David Corn muses about the next phase of the Iraq war, in which we quietly set up teams of El Salvador-style death squads to do our dirty work for us: Did the White House confirm it’s considering using “death squads” in Iraq?
Archive for January, 2005
From Wired News, a fun story of a woman who spent a wee bit too much time rolling things up in Katamari Damacy: Real world doesn’t use a joystick.
(Santa brought William a Playstation2 for Christmas, and Uncle Bravo gave him a Katamari Damacy game. Uncle Bravo is so cool.)
Attention wingers: This is the point where my (and a lot of other people’s) assertions, back in the spring of 2003, that Saddam did not, in fact, have WMD, and your response that well, we’d just have to wait and see, gets (briefly) resurrected for an accounting. The Iraq Survey Group, the official operation charged with finding said WMD, has been quietly disbanded. The weapons hunters from the CIA are back home in Virginia, and the preliminary report from Charles Duelfer of a few months ago, in which he said that nope, there weren’t any WMD, is going to become the official report. Anyway, from the WaPo: Search for banned arms in Iraq ended last month.
The right-wing webloggers are no doubt taking their cue from their fellow travellers in the echo chamber and in the Bush administration itself, and simply ignoring this. WMD? What WMD? Oh, those WMD. Well, of course we know there weren’t any. Everybody knows that. We’ve known that for quite some time. It was Bill Clinton who said they were there to begin with, you know, and frankly, we always had our doubts.
I’m reminded of the comment by actress Gemma Jones as Mrs. Dashwood in the 1995 Sense and Sensibility, the one for which Emma Thompson won her richly deserved Best Adapated Screenplay Oscar: “He is certainly not so dashing as Willoughby. But he has a far more pleasing countenance. There was, at times, if you’ll remember, something in Willoughby’s eyes that I did not like.”
We who displayed greater sensibility back in the day about Iraq’s WMD are hereby taking a moment to smile to ourselves, before returning to our needlework.
Here’s a pair of perspectives on the role that the Bush administration has, or hasn’t, played in fostering torture. First up, from Heather MacDonald: How to interrogate terrorists. And from Balkanization’s Marty Lederman, a response: Heather MacDonald’s dubious counter-“narrative” on torture.
I really hate thinking about this issue. But I feel compelled to do so, as long as the people running my country are making it necessary by their actions.
Weblogger Joe of the Woolamaloo Gazette loses his job of 11 years for weblogging about things that happened at work: Over the course of the Woolamaloo Gazette I have posted on a wide variety of subjects…
Inaugurating a mess of brief postings to make up for yesterday’s 4,000-word opus, here’s ganns.com’s Winners of the “I Look Like My Dog” Contest.
My daughter has started taking Spanish this year at the Middle School. This is fun for me, since it takes me back to Señor Leeds’ class at Center Junior High circa 1974, when I first realized that learning another language isn’t just a question of amassing a big vocabulary and translating word for word from English. Different languages have different rules, different idioms. Things that are easily expressed in one language are harder to express in another. And it’s not just expressing things to other people that can be hard; the limitations of language make it hard to express certain things to yourself. If you can’t put it into words, you can’t really think it. And if your language doesn’t give you the tools to think about something in a particular way, those thoughts remain largely off-limits to you.
Let’s look at a mild example:
Hola, Señor Leeds.
Repitan, clase. Aquí. (Pointing to the ground at his feet.)
Allí. (Pointing to the other side of the room.)
Allá. (Arching his arm to point somewhere “way over there.”)
Spanish and English both have a word for “here” (aquí), but Spanish distinguishes two kinds of “there”: a there that’s relatively close (allí), and a there that’s relatively far away (allá). Similarly, Spanish is more fine-grained than English about “this and that” and “these and those”; Spanish speakers not only distinguish between near and far and singular and plural, but they split up “far” into “far” and “really far,” along with indicating masculine and feminine genders for the thing(s) pointed to. See the Spanish Learning Blog’s Lesson about this & that, here & there for more on all this, if you’re interested.
All of this rambling about near and far (and really far) leads me to what I’m really thinking about today, which is media coverage of disasters. I’ve been thinking about that old newspaper formula for setting headline size and assigning column inches, where 1 death in your hometown equals 10 deaths farther away, or 100 deaths still farther, or 1,000 deaths farther than that, and so on.
