November 2002 Archives

Before I plunge this blog into a hot bath of sober reality, which I must occasionally do to prevent an icy corona of ironic cynicsm from hardening around my readers, freezing both their minds and hearts from the horrible realities of the world around them, I'd like to share some delightful news! Roger has returned to me! Apparently, his attempt to sell his tell-all memoir to some of the sleaziest book editors in New York failed. He says it's because no one cares about me anymore, but I say it's because the public has had enough homophobic redbaiting for one decade. One's private life should be one's own, unless you get a blowjob from an intern in the White House and, to cover up your sins, strangle your best friend Vince Foster to death on a foggy night in a park along the Potomac.

Oh, how I look forward to dinner Thursday night! Roger killed a deer with his bare hands while on the road, and we're having venison haunch with fresh juniper berries! Hurrah!

Now then. Those of you who read this space regularly know of the esteem in which I hold the Bill of Rights. That's why, (and here the character lifts until after the holiday), President Bush's Total Information Awareness program, if enacted, would be a shameful, Soviet-style intrustion on the dignity of not only the American people, but the entire world. A certain stereotypically liberal organization has been encouraging people to send the President a letter telling him that this program is evil, and it is wrong. Deliver care of George W. Bush at the White House. This madness, too, shall end, and you'll be glad you spoke out before it became illegal to do so. Tell 'em Neal sent you. Have a happy holiday, everyone. I'll post again Monday, December 1.

God Bless America,

NP

Over the last five days, since I announced the creation of the Beagles, I've received hundreds of requests for a mascot, a symbol, an image that people who want to belong to the Beagle Network of America (BNA), can put on their websites to identify their allegiance with our noble cause and way of life. Well, here he is! Behold Hercules! While he is, technically, a Boston Terrier and not a beagle, he's still my dog and he's awfully adorable. Just look at those eyes. He obviously exemplifies the values that we hold dear.

To change the subject subtly, I've been puzzled by the whining coming out of the dangerous left/liberal camp about Admiral John Poindexter's Total Information Awareness program. After all, I know the Admiral very well, from our days in Quantico, and I can assure you that he has the best interests of white people at heart. A man like Poindexter is valuable in this time of total war, of a menace that creeps under your house and sucks out the brain of your children, whose tendrils threaten everything we love, and also Jews.

There is nothing to fear from Admiral Poindexter. Look at the website for the Information Awareness Office. Now tell me. What's creepy about that? The world is being watched, as always, by a giant eye coming out of a pyramid. So? The services that the DARPA Corporation (all hail DARPA! Hail! Hail!) are just and friendly ones. I've always wanted someone to invent "large, distributed repositories with dynamic schemas that can be changed interactively by users." And it's about time someone integrated "story telling, change detection, and truth maintenance." After all, in times like these. someone has to maintain the truth. So why not hire a patriot like John Poindexter and allow him to operate in secret with unlimited funds? What the hell? Why not?

If you still have doubts, look at this graphic of Project Genoa, one of the many innovative strategic strategies developed by DARPA, all hail DARPA! It "provides the structured argumentation, decision-making and corporate memory to rapidly deal with and adjust to dynamic crisis management," and doesn't look like a mushroom cloud at all, does it? Right? Are you still concerned? Then gaze again upon our mascot, Hercules.

Aww. Hercules is so cute. Why, I haven't got a care in the world!

As you may have read on Friday, and should read immediately below this post, there is a new name for the new category of political thought shared by my 256,540 readers. We are Beagles! Loyal, true, and prone to howling at the slightest noise or provocation. And I have written a song that you must teach to your children. Post the lyrics on your mantle for the day when I come to visit you in your home. I will visit each and every one of you, I promise. Now sing with me:

We are the Beagles!

Long and strong and proud!

We are the Beagles!

Our voices are quite loud!

We will destroy our enemies

Like Krugman, Raines and Dowd

'Cause we are the Beagles!

Long and strong and proud!

We will multiply our minions

With the strength of our opinions!

For we are the Beagles!

Long and strong and proud!

Thanks to your help, my friends, I have named our movement. No longer will those artificial divisions between East Coast and West Coast rap, Bronco fan and Raider fan, innie and outie, plague our national discourse. As I said here more than a week ago, there's a new girl in town. And she's feeling good. America will never be 100 percent exactly the same again.

I've received literally thousands of suggestions, many of them unprintable, but many others quite excellent. But I cannot use them all, because then where would we be? No. I have decided to go with the name provided me by my old Oxbridge drinking buddy Jim Arndorfer.

From now on, we will call ourselves Beagles.

Why Beagles, you ask? Well, Beagles perfectly represent our philosophy, in so many ways. Let me run down just some of the characteristics of the Beagle. Studies show that 90 percent of my readers share 90 percent of these characteristics. Read carefully. The eerie similarities will make your spine tingle, or at least jingle.

Beagles:

--Are subservient to the dominant authority.

--Believe in pre-emptive bombing campaigns, particularly if it means stopping the Red Baron from building weapons of mass destruction.

--Have big cute floppy ears.

--Like getting it from behind.

--Think that 8 Mile represents a great leap forward in the culture, no matter what the Berkeley-based mandarins of political correctness would have you think.

--Don't care if the government reads their email.

--Would never leave their master and write a tell-all book that was full of lies.

--Have conflicted opinions about the Catholic Church, which they will tell you about in long, incomprehensible essays published by magazine editors who owe them nearly-forgotten favors.

--Conduct "straight-talk" discussions in a "no-spin" zone.

--Are of the opinion that the "Sea Change" album proves once and for all that Beck is more than just a talented ironist.

And that's just the beginning. If you have more Beagle characteristics, you know where to email them, as the liveliest discussion on today's Inter-net is only beginning to boil.

In other news, go here to find out about my latest literary feud. If, per my new archenemy's suggestion, you want to bathe with me, I'm taking appointments.

Also, an extremely valuable Pollack-related item is now available on EBay. Bidding starts at $10.

Now word arrives that my previously missing beleagured manservant Roger has surfaced in New York City, where, with the help of MY agent, he's circulating the manuscript of a roman a clef titled, "Confessions Of A Beleagured Manservant." I've obtained a copy of this manuscript, and it's full of lies. While I realize that in this space I've often approved of lying, or, as I put it, "a little B.S. now and then," to achieve certain state-policy, military, or domestic-spying objectives, this is different. I believe that "modest fibbing" is sometimes necessary to protect national security, or to promote free-market economics and democracy conducted in the English language. But personal calumny is unacceptable.

Let me detail, in detail, Roger's deceptions. They are many. And they are wrong.

1. On the eve of the 2000 Presidential election, at a party in Washington, I did not ask Roger to poison Robert Reich's dessert.

2. I never called Chris Matthews "a pointy-headed Malthusian."

3. I did not "repeatedly force" Roger to unglue my testicles from the bathroom floor. That happened only once, and it was for a summer party game thrown by the International Teabagging Association.

4. There is absolutely no physical evidence of my sexual relationship with Senators Barbara Mikulski of Maryland and John Kerry of Massachussets. Thank god.

5. I have never visited Japan, and certainly not at the paid invitation of a shadowy pharmaceutical corporation that intends to
dump a powerful mind-control drug into the world's water supply.

6. Jonathan Franzen, in my opinion, is not "a spineless pussy."

7. Once, while in Rome, I did NOT dangle Roger from a hotel balcony while shrieking "look at my beleagured manservant!"

8. I challenge anyone to find documents that indicate the establishment of a dummy think-tank to jack up my lecture fees and increase the frequency of my television appearances.

9. In many countries, forcing live animals to wear sailor costumes is not a crime.

10. A terrible darkness is not descending upon the earth, choking the oxygen out of the skies and turning our fragile bones to dust while sucking our souls into a bottomless eternal void.

If this book ever gets published, and if you ever buy it, remember what I've written here today. Tell your friends the identity of the true victim. For it is I.

I would like to announced that Bravo has picked up the option for my own reality TV show, American Author. In the highly-original format, twenty-five hopeful young novelists write a chapter every week, with exponential eliminations by a panel consisting of myself, former New Yorker books editor Bill Buford, and Paula Abdul. Our final two contestants will complete their novels as the nation watches. The winner gets their novel published. The loser has to move in with Jonathan Safran Foer.

This information comes not out of a self-publicizing impulse, but rather as part of an ongoing discussion as to why "The Bachelor" has so entranced America. Today, both The Washington Post and The New York Times attempt to answer that question in a high-handed manner? But to me, the show's unique appeal comes down to this: Who among us haven't dreamt of being made love to in a cheesy pre-fab Aspen condo by an intellectually-stunted, socially-coddled mama's boy?

