Wednesday, March 14, 2012

The Fall of Paris and American Self-Deceptionalism


France chose not to join our connerie (bullshit stupidity) when we went went stiff-dicking into Iraq without a thought for what we were really doing, so we turned on them, calling them pussies, growling, like George C. Scott's character in Doctor Strangelove, that they are cowardly "surrender monkeys."

This slur is based on two wars, the Franco-Prussian and World War Two. In the first, France blindly needled Bismarck's Germany not noticing that they, France, had no viable military and that Germany had built the first effective modern war machine. The French paid for their arrogance. They had to buy back Paris. In the next war they fought like demons and Paris never fell. In the next, they trusted their Maginot line and the Germans laughed their way around it and tsunamied the French army - who had plenty of guts and no chance. We brag about saving their ass in WWII; we didn't. Russia did.

Here comes the meat, American Macho; you think the cheese-eaters gave in too easy? Look at yourself. When the Japanese hit our colonies in the Pacific, we caved like little girls (sorry, little girls). We outnumbered the Nips in the Philippines, with our allies - where the locals fought harder than we did - now we complain that we were low on ammo and hungry. So we quit. The Japanese fought with sharp sticks and starved to death in tens of thousands but still didn't give in. On Guam we never fired a shot. Wake Island? Wake up. We were winning when we surrender-monkeyed there; Devereaux and Cunnigham lost their nerve, and after the war blamed each other for the white flag. The job of our military was to protect the civilians; most of our soldiers lived to be shipped off to camps in Japan; ninety-eight American civilian workers were lined up and gunned down in the absence of
their guardians. You think the Japanese would have yelled uncle? The Pacific war was a series of Alamo's and most of the few captured were Korean slave laborers. Face it, Tex. The French fought harder than we did at the kick-off of double-you double-you two.

Here's the hard line: American soldiers aren't respected for their courage in the world at large. We're so insular that we don't know that. And those that do know don't say it out loud in public. We're seen as using ordnance - artillery, naval guns, bombs - to pulverize a target before we'll send the infantry in. We're afraid to take casualties. That's why we're so despised in Iraq and Afghanistan; we'll send in gunships to level a block of civilian apartments before we'll risk a sniper or two taking out one of our three-million-dollar techno-bot suburboid Nintendo dudes. So we lose the respect and potential affection of our allies and enemies.


Ordnance and tech - we load our guys down with expensive night goggles, digital comm gear and body armor until we look like snowmen from another galaxy and we're still afraid to go into the bad
neighborhoods alone. Against guys in jeans and t-shirts.



We don't much walk anywhere anymore - no marching songs, just road trips lip-synching "Teenage Dirtbag;" and we won't go hungry or thirsty for half the time most other nations' soldiers will. We become "combat ineffective" instead.

That's how the rest of the world sees the American soldier; their military professionals and their civilians, where they've seen us work. We're scary because we've got all that tech, the best armor (as long as we don't fight Germany again) and all the gunships, B2's, fighter-bombers, smart missiles, digitally guided artillery and drones controlled from like, New Jersey. But we're not brave. We're known as soft, self-indulgent, racist, solipsistