We’re in love with war. We love it. If war were a woman, we’d get her drunk, do some primi blow off of a toilet seat with her, and then smack her about like the piece of meat she is. War would love it. Daddy issues. War is not hell, war is a bitch and we’re ridding that bitch (you too ladies, she’s good for all comers). The next day we wake up with her. She a fine bitch, even in the light of day. She pulls a drag on her cigarette and demands, “so, when do we move in together?”
What? Oh, no, sorry, that’s not what I meant, I mean, I have to go. Where are my pants? So when are you and I getting a fucking apartment together? She starts up her second cigarette, tossing the butt of the first into the corner of the room. It’s late morning. We’re getting dressed, and in a hurry. We’re hopping on one leg getting our pants on…. She is a total nut job. Hey sexy, want another go, before you go? Shit, she’s gonzo. And we’re not ready for such a commitment. Why can’t war keep it casual? We didn’t mean anything….
Why, of course, the people don’t want war. Why would some poor slob on a farm want to risk his life in a war when the best that he can get out of it is to come back to his farm in one piece? Naturally, the common people don’t want war…. That is understood. But, after all, it is the leaders of the country who determine the policy and it is always a simple matter to drag the people along, whether it is a democracy or a fascist dictatorship or a Parliament or a Communist dictatorship.
…the people can always be brought to the bidding of the leaders. That is easy. All you have to do is tell them they are being attacked and denounce the pacifists for lack of patriotism and exposing the country to danger. It works the same way in any country.
With all the distractions of so many types, those close to home like, did I pay my TeeVee bill, when is Breaking Bad on, and those far away in board rooms, and sundry other venues where the game of state is played, we forget that there is still a war on. And that war, is slowly finding its way home. It is not coming home in some metaphorical way. This is no Best Years of Our Lives (a must see, mind you) kind of way. This is the reployment of arms, materiel, a return of broken individuals, a cultural heritage that has no outlet, and a reckoning day as we now dig out of the “trenches” and into our treasury in order to pay for our latest feckless adventuring. During the Brown Decades after the War of Northern Aggression, much of our nation lay as a wasteland. We had lost hundreds of thousands of men (not counting civilians lost to disease or other fallout which included women, children, former and current slaves), and former slaves would endure almost another century of slavery-lite under various schemes to keep the labour in place.
We robbed, cheated and stole to pay for that war. We used up our Westward expansion. We built up with additional European immigration to replace those WASPS that had stung themselves to death. We had resources in plenty. And we, The People, won that fucking war. Now, comparison is not exact in military means, reasons, or territory, but fast forward to another engagement, that of Vietnam. It spawned its own Brown Decades as rust belts grew and heroin spread. We still had space to expand. We turned on the spigot to allow higher numbers of non-Europeans to enter the nation, to build up our reserves, not that we lost as many men (and now women) but the cost was greater (this analogy is somewhat hyperbole, just work with me on this one) and the debts larger. We made our companies more profitable by off-shoring, increased the skilled labour by allowing educated Indians, Chinese, and other nationalities where professionals were used to making less money and having fewer rights. The natural world was still there in 1968. Even in 1978. We could still dig, cut, and dam our way out of our financial woes. Today the cost of war has increased. For this price tag, we could have put 540 space rovers on Mars.
Now, we are again at the end of another ambiguous conflict opened on three fronts – two countries and one emotional state. This war is just ending, in many ways for those of The Iraq and The Afghanistan (well, Afghans will continue to murder, bugger Dancing Boys, and steal – perhaps also bugger – goats). The war is just about to begin for us, but not in clear ways, not in the Bruckheimer way…. More an extra tax on waffles down at pancake house… Checkpoint on the way to work… another shooting at another mall… drone following you home and taking dna from your penis “just in case”… kinda’ way…. Yeah, the slow, “I don’t remember having to have a stool sample in order to open up a credit card… well, back in my day you got a blender for opening an account….”
It is a new normal of financial trouble, state surveillance, and a militarized police.
We are out of funds. We have run out of the Wild West. We no longer can impress blacks under Jim Crow. Even our most recent immigrants are trying to take the welcome mat up. The rust belt had vanished, having turned to dust or condos. The bread basket is vanishing, as farmers die (over 60% are older than 50 years of age) and few in the younger generation so stupid as to take up petro-farming or factory meat making, or compete against the Monsantos and Walmarts. Or Mondanto. Or Walmart. So, we refuse to pay the bill, and war is a whore who doesn’t love us long time because she love mister (I recently found out this actually means to stay all night with an expected once at the night and once in the morning… learn something new every day… ahem…).
The War Debt is a-coming home.
We also have an arms industry come to full fruit. Eisenhower’s quote was wrong. It is not the military-industrial complex as he understood it with large government agencies, generals and rank and file members working to build more pentagons and marching down the avenue for federal holidays. It is militarized industry. A network of private security forces (Xe) and small armies controlled by local businessmen (Bloomburg’s army the NYPD), and Rat Holes not filled with Charlie, but Diane, Trevor, Prakash, and Cesar. This is a multi-culti network of manufacturers from Leominster, MA to Palo Alto, CA all attempting to create scanners, smart bombs, face recognition, thought reading hyper-barium enemas and sundry other technobasturbations.
The War Industry is coming home.
Our police departments in the past decade have become armed camps. Mini armies. Even the smallest po-dunk copperhead is armed to the teeth with automatic rifles and decked out in SWAT gear. This will only increase as the police transform into the para-military as they have already in so many other nations we used to point to and laugh. “Documents, please!” will be a common occurrence as it is and has been in Moscow since the good-old-bad-old days of the Cheka.
The militarized police are coming home. Maybe even your home.
Our culture of war has permeated every vestige of our nation and our psyche. We are turning to colleting weapons to be one step ahead of our Police Stormtroopers. We collect ammo in order to fend off imagined hordes of [your feared group here and can include the undead]. We are getting used to wackos emptying high powered high capacity weapons at crowds as we have become used to the daily body count in Chicago, L.A. or sundry other body count cities (we have iraqbodycount.org, so why not a bodycountus.org?).
Our culture of competition and war will only increase, if it is not stopped. And no Code Pink, Operation Grannies, or whatever Hippiedippieshit will prevent an increase in this slide towards military domination. What we can now do is no longer expect, but hope for a financial reset. The hydra’s many heads, present and potential need to be cut off and burned, and that perhaps will only be the result of a financial collapse. It would be true poetic justice, or something, if it were the War Debt and concurrent strains on the system and our culture that just pushed the whole mess over the edge an down the howling chasm of history. Outside, at this moment, I hear a police helicopter. So, for now, the machine continues and we continue to bring home the war to our native soil – the enemy, as I have quoted too often – we have met, and he is us.