I’ve had several object lessons in that particular logic lately. There’s the Asian tsunami, of course; that’s a nasty enough disaster to get coverage pretty much everywhere, even in my son’s first grade class, where yesterday, on the first day back from a long Christmas vacation, he learned that the word “tsunami” begins with a “t”, as he explained to us over dinner.
When I was picking him up from school yesterday I heard from his teacher about another, more local, disaster. An hour or so earlier a mud slide had buried some twenty homes in La Conchita, the tiny beach community about five miles down the road from the somewhat larger beach community of Carpinteria (“Carp” to locals) where I live. At that time there was one confirmed death and a dozen or so people known to be missing, and rescuers were working frantically to try to recover survivors. The confirmed death toll now is up to three, and everyone around here is pretty much holding their breath, hoping for miracles.
I know people who live in La Conchita; everyone in Carp does. There was another big slide there back in 1995, and property values for homes near the slide plummeted. A friend of my daughter’s lived in one of those houses, and I took Julia to a birthday party at his house a few years ago, and talked with his parents about the financial difficulty the situation had put them in. This was several years after the slide, and some of the homes that had been damaged were still in bad shape, their owners and the banks who held the mortgages unwilling to put money into a property that was essentially worthless, given the risk of a big rain bringing a mountain of mud down upon it.
My daughter’s friend’s family eventually walked away from that house, defaulting on their loan. That’s a disaster of a sort, I guess; a financial disaster, at least. Eventually, though, they were able to get some help from relatives in securing a loan to buy another house just a few blocks away from us here in Carp. In looking at a local news stations’ map of where yesterday’s slide went, I think that was one of the smartest things they ever did. I don’t think their old house is there anymore. (Update: No, actually, their former house was fine. The destruction caused by the slide was a couple of blocks west of there.)
An outsider, someone for whom La Conchita isn’t actually “here,” or even “there,” but is “way over there,” might be inclined to observe that the people in the path of that mudslide should have known better, that they’re somehow undeserving of sympathy. A similar sort of moral distance allows people like Michael Williams to observe of the tsunami that it merely doubled the global death toll for a single day (see Lots of people die every day, though maybe I’m reading his post the wrong way; maybe he’s expressing surprise at how bad the daily global death toll is, rather than making light of the tsunami).
Anyway, the La Conchita slide is certain to get much more coverage in the local papers than the ongoing tsunami aftermath, and I can understand that; this disaster is right here, and that one is very much way over there. And since a news crew was on the scene filming when the La Conchita slide happened, such that we have dramatic visuals of the hillside coming down and people running for their lives, I suppose it will get a little more play in the larger media world than it otherwise would. I guess that’s another aspect of the here/there/way over there logic, as it plays out in the age of television: Good visuals automatically make a disaster “closer.”
There’s another local news item relating to the heavy rains we’ve been having, an item that appeared in the local paper last week, and I’ve been wondering if I should write about it here. It was a minor incident compared to these legitimate disasters, but it was a big deal for me personally. I guess the question of whether or not I should write about it comes down to a question of what a weblog really is. Or at least what this weblog really is.
Am I writing about things important enough to interest readers around the world? Am I trying to do big-picture journalism? Writing about politics, and world events, and big ideas? Or am I writing about me?
Is a weblog a kind of journalism? Or is it just a journal? Am I some random authority you’ll never actually meet, or am I someone you know personally, who shares the events of his day by the water cooler at work?
In my pre-election hubris, I was certainly thinking in big-picture terms. I was writing about the presidential campaign and politics as if a big part of the world really, truly cared about my opinions, as if I really had something important to say.
Well, maybe some of what I said actually was important. But there are plenty of other people writing that sort of thing, including lots of paid professionals. I’m thinking in the future I’ll leave more of that writing to them. The reality is, a lot of this site’s regular readers are friends and relatives, people I actually know in real life.
I think in the months ahead I’ll be writing more about things closer to home. As a consumer of weblogs, I often find myself more interested in the individual voices than in the big issues they comment on, anyway. And for me as an individual, this event mentioned in the paper last week was a big deal.
I’ve been riding my mountain bike a fair amount lately. Not off-road, though there are some nice trails around here, but on the street, as exercise. It’s part of what I jokingly refer to as my Penile Visibility Project. (Okay; maybe that’s a little too much personal information.)
