women thought they deserved to have their cake and eat it, too! And I wanted to know why I was being wedged into a double bind state of being.<br /><br />Outside of closed social circles, Vietnam was not a subject habitually broached with Vietnam veterans, accordingly I had to rummage around the mass media and, in particular, political journals and other outlets of enlightenment which replicated the thoughts of my confreres. I speculated that, in the 1960s and 1970s, about sixty percent of my fellows disapproved of what I represented because I “killed babies,” and forty percent approved of me for doing so. An outlandish emotional rift.<br /><br />The fact of the matter is that I did not kill in Vietnam. I state this unequivocally and to the best of my knowledge. I soldiered as an artillery 1193 and even though defective projectiles and inaccurate maps frequently complicated, to an inordinate degree, our missions as I “humped” with the grunts on the battlefield, I, personally, cannot refer to an incident in which I was involved killing people with artillery or any other armament. I heard that one erratic artillery shell had slayed nine American soldiers because the Fire Direction Officer had confused an “8” with a “3;” moreover, on my first day out to the field in close proximity to the Fourth Division Base Camp, we were “attacked” by a volley of our own 155mm rounds which set our company into such a state of terror and turmoil that, to my utter amazement, it caused one grunt to fall to the ground—in the foetal position, his M-16discarded—praying with rosary beads wrapped through his fingers. What had I done to merit this lunacy?<br /><br />The folly did not terminate there for me. Years later I would hear on CNN that during the Vietnam “War” an almost 70% of United States’ military personnel were killed or maimed in Vietnam by mines, and that 90% of these armaments were US military ordnance! And I can believe it. Whenever I was transferred to a different artillery unit, I came into the red leg fold asking: “What’s the dud rate here?” 30%? 40%? 50%? It is certainly true that exceptional meteorological “tricky situations” compromised the accuracy of our FDC calculations, yet no one can deny that the haste—it makes waste—to join in on the economic boom (remember the 1962 recession?) which exemplified the Vietnam “War,” caused projectiles to be manufactured with substandard worth. When these rounds were converted into booby traps by our clever enemy, the results could be sordid. As an artillery battalion liaison officer flying with the battalion CO in his C&C Huey, we often swooped down to a grunt broken into pieces by a booby trap, and then MEDIVACed him to the nearest field hospital where maintenance crews hosed off the blood on the helicopter’s floor before we were able to return for more. <br /><br />The My Lai area was notorious for the percentage of booby traps it secreted. Imagine. You are marching with your buddy through rice paddies when, in a flash, you see him go flying with members of his body slashed or gone astray. You can’t find a way to embrace a fond affection for the Vietnam people; and, you have to be a finicky person not to want to seek out a vendetta. Nineteen-year-olds cannot be depended upon to discriminate judiciously especially when under pressure. (I was a university graduate, with a degree in philosophy, and it was hard enough for me to weigh up at times these niceties, but not even a ten-star general could have ordered me to kill women and children and old folk—even in a ditch.) I have no condolences for Lieutenant Calley because all of us—arriving in-country—read and signed that we read the Geneva Convention and division memos instructing us how to treat prisoners of war and Vietnamese nationals. The United States’ government and the United States Army commanded us to behave in one way (CYA: Cover Your Ass!), and when we did not, they turned their backs on what was dishonourable and not above-board making out of the Vietnam conflict something that it unquestionably was not: a righteous initiative, one to be satisfied about supporting. A double bind state of mind? <br /><br />For the Vietnam veteran this forked tonguing was remarkably crass when he or she returned home to the United States. They knew very well the shenanigans that had gone on in Vietnam, and to be thought of as a loser in a war which Americans did not cheer on but made profit of by benefiting from the business enveloping it, was truly more than a let-down. Some veterans could not bear the rebuff that awaited them and they blew away their minds and bodies, or their schizoid fellow citizens, in tragic acts of violence. The history of the Vietnam veteran is well-documented, but I have never seen price estimates for the heart-rending damage he or she caused not only for themselves, but also for the victims of their post-war violence—the divorces they were involved in, the crimes they were sent to prison for, the alcohol and drug abuse their family members suffered with them, and so many other dynamics which enter into the fiscal tabulation of this national calamity. And make no mistake about it, the Vietnam veteran might be loaded down with diagnostic lingo and syndromes and other descriptions of maladaptive behaviour, but no one will ever consider as being mentally unbalanced those who sent him off to that insane police action that did the United States of America more harm than benefit.<br /><br />When I left the United States for good in 1975, I knew it was on a catastrophic course. I had not the words to say what I wanted to explain. I had to test my premonitions and had to contrast them with the viewpoints of others who were not Americans. I grasped that the United States was ripped in two, although I never then imagined that it would continue to cultivate a “split personality” which would advance it to continually enlarge the chasm that polarized it further and further. Today we have Red States and Blue States, and no one has thought to mix red and blue together to get violet—the colour of wretchedness and introversion. Americans are fighting to be happy and they are so desperate to be so they will even laugh, with a knee-jerk, at the overworked jokes of a David Letterman. <br /><br />The United States learned not much from Vietnam except how to make sure that the atrocious errors, embarrassing for them, they committed there would not be duplicated in future hostilities. That is why the US Army is a voluntary organization today! It is more martial than it ever was. Its regime is wielded throughout the globe with fear and not the yearning to be respected. (The Americans are a wonderful people—if they aren’t bombing you!) The Yankee is not regarded even as a benevolent dictator, and he is truly hated when his barter ($$$) stops circulating. It does not flabbergast me one iota that Gore Vidal, or anyone else for that matter, could conceive of a book entitled The Decline and Fall of the American Empire. The United States of America is sliding down The Tubes. Northamericans, out of despondency, have become awful losers yet they persist in alleging that they are redoubtable winners. Just another double bind stance—one they are very much accustomed to. <br /><br />I don’t want to be with a failure—especially one that does not have the courage to penetrate its own limitations. Old Glory is hemmed in. As the years pass, it will draw more and more into itself. The United States is in a pitiable state and has not the expertise to release itself from its own desolation. I want to be happy; I do not want to live with a nation pretending to be so. I refuse to live in the United States of America the more because it did not afford me the chance to become a hero for it when I served it in Vietnam. I feel that I was betrayed. How could I ever stand up erect at a baseball or football game and sing with others “The Star-Spangled Banner?” I would have to wait outside. I can only wish the United States of America a hearty “Good Luck.” It’s going to need it. And I ask the United States of America only one thing: that the renunciation of my citizenship, sitting on the desk of the consulate general in Florence, Italy since 1994, be approved by the Department of State immediately.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> Authored by Anthony St. Johnanthony st. johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13340645719618934812noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1328518789406920323.post-37857832003947967762009-06-23T11:28:00.001+02:002009-06-23T11:31:01.633+02:00An Open Letter to Paris Hilton<br />Written During Her Incarceration<br /><br /><br />I hope this correspondence finds you as well as you might be all through these thorny, for you, times. I see no reason to rejoice about your imprisonment. You have been denuded, both physically and mentally, and set in a chamber which is in total contrariety to the standard of living you have experienced since your childhood. This is traumatic—it would be harrowing for any person regardless of his or her economic standing. Nevertheless, I also wish that your punishment will be used as a “breathing space” prompting you to reflect upon the entirety of your life and not just what has recently emerged concerning it.<br />As you contemplate, you might come to the very heart-rending realization that you have been manipulated ruthlessly. And not just by the adolescent-minded paps. By a whole nation, and more, which finds some perverse pleasure either in seeing you deprived of your deluxe way of life—something most of us have not—or in revelling in a Fantasyland genuinely desiring it had what you hold. You have been set up to be the sole recipient of a whole society’s guilt complex—one which marinates desperately in a vindictive GroupThink. You now know that the paps would have been even more pruriently comfortable if you had driven your car, in a state of intoxication, into some tunnel where it would have careened off some cement stanchion leaving your body in many broken, bloody pieces. And those indecorous paps, too, would have scurried with their digital cameras to the nearest news room to haggle over the price for the gory details surrounding your death. As a Vietnam veteran, I know well what it means to be the rubbish bin of the vicious collective consciousness of the schizoid citizens of the DisUnited States of Northamerica. You have my sympathy.<br />I will tell you straight away, Paris, why you are the most fortuitous woman in the DisUnited States. If you mull over your past with vigour, face some exceedingly disgusting facts, and use the innate intelligence I am convinced you retain, you will find yourself in the unique position of being able to formulate a resurfacing and, after, brandish a reprisal worthy of a finally-victorious field commander. The hour has arrived for you to claim your right to be respected as any other human being instead of being gazed at as the whipping girl of a confused, fickle, and sadistic society. That accomplished, you will assume the stature of a woman of dignity and charm and serve, in the future, as an admirable exemplar for all of us to imitate.<br /><br />“Sail on Silver Girl, sail on high, your time has come to shine,<br />All your dreams are on their way…”<br />Bridge over Troubled Waters, Simon & Garfunkel<br /><br /><br />Your friend, <br />Tony<br /><br /><br />Written by Anthony St. John in Calenzano, Italy on the First Day of Summer, 2007anthony st. johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13340645719618934812noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1328518789406920323.post-32934042316897617412009-06-19T20:16:00.003+02:002009-06-21T08:39:09.054+02:00DrugsRaymond Hoffenberg, M.D.<br />President Emeritus of the College of Physicians of London<br />President Emeritus of Wolfson College in the University of Oxford<br />One Sherborne House<br />SHERBORNE GL54 3DZ<br />England<br /><br /><br />29 October 2001<br /><br /><br />By chance, I came upon your “Doctors under Tension,” European Review; Volume 6, May, 1998, in which you state, preposterously, the following: “Only rarely do we find large-scale participation of the medical profession in organized abuse…”<br /><br />It would take about twenty-five thousand agents of the F.B.I., twenty-five thousand detectives from Scotland Yard, and twenty-five thousand investigators from Interpol to round up all the Italian physicians in collusion with pharmaceutical companies which represent a good number of European countries. Travel expenses for doctors and their wives, computers to read pharmaceutical software, dinners in the best restaurants, et alia, all paid for them, constitute only a part of the corruption running rampant. Every Italian household possesses a mini-pharmacy. Italians show off their medicines and leave expired ones in their small closets to add depth to their status symbols. No Italian comes home from the doctor without three or four prescriptions filled, but most prescriptions are filled without the doctor seeing the patient. It is arcane to see three or four Mercedes-Benz’s or BMW’s lined up outside doctors’ offices with elegantly-dressed drug salesmen—who often are seen by the doctor before the patients are!—toting their black satchels filled with “samples” which doctors use to “hook” patients. Italy is Europe’s top consumer of illicit drugs. What part have these doctors, nurturing for their patients a drug culture that begins at the cradle, in being responsible for the extravagant use of illegal drugs in Italy? How many laundered drug dollars have Italian drug addicts contributed to bin Laden? <br /><br />About you, Dr. Hoffenberg, I am confounded! Do you own a stock portfolio filled with Italian pharmaceutical investments? Are you a Whitewasher of The Lily-white Medical Profession? Or, are you just a run-of-the-mill imbecile?<br />Toodleoo…<br /><br />Anthony St. Johnanthony st. johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13340645719618934812noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1328518789406920323.post-4608378473239213272009-05-11T11:56:00.004+02:002009-05-11T12:07:33.902+02:00If I Were the United States' Ambassador to Italy...If I, Anthony St. John,<br />Were the United States’ Ambassador to Italy…<br /><br />I.<br /><br />I would order immediately—with the consent of the President—all ambassadorial and consulate personnel in Italy to the new United States’ Embassy in Afghanistan.<br /><br />II.<br /><br />I would require all personnel attached to my offices throughout Italy to speak the Italian language.<br /><br />III.<br /><br />I would demand immediately that all members of the Central Stupidity Agency serving in Italy be returned to Washington for intelligence tests of their brains.<br /><br />IV.<br /><br />I would make a compartment of a <em>Ferrovie dello Stato</em> train my ambassadorial office and travel throughout Italy Mondays through Fridays.<br /><br />V.<br /><br />I would create a television program, An Afternoon Communicating with the United States’ Ambassador to Italy, to be presented every Saturday from 4 pm-6pm, with phone-in and cultural spots.<br /><br />VI.<br /><br />I would apologize to the Italian people on behalf of all previous United States’ ambassadors <em>(cretini!)</em> who served in Italy and did not speak Italian and did not communicate with the<br />Italian people.<br /><br />VII.<br /><br />I would create the United States’ Embassy of the Italian and American Peoples—open to all<br />without being a clubhouse for representatives of special interest groups.<br /><br />VIII.<br /><br />I would seek to open a dialogue—<em>in italiano</em>, finally!—with the Italian people.<br /><br />IX.<br /><br />I would seek to bring Italians and Americans together in a spirit of friendship and respect.<br /><br />X.<br /><br />I would seek to enhance throughout the world the role of both Italy and the United States of America as examples of peace and goodwill.<br /><br />1 January 2002<br /><br />Please distribute this plea to your friends.<br /><br />Send it to the United States’ Embassy in Roma.<br />FAX: 06-467.42.623<br /><br />Anthony St. John,<br /><br />The Outside the Box Ambassadoranthony st. johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13340645719618934812noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1328518789406920323.post-47511257385351180052009-05-04T21:27:00.002+02:002009-05-04T21:31:52.406+02:00The Art of SurvivalThe imperative to survive is confronting us more than at any other time in human history. There are very many more people; a haunting vulnerability pervades the air. An unmatched surge in the world’s population is guesstimated to propel humanity to the inconceivable head-count of 8,000,000,000 in 2025 and 10,000,000,000 in 2050. There is the never-ending desire for decent lodging, prosperous employment, low-cost mobility and lifelong wellbeing. Nevertheless, it has been by now substantiated that the Earth’s resources cannot gratify, even partially, the unrelenting yearnings of all of us. Multiplying social, political and economic disproportions are certain to instigate further discontent that in turn will egg on more conflicts and more dislocations upsetting whatever hopes of tranquility we may have aspired to.<br /><br />Not all people care to survive. Many others care only that they themselves should survive. Individuals might concern themselves about living on and that others belonging to the very same global community of which they are a part will also live on. Although not necessarily infirm, people who are not particularly interested in enduring will do little to allow themselves to endure and generally are not vexed about the continuation of their fellows. They might not look properly after their health, they might “vegetate” their lives away in a slothful passivity, and they are baffling not only in their intimate social circles, they cause difficulties for their superiors and co-workers where they are engaged. They do not have to be criminals. These someones have no zest for life, sound off frequently, and are miserable and apathetic. They merely exist and at length become burdens on society which has to ante up for their untrustworthiness and refusal to exist for the betterment of their confrères. Most people who hate others first loathed themselves.<br /><br />Then there are those whose individual self-interest is the actual motive of all conscious action, the valid end of their human activity. These types might dominate a close-knit grouping or even an establishment, and they must hold control of the system they superintend manipulating the network's subordinates to satisfy their cravings for power. Their sphere of activity is often constrictive and it is of course based on experience, tradition and more often than not family linkups. These swellheads thrive on what is determinate, and theirs is the exclusive mode to perform during whatever exigence that might emerge. Superficially, these egocentrics induce us to believe that their often sadistic modi operandi serve in fact the methodicalness of the governing body they and their underlings are ranked under, and so doing, their “beneficial” actions come to serve all, are for everyone's gain. They are not.<br /><br />The third category is that to which this essay is directed, and it is the one from which we may derive a sense of hope—hopefully, too, the means to attain the expectations we are seeking. There are those causal agents to whom we may ascribe attributes unbeknown to the majority of society at large. These subjects need to make a contribution on behalf of others by caring for themselves foremost and subsequently reaching out to assist those with whom they subsist. All sound, forward-looking societies have had these characters to set the stage to set in motion an epoch of progress. These members of society are at the ready to take part, to contribute to the welfare of themselves and those in their company. They understand what it means to survive.<br /><br />I am a survivor—so far! I have outlasted three 122mm Chinese rocket attacks, three or four mortar blasts, four months with an infantry company in the jungles bordering Laos and Cambodia, a plane crash, two robberies at gunpoint.... Still, I do not consider myself an expert. But I do recognize that I had something to do with my endurance. I have followed definite precepts that were taught to me. Notwithstanding, I have always been gifted with the will to enjoy life. <em>Scito te ipsum!<br /></em><br />My introduction to the theory of survival happed upon me when I entered the US Army on active duty as an artillery lieutenant in September 1966. Until that time I had drifted along in life not even thinking I might have to come through one day. In the artillery I was made to make myself self-sufficient and more important, careful. Discipline and anticipation of events were emphasized over and over and over in my training. In Vietnam, along the Ho Chi Minh Trail, our 105mm howitzer artillery batteries could be hoisted into the air by Chinook helicopters, and then planted into some different point many kilometers distant. The routine for us was identical after each and every insertion. We followed the same rules, we erected the indistinguishable battery emplacement, we checked our instruments, secured the area, and were ready to shoot and communicate after being dropped into an often unknown, unfriendly environment. Above all, we could think that we might be transferred again in a matter of hours, or remain fixed in our new location for weeks or months. Maintenance was obligatory although not much appreciated, but it kept disgruntled unit members alert.<br /><br />Parenthetically, the US Army was not up to sustaining itself in Vietnam, nor did it give its soldiers the motive, and the means, to create a new, propitious set of events. Soldiers were ill-equipped. Undisciplined. Apathetic. Many of them, lacking any hint of patriotism, shot themselves in the calf (The Million Dollar Wound), neglected to take their anti-malaria medication and then winded up in bathtubs filled with chunks of ice, and some even sought to kill themselves by volunteering—deriving pleasure or death from undergoing pain, abuse and cruelty—for hazardous missions: “Lieutenant, I'm not returning home.” The US Army accentuated, very stridently, that they had prepared us to fight in combat. This is not so. Most soldiers refused to trust anyone ranked above them. Disobedience was the norm in Vietnam where I had to hold up against both the “enemy,” whoever and whatever that was, and my own fellow combatants! In Vietnam, the US Army was a contradiction of its own terms and consequently doomed to failure.<br /><br />My military experience, however insufferable, did inculcate in me a respect for life—my life! It made me appreciate the gift of being alive. That life had almost been taken away from me. Today, I am content to be alive. And I continue to follow the basic rules for survival many of which I learned in the US Army and employ even when I write this essay.<br />If you have set your heart on surviving, please listen to me. You cannot remain alive more than your family members, friends and colleagues by just wishing to. You must do your utmost to make it become a reality. Above all, you have to respect yourself before you can go on to esteem others. In fact, you are obliged to study, contemplate and seek responses to the uncertainties, about yourself and others, which haunt you.