Initially, when the show's producers rejected my videotape, saying I was "too handsome" and "too perceptive" and, "quite frankly, too dangerous," to be The Bachelor, I balked. But then I realized their judgment was sound. For I have never sought a wife. I was just looking for some hot tang, and for clues to help me navigate the current L.A. pickup scene. The Bachelor they DID choose, Aaron McGillicuddy, is perfect. We need semi-sincere guys like him, because then playas like me and Nelly can swoop in after him and sniff out the wet panties.

So no matter who Aaron picks tonight in the most shocking rose ceremony yet, whether it be Lana, the dark-haired beauty with a mysterious past, or Chloe, the spunky blond newspaper editor, I'll be satisfied. For the show has provided a needed respite from the news. We need mindless sexist diversion right now, particularly with Osama bin Laden's return. I bet Nancy Pelosi thinks Osama would make a perfect Bachelor. Don't you?

One of the many things I did during the very full weekend (New York AND L.A.) just past was take in the new Eminem film, "8 Mile." I must admit that before the movie, I wasn't that familiar with Mr. Eminem. To me, Slim Shady might as well have been a brand of pantyhose. I went to see the movie because I'm a fan of the director Curtis Hanson. I loved his previous work in L.A. Confidential, featuring a trio of the greatest actors of our time, Kevin Spacey, Russell Crowe, and Danny DeVito. His other movies, The Joy Luck Club and The Boys From Brazil, are also among my all-time favorites.

But it was Eminem's performance, and his brilliant rhyming, that entranced me, from the hardscrabble realism of the opening-credit sequence to the thrilling interracial rap showdown at the end. Rarely has a movie shown interracial friendships in such a positive and realistic light. My black friends and I often have the wittiest conversations on so many wonderful topics. Also, Brittany Murphy is quite a piece of cooze. Whooo!

That said, I don't know why Eminem gets attacked so frequently, and with so much bile, by our pundit class. Witness the whiff of desperation that permeates Garth Vakharian's vicious assault on him in Slate. Well, Garth, when you say that Eminem's lyrics spread "the most vile forms of homophobia and misogyny," aren't you being un-American, like most people who hate America? The War on Terror needs to be fought on all fronts, and Eminem is our supreme cultural product, not to mention the most brilliant lyricist and songcrafter of our time, if not all time. Those who go after Eminem go after me, and therefore go after all that is good and right and reasonable in this world.

On a somewhat sadder note, I returned home yesterday morning after a rather dreary red-eye from California to find that my beloved manservant Roger had left. The closet in his small, cold, dark basement room was empty, the bed stripped bare, the food bowl for his beloved cat, Mr. Hitchens, piled high, as though master would be gone for a long, long time. Not only am I heartbroken, but I'm also hungry. There's nothing in this damn house to eat for breakfast. Roger, if you're reading this, I'm sorry for whatever I did. I'll even raise your pay $70 per week. All is forgiven on this end if it's forgiven on yours. Please come back, and bring pomegranates.

Has anyone seen my garage-door opener?

JS Van Buskirk: The Stag Party, The People For Mass Destruction, Self-Righteous Assholes In Favor Of Thought Control, Fascism Now!, American Bitches For Justice.

Robert Green: Landmine Layers of the Free World, Abraham Lincoln Brigade 2: The Quickening, Ex-Iran Contrarians United.

Robert also suggested "Imperial Cum Bath," but I informed him that I would never print the words "Imperial Cum Bath" on this website.

Ziska: The Large, High-fiber, Firm but not Painful Moral Movement. Eat your Moral Bran!

The Hon. Rev. Animus Poole: One Nation Asleep Under A Bush.

Now, people, these are all very witty, but I sense a strong anti-American undertone. Remember that my initial suggestion was Anacondas For the American Way. It suggests strength and guile and an American Way. Please frame future suggestions accordingly. Remember that a soupcon of sugar helps the medicine go down.

But a weekend ago, I sounded the clarion call of democracy to my readers, and they responded in tens, even dozens. We have entered a new age in American history, and, by extension, in the history of the world. Artificial divisions, such as those between light-skinned black and white, English-speaking Hispanic and Anglo, bisexual and bicurious, need to be replaced by a new category, or, as the Clinton-loving New Age set might say it, a new paradigm. There will be so-called intellectuals like James Traub , or, as I call him, the Traubosaur, who still believe that it's important to get the French point of view on certain matters of state, but the members of this new movement know different. Let's run down the list of suggested names so far.

My personal choice was Anacondas For the American Way, which has the name of both my home country and a predatory snake. But I am by no means betrothed. Dennis Lensing, who appears to be employed at the Texas State Library, suggested either The Lemurs of Liberation or The Lemmings of Liberation. Not bad, Dennis.

Shaz Sheibani, from Good Magazine, which I believe is Canadian in origin, writes,

"a) I'd like to suggest Tarantulas of Teabagging but I think those spiders have hairy backs, so I won't.

b) What happened to the rabid pro-war stance turning into a rabid anti-war stance? There hasn't been this much flip-flopping since that goldfish at the end of Faith No More's 'Epic' video."

To answer your question, Shaz, my anti-war stance was brought on by a sudden case of dementia crossed with yellow fever which I picked up in a fourth-rate Afghan hospital that didn't take my insurance. Upon returning to my home country, I drank a Jamba Juice with a vitamin C booster and was instantly healed. Then I remembered Osama bin Laden rattling on about America and its "Satanic fruit-based health drinks," and my politics were back to normal.

Blimat, witty and helpful as always, suggests, "The Republican Guard," while a new reader, Gilman, says, "I've waited my whole life to live in a one-party country and applaud you on your efforts to push us in that direction. My suggestion is The Corpses of Democracy."

The name of this new movement will be announced soon, possibly as soon as Friday. I am still taking suggestions. Meanwhile, I pay special homage to another new reader, CN Parm, also of Texas. He gave me a really long list, and I close today with it, even though some of his names are distinctly un-American. Because of a glitch in my blog software, the names all run together, but I kind of like the way they look. Think of what follows as a lost Amiri Baraka poem.

The Clenched Sphincters of America
The League of Bush
Invertebrates for Victory
The Throbbing Penises of Righteousness
Projectile Vomit Over Baghdad
The John Ashcroft Coalition for Sexual Freedom
The Army of Onan
The Fighting Tapeworms
Sons of Quayle
The Screaming Wussies
Pervs on the March
Nosepickers for Vigilance
SUV Owners for Chaos
The Paul Wolfowitz Revolutionary Brigade
The International Federation of Belligerent Shits
Veterans of Irrational Wars
The Partnership for Intense Pain
The Dick Cheney Foundation for Global Paranoia
The Fuck-em-all Society
Deranged Sociopaths for Democracy
The Movement for Fecal Liberation
The Legion of Stumphumpers
Pencil-Necked Geeks for a Stronger Defense
The Donald Rumsfeld School for Development of the Manly Arts
The Association for the Advancement of Reactionary Crap
Friends of Drool
Yuppies United for the Bombing of Population Centers

"But enough of this organizational shit," he says. "On to Basra."

Amen.

Reading Saddam Hussein's letter to the United Nations is a little like trying to clean the puke out of a bus station toilet, but far less appetizing, and in many ways even more unpleasant because at least if you're at the bus station you can go have a beer after work, whereas it's kind of bad form to drink in the U.N. Commisary.

All of Hussein's signature insanities are there: The references to "rivers of blood," the tacit language that reveals his secret alliance with the French, his predilection for the term "titty twisting." Has the world ever faced a moral monster so immoral, or so monstrous? This man is Jeffrey Dahmer crossed with Hannibal Lecter, with Benedict Arnold's balls. He is the creeping evil virus in our souls, Monica Lewinsky's blue dress draped over Chandra Levy's corpse in Vince Foster's grave, the black night threatening to blot out the glorious sun that is the Bush Presidency. Hoo-boy, do I hate him! And don't the sweaty-fingered losers who cheered for Mondale at the Wellstone rally (where's your candidate now, people? Huh? Huh? Huh? Huh? Huh? Huh?) feel stupid? Your dead senator wanted to stop this war, Minnesota. But now nothing can stop us.

The bright, clear light of the Iraq situation leds me to propose a new category of political thought. The outdated, artificial division in American politics between right and left, Republican and Democrat, those who want to defend democracy from our enemies and those who would rather have our country sink into a free-spending quagmire of weak multiculturalist feel-good appeasment, needs to be replaced.

So join my school, people. Because if you're reading this blog, I know you agree with me on so many things, like the mandatory detention of all Americans of Arab descent, tolerance for those who enjoy unusual but still legal sexual practices like teabagging, the dissolution of the Senate, and the immediate cancellation of the television program Ed. I propose we call ourselves the Lions of Truth.

Wait, that sounds too much like Haile Selassie, a man who was evil and also black. How about the Tigers of Justice? No, there's the Tamil Tigers and the Detroit Tigers to consider. How about Anacondas for the American Way?

I kind of like the last one. But I won't name this new movement without your help. The interactivity of this blog will continue. Name my political movement. Help me. Together we can wipe out dissent forever. No men with hairy backs, please.