Anyway, I’ve recently begun doing some rides with my daughter, as a way to help her get in shape for an upcoming school backpacking trip. And so we were out biking on the last day of the year, enjoying a brief break in the rain we’d been having (and continue to have). And because we were going kind of slow, I was sightseeing more than I usually would, and on a fairly isolated stretch of Casitas Pass Road I happened to glance down a driveway, to where there’s a concrete crossing over Carpinteria Creek.
And there was a car in the middle of the creek.
Normally the crossing only has a few inches of water flowing over it, and the people who live in the farms on the far side can drive over and back with no problem. But at this point, with all the rain we’d been having, there was easily three feet of fast-moving water. The car had been pushed sideways off the crossing, such that its back end was down in the deeper water on the downstream side, with the front of the car facing upstream, sticking up out of the creek with water rushing by on either side.
And I thought, huh. That’s something you don’t see every day. Someone must have gotten stuck trying to cross, and had to abandon his car there. And since I wasn’t pushing myself hard, just having a leisurely ride with Julia, I thought I’d stop and take a look. So I leaned my bike against a fencepost and walked down toward the creek.
And that’s when I realized that the car hadn’t been abandoned. An elderly man (I judged him to be about 60 at the time, but learned later he was 82) was standing, his body half out of the open passenger-side door, looking at the water tumbling by on either side.
I shouted, “Are you okay?” Which I realize was kind of a dumb question. He obviously wasn’t injured. But there was no way for him to reach the shore on either side; he was a good 15 feet from my side of the creek, and 10 feet from the far side, and not only was the water rushing by him at about 35 miles per hour, but immediately downstream of him was a nasty-looking rapids, with lots of whitewater and boulders and foam.
He just looked back at me and shrugged, helpless. He looked embarrassed, and maybe a little scared. But mostly he just looked really, really annoyed with himself. I found out later that when I arrived he’d been stuck there for about 10 minutes, kicking himself mentally over his decision to try to cross the stream, and trying, and failing, to come up with a plan for what to do next.
I stared back at him for a few seconds, and as I was doing so, Julia walked up beside me.
“Wow,” she said.
There didn’t seem to be anything else to do, so I opened up my fanny pack and took out my cellphone. “I’m going to call 911!” I shouted at the man. I wasn’t sure he could hear me (the water was really loud), but he could see what I was doing.
A few seconds later I was talking to the 911 operator. Having worked my way through college as a police dispatcher, and later as a training coordinator for the student-run Community Service Officer program, I’m pained by the memory of how badly I described my location. I was on Casitas Pass Road, but I thought I was actually on Foothill (the name the road acquires a few miles west of there). So there were a few minutes of confusion as I attempted to describe to the operator where I was, and she told me that the cross streets I was giving her, and the number I eventually read to her off a nearby mailbox, weren’t coming up on her system.
I was somewhat the victim of Carp localism here. To anyone from Carp, I could say, “I’m right next to the Lion’s Club picnic ground, by the Forest Service station” (which I did say to her, a couple of times), and they’d know exactly where I was. But the 911 operator wasn’t from Carp.
We went back and forth like this for what seemed like a long time, but it was probably only a couple of minutes. During this time, a man in his twenties, a Latino who spoke no English, walked up beside us; apparently he’d been riding by on his own bike. The man stuck in the creek climbed back inside his car and closed the passenger-side door. The 911 operator asked me some more questions (I don’t know what kind of car it is; it’ll be the one in the middle of the creek, I wanted to say, but I stuck with my training and just answered her by saying it was a white, four-door sedan). It was hard to hear what she was saying, what with all the water noise, so I had my finger jammed in my other ear, and was having to ask her to repeat herself, and was standing there, nodding and yelling into the phone, not really paying attention to the scene in front of me.
And then the car suddenly fell back off the crossing, and became almost completely submerged, with tons of water pounding onto its hood, its windshield, its roof.
Up to that point I’d been feeling pretty calm. The situation had seemed more or less under control. Eventually I’d be able to explain where I was, the Fire Department would come, and everything would be fine. But now, suddenly, things were very much not okay. The car was under the water. The man was inside the car, which probably was rapidly filling up. He was quite possibly trapped in there, prevented from opening the doors by the force of the water rushing past.
“The car’s fallen down into the creek!” I shouted into the phone. “It’s mostly underwater, and it’s really getting pounded!”
I thrust the cellphone into Julia’s hands. “Stay on the phone with them,” I told her. “Answer their questions. Do what they say.” Without waiting for her response, I started scrambling down the bank of the creek, working my way downstream to just below where the car was.