<br /><br />One of the actions of great consequence to be taken is that one we are already familiar with: anticipation. Think before you act, and reflect habitually. Plan your days, weeks, months.... Set an endpoint you are inclined towards. Understand that victory comes hesitantly and has to be tracked down unswervingly and with adroitness. Do routine tasks as soon as possible to get them out of the way. With the time left over, concentrate on the various more pressing undertakings before you. Always endeavor to judge what is coming next. When you exit a bus, look to the left/right for oncoming vehicles. (I remember when the plane I was in was about to crash about an hour's flight from Caracas, I grabbed to my chest the four-year-old next to me, and realized that in four seconds we might be dead. My body was shaking with fear but I knew we all had to escape immediately when the twin-engine hit the water. In Vietnam, when 122mm rockets were incoming, my body shook convulsively but my voice was steady as a rock on my telephone operator's PRC-9 radio.) Do not go very fast—speed kills and not just on the highway. Sleep enough to be efficient. Eat correctly and be healthy. Without exception imagine that by not doing what is right for yourself and your body and mind, future complications will be caused by your negligence and stupidity.<br /><br />It is accurate to say that preparedness is crucial to the prolongation of life or existence. In Vietnam, for every soldier on the battlefield, seven were backing him up. Helicopters had to be serviced, admin clerks typed reports, cooks prepared meals, doctors cared for the sick and wounded.... In our ordinary daily lives we must wash, clean our teeth, water the lawn and plants, iron our clothes for work on Monday.... We hold responsibilities that require us to react, and the realization of their success depends on our efficiency and enthusiasm. Being primed in advance is an enormous asset for achieving prosperity and living longer than most others.<br /><br />To accomplish our mission (survival) we must cultivate the skill of self-discipline. To be in a state of readiness for whatever which might turn up, our attitude has to be set to change state to suit the challenge at hand. Repetition is an ugly word. So is routine. But these two sober-minded “axioms” must be complied with. We cannot secure anything worthwhile without being zealous and steadfast while doing our best to substantiate the meaning of our lives. If we fail to discipline ourselves when we forge ahead on the way to our last stop, we will ripen into very discomfited and discontented individuals.<br /><br />Learn the meaning of the words “hard” and “strong.” We cannot be hard on ourselves unremittingly while being fervent about getting to our target. This is not clever. A person is strong when he or she knows when to be tenacious and when to be toned down. You ease up to be fit for the next bothersome occasion.<br /><br /><br />Authored by Anthony St. John<br />1 May 2009<br />Calenzano, Italia<br /><a href="http://www.anthonystjohn.blogspot.com/">www.anthonystjohn.blogspot.com</a><br /><br /><br />* * *anthony st. johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13340645719618934812noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1328518789406920323.post-91679257854407149502009-04-06T15:49:00.003+02:002009-04-09T18:11:02.741+02:00History Is Back!In 1989 History Came to an End!<br />In 2009 History Came Back Again!<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><em>Once upon a time there was a big ship. It was tall and strong and beautiful. It sailed the seas so stately-so. It visited all the oceans. It withstood storms. Resisted high waves. Broke chunks of ice and tilled on through to its destination. In its wake its friends followed comfortably. They depended on the big ship to open new frontiers for them. For decades everyone was happy. Then the ship stalled. It began to take on water. Will it sink? Will it slurp into the deep and suck along with it the leading industrial nations? Why not?<br /></em><br />If one needs evidence that the DisUnited States of Northamerica has lost its stature as the so-called “leader of the world,” it might be wise to visit one of the hundreds upon hundreds of think tanks in existence where muddled “thinktankers,” in disarray and desperate, can be scrutinized. It is as if these intellectual obscurantists have mislaid all sense of reality—theirs! They have been smitten cruelly, and their haughtiness has been placed on a backburner. One of them—who, as did Columbus—presumed the world was flat, that it was finally a level economic playing field for the entire globe, has so much egg on his face, he hesitates to appear before public audiences to avoid being pelted even more.<br /><br />For twenty years these dabblers, these eradicators of History rode high on their megalomania touting here, there and everywhere that their Northamerican-Anglo dynasty, their Judeo-Christian “Democratic” Capitalism was humankind’s best destined political aspiration, the winner of the tug-of-war between autocracy and democracy, and that the globe would be showered with the manna, from the heavens above, produced by the unselfish efforts of a worldwide oligarchy working night and day for all our benefits. Amen, brothers and sisters, Amen! Amen!! Amen!!!<br /><br />Listen to once-Secretary of State Madeleine Albright, The Little Fat Witch, on 19 February 1998: “We stand tall and we see further than other countries into the future.” They certainly do! As of today, each and every Northamerican, all 300,000,000 of them, owes Chinese banks $3000! And who knows how many other liabilities Northamericans will have to reimburse in coming decades to pay off their bacchanalia of greed and corruption.<br /><br />Those Jesuit-like conventionalists, padded with the lovability of their verbal drivel, who had divided the world up among the DUS, Europe and China, are in for another merciless jolt: the free-falling deterioration of respect for Western Civilization and its Judeo-Christian “Democratic” Capitalist hegemony suspected by all on all corners of the globe.<br /><br />One can observe that the most vociferous proponents of the anti-autocracy crusade are those who have become tyrannical themselves. Very often they are in cahoots with authoritative coteries that influence, flagrantly, the mechanisms of that “democracy” they define as the one which belongs to the people. These elites block the average citizens’ likelihoods of participating in their government by employing economic, legislative and judicial obstacles which serve to wall out qualified political personages in opposition to them. The despots spiel on about the “openness” of their “democratic” system, but, in fact, it is “clubby” and restricted to the few. When elections are held little choice is offered. There is a political echo rebounding throughout the “democratic” domain: “One party is just about the same as another.” Voters do not choose, they ratify. Government is under surveillance. The legal arrangement is used viciously to punish political enemies. For minor political reprobates there are prison stretches often founded on trumped-up charges. The DUS’s detention system is a shameful, shoddy conglomeration of injustice and inequality both of which promote recidivism.<br /><br />The media too often works hand in hand with this oppressive cabal, and at press conferences queries are posited to accommodate political postures. All journalists know well what questions they dare not ask. Any individual who possesses the minimum inkling as to what is evolving in this world, can predict, sarcastically, the questions noodle-headed penny-a-liners posit at these journalistic jamborees.<br /><br />The conservation of supremacy has become more critical than the endeavour to manage an economy more resourcefully and fairly for all. That is an obvious imperative. Body guards, super-protected limousines, isolated summit latitudes and longitudes (Bill Gates pronounced that video-conferencing will be the next stage in the electronic evolution) and foodstuff tasters come together to deflect our attention from pertinent issues. The image of a supernatural-like, almost religious happening is screened for us to give the sense that there is in progress some only one of its kind paranormality.