As a DJ, CNN Sucks: A Disco Disaster

 

I posted this at  DK but thought I’d expand on it here.

[new] Disco Disaster (14+ / 0-)

The cut from Obama to McFear reminded me of when I was a club DJ years ago.  Sometimes the floor would be alive, people movin’, groovin’ on the good foot and then I’d screw up (not often but..) and cue the wrong record.  BAM, you could feel the funk leave the room.

CNN  sucks as a DJ.

“Play something good!”

Tellin’ you all the Zomby troof Here I’m is…

http://www.dailykos.com/commen…

by Zwoof on Tue Feb 12, 2008 at 10:37:50 PM EST

more on the B-side

And then I realized… like I was shot… like I was shot with a diamond… a diamond bullet right through my forehead. And I thought: My God… the genius of that. The genius…..

Apocalypse Now, Kurtz

Imagine you are an old, white Repuglycan watching the Obama Speech from Madison, WI.

“hmmm, look at that, Ma, they’re havin’ a good time.  That Obama guy can really give a speech.”

and then the slam mix to McOld doing his doomsday redux stump piece of shit speech.

“Oh my goodness, who changed the channel to The Lawrence Welk Hour? oh.. that’s our guy.  Ma, we’re totally fucked.”

SO, maybe it wasn’t bad programming on CNN’s part, but a defining moment in this election.

A Diamond Bullet

To Avoid Judicial Review, Executions At Gitmo

(10 am – promoted by ek hornbeck)

cross posted from The Dream Antilles

Photobucket

Guantanamo Detainee

Yesterday the US announced that 6 Gitmo detainees prisoners would face the death penalty after bogus  “trials” with unfair and untested procedures.  I wrote an essay explaining why this was an outrage and a disgrace.  Today, to my shock and surprise, I discovered an even greater outrage: that the US plans to conduct executions of these detainees prisoners at Gitmo so that the detainees prisoners will be denied any judicial review in the US Courts.  If yesterday’s news was dreadful, today’s is even more cynical and and even greater disgrace.

Join me behind the wire.

AP reports:

If six suspected terrorists are sentenced to death at Guantanamo Bay for the Sept. 11 attacks, U.S. Army regulations that were quietly amended two years ago open the possibility of execution by lethal injection at the military base in Cuba, experts said Tuesday.

Any executions would probably add to international outrage over Guantanamo, since capital punishment is banned in 130 countries, including the 27-nation European Union.

Conducting the executions on U.S. soil could open the way for the detainees’ lawyers to go to U.S. courts to fight the death sentences. But the updated regulations make it possible for the executions to be carried out at Guantanamo.

And so the US intends to kill detainees the prisoners after a “trial” before a Military Commission and not a court without permitting the possibility of review by US civilian courts.  The US fears that bringing prisoners to the US might make habeas corpus available to them.  How does Bushco solve this troubling problem of detainees the prisoners seeking habeas corpus relief?  By thumbing its nose at civilian courts, by building an execution chamber in Guantanamo, and by continuing to argue that Guantanamo is not subject to the habeas corpus jurisdiction of the US Courts.

How was the groundwork for this so stealthily accomplished?

Up until recently, experts on military law said, it was understood that military regulations required executions to be carried out by lethal injection at Fort Leavenworth in Kansas.

But in January 2006, the Army changed its procedures for military executions, allowing “other locations” to be used. The new regulations say that only the president can approve an execution and that the secretary of the Army will authorize the location.

“Military executions will be by lethal injection,” the regulations say.

The US plan is quite simple.  And it’s this: do not allow the civilian United States Courts to inquire into the legality of the detainees’ prisoners’ detention, or whether their guilt has been proved, or whether the “lethal injection” protocol is valid, or whether they are “enemy combatants,” or whether they have been proved guilty, or anything else.  Avoid all that potentially embarrassing judicial review.  Just don’t let detainees these prisoners get to the US no matter what.  Make sure they are killed in Guantanamo, that they never leave Guantanamo alive.

No death chamber is known to exist at Guantanamo, but Scott Silliman, a former Air Force lawyer and who is now a Duke University professor, said the military may decide to build one there. The 2006 Army regulations also call for a viewing room to the death chamber, where at least two news media representatives would be witnesses.

And so, even though the US just spent $12,000,000 on a courtroom in Guantanamo for “war crimes trials”, and a death chamber has still not been built, the plan is in place to insulate the exterminations of detainees prisoners from meaningful, civilian court review.

In an irony, Bushco is trying today to quell arguments about killing the detainees prisoners:

The Bush administration has instructed U.S. diplomats abroad to defend its decision to seek the death penalty for the six men by recalling the executions of Nazi war criminals after World War II.

A four-page cable sent to U.S. embassies and obtained Tuesday by The Associated Press says that execution as punishment for extreme violations of the laws of war is internationally accepted.

The cable points to the 1945-46 Nuremberg war crimes trials in Germany. Twelve of Adolf Hitler’s senior aides were sentenced to death at the trials, though not all were executed in the end.

The irony?  The Nuremberg trials were entirely public.  The Military Commissions remain hidden behind the wire at Guantanamo and their goal is to prevent public review of their conclusions.

