no one more red white and blue

Given the scope and nature of the crimes committed by the Third Reich and those who aided and abetted that foul regime, it was only natural that the evocation of Nazism would become a commonly used rhetorical tactic (to the point of being given a semi-formal designation). It is brute force PSYOPS in its most elegant and simple form. The power of such analogies has diminished due to (frequently hyperbolic) overuse, leading to reflexive dismissal of those who play that particular trump card in an argument.

Context and proportion, as always, is key. Citing Nazi Germany as a historical precedent for a government using paranoia and scapegoating as a means of expanding executive power and curtailing civil rights is valid. Comparing a Wal-Mart worker to a Gestapo thug for asking to see one's receipt? Not so much.

The malfeasance of the Nazis is of such a singular magnitude in both scale and infamy -- Stalin's U.S.S.R. and the Cambodian Year Zero come nowhere close to it in terms of popular awareness -- its evocation makes issues of moral relativism a snap. Not only can petty personal grievances be linked to the actions of a genocidal totalitarian regime, but one's own dubious and reprehensible behavior can be whitewashed in comparison to the same:

We do detain people without regard for habeas corpus, but we don't send them to gas chambers! Waterboarding is a mild discomfort compared to medical experimentation!

In a sane world, this facsimile of logic where "falling short of ultimate evil" somehow equals "good" would be greeted with universal shock, horror, and/or rage, but in this world, it is seen as a valid argument by a large segment of the populace.

Because people are fucking stupid, and as Sgt. Fury and His Howling Commandos #56 (July 1968; by Gary Friedrich, Dick Ayers, and John Severin) shows, it's a form of stupid that has been with us a while. "Gabriel, Blow Your Horn!" is not so much a story as it is a straw man formed from privileged white liberalism and patriotic platitudes and held together by Godwin's Law.

For those of you unfamiliar with Marvel's Howling Commandos, imagine the Rat Pack as a crack group of World War Two fighin' men, with Nick Fury as the Chairman of the Board, Dino Manelli as Dean Martin, Pinky Pinkerton as Peter Lawford, and "Dum Dum" Dugan as Shirley MacLaine. (The Joey Bishop role was held on a rotating basis by the other requisite polyglot archetypes that filled out the unit.)

The story begins with Gabriel "Gabe" Jones, the team's answer to Sammy Davis Jr. (only without the glass eye, Nehru jacket, and mustache) and nod toward the Great Society's sense of inclusiveness, making his escape from the German soldiers that captured him in the previous issue. He eventually hooks up with a contact in the French resistance movement, who asks for his assistance in rescuing Carla Swain, an American jazz singer held prisoner by the Nazis in occupied Paris.

Jones, a jazz trumpeter in civilian life (because diversity is fine and all, but breaking free from stock characterizations is hard), manages to land himself a gig at the club where Carla performs nightly to a packed house of German officers. (Interestingly enough, even though the officers are such hardcore Nazis that they find ways to drop lines from Mein Kampf into casual conversation, they don't seem to share the official party line regarding the "racial degeneracy" of jazz music. An insight into Nazi hypocrisy? Or the writer's ignorance of period history? You decide.)

After the performance, Jones punches and sneaks his way past the guards to gain access to Carla's room, only to find out that she has no desire to be rescued...


Despite her anachronistic Motown re-deco, it seems that Carla was intended to be an analogue to Josephine Baker, the expatriate jazz performer who relocated to France during the 1920's in part to escape the endemic racism she encountered in America. A massive sensation among both the French and the American ex-pats of the "Lost Generation," her pointed but spot-on comments about racial inequality and injustice in her native land got her labeled as a communist.

During the war, her popularity shielded her from Nazi persecution, and she assisted the French resistance as well as entertained Free French troops in North Africa, and she later participated in the American civil rights movement of the 1960's.

That was all a bit too nuanced for a shitty war comic, apparently, which instead recast the scenario as "Angry Negro^TM duped by the Nazis and her own prejudices." Sure, there's lynchings and race riots and legalized discrimination in America...but we're still better than Nazis! (See how well that works? Try using it on your significant other some time: "Hon, I may have blown our life savings on magic beans, but at least I'm not a Nazi!")

"Howler Ramrod"? Oh, my.

Porn name jokes aside, let's see what we've got going on here:

1. Projecting blame and fault back onto the oppressed party
2. A white writer using a black character as a mouthpiece to add credibility to his argument
3. The disingenuous and untrue dismissal of America's racial issues as the work of a "handful of white people." In any case numbers mean less than the institutionalized and (officially and unofficially) sanctioned nature of racism in both 1942 and 1968.
4. The evocation of post-racial patriotic platitudes that fail to address the existing problem

Jones rushes in to save his REAL AMERICAN teammates from the goosesteppers. In the process, Carla manages to be taken hostage by Colonel Prussian Von Grimace, but is saved when "Reb" Ralston, the token ass-backward cracker member of the Howlers, kicks Von Grimace in the head. Carla thus comes around to the white right way of thinking...

Sometimes it takes a man who chooses to identify via nickname with a failed regime of slave-owners to teach us who the real bigots are.

If there one thing I've learned my life, it's that the only thing more aggravating than a white liberal who gets hyper-defensive over black rage (or even discontentment) is a white liberal who co-opts the same. I say "liberal" because conservatives don't fucking care. They just shrug it off and dream of new tax loopholes.