<br /><br />While concentrating on matters considered more important than ones which truly affect the lives of citizens on our planets, politicos have been irresponsible and dangerously naive. Particularly after the Second World War—yet well before that—three crucial life-threatening dilemmas afflicting the human race and the planet upon which it exists were marginalized and discussed, as a rule, with put-off-to-tomorrow expressions of aloofness:<br /><br />I. <strong>The Population Upsurge</strong>. In 1961, there were more or less 3,000,000,000 Earthly inhabitants. Today, the world is approaching 7,000,000,000. Modern science has designed agricultural methods which have removed for many the burden of having to grow their own food. As a consequence, people have roamed from rural areas into enormous megatropolis. There they have stressed unimaginably the Earth and the resources it offers us endangering their own lives and those of their neighbours. The strain in the biosphere and the consequent disasters that ensue are corollaries that necessitated consideration at least a century before.<br /><br />II. <strong>The Spectre of Injustice & Inequality</strong>. Throughout the world people are outraged and violence, more and more, has become the exclusive outlet for many. Half the world lives on a daily pittance that would buy someone a bag of French fries/chips in an industrially advanced nation. The distribution of wealth is dramatically lopsided. Poor people believe that they are the victims of the industrial world’s voracious appetite for their natural resources, and the historical sense of grievance they bear, exacerbates their condition and goads them on to voice disapproval.<br /><br />III. <strong>The Haves & The Have-Nots</strong>. The world is tending to divide itself into two mammoth movements: the “rich” and the poor, those who have and those who have not—if but a little. Already, rage is being foisted upon the Robber Barons of the Judeo-Christian “Democratic” Capitalism, and people, from all socio-economic strata, duped by banks and financial organizations, are rebelling as never before. The situation is so desperate, government leaders are joining forces to plug those gaps left by the horrible debauch of self-indulgence and sleaze now that the party is over.<br /><br />There is a money factory in Washington, DC. Officially, it is called the Bureau of Engraving and Printing. Engraving money is a complicated process which involves more than sixty-five separate and distinct steps. The Money Factory declares that in FY2008 38 million notes/bills were produced each day with a face value of about $629 million. In FY2008, a total of 7.7 billion notes, at a cost of 6.4 cents per note, were delivered. Ninety-five percent of the notes printed each year are used to replace notes both in and out of circulation. (By the way, if you had ten billion $1.00 notes and spent one every second, it would require 317 years for you to go broke. [See <a href="http://www.moneyfactory.gov/">http://www.moneyfactory.gov/</a>]).<br /><br />Well now, where do we go from here? Multiply 7.7 billion by 6.4 cents and see what you come up with! Enough to see the Dow Jones drop another 100 points? Enough to realize that a little more than one note, of differing denominations, is printed for each and every human being on Earth. What does this say about economic planning? What does this mean for Judeo-Christian “Democratic” Capitalism and Socialism?<br /><br />We are not going to solve the world’s problems printing paper money! What is at stake is very much further from the lone consideration of economic factors. If the world is to survive, it must come to reflect on those basic concerns which affect each and every one of us. People must come together. Governments must encourage the interplay of social and political affairs which reach out to all. President Barack Obama will not be able to “pull it off” because the DUS has not the respect of the rest of the world.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Authored by Anthony St. John<br />6 April 2009<br />Calenzano, Italiaanthony st. johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13340645719618934812noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1328518789406920323.post-27994200935176399932009-03-19T15:05:00.004+01:002009-03-19T15:16:05.165+01:00The Jews & The Israelis & MeWhen I was a kid—barely a teenager—there were two reasons for me to cross over the Williamsburgh Bridge into Manhattan from my Woodhaven, Queens home: one, to pick up and take home my grandfather, Gramps, from his small grocery store on the Lower East Side’s Rivington Street; or, to look for my father at his workplace in Greenwich Village, the Department of Justice’s Federal Detention Headquarters which all in my family referred to as “FDH.”<br /><br />The Lower East Side and Greenwich Village were two colourful locales in the early 1950s. Their ambiences aroused in me dominant emotional effects and appeals that remain with me today. I could sense a fervour for life among the people populating these places although I was too youthful to know why I was living or what even for. These areas also suggested an exciting disparity to the rows and rows of Archie Bunker Queens suburban dwellings, victims of urban planning, which populated my neighbourhood. The Hasidic Jews on the Lower East Side and the “crazies” in the village were reasons alone worth making the jaunt into Manhattan.<br /><br />I did not know it at the time, but the mania of McCarthyism was an important concern of my parents, older family members, and other grown-ups in my circle of acquaintances who were adamant about politics. When I went into Manhattan to dawdle about these places furtively, I did not realize that a lunatic fringe of Northamerican politics was affecting all of us very profoundly, and was, on each trip, tainting my own innocent spirit with hatred, and was impressing on my subconsciousness, by frequent repetition, the painful emotions of humiliating disgrace and disrepute. Those about me did not understand what they detested, and so they feared what they scorned. There is no glory or pride when one loathes. McCarthyism’s distortions fettered freedom so proficiently, my family members were burdened with strong regret, censure and reproach—effects they could not understand were playing havoc with their blind adherence to conservatism and their desire to be happy, productive citizens.<br /><br />One evening I was with my uncle going over the Williamsburgh Bridge on our way to pick up Gramps. On my lap was The Daily News. I knew very well that the headlines, proclaiming the execution of two Jews (one of whom was a woman) who had been convicted of providing atomic bomb secrets to the Soviets, did not sit very well with my uncle. There was some small connection between my grandfather and these sacrificed Jews. I do not know if Gramps was familiar with them in the neighbourhood, or that he was friendly with some of their relatives, but there was a precise reference to a building across the street and around the corner where people, linked to the event, lived. I was excluded from knowing the exact details of this relationship, but I did surmise that no one was very satisfied about what had happened to these two people at Sing Sing, and my kinship were all silent, afraid concerning the matter. The look on my uncle’s face as we crossed the bridge had been one of resoluteness—not typical of the blustering, swaggering conduct displayed by a 1950s’ surefire conservative. I think he was ashamed. My grandfather was distressed.