What a disgrace.

Updated 2/14/08, 9:05 am: h/t to Nordic for spotting my unconscious adoption of the “detainees” meme.  I changed the word to “prisoners,” which I think is more accurate.

A Personal View — Discontent

There’s an old saying in the Jewish Talmud: “he who understands will understand.”  This essay is written in that spirit.

This is a time of rage and revolution among activist citizens of the United States who are watching national crimes being committed, with no end in sight.

I am not looking for new answers.

I am trying to see what is already here.  Right now.  Fully formed.

What makes that vision difficult is the bombardment of information, the daily tolling of the bad news bell of the United States of America, the evils that prompt the human spirit to react instead of respond.  This to me is the most difficult task, to make myself quiet enough to see the answer staring me in the face.  It is easy to write.  It is not easy to do.

No, I am not looking for new answers.  I’m not looking for answers at all.  The answer has already arrived.  The only thing left to do is grasp it and in that grasping, the action will thus be taken.

The distractions are powerful and I do not underestimate them.  The distractions cause a feeling of panic, of surrendering my own time, the beat of my own human heart, to the insistent drumbeat of disaster, to act in haste, to react and react over and over again and fail to respond.

There are millions of Americans who are seeing for the first time the consequences of this reign of thieves and murderers.  They  may not be able to articulate it well, but if you listen, you can hear it in the sounds of kitchen table conversations and workplace watercooler gossip.  You can most certainly see it in the yearning for a leader which is bringing out the electorate in droves.

Millions of Americans who are not happy with our government.  It’s right there, it is already happening.

The die has already been cast.  We cannot stop this tide and I am not interested in trying to do what cannot be done.

I am interested in seeing what is here right now.

Sounds simple.  It is not simple.  It is the hardest thing I can imagine.  To see what is here right now.  Every power in this country is trying to repress that vision, to stop our ears from hearing and our eyes from seeing.

We have the sword.  We have our weapon.  We need only open our eyes, turn resolutely away from the angst and despair that is deliberately beckoning, coming at us from nasty evil forces who wish us to rail and roar but never stand still long enough to see.

It’s already here.  We already have the answer.  If only we can be still long enough to apprehend it.  I believe there are forces all around us doing everything possible to prevent that.  I’m not going to let them do that to me.  I’m done with reacting.  I’ve been done for a long time now.  And I’m not going back.

The Weapon of Young Gods #8: Your Time Is Not Your Own

( – promoted by undercovercalico)

Many years ago, when my parents were still married, I asked them to put a lock on my door. Not to keep them out- I emphasized that they could each have a key if they wanted- but to keep my little sister and her kleptomaniacal tendencies away from my video games, CDs, and other then-valuable things I called my own. My mom only laughed, and my dad flat-out refused. “Why should I need a key to get into a room in my own house, son?” I hear the exact notes of their denials rattle around my skull when Hannah barges in to rip me from my subconscious.

Previous Episode

“Derek.”

I don’t budge. I don’t want to see how much the sun has moved into the afternoon, how much of another unproductive, unemployed summer day that I’ve wasted.

“Derek, wake up.”

“Mmmpf.”

“Derek, come on. Mom told me to.”

“No.”

“Whatever.” She stomps away, and I hear her yelling down the stairs.

“Moooommmm, he won’t get up!”

Blissful silence for about thirty seconds, then I feel, rather than hear, my mother’s footsteps clunk up the stairs along with Hannah’s. The door opens again.

“David Eric Haynes,” says Mom, in a ‘don’t-pull-this-shit’ voice, “it’s almost three in the afternoon, honey. Please get up. Remember that you told Grandpa you’d do the gardening chores for him while he’s away.”

Fuck. “I forgot,” I say, rolling over to face them. Mom is dressed for errands, and Hannah has her hula stuff in hand.

“Well, aren’t you lucky that your sister reminded you?”

“Sure,” I say, and stagger out of bed. Hannah beams, her freckly, sixteen-year-old face radiating smug revenge. “So where are you both off to?”

“Today’s Wednesday, Derek. I have to take Hannah to hula and then make it to my appointment with Dr. Reuss.”

“Oh. Right.” My sister’s bi-weekly celebration of our (but mostly her) Hapa-ness, and my mom’s bi-weekly head-shrinking. I wave them off with a vague promise to make it to Grandpa’s and back before dinnertime, and once I hear the front door close I lay back on the floor and try to get it together. I have good motivation to swing either way at this point, but I know that sooner or later I’ll have to give in and just deal with it.

I get up, slouch to the bathroom, and sit down. “Get used to it, dude,” I tell myself. “Your time is not your own, starting next Monday.” I feel like a dork giving myself pep talks, but if it weren’t for silly shit like that, I would have never finished my first year of college. I was able to avoid academic oblivion after that disaster with Lisa in Chico, but only just. I missed a drop deadline the Friday I left to see her, and so I was stuck in a class that was, at that point, mathematically impossible for me to pass. That F nearly sank me, but without soccer, I had plenty of extra time for studying. Without soccer, however, I had no scholarship, but that wouldn’t be a problem now; I became intimately familiar with every inch of the prison-like Student Services building, especially on the days where I filled out umpteen hundred financial aid forms, and ended up with a few loans for next year.