As you know, my novel "The Adventures of Huckleberry Zinn" recently was short-listed for the Booker Prize even though I am, technically, not eligible to win the Booker. But my reputation is such in Britain that my books are automatically short-listed, and every five years, I win. The book was also nominated for the National Book Award on the strength of a powerful marketing campaign and I know all the judges. Yet it's being besmirched in some corners. Let me explain.

As you all know by now, in my novel, an orphan boy without a past, Huckleberry Zinn, befriends a black man named Pete. Together they build a raft and sail down the Mississippi River, where they encounter many wonderful characters, including a college kid who's trying to de-pollute the river and always gets profiled on television. About a third of the way through, our heroes are nearly killed by a band of ghost pirates, but are fortunately saved by a large cartoon shark with a high-pitched voice. The shark joins them on the raft, along with his friend, a top-hat wearing cat who tells them they can call him TC, as long as they do it with dignity. It's a highly original work that blends the tragic and the comic with seamless grace.

Well, now those fucking Brazilians are after me again. Noted Brazilian book critic Astrud Ipanema has claimed that my book is, in fact, a word-for-word copy of Jorge Amado's 1973 novel "Gabriela, Clove, and Talking Shark On A Raft." That is complete nonsense. I've never heard of that book. Wait, actually, I recall reading a Philip Roth review when it came out, but I quickly tore up that issue of the NYTBR because I didn't have an article in it.

As for the "word for word copy" crap, I don't speak Portugese, and I fired my Portugese translator years ago. My work resonates along the corridors of Western myth, which has an extensive talking-shark literature going back to Orestes, who wrote an obscure play called "Medea Vs. Jabberjaws." As recently as the 1600s, John Donne wrote, "Oer muted hill my balls doth break/for talking shark/doth take the cake." As for my book's ending, where the legendary Brazilian band Os Mutantes shows up to play a surprise concert for the hero's birthday, well, that's simply a coincidence.

I don't want to create another international literary incident, especially after my narrow escape from the French book prison Chateau D'If, but I cannot continue to have my reputation smeared across the continents. I love the Brazilians, from the beautiful women on the beach to the noble savages of the Orinoco basin to those glue-sniffing children in the fetid slums of Sao Paolo. But I would never steal from their inferior literature.

The best readers on the web continue to send in fascinating questions and comments, threatening to turn this into a pop-culture website. But we must not lose track of the fact that we are winning the war of the war of ideas against Islamofascism, a victory made palpable by the lawful Republican seizure of Congress. Death to the Iraqi tyrant! Now, the matter at hand.

Adam Boysen asks:

"I do not know who Avril Lavigne is. Does this make
me more punk or less punk? Also, if I find out who
she is, or hear one of her song performed will I
become more or less punk then I am now?"

The less you know, Adam, the more punk you are. That is the first rule of punk, I think, at least according to this book I've got here, "The Rules of Punk," by Lenny Kaye.

A new correspondent, Jerry Kruwl, chimes in, "I believe this discussion lends too much gravity to a form of musical expression that, like prog rock, psych rock, country rock, folk rock, cock rock, and many others, is at best a media invention and at worst a divisive right-wing ploy. It's easy to lose sight of the Big Picture and what's really at stake when we are all too busy trying to reconcile our unspoken love for "Son of a Son of a Sailor" and the new Eclipse with our alpha-position in the garage rock scene.

And I know I'm not just speaking for myself here.

I've never been a master of the metaphor, so I'll let my friend, mentor, and ex-lead vocalist "Dirty" Davey paint the picture that a thousand of my words could never express. Here is the heart of the matter, Davey says: "Let me tell you man, punk rock was a fucking speed bump in the road of rock and roll and everyone needs to get back to what rock is all about, rock is about Chuck Berry and pissing on a white girl in the bathtub."

So the real question is, "Is Ms. Lavigne Rock and Roll, much less 'punk'?"

That is a good question, Jerry. But I've decided to teach my rock class according to the Socratic method here, which is much easier than having my own ideas. So I ask my readers to ask this question of themselves, and to get back to me if they feel like it, which they probably don't.

Finally, Jesse Hicks asks, "How much blame do you bear for the spectacular flame-out of the Democratic party in the recent midterm elections?"

Well, Jesse, my fault is negligible. I've been warning the Democrats for months that their cowardly inaction regarding the War On Terror would lead to the loss of a couple of Senate seats. It's obvious to me that George W. Bush, above all human beings alive, understands the importance of wiping out our enemies using the maximum amount of force possible. To disagree with his stance is to run the risk of appeasement. And those who appease the appeasers with the slanderous term "chickenhawk" are obviously not serious people.