<br /><br />In the 1950s and 1960s I enjoyed in New York City the fruits of a location which was truly tolerant—at least the most forbearing of any other city I have known since. The Jews, in particular, for all the narrow-mindedness that has been heaped upon them during their history, could profess their “Jewishness” in the open without fear of being attacked for doing so. Jews mingled freely with the Irish, the Germans, the Italians, Puerto Ricans, Afroamericans and all other ethnic groups (cryptic New Yorkers!) living in The Big Apple. Inter-marriages were common. Most of us would not be ashamed to bring a Jewish friend home. The “spy” story was a blow to many who had Jewish friends, and the horror of McCarthyism was blamed for stirring up the basest of feelings of those who were less charitable than others. Some years later my Jewish girlfriend, who I loved very much, sobbed to me about this tragedy. She was terribly despondent about what had happened to Ethel and Julius Rosenberg, and she proclaimed vociferously their innocence to me.<br /><br />I have often felt comfortable with the movement, on the part of Jews worldwide and Israelis in their home, to “rub the human race’s nose” in the accursed acts perpetrated on Jews, the ROM, gay persons and other factions singled out for destruction during the incomparably atrocious Second World War. While perhaps film footage does not authenticate the “6,000,000” number, it does, nonetheless, confirm acts of violence that demand universal condemnation. The Jewish and Israeli communities do well to harp on these massacres for the benefit of humanity. It is disgusting for political organizations to make reference to this calamity as some sort of Zionist plot to increase Jewish and Israeli economic and political hegemony. And it does not surprise me, as repulsive as it might be, that there are Roman Catholic organizations and even prelates, members of a religious body that offered succour to the Nazi regime during the Second World War, who are willing to make biased hay for the “Holy” Mother Church at the expense of another spiritual entity. How low can they go?<br /><br />Nevertheless, it can be argued that the Jews and Israelis exaggerated in their efforts to condemn and, out of feelings of intense grief and justified bawlings for rectitude, compromised their own position in light of the political and economic realities of today. Instead of aligning themselves with the protests of other victims of historically-neglected exterminations, the Jews and Israelis went along alone. History itself has not been kind to the victims (200,000,000) of not only the First and Second World Wars, no one ever thinks about the millions and millions of natives purged by the Europeans in the Americas, the Vietnamese bombed to death by the Northamericans, the African slave trade...an ad infinitum inventory of the revulsions committed by men and women throughout the world’s olden times. The Jews and the Israelis gave the world the impression that their reversal was something more special than the staggering blows executed upon others. They possessed the savvy and means, something maybe the Northamerican Indians did not, to put their case before the world and seek its pity. Many of us offered them compassion. It is a terrible shame that History consigned the efforts of the Jews and Israelis to the heap of so many other human-made catastrophes, and permitted the Jewish holocaust to pale and take its ordinary place among them. “The death of one person is a tragedy, the death of millions is History.” Stalin said that.<br /><br />Our mea culpas for the Jews and Israelis can be grasped still further by analyzing in a more revisionist political sense, not a particularly historically religious one, the post-Second World War dividing up of the spoils of that calamity. Shocked beyond belief, military and political leaders attempted to deal with the catastrophic loss of life and the rubble of bombed-out cities which they surveyed had befallen the European continent. Death and destruction horrified all of us, and still today we carry in our psyches the enormously scarred memories of the deathly twentieth century and the two world wars forever blotting its history. What was to be done? Where was one to begin to reconstruct? Who would have what? How would a continent be rebuilt on the shambles it had twice made of itself? How could it?<br /><br />One would have to distend his or her imagination quite a long stretch to believe that the United States and the United Kingdom had purely sentimental and honourable objectives in their minds when they guaranteed European Jews not only a safe exodus to their promised land, but even the assurance that they would be protected from any hostility that they might encounter during their settlement activities, attempts to fulfil their religious dreams, and then those expectations of establishing the State of Israel. The Jews had come to stay, and they would be sustained militarily, politically, economically and morally by the victors of the Second World War who enjoyed tremendously to wield their newly-discovered global powers.<br /><br />As immediately as the Jews and the soon-to-be Israelis comprehended that their religious and chauvinistic stakes in a sliver of terra firma, more or less half the size of Switzerland, was not appreciated by their Mashreq (Middle East) neighbours, those inhabitants similarly, hastily revolted at the notion that several newly invigorated Western nations were to be the determiners, not them, of the Jews and the not yet Israelis in the centuries-old homelands of an awesome amount of Arab-speaking peoples. This was an intolerable state of affairs. Blood was shed. It continues to be.<br /><br />Having wedged a handful of Hebrews between the Christian world and the Islamic sphere, the exponents of Judeo-Christian “Democratic” Capitalism, shown the way by the soon to be DisUnited Kingdom and the DisUnited States of Northamerica, had put their foot in the entryway of Mashreq, had fortified their turf with a strategy of long duration in mind, and had started in on looking forward to counting on the petroleum reserves in that area which would be needed to fuel their expansionist aspirations brandishing, in one hand, the vicious, dog-eat-dog MBA dogmas of Harvard University and the University of Chicago, and, in the other, the St. James bible. Psychoanalysts describe this as the “double bind” syndrome. Others simply refer to it with the more mundane appellation— two-facedness.<br /><br />It is often commented—frequently by Jews spread out throughout the world and Israelis and Jews suffering markedly in Israel—that the Jews and Israelis are remarkably bright people. That they have been the victors of a fifth of the Nobel prizes, and that this worldwide group of approximately 13,000,000 people, chosen by God (their god!), individuals very often atheistic, is therefore some kind of “untouchable” ethnic group. Not being necessarily arrogant about their knacks, the Jews and Israelis are quick to explain that their gifts have been forged throughout the ages not on account of any particular pre-eminence, but because their minority complexion has compelled them to be sharp in order to survive. So be it. I doubt that Jews and Israelis are outstandingly quick as a group. We all have known some of them who are not clever—are far from being astute. History is replete with races which were astonishingly sophisticated but are no longer with us. Likewise, the Jews and Israelis look as if they, too, might be in grave difficulty attempting to prolong their lineage. They are not a super people. They are not out to get us. They do not control the world’s financial and media institutions. No one does. We are obligated to be of assistance to the Jews and Israelis. We must help them to continue to exist not because of their religion or nationality, but for the reason that they are human beings as all of us are.