S.F. Gate's Mark Morford is really pissed at Bush

============= SF GATE MORNING FIX =============
August 1, 2003 -- Adam Duritz is 38 today
By Mark Morford: [email protected]
http://sfgate.com/columnists/morford/a/
"Lube up, lean into the fire, and laugh"
~~ nil desperandum ~~

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NOTE: Vacation time for the Fix, delicious people. Mandatory and
much-needed purge/recharge. Back kneading the psaos muscle of your
in-box on or about August 13. Salud, namaste, etc. --mm
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== MARK'S NOTES & ERRATA ==
Where opinion meets benign syntax abuse

== George W. Bush Means Nothing ==
Note to self: The demons of sour conservatism cannot touch anything
that truly matters. Just FYI
(By Mark Morford)
http://sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/g/a/2003/08/01/notes080103.DTL&nl=fix

You cannot reach me, Dubya.

Go ahead, ya smirkin' Texas lug, stumble around all scrunched and blank
eyed and pseudo-manly, shove this country into a bloody unwinnable war
and lie about all the reasons why, gouge the economy and ruin the
schools and embarrass the nation every single day as you mangle grammar
and meaning and truth. It doesn't really matter.

Go ahead, toss those useless $400 rebate checks to the depressed and
jobless populace as some sort of bogus humanitarian gesture as you
quietly force an increase in their property taxes to pay for your
record-breaking deficit brought on by the tax cut no one wants. Ha. You
are so cute.

http://sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/n/a/2003/07/29/financial0955EDT0044.DTL

There is so much more going on than you know. There is so much deeper
understanding and wider knowledge and higher winking and you can't
touch any of it. Do you know this? You need to know this.

You and your brethren are like this sticky toxic mist. You will burn
off in the sun of awareness and orgasm and breath. This is what makes
it so fun to watch, so magical and visceral, such a divine circus, a
rich tragicomic pageant. Do you sense it?

By all means, public hack away at the Clean Air Act so it allows
millions more pounds of pollutants into the air every year. Slam gays
and women's rights and call everyone in the country a "sinner," cut
funding for AmeriCorps and the arts and the poor and nature
conservation. Wow. The universe is so very proud. Do you hear it
laughing? You're not even making a dent.

http://www.savethecleanairact.org/
http://sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/n/a/2003/07/31/national0821EDT0509.DTL&nl=fix

See, you cannot touch us. We are inured. You are merely hollow and sad
and quickly, effortlessly forgettable the minute we step outside or get
into bed with our lovers or laugh with friends or scream to the sky the
lyrics to "Ballroom Blitz," always, always striving to taste the
intense flavors of the collective dream state.

What, too vague? Too namby-pamby new-age tofu-licking pro-sex liberal?
Too bad.

Because there is more meaning and content and depth and significance in
a lover's moan and in a drop of wine and in a dog's wag than in
anything you can conjure in your homophobic faux-cowboy Lynne
Cheney-thick dream, honey. Get over yourself. We are on to you. We know
you are made of nothing but spin and frantic gesticulations and scowls.
Poke a finger into you and out pours only sawdust and sighs.

Hello, Senator Lott. You want to stick it to the environment, do you?
Lick the tailbones of your corporate cronies in the auto industry and
kill that recent bill that would've mandated a reasonable increase in
fuel efficiency for thuggish belching SUVs in about 12 years?

http://sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/n/a/2003/07/29/national1741EDT0723.DTL&nl=fix

You wish, instead, to snicker and sneer and give not one crap for the
planet or our nation's terrorism-inducing dependency on petrochemicals?
Kill that bill, senator. You go. Toss a bone to your Detroit pals. That
is so sweet. Here's a karmic Post-It note: The gods would like you to
right now realize, you have zero true effect. Barely a footnote. A
blip. A flicker of quick pain and then poof, gone. Very sorry.

How about you, RIAA? You want a piece? You want to bitch and moan and
attack individual music fans with your snide lawsuits and desperate
paranoia and come scour my iTunes library and find out how I got my
hands on free MP3s of the new Metallica and AFI and burned all that
glorious chill electronica from Net-radio broadcasts using my glorious
copy of RadioLover? Here is my phone number: 555-LICK. Bring it.

http://www.wired.com/n/digiwood/0,1412,59785,00.html
http://www.bitcartel.com/radiolover

Here is my porn collection. Here are my divine sex toys and my
lubricants and my leather strappy things and my collection of happy
open-minded perversions and my active account at Blowfish.com and my
tattoos and piercings and love of massage oil and vibrators and things
that go ooooh in the night. Come on over, Mr. Ashcroft, I have
something to show you.

You see, I know you're there, all of you. Sour politicians and
conniving Wal-Mart execs and desperate reality-TV creators and
gluttonous SUV manufacturers and poisonous garbage-food purveyors and
all-'Murkin homophobes and the dumbed-down lowest common denominators
and lip-twitching hyper-religious crusaders and anti-everything GOP
lizard people, Rummy and Rove and Rice and Ashcroft and Dick, et al. I
see you. We see what you are trying to do.

We feel you seething and churning and eating away at the soft rainbow
underbelly of the culture, feeding on the weak and the poor and the
ignorant, doing your utmost to lower the collective vibration and
thinking you are somehow all-powerful and significant and invincible,
the center of the sociocultural universe, when in fact you are but a
strange and banal rash on the ass of time.