Adam Boysen has another question.

"Do you think Black Flag were hippies?"

No, Adam. They didn't smell good enough to be hippies.

It became apparent to me, upon my return from the Middle East, that many of my readers were thrown off by my inquiry into the punk-rockness of Canadian songbird Avril Lavigne. Well, let me answer some of your questions here, and let me open up my email box for a discussion of the true nature of punk rock,. It's easier, sometimes, to print other people's letters than come up with original content yourself.

I toil for you, people, and you don't appreciate me. Oh, sure, you think I'm your funny dancing monkey who will be around forever, but someday, this monkey won't dance no more. And then what will you do?

Our Atlanta correspondent, JS Van Buskirk, had this to say on our topic at present: "If Avril LaVigne, or her handlers, sincerely desire to present a fundamental anti-Britney force, they are going about it all wrong.

Canadians don't usually make this mistake vis a vis America, but Avril has forgotten that self-definition through stated opposition invariably reinforces the essential strengths of the supposed enemy. Many de-colonized areas continue to suffer under a legacy of conquered identity and mirror-image governments cast in the spiritual mold of the the physically-ousted colonizing government. In a related operation of the same mechanism, Democrats and Republicans are able to maintain a cooperative stranglehold on American politics through conscious and choreographed "conflict". By defining herself as an "Anti-Britney", Avril LaVigne can achieve only one of only two things:

1] Remaining an eternal also-ran.

2] Toppling Britney from dominance, only to find that her success forces her to wear fewer, tighter clothes and hire cheesier production staff in order to secure her power over the newly-conquered Britney-fed drones -- a la Machiavelli's advice that those newly in power must immediately take swift, violent, and immoral action for the greater aim of secure government.

So, Avril LaVigne is not punk. If she would like to try to be more punk, there is only punk or punk not, there is no TRY, but she might consider sleeping outside, kicking random strangers in the ass, and quitting giving a crap what Britney Spears is, says, and or does."

Thank you, JS.

Leonard Pierce, one of my confused but willing-to-learn readers, asks, "Avril Lavigne. Is that a "punk rock" way of spelling "April Levine", or is it some kind of Canadian thing? Or what?"

Good question, Leonard. If Avril Lavigne is Jewish, I'm going on tour with her. Miracle me!

Jim Ruland of Los Angeles goes deep into the punk canon to ask, "Now that she's no longer a lude-popping jizzpot, will banging Belinda Carlisle in the back of her Expedition while listening to the Weirdos help my punk rock street cred, or is it simply too late?"

A prize to anyone who can deconstruct Jim's ironic sub-referencing, but I will say this: How do you know, Jim, that Belinda Carlisle isn't a lude-popping jizzpot anymore? The grapevine says otherwise.

Finally, Kenan Hebert of Austin, TX, far more thoughtful than he needs to be on this topic, writes, "In regards to Avril Lavigne. I think the tacit consensus is pretty firmly against her being punk rock. You're not exactly out on the fringes on this one. You knew that, though.

On to the real question. What is punk rock? Punk rock is The Sex Pistols, or course, but it's also the Stooges, and the Seeds, and the Monks. It's not in the mall, but it's usually not in your living room, either. It's an ethos, and it exists in its true form only at the edge of whatever culture it comes out of, at the drop-off point, at the edge of the map where they've printed, "Here there be dragons." The Austin scene, ever full of "punk rock," is only proof of how difficult it is to create real punk rock. Everyone around here seems to think punk is a sound. It isn't. It's the negation of a sound. If I wanted to create punk rock nowadays, I think I might start with deconstructing what passes for punk rock. I couldn't do it by deconstructing the music though -- that's soooo 1978 -- but I could do it by deconstructing the driving forces behind it. Punk rock is partly about being pissed, and new punk rock should start with being pissed at old punk rock.

You have to be careful, though, not to lapse into easy irony. Punk rock is not about irony, or mocking. Punk rock must be sincere and direct.

It's a problem, as you can see. But there's this: you have to be pissed, you have to tear down something arrogantly established, you have to do it in a new way, and you have to mean it, and probably even feel it. That's punk rock."

Keep it ethical, Kenan, that's what I say. You're SO straight-edge, though that may only be because you can't afford drugs. But because of you, now this conversation is really rolling. Readers! I implore you! Send in questions and comments. Provide examples of phony punk in contemporary life. Together, we will piss away the culture, and 25 years from now, some leechy journalist will do an oral history of our lives. Send all messages, as always, to npblog@aol.com.