<br /><br />If the Jews and Israelis have won a fifth of the Nobel prizes, this is not evidence of intellectual dominance. The Nobel is not an IQ test. The award is often influenced by political rationales. Jean-Paul Sartre refused it. Henry “The Carpet Bomber” Kissinger and Mother Teresa are Nobel laureates. One Nobel winner (1921), born into a Jewish family, Albert Einstein, regretted very much his part in the invention of the nuclear energy that would eventually massacre tens of thousands at Nagasaki and Hiroshima and terrorize millions in a protracted Cold War. Still another Jew crowned with a Nobel laurel wreath (1976), Milton Friedman, intimidated hundreds of millions of people, bringing too many of them to the brink of destitution—an E=mc² for them—when he concocted a fruitless economic ideology based on the exploitation of individuals’ toil, an absolute, autocratic aversion to government intervention to assist those in need, one that vied for the “perfection” of the marketplace, hinted that eventually some kind of concentration of economic controls and planning in the hands of a highly intelligent group of people is the best of all economic possibilities available, an economic mafia that did what it could to benefit multinational companies, cultivated a creed which encouraged the use of repression to put into operation the Chicago Boys’ economic policies in at least Chile and Indonesia, and viewed a human being as some sort of homo economicus. He was a mentor to Ronald Reagan and the Iron Lady, Margaret Thatcher. Ironically, he also helped develop a new proximity fuse for anti-aircraft projectiles! A veritable hard-nosed skinflint who set the tone for bankers, financial advisers and stockbrokers to bring the DisUnited States of Northamerica to its knees after an unprecedented spectacle of graft and corruption never recorded in world history previous to nowadays.<br /><br />All Jews and Israelis must consider the following:<br /><br />1. Judeo-Christian “Democratic” Capitalism is a lethal fusion of repugnant inanity and unrepentant malfeasance. It has been that now for more than four-hundred years, and will continue to be so until its last gasping breath. Already this more or less spent system of elitism has become the laughingstock of many throughout the world, and it is especially ridiculed by the three billion human beings who live on two dollars a day. A new DUS president, skimming over the top of this reality with a stiff upper lip and repetitive supplications for rectitude, is not going to alter, substantially, the course this economic shipwreck is pursuing. The ship has been brought to a standstill. Still afloat, it is taking on water. It risks sinking into the nethermost depths of the sea. With the loss of the world’s dominant economic power to cover for it, Israel is also treading in an ever more treacherous territory. Contrary to many buoyant prognostications, the DUS will not stay put at the center of the international economy.<br /><br /><br /><p>2. There are said to be seven hundred DUS military bases scattered throughout the world. While many of these installations seek to cultivate “friendly” rapports within the territories they occupy, the schizoid implication is that, in return, backing for the DUS and its principles is insisted upon. Might is Right! Is it possible that this wide-reaching martial exposure, with military conduits strategically arranged, gives the DUS some tactical gain, or are the DUS’ military forces so spread thin they might be considered by their opponents to be impotent and eventual easy targets? What would happen if Southamerican leaders bonded and again challenged the DisUnited Kingdom over its possession of the Malvinas? Would inebriated Chelsea and Manchester United fans fill up military cruise ships singing “Rule, Britannia!” and sail off towards Southamerica to conquer it? Or, what would happen if hundreds of thousands of Italian left-wingers surrounded Camp Darby in Tuscany, the DUS’s most sizeable deposit of arms outside continental DUS, and chained themselves to railroad tracks to prohibit the delivery of other arms from northern European DUS caches? Would chubby, under the influence “Americans” march off to get the better of Italy again? Or, what would happen if China opted to take back Taiwan? Would pot-smoking “Americans” set off to fight against China’s million plus army? Or, what if all three of these hypothetical incidents occurred at the same time? Or, what about another 9/11? And, will the DUS be able to depend on France, Germany and Italy—hedonistic, arteriosclerotic, marinating in their vulgar hypocrisy, and still shell-shocked from the bloodbaths they participated in during the twentieth century—to rally round the Stars & Stripes’ flagpole? Let’s face it, DUS militarists are mightier bluffers than are DUS capitalists.<br /><br />To my Jewish and Israeli friends I suggest an exit stratagem. A word to the wise should be sufficient. I implore you all to come to your senses and renounce your lost cause that horrifies each day the global community with blood-letting in Israel and Palestine giving mankind the nightmare that there can be no hope for peace on this planet. Your nation is a focal point of hatred for a billion people, and that detestation has been incubating for at least two-hundred years. In Israel, you are a mere seven million constituting one half of the total worldwide Jewish population. What madness makes you think you can continue to exist with such odds clearly against you? What ethical justification do you possess that justifies your continued confrontation which, in turn, causes so much anguish for individuals who are not even your neighbours? What principled concept entitles you to risk the lives of half your people? If you depart from the “promised land,” (the promise of what?), you will relieve a tremendous tension that threatens the world’s security. Further, this act will cause us to respect you. Your choice to relinquish your homeland for the benefit of humanity will not be regarded as a surrender on your part, but a wise move made considering your own restricted options. Such a feat might just save the Jewish and Israel race in Israel from still another mass butchery this time caused by your recalcitrance and conceit. It is impossible for you to count any longer on the DisUnited Kingdom and the DisUnited States of Northamerica. It is time to cease being their pawn. <em>A posse ad esse</em>.<br /><br /><br />Authored by Anthony St. John<br />The Ides of March, MMIX<br />Calenzano, Italia<br /><br /><br /><br /></p>anthony st. johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13340645719618934812noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1328518789406920323.post-10850682200436855382009-03-12T17:43:00.004+01:002009-03-12T18:14:22.852+01:00Proposal to Augment Employment Prospects & Earnings of the Posteitaliane Group<div align="center">A N T H O N Y S T. JOHN<br />Casella Postale 38<br />50041 CALENZANO FI<br />Italia<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />M E M O R A N D U M</div><div align="center"> </div><div align="center">In the interest of: The Honorable Elizabeth Dibble<br />Deputy Chief of Mission in Charge of </div><p> Embassy Affairs During Absence of Ambassador to Italy<br /> The United States’ Embassy<br /> 119/A Viale Vittorio Veneto<br /> 00187 ROMA RM<br /> Italia<br /><br />Coming from: ASJ<br /><br />Date: 15 March 2009<br /></p><p>Subject: Posteitaliane<br /><br /><br />The global economic crisis is affecting the Italian economy more and more. With the failure to realize a <em>Ministero dell’Informazione e Turismo</em>, which would have abetted the organization and consequent efficiency of the drastically declining Italian tourist industry, the nation’s most important commercial concern, higher unemployment figures are about to inflict Italy’s economy even further. To help stem the decline in employment, I