There was no way to reach it. Oh, I could have tried jumping in upstream, and might have been able to get swept into it, if I was lucky. But I would just have bounced off it. The water was too strong.
Looking downstream, I could see that the water slowed some. If the man could get himself out of the car, he was going to be swept down through there. I’m a lifelong sailor, and a strong swimmer, but that water was nasty-looking. I needed something I could use to reach him. A stick, maybe.
The Latino guy was standing next to me, and I babbled at him in English, my 7th-grade Spanish forgotten. “A stick,” I said, gesturing. “We need a big stick!” I scrambled up the bank, and found a dead sapling that looked like it might be long enough. I broke it off, jumped back down next to the water and started stripping off branches.
A few seconds later the Latino guy jumped down next to me with his own stick. It was longer, and a bit stronger-looking. (This would be a good place for a joke about the moment of Freudian envy this inspired in me, but I can honestly report that at the time the only thing I felt was concern, because it looked to me like neither stick was going to be long enough.)
We were both watching the car for any signs of movement. After a very long ten or fifteen seconds, the passenger door, which was slightly sheltered from the current by the angle of the car, started to open, and suddenly the man was out, being tumbled down the creek. We held our sticks out as far as we could, but they weren’t long enough; he was swept past them in an instant.
And he went under. I was thinking to myself, okay; this is the part of the TV show where the announcer cuts to the commercial, teasing viewers with the comment that for the people caught up in the events of that day, things were about to take a tragic turn for the worse. Because I was thinking to myself, very rapidly, what’s going to happen if I jump into the creek to try to help him?
I still had my bike helmet on, my shoes, and my biking gloves. I figured those would be good for a certain amount of protection. But I also knew that for me to enter the water was an extremely risky proposition, one that threatened to make the situation worse, not better. I had to make the right decision, and I had to make it fast. What I thought at that moment was, well, if he looks like he’s doing okay on his own, I shouldn’t jump in. It should very much be a last resort.
While I was thinking this, his head popped up again. The current was carrying him toward the far side of the creek, where there was an eddy of slower water, and just as I thought he was going to reach the shore, he went under again, disappearing from view.
I said to myself, the water’s slower here. I’ve got a pretty good chance of getting in, and across the creek to his vicinity, without injuring myself. And I was screwing myself up to do that, ticking down the last few seconds before making what I knew would be an irrevocable decision, when his head came up again, right next to the far shore, and he reached out and grabbed a boulder, and managed to haul himself halfway out of the water.
He lay there, face down, hugging the boulder, his chest heaving. I shouted across to him, “Are you okay?” but he either couldn’t hear or was too exhausted to respond (in retrospect, probably both).
We still couldn’t reach him, but at least he appeared to be out of immediate danger. After a few minutes he managed to crawl a little further up the bank, such that he was completely out of the water. Julia, working her way down toward our position, shouted that the Fire Department was on the way, and a few minutes later we started to hear the sound of a helicopter, followed quickly by sirens.
And I was standing there, looking at the man, and looking upstream at the little bit of his car that was still visible, thinking about what I’d tell the rescue people when they arrived, and I realized that I didn’t know for sure that the man had been alone in the car. I hadn’t seen anyone else when I’d first arrived, but I hadn’t really been looking for anyone else.
At this point the first few authorities started to arrive. I actually don’t remember who was first on the scene; over the next few minutes the near bank filled up with a large assortment of county sheriffs, firefighters, paramedics, ambulance drivers, and, surprisingly quickly, a local reporter and cameraman from the Santa Barbara TV station. I gave the first person to arrive (I think it was a sheriff) a quick summary of the situation, including the fact that I believed, but wasn’t sure, that there was no one else in the car. We tried shouting across the creek to the man to confirm that, but although he was now sitting up and looking at us, he couldn’t understand us over the sound of the creek, especially when the rescue helicopter arrived and started circling overhead.
A few minutes later, as the first authorities to arrive had moved back up the creek to the crossing to coordinate the efforts to travel around to the other side and reach the man, and the helicopter had momentarily moved off, I took advantage of the lull to cup my hands around my mouth and shout at the man as loud as I could, “Was… there… anybody… else… besides.. you… in… the… car?” And you know, I’m kind of a quiet person normally (in real life, I mean; obviously I’m noisy and obnoxious online, as many readers of this site know), and it was really very frustrating to want to make more noise, and be unable to do so. But he finally was able to hear me, and he shouted back, “You want to know if anyone else was in the car?” and I nodded, and he shook his head and shouted, “No.” And I pointed back at him and shouted, “Just you, right?” and he nodded back to me.