Now get back to work. As must I. Tomorrow, I will begin my investigation into how and why the government ordered the murder of Jam Master Jay. Look for my piece in the New Yorker sometime after the topic no longer matters to anyone else.

Friends, fans, lovers of opinion, I have returned. Many thanks to Lizz Westman, alcoholic and marginally employed, for filling in during my absence and for covering perhaps the most important election in the history of the fragile straw man known in this country as democracy. Yes, she is a real person, not a pseudonym. Someone should give her a good job, or at least a bad job where she gets free CDs.

You are now free to begin sending me emails again, or, even better, sexual come-ons. The address is npblog@aol.com. Alas, the Orwell discussion has shut down. After Hitch bit Brian Lamb's nose on CSPAN last week, I decided the topic was getting a little too hot for this kitchenette of ideas. However, you are free to continue sending me questions and comments about Avril Lavigne and/or punk rock. I'll field them alone. Hitchens hasn't bought a record since 1965, and Sullivan only has eyes for The Pet Shop Boys.

Now for the difficult part. As you may have learned by now, I spent all of last week and much of the previous in the Afghan province of Omar-E-Shareef, on assignment from the British London Daily Independent Telegraph Statesman. I left my home a rabid warbird, but I've returned a knock-kneed pacifist. For what I witnessed and experienced in Afghanistan has transformed me forever. I'm fully persuaded that the grand imperial adventure disguised as the War On Terror, a war that I encouraged and to some extent caused through my writing, is an evil sham. The burden of my journey weighs on me like an anvil with a flag attached.

Upon arriving in Afghanistan, the first man I interviewed wept into my microphone, even after I told him not to. "The Americans have given us nothing!" he said. "And their oil pipeline goes right through my bedroom!"

The next afternoon, I was enjoying a soak in a local hot spring with two women who, under the Taliban, hadn't even been able to bathe. Suddenly, an explosion, and the distinct aroma of burning taffeta. I saw a half dozen veils whisked along on the breeze. Wrapping myself in a towel, I rushed into the street. An emancipated woman was ululating.

"An American bomb has destroyed my wedding-dress factory!" she said.

From somewhere, I heard the shout, "There is an American! He will pay for the decimation of our nascent marriage industry!"

A dozen men ran up to me and shook my hand.

"Salaam aleikum, my brothers!" I said.

One of them hit me in the face with a bag of rocks.

"Ow!" I said.

Then someone punched me in my back. Not my back! My precious back!

"Get his Strokes CD!" I heard someone say.

The bag of rocks rained down on me. I could feel the blood pouring into my nose and my mouth. It didn't taste that bad, really, but it was still blood, and that meant trouble. The more I bled, I bled more, and the crowd, which was mostly men but also there were some animals, kept on me. I flailed. A couple of the men went down when my thunder-kicks connected. Still, I was soon overwhelmed.

But even then, I understood. I couldn't blame them for what they were doing. They were just noble brown-skinned Third-World victims of the imperial war machine. And to them, I might as well have been Donald Rumsfeld.

"He is Donald Rumsfeld!" said one of them. "Kill him!"

"No!" I said. "I exist with you in solidarity!"

And then, darkness.

Remarkably, I woke up in the arms of my hot-springs companions.

"You are so mangled," said one of them. "Like a handsome piece of meat."

"Yes," I said. "Still, I identify with my attackers. For I now know that this, and all military actions that my country undertakes, are phony and unjust."

That got me a blowjob.

This may be difficult for some of you to accept, but my previously rabid pro-war stance has now been completely replaced with an equally rabid anti-war stance. I will not rest until I reveal the entirety of the truth about our government's agenda for world domination, which is my duty as a leading American novelist and social critic with a good reputation in Italy. My beating is a symbol for this filthy war. And I will not let you forget it.

I know all of you were wondering where I, Lizz Westman, had disappeared off to in the past couple days. After Tuesday's humiliating defeat, I needed time to rest up and call with my concession to the winner...

Winner: "Hello?"

Me: "Hi. I just wanted to tell you congratulations on your re-elected post as the Illinois congressperson."

Winner: "Who is this?"

Me: "Lizz Westman, write-in candidate. I stand for all the tough issues."

Winner: "Who?"

Me: "Your opponent. Your write-in opponent. I just wanted to tell you I'm conceding the race."

