Futile Horn

07.29.2003 - 12:50 am (as I napped in the booth)

Apparently the body of Uday was found with $400k, a condom, and some Vigara. No wonder the fucker is dead; half the U.S. military on his ass and he was on his way to a party.

It’s interesting that we refer to the entire Hussein family by their first name as if they all lived next door. This occurred to me when Jack Straw called him just “Saddam” before the Security Council of the United Nations.

The United States government is now publicly asking why we are so hung up on the words they had been feeding us day and night for about six months. And although Iraq had no nuclear program or ties to Al Qaeda, we are all safer and better off now. And even though I am trusting and naïve, God help me if someone asks me how.

But for serious, what is the contention about what was accomplished? How can I evaluate it if I don’t even know what it is. I think I heard something about, um, stabilizing the Syrian border. Yeah, I dunno, they said it really fast and I missed most of the words.

I suspect most of the support for the war comes from people disappointed in the performance of their favorite sports team.

I restrung Pickle today. I also bought a harmonica. I was going to buy two, but they didn’t have the brand I wanted in the key I wanted. The guy found another brand in that key, but it cost twice as much, so I told him I didn’t want it. So he asked if I would want it in yet another brand so I said sure, but he brought me one that cost as much as the first one. Then the girl at the door which is right next to the register took too long checking my purchases and asked me stupid questions about what I bought. And I forgot to buy the stand I wanted to get. A trip to the guitar shop is supposed to be a life affirming experience.

My namesake cousin is here. My dad took him to dinner and I don’t think I was invited. Suddenly I feel like expounding on two and a half decades worth of resentment, but I am going to let is slide.

I just can’t let it sit that it’ll all come to dust
Nothing soothes, nothing salves, nothing shows me how to cope
Except a carving of the flesh, to pawn this body for the next
To treat this world like a second womb
Is where our shepherd would have us move
To fleece us when the time is ripe
To pen us through our wilder nights
So let me shout with shallow lungs
To build with stone and stone above
The wheel will turn the age will pass
But at least then once I made a grasp
And though I slipped as it shrank away
It was worth no less than others’ rest

Born to play the funky céilí,
Futile Horn