So as the influx of sheriffs and paramedics and whatnot continued, I was able to tell the next guy to come down the creek bank that I had managed to communicate with the man, and that he’d confirmed there was no one else in the car.
The in-charge-seeming guy I told this to gave me his complete, undivided attention for a few seconds. He wanted to make sure that I really had heard the man say that, and that he’d seemed rational when he said it, and that there was no possibility of confusion or misunderstanding. And I was able to assure him that I had, and he had, and there wasn’t. At which point the level of tension on our side of the creek visibly eased. People were still working hard and doing their jobs, but it became more methodical, with less running and shouting going on. So I felt good about being able to help out by letting the rescuers know that no, they didn’t need to try to figure out a way to get to the car right away.
It took a surprisingly long time for them to reach the man. They had to go around a fair distance to a bridge upstream, and then through an adjoining ranch, and eventually down a steep embankment to his location. Julia and I remained on the scene until they reached him, and began strapping him into a litter for hoisting back up and out. During that time I was interviewed by the aforementioned local cameraman and reporter, with the latter snapping a photo of Julia and me, and later writing up his account of the event in the local paper.
That’s reporter John Palminteri’s photo. The car is just out of the frame to the left of Julia; that plume of water over her shoulder is pretty much right where the man was swept when he exited the car. And in fact, you can actually see him, sitting on the far bank a little above Julia’s head and to the left, through a gap in the branches. He’s wearing a tan windbreaker, and you can just make out the yellow-clad legs of the fireman standing between him and the creek. Or at least, you can if you were there, and know what to look for. Here’s a cropped and magnified portion of the image that shows him a little better:
Small town that Carp is, it turns out that we know somebody (actually, a couple of different somebodies) who know the man, whose name is Lorenzo Dall’Armi, and after a few days we got in touch with each other, and last Sunday Julia and I had breakfast with him, along with his wife and one of his daughters, at a local breakfast place. It was great to meet him in person, and chat with him without the need to shout over rushing water. He’s a really nice guy, and I’m very happy that I was able to help him out, even if the extent of my help was mostly just punching three numbers on my cellphone and answering (ineptly) the questions the operator asked me. He paid for our breakfast, and gave us a very nice gift certificate to a local restaurant, and Julia gave him a pretty drawing that she’d made for him of some flowers.
Anyway, that story’s pretty much old news now, even in Carp, what with the tragic events at La Conchita. But it was a big deal to me, and I’m sure I’ll always remember it.
I like living in a small community. People are at their best, some ways, when they’re relating to each other as individuals, helping each other out, sharing life’s joys and troubles. You can only comprehend so much of the human dimension when a disaster strikes far away. But it becomes more real, more signifcant, when it happens closer to you. Or when it happens very close indeed.
Worth a read: Calling for an end to opposite day.
Elder-Bush national security advisor Brent Scowcroft had words for the younger Bush during his remarks at a centrist think tank luncheon yesterday. From the WaPo: Scowcroft skeptical vote will stabilize Iraq.
According to Scowcroft, the election in Iraq will not make things better. In fact, it could well impel the country into civil war, as the insurgency morphs into an open Sunni rebellion against Shiite rule, with the Kurds then seceding.
I realize we’ve been hearing this “Iraq is on the brink of civil war” stuff for a long time now (basically since the invasion, if you count Steve Gilliard’s frequent predictions). But the predictions carry more weight from someone like Scowcroft, and apparently he’s not alone in thinking that way, at least among people who actually analyze things to determine likely outcomes before choosing a course of action.
Fortunately for the life-expectency of the current US policy (which, yes, would be “unfortunately” if you’re concerned about achieving positive results), Bush isn’t one of those people, so we can expect this hole-digging operation in Iraq to continue uninterrupted, even if (actually, especially if) it fails to deliver any measurable benefits.
Vanity Fair contributing editor James Wolcott has this interesting weblog posting on the US situation in Iraq: Kind of a shame.