Winner: "It's Thursday."

Me: "I needed time to accept that I wasn't moving to Washington. Say, you need help moving stuff or driving a truck?"

Winner: "How did you get this number?"

Click.

So, I'm off to the Chicago protests. Down with capitalism! Down with capitalism! Down with... "ooh the Gap is having a sale!" -- What can I say? I grew up in the suburbs.

As the polls have come in tonight, it seems that I have lost my non-race for the United States House of Representatives. My lack of campaigning, clever slogans, slander and posters has made it impossible for voters to understand my need for ego stroking that only a national election could provide. In some ways I could say that I’m rather disappointed. But in other, much more accurate ways, I’m rather relieved.

Everyone would probably lump me in with other first year Congresswomen like Katherine Harris. I’d probably have to spend all my time with her in some sister bonding bullshit -- learning the ropes, attending beginning of the term keg parties, braiding each other’s hair during filibusters, getting her to tell secrets about the 2000 election and how she stole it for the Bush family in exchange for millions of dollars in a Swiss bank account… You know, girly stuff.

And I wouldn’t want to move to D.C. and find a home, let alone the nuances that come with changing cities -- new restaurants, bars, friends, dog runs, gym, coffee, miscellaneous recreation, bowling… Or tell my landlord that I have to skip town real quick on official government business only to find a new one who won’t forgive a few credit blips? No thank you. I just resigned my lease and got that damn faucet fixed.

So I guess I should be thanking the voters of Chicago. But I won’t. Because even though I hate the reality of having to move in the middle of winter, it still would have been nice to win a popularity contest at the ripe age of 25. I’d like to be a winner. And show them all. Show them real good.

I was planning to run for Congress this year, specifically as a member of the House. I had been planning my political takeover since 4th grade – when I started watching Meet the Press on Sunday mornings.

I had timely campaign slogans playing on my unemployment and immense desire to move back to the east coast:

I would make no claims, gestures, speeches, platforms or promises.

In fact, my whole campaign was to exclusively bash and slander every opponent until they all dropped out of the race in humiliating epics of failure. Or at least watch them deny my lies and rumors in ridiculous campaign ads…

“There are currently rumors circulating that I enjoy eating babies. I have not, for the record, ever eaten a human child nor do I intend to.”
-Joe Congressman -- loves babies, but not for dinner.

“My opponents have claimed that I run a small cartel to pay for my 2002 congressional campaign. I assure you these are unfounded and unsubstantiated lies. I’ve never even been to Columbia, let alone with a band of renegade soldiers, mules and a large selection of hollowed out shoes!”
-Joe Congressman -- loves hugs, not drugs. (Except prescription drugs for the elderly. And only short hugs with limited touching to clean, healthy voters. Or no touching at all.)

Anyway, I think that it might be too late to try for the world of fat cats and slutty interns. Or fat interns and slutty cats. Lesson learned? Heed the deadline set for weirdo third party candidates and bored, unemployed twentysomethings.

Unless you live in the Chicago area and want to write me in for the House of Representatives. I’ll take any district. But remember -- I’m only in it for the kickbacks and free money.

LIZZ WESTMAN FOR CONGRESS!!!!!

Greetings web nerds and those who live in their parents’ basements!

I was asked to continue Neal’s column as he left the United States early Monday morning on a top-secret mission to a newer third world country we as Americans are hell-bent on bombing in the next few months. No, not Iraq. Not even Afghanistan. This place is dustier, more arid and filled with even deadlier scorpions and dancing snakes.

So maybe you’re asking why I, Lizz Westman, have been chosen to take Neal Pollack’s place. Well, I first met Neal on a train going from Kansas City to Las Vegas at 67 miles an hour, with X amount of time left to travel and Y amount of distance already covered. Eventually, and thanks to the misrouting of another train traveling the opposite route from Vegas to Kansas City, we had time to discuss our love for poems written from a vegan, feminist midwife perspective. We shared a soy latte and exchanged Ani bootlegs. He then asked me for a few grand to pay off some gambling debts. I said no but offered my services as a substitute blogger if he ever made it to rehab or out on another writing mission.

And here we are.

So maybe you want to know a little more about me – my dreams, favorite color, favorite Corey, geographic coordinates and personal reaction in regards to September 11th (2002 to be clever), college major, this year’s Halloween costume and generally how it feels to be the new “it” girl around town - eat your heart out Clara Bow!

Yes, yes my web children. All in due time, especially a more suitable time when I’m not so drunk. Tired. I mean tired. When I’m not so tired.