I know you want to shut us down. I know you would love nothing more
than if all resistance was mowed under and all perversions were
bleached dead and all nuanced questioning of your malicious
antihumanitarian agenda was numbed to the point of blind flag-waving
psychopatriotism born of fear and misinformation and photos of the
bloody mutilated bodies of Saddam's demon sons. Damn, you try *so
hard.*

I have news. I have a revelation. It is timeless and ageless and
nothing new and I hold no claims to it, but it needs to be repeated and
shouted and deeply felt again and again and again, because sometimes
you get a little out of control.

Here it is: You are immaterial. You are of zero nutritional value and
are indigestible like corn and just pass right through. Do you
understand?

There is so much more going on down here than is dreamt of in your
bitter and small-minded philosophy. I, and millions like me, sense a
more luminous undercurrent, a wider spiritual lens, a richer sensual
mother lode.

We know that no matter how much you pule and spit and hiss and spank
and crack down, no matter how many laws and how many restrictions and
how many wars and murders and stabs at the heart of meaning and sex and
divinity, you cannot touch what really matters, you cannot really have
any lasting effect.

Oh, it might seem like you do. You can make daily life very grating and
tiresome and make people sick with your chemicals and desperate with
your slashing of jobs and guilt ridden with your hammering sin and pain
and guns and fear.

We watch you spin and hype and rage and scrunch your face in intense
bogus prayer aimed at your bitter and self-righteous and homophobic God
as your testes wither and weep. Man, have you got *gall.*

http://sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/g/a/2003/07/18/notes071803.DTL&nl=fix

Maybe this gives you the illusion of power and control. Maybe this makes
you feel all phallic and handsome and virile as if your toupee isn't
rank and askew and your slacks wrinkled and your children in rehab and
your sexless wife popping Zoloft like M&Ms. Titter.

But here's the thing: You affect only the surface of things. You are
like the little swarm of gnats you have to pass through on the path to
the cool summer lake. You are the tainted oyster in the vast ocean of
time and sex and love. You are a jagged pothole on the highway to hell
and the broken step on the stairway to heaven. But you are not real.
You give no light. You contribute nothing. Not where it matters.

But please, by all means, keep trying. Keep ripping away at the rich
dense frantic fabric of this gorgeous inexplicable life. You represent
all the dark threads, the ugliness and the tension and the low
vibration and you are necessary to remind anyone who's paying attention
of what to watch out for, what to methodically purge, what to use as
easy leverage to vault forward.

Look. You cannot reach me. You are nowhere near. You have no true power
and no true connection and have yet to make any sort of splash in the
calm lake of open-thighed soul.

But it's OK. We understand. After all, as the saying goes, the
graveyards are full of indispensable men. And the divine only smiles,
licks its lips, and shimmies on.


---------------------------------------------------------
== THE MEDIA SKEW ==
Fertile weeds from the savage garden of the SF Gate newswires

== Hey Look Here's Some WMD Right Here In My Ass Wow ==
An adviser to the CIA hinted that U.S. and coalition personnel were
close to a breakthrough in the search for weapons of mass destruction
in Iraq, ha ha ha yeah right snicker. David Kay, the agency's special
adviser for the weapons search, who apparently replaced the dozens of
experts and scientists and military personnel and UN inspectors and
entire teams of searchers all of whom found nothing after months of
searching, said "solid progress" was being made and that Iraqi
scientists involved in the weapons programs are "collaborating and
cooperating." "We are very, very close to fabricating just enough utter
BS and cobbling together just enough bogus planted data along with
finally finishing up with our secret night shipments of nuclear and
chemical weaponry from Israel and Pakistan and the U.S. and planting
them as bogus evidence all over Baghdad that we might finally be able
to concoct some lame half-assed "proof" of WMD, so BushCo can say see?
See? We didn't actually go to war and massacre thousands and get
hundreds of U.S. soldiers killed for our vicious petrochemical
connections and military portfolios," he might've added, sucking down
his eighth Martini and wondering just how the hell his life came to
this. "Oh my freaking God do they think you are dumb. I mean, wow."
http://sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/n/a/2003/07/31/national1346EDT0607.DTL&nl=fix

== "Kill Them," He Hissed. "Kill Them All!" ==
Retired Adm. John Poindexter will resign his position at the Pentagon
after the uproar over a project he was overseeing that included a kind
of futures market on violence and terrorism in the Middle East. Why,
(you might ask yourself), is this is the very same Adm. John Poindexter
who had spearheaded that completely, violently evil Total Information
Awareness (TIA) mega-database project for the government? The one that
would've tracked every keystroke and phone call and email and web link?
Why yes! Yes it is! Isn't that cute? Because Poindexter is apparently
this incredibly deranged and mildly psychotic mutant nutball who is
much like that one rogue Russian general in that old James Bond movie
with the knife-throwers and the nukes; or maybe he's the psycho monkey
general played by Tim Roth in "Planet of the Apes" where he's always
seething and burning and aching to rip out someone's intestines with
his teeth and his eyes are always lowered and slitted and he's always
murmuring about how we must exterminate all enemies and launch another
war and cleanse the population and it's always related to his miserable
skills with women. "Gambling on terrorism? Damn, that *is* a little
odd! I am so sorry! Wow! What was I thinking?" Poindexter said, between
gritted teeth, as you could hear his hard, scraping breathing just
underneath, as if he was chewing on sandpaper and glass and he would
like nothing better than to strangle everyone in the room with his bare
bony callused hands. "We shall meet again, Kirk!" he hissed, weirdly,
before dashing off, as reporters sort of stood there for a moment,
stunned, and then looked at each other as if to say, whoa.
http://sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/n/a/2003/07/31/national1727EDT0705.DTL&nl=fix