Now, Carla, just because you've chosen to think of yourself as a non-hyphenated American does not mean that the rest of your countrymen and women are obligated to do the same, but as long as you don't make waves there won't be a problem. And who knows? Maybe sometime in the early 21st Century, the country will nominate a black candidate for president after a long and rancorous nomination process where another supposedly "liberal" candidate will engage in race baiting! And maybe a slight majority of Americans will find both this and this to be reprehensible in the extreme!

If all else fails, though, just seek comfort in the knowledge that you're not living in the Third Reich.

Yet.

Josephine Baker - Vous Faites Partie de Moi (I've Got You Under My Skin) (from Bonsoir My Love, 1998) - That sound you're hearing is the haunting echoes of modernity.

Jello Biafra & Mojo Nixon - Love Me, I'm a Liberal (from Prairie Home Invasion, 1994) - Updating Phil Ochs for the Information Age. Necessary? Perhaps not, but I'm thrilled with the results.

deep scarred for life

My appointment with the endodontist is at Tuesday at 11:00 AM, which means, Providence willing, that everything should be sorted out by this time tomorrow. Curiously enough, I'm not feeling the usual sense of dread that accompanies such events, only a feeling of weary resignation coupled with inexplicably having "Philadelphia Freedom" stuck looping inside my head. Very unsettling, indeed.

One 1970's nightmare deserves another, so today's minimal content post features a 1972 advertisement for the Blythe doll. Poorly received upon its debut, the hyperencephalic Keanesian homunculus with color-changing saucer eyes has since gone on to become a prized totem among both doll collectors and camp-addicted hipsters. The dolls also have a large fan following in Japan, which, given that nation's well-noted fascination with the hellish zone where adorability and terror overlap, should surprise no one.

(click to induce a larger mental trauma)
Blyth Power - God Has Gone Wrong Again (from the 1985 "Chevy Chase" single) - No kidding. At least these anarcho-folk punkers are there to put things right.

His Name Is Alive - Her Eyes Were Huge Things (from Home Is in Your Head, 1991) - More of an ethereal interlude (from a 4AD band? The Devil, you say!) than a complete track unto itself, but the title was too perfect to pass up.

stinking to high heaven

Yesterday was supposed to be a good day.

Despite issues at work, despite the frustrating commute, despite the time lost while Maura fixed the filter for the koi tank at her parents' house, despite all the other little slings and arrows of everyday petty hassles, I went though the required motions with a gleam in my eye and a spring in my step. Why? Because it was Thursday, which per our domestic tradition, meant getting Chinese takeout and sitting down for the only block of network TV shows I actually look forward to: The Office, My Name Is Earl, and It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia -- two anticipated season premieres, and three full hours of all-new episodes, through and through.

Between arriving home from work and settling down couch with a heaping plate of sweet and sour chicken, there were a handful of essential tasks to see to, mostly centering around animal care and feeding. I was eager to get my share of these obligations out of the way as soon as possible, wasted no time in leashing up Adeline, our beagle-boxer mix, for her nightly walk. It was the tail end of twilight, but I figured there was still enough light in the sky to chance a walk down to the end of the backyard, which is Addy's preferred spot for doing her business. It was one of the worst fucking mistakes I've made in a lifetime of dubious decisions.

We exited the back door in our usual fashion, Addy pulling hard on the leash and me doing my damnedest to keep my arm from getting yanked from the socket. It's something I've gone through at least a thousand times, only last night there just happened to be a fairly large and rather irritable skunk on the back steps. Skunks are pretty frequent visitors to our house on the hill, but they usually come late at night to munch on any kibble left in the feral cats' bowls. They've grown used to the our presence, skedaddling to the far side of the driveway when we step out onto the patio or take out the trash. We've even given names to some of the regular visitors: Frank Skunktone, the microencephalic Peanuthead, and Limahl (named for the huge fluffy white stripe on his head and back).

Addy caught sight of the skunk and the hound side of her family tree -- bared teeth, eager yawlps, slobbering jowls and all -- manifested in full force, while I tried in vain to being her to heel. The skunk made a brief, bold stand before turning tail and making a beeline for the safety of the bushes. At first, I thought we'd made it though the worst intact, that the skunk held off on spraying due to our longstanding relationship based on mutual tolerance and wary respect. Those hopes were soon dashed as the wave of concentrated stink washed over me.

Addy got the worst of it, sprayed square in the face and mouth. I was protected by the high ground of the back steps, but the contact stink was still strong enough to cling to my clothes and person. In the space of a few seconds, my much-anticipated plans for the evening went down the crapper. The rest of the night was spent giving Addy repeated washings with de-stink solutions and sprayings down with the garden hose. The sweet and sour chicken and crab rangoons were cold by the time I got around to eating them, and my enjoyment undercut by the lingering aroma of skunk stink.

I still laughed out loud a couple times during Sunny, though.

Pete Thomas - Funky Skunk (from Let's Boogaloo, Vol. 3, 2006) - As opposed to "Fuckin' Skunk," the subject of several freestyle acapella rants I performed yesterday evening.

Loudon Wainwright III - Dead Skunk (from Album III, 1972) - That's the problem this new-fangled modern age -- Where are this generation's Top 40 hits about roadkill?

The Panzant Brothers - Skunk Juice (from SuperFunk: Rare Funk From Deep In The Crates, 2000) - Another illustration of the unholy alliance between funk and skunks.

Y'know, even after the events of the past twenty-four hours, a warm glass of skunk juice still seems more appetizing than a cold bottle of Mountain Dew Game Fuel (brought to you by Halo 3, a Bungie Studios production presented by Microsoft).