I also got hired at the campus bookstore to do pre-summer rush work in Receiving, which was nice, and surprisingly manual-labor-intensive, but impermanent, since I couldn’t move into an I.V. apartment yet. Colin and Ben had hit the ground running, though, and they promised that I was welcome to share anything they could finagle in terms of a crash pad. Meanwhile, I was back home in OC, and taking advantage of every opportunity to stay out and sleep late before starting work at the local community college bookstore next week. I was two thousand bucks away from getting a used car, and I wanted it before classes started in the fall. Doing dumb grunt work for my grand-dad was great in high school- it paid for lots of lame shit like tuxes for Prom- but now, in the face of Real, Gainful Employment, it was sort of a nuisance. ‘What the hell, though?’ I think as I step out of the shower. It’ll be nice and quiet up at the old place, with no one there to bother me except for Grandma’s ghost, and she always liked me anyway.

I’m hanging the towel when my phone rings. I catch a glimpse of a black-haired athlete wearing his boxers in the mirror as I go to take the call.

“Derek?” It’s Lisa. She sounds just the same- nervous, secretive, brittle.

“Hi.” I wait for it. Something is coming that I probably don’t want to hear.

“Hey, um…” Her voice wavers. “Hey. Can I come over? Can we, um, talk or something?”

“Come over? Are you, uh, home for the summer too?”

“Yeah. Listen, can we just…can we talk face to face?”

“I can’t,” Instinct is screaming ‘run, run now, you bastard!’ “I mean,” I pull up, “I can’t ’til later, anyway. I have some work to do today, okay? How about, um, tonight? Or maybe tomorrow?”

“Oh fuck, Derek.” Her voice breaks, but she sounds a step or two away from her receiver.

“Lisa?” I say her name once more, but then the line clicks dead. Somewhere a thought process is ready for liftoff, but I don’t let it. Don’t get involved. Do not. I hurry to get dressed and get out of the house in case she calls again, and am glad I’ll be going in the opposite direction of her house today. I hustle down to the garage and snag a book at random from a donation pile by the door, and pocket it before reaching up to take my bike off its hooks. I hit the button on the wall and the garage door creaks open.

When I wheel the bike out on the driveway I see Reed and his girlfriend walking by. I come out too fast and close the door too loudly to avoid detection, and sure enough Reed checks his stride to say hi. He’s carrying graduation robes over his arm, and is actually wearing a dress shirt and tie. The girl, whom I’ve never met, is done up in a summer sun-dress, which accentuates her petite, Amazonian form to a distracting degree.

“Haynes!” Roy’s face lights up. He always was an excitable dude. “Hey man, how goes it?” I cringe on the inside but slap him some skin anyway. The girl doesn’t seem too keen on stopping, but she waits for him. “Can’t complain,” I say. I try to look Otherwise Occupied, and straddle the bike. “You?”

He holds up his cap and gown. “Walkin’ today!” he says happily. “Did I tell you? Got into UCSB too. I’ll be up there harassing you in no time.” I smile in spite of myself. The guy’s general enthusiasm is sort of contagious.

“Sweet. Congratulations, man.” Then something pops into my head. “Hey, um, is your stepdad gonna be there?”

“I think so.” Roy furrows his brow. “Why?”

“Oh,” I say, only half-surprised. “Um, well, I think my mom has a session with him later today.”

He relaxes. “Eh, that’s later. Andrew said he’d be able to make it. I left him and R.J. and Robin at home, but they’ll be there. It’s only, like, a five minute walk.”

“Not anymore,” says the girl. “We’re still running late, Roy.”

He starts, “Yeah, yeah, sure,” then stops. “Oh, dude, I’m sorry-” he grabs me as I’m about to take off- “I forgot to introduce you. This is my girlfriend Nadia.”

She smiles vaguely and says “Hi,” but gives a strong handshake before taking a few steps and dragging Reed with her. “Come on, come on, you’ll be late for your own commencement, Roy.”

They wander off toward the school, two streets away. I can actually see the stadium pressbox, high up on its hill, from where I stand on Santiago Street. I shrug and start off the other way, up Elisa (Oh Jesus, even the fucking streets are named after her) to avoid passing the happy couple on the way out of the neighborhood. As I pedal up the slight incline, I try not to let Roy’s big day get to me, but it does, and I flash back to my own graduation last year, in all its bizarre, wretched glory. The two feuding sides of my family actually sat on opposite sides of the stadium to cheer me on, and it was one of the many long days of my life that year.

I power past the line of cars going the other way on Acapulco, toward the high school parking lot, and I feel a little better after I get past Golden Lantern and down Stonehill. Here above the other, higher side of the stadium, I don’t have to see the crowds assembling to send another class of hubris-addled kids off into the wide world, to get pissed on and make dumb mistakes and rub shoulders with disease and despair.

Cops vs. Skaters in Baltimore: Video leads to suspension! w/poll