He leads off with an extended quotation from The Economist:
There is only one traffic law in Ramadi these days: when Americans approach, Iraqis scatter. Horns blaring, brakes screaming, the midday traffic skids to the side of the road as a line of Humvee jeeps ferrying American marines rolls the wrong way up the main street. Every vehicle, that is, except one beat-up old taxi. Its elderly driver, flapping his outstretched hands, seems, amazingly, to be trying to turn the convoy back. Gun turrets swivel and lock on to him, as a hefty marine sargeant leaps into the road, levels an assault rifle at his turbanned head, and screams: ‘Back this bitch up, motherfucker!’
There’s a Peter Cook-Dudley Moore routine, one of their woolgathering dialogues, where Dud asks Pete, “So would you say you’ve learned from your mistakes?” and Pete replies: “Oh yes, I’m certain I could repeat them exactly.”
That seems to have been the Bush administration’s approach to Iraq. Take the mistakes of Vietnam and repeat them exactly.
I’ve updated my Iraq-Vietnam comparison graphs with the number of US dead for December, 2004. I’ve also reduced the previous month’s number slightly, in keeping with the latest stats at Lunaville. Note that this change makes November not quite the worst month ever, if you’re keeping track of such things.
Again, I’m getting these figures from the advanced search tool at the Vietnam Veterans Memorial Fund site, and from Lunaville’s page on Iraq coalition casualties. The figures are for the number of US dead per month, without regard to whether the deaths were combat-related.
The first graph shows the first 22 months of each war. (Click on any image for a larger version.)
Next, the same chart, with the Vietnam numbers extended out to cover the first four years of the war:
Finally, the chart that gives the US death toll for the entire Vietnam war:
Disclaimer: I’m aware that we have more troops in-theater in Iraq than we had during the corresponding parts of the Vietnam War graph. Vietnam didn’t get numbers of US troops comparable to the number currently in Iraq until shortly after Johnson won the 1964 election, some three-and-a-half years after the starting point of the Vietnam graphs above.
These graphs are not intended to show the relative lethality of the two conflicts on a per-soldier basis. I was just curious how the “death profile” of the two wars compared, and these graphs let me see that. You are free to draw your own conclusions.
You can view more discussion of these charts on the following pages, if you’re interested. The graphs are all the same; I just update them in place when the new numbers become available.
- US deaths in Vietnam and Iraq by month
- Iraq war deaths
- November: The cruelest month
- 41 US Iraq war dead in December
- Post-Saddam death toll up slightly
- February death toll down for us, up for them
- Thirteen months in
- Record US deaths in April
- US War Dead in Iraq for May
- US Iraq Deaths Down in June
- US Soldiers Continue to Die in Iraq
- Eighteen Months In
- Another Month’s Progress
- The Bush Legacy in Iraq
- 141 Dead in November
The Washington Post has some ugly details on another “rendition” case, in which US authorities caught someone they felt might have information they wanted, then handed him over to an ally that specializes in torture (Egypt, in this case) so his fingernails could be torn out, electroshocks applied, and so on, unhindered by the quaint limitations our Constitution places on such things: Terror suspect alleges torture.
I know I’ve been indulging a bit too much in the pottymouth lately. But I have a really hard time coming up with appropriate language to describe this kind of thing. I guess I should just stop trying. There is no appropriate language to describe this.
A nice commentary by The New Republic’s Peter Beinert on what US conservatives’ reaction to the tsunami reveals about their view of the world: Distant shores.
To win over global hearts and minds, the United States must show Muslims, and others, that we are benevolent–that we want a better world for them; that we are not just in it for empire and oil. That means financial generosity–giving money for economic and social development rather than only military assistance. But it also means what might be called intellectual generosity–a genuine curiosity about the rest of the world, even when our safety is not directly threatened, even when the dramas aren’t primarily about us.
It is that curiosity that is so profoundly absent from Bush, who tries to see as little as possible of the countries he visits.
Beinert pretty much nails it. The campaign to convince the world of US benevolence is doomed, at least as long as the current team is responsible for US foreign policy, because the current team simply doesn’t do benevolence. Bush doesn’t care, and he doesn’t care who knows it.
CNN CEO Jonathon Klein didn’t go so far as to publicly call Tucker Carlson a dick, but he did describe himself as “coming down more firmly in the Jon Stewart camp” in announcing the firing of his bow-tied Crossfire shouting head: CNN dumps Tucker Carlson. Klein characterized the dismissal as part of a larger effort to treat the audience with more “respect.”