wish to make a suggestion to the Posteitaliane which might bring thousands, even tens of thousands, of employment opportunities to suffering Italians: The formation, by the Posteitaliane group, of a franchising business that would lease out the website domains of all Italian zip codes (codici di avviamento postale) to private entrepreneurs who would consequently build their sites, under the auspices of the Posteitaliane, in consideration of the localities where they are positioned throughout the country. The websites would be designed by Posteitaliane and would be their sole property. Franchisers would have the options of boosting their profits via the advertising proceeds they would accumulate from their efforts. Franchisers would also be permitted to include ideas and projects which might enhance the tourism business in their areas. Further, artistic, cultural, social and other events could be published on websites not only for neighboring communities, but also for foreign visitors seeking specific knowledge concerning a particular Italian tourist spot. Posteitaliane, assuming this role, would become a leader not only in affording tourist information, it would also serve as a national unifying force bringing Italian customs and mores not only to other parts of Italy and Europe, but to the entire world. </p>anthony st. johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13340645719618934812noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1328518789406920323.post-21141337508906263892009-02-27T21:42:00.000+01:002009-02-27T21:43:11.449+01:00A Lament for EuropeA Lament for Europe<br /><br />Land of the Setting Sun<br />Caldron simmering in hungering desperation<br />To regain the smacks of the Past.<br />You seek to lunge ahead<br />On the energy of Your logic<br />And hopes not yet lionized.<br />You call upon Your histories<br />To lend strength to Your phantasies.<br />You coil up hard on Your proud self<br />Wrinkled and weather-beaten.<br />You struggle to nurture new flowers<br />On the dry rot of Your haunted memories.<br />Your youth, sniffed upon by strapped canine squads,<br />Rape-hate in Your stadiums<br />Striped with electronic rejoinders<br />To press softly-pliant, gaily-tinged plastic buttons.<br />Your elderly curl their ways to bankrupt health ministries<br />Where physicians fool with forms<br />And fill in football pools.<br />Your neighbors to the East—<br />Brazen, sordid—<br />Yank towards You<br />Roughly extracting for exacting theirs craved for.<br />You, Europe, sit pickled—<br />Soused in the juices of Your scummy heretofore.<br />Your dabblers in politics set flags unfurled<br />And their powers shame—<br />Shame!—<br />This Our world.<br /><br /><br />Anthony St. Johnanthony st. johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13340645719618934812noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1328518789406920323.post-87749256304574480052009-02-27T21:40:00.000+01:002009-02-27T21:41:55.909+01:00Complainte pour L'EuropeComplainte pour L’Europe<br /><br />Terre du Soleil Couchant<br />Grande chaudière bouillonnant en désespoir affamé<br />Pour retrouver les saveurs du Passé.<br />Tu essaies de Te projeter en avant<br />Sur l’énergie de Ta logique<br />Et d’espoirs pas encore idéalisés.<br />Tu invoques Ton histoire<br />Pour fortifier Tes fantaisies.<br />Tu t’accroches serrée à Ton orgueilleux moi<br />Gercé et corrodé par les intempéries.<br />Tu t’efforces de faire pousser de nouvelles fleurs<br />De la putréfaction de Tes mémoires tourmentées.<br />Tes jeunes, flairés par des équipes de chiens en laisse,<br />Violent-haïssent dans Tes stades<br />Trainés avec des allèchements électroniques<br />A presser de tendres et colorés boutons de plastique.<br />Tes vieux serpentent avec fatigue vers des ministères de la santé en ruine<br />Où les médecins s’amusent avec les formulaires<br />Et remplissent des fiches du loto sportif.<br />Tes voisins de l’Est—<br />Arrogants, sordides—<br />S’agrippent à Toi<br />En prétendant rudement ce qu’ils convoitent et leur dû.<br />Toi, Europe, tu es assise embaumée—<br />Imprégnée des jus de Ton méprisable temps qui fut.<br />Tes politiciens amateurs déplient des drapeaux<br />Et leurs pouvoirs font honte—<br />Font honte !—<br />A ce monde qui est Nôtre.<br /><br /><br /><br />Anthony St. Johnanthony st. johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13340645719618934812noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1328518789406920323.post-45375482736576916062009-02-27T21:38:00.001+01:002009-02-27T21:40:23.063+01:00Lamento per l'EuropaLamento per L’Europa<br /><br /><br /><br />Terra del Sole Calante<br />Calderone ribollente in famelica disperazione<br />Per ritrovare i sapori del Passato.<br />Tu cerchi di proiettarti in avanti<br />Sull’energia della Tua logica<br />E di speranze non ancora idealizzate.<br />Tu invochi la Tua storia<br />Per rinvigorire le Tue fantasie.<br />Ti avvinghi stretta al Tuo orgoglioso io<br />Screpolato e corroso dalle intemperie.<br />Ti sforzi di far crescere nuovi fiori<br />Dalla putredine delle Tue tormentate memorie.<br />I Tuoi giovani, annusati da squadre di cani al guinzaglio,<br />Violentano-odiano nei Tuoi stadi<br />Strisciati con allettamenti elettronici<br />A premere morbidi e colorati bottoni di plastica.<br />I Tuoi vecchi serpeggiano stancamente verso ministeri della sanità in rovina<br />Dove i medici si trastullano con i moduli<br />E riempiono schedine del totocalcio.<br />I Tuoi vicini dell’Est—<br />Arroganti, sordidi—<br />Si aggrappano a Te<br />Pretendendo rudemente ciò che bramano e credono dovuto.<br />Tu, Europa, siedi imbalsamata—<br />Impregnata dei succhi del Tuo spregevole tempo che fu.<br />I Tuoi politici dilettanti spiegano bandiere<br />E i loro poteri vergognano—<br />Vergognano!—<br />Questo Nostro mondo.<br /><br /><br />Anthony St. Johnanthony st. johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13340645719618934812noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1328518789406920323.post-26722425803134552642009-02-21T19:41:00.001+01:002009-02-21T19:42:33.442+01:00Poetry by Me, Anthony 10The Death of a Friend<br /><br /><br />Paul is now dead;<br />Eats not his bread.<br />Worms in his head,<br />Churn to be fed.<br /><br />Gas bloats his guts;<br />Ooze muffs his nuts.<br />Grubs suck his butt,<br />Down to a scut.<br /><br />Slime chills his cist;<br />Stench cuts the mist.<br />Clenched are his fists;<br />Spent are his gists.<br /><br />Paul was my friend;<br />Now it’s the end.<br />Sad is my life;<br />Life and its Strife!<br /><br />He was to me,<br />That which was free.<br />He let me know,<br />How I should flow.<br /><br />Paul’s not in sight;<br />That is my plight.<br />Even his fame,<br />Sets low my flame.<br /><br /><br />25 April 1989anthony st. johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13340645719618934812noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1328518789406920323.post-61847192493713705292009-02-21T19:36:00.001+01:002009-02-21T19:37:48.753+01:00Poetry by Me, Anthony 9Adidas ZX 600<br /><br /><br />A state of the art running shoe,<br />Absorbing stress as legs strike;<br />That tenders months of use so true,<br />And fine feelings nearly dovelike.<br /><br />Synthetic suedes set the fashion,<br />And flex points ease curls in tendons;<br />Pre-moulded supports made of nylon;<br />Polyfibers clock shock absorptions.<br /><br />Forefoots designed to give support,<br />To let the jogger feel comfort;<br />And padded collars with soft protect,<br />To offer top runs near perfect.<br /><br />ADIDAS coils me, springs me tall!<br />High to the sky, down to the ground!<br />Zlip-zound, zlip-zound, zlip-zound, zlip-zound—<br />ZX Six-hundred heeds my call!<br /><br /><br />17 July 1987anthony st. johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13340645719618934812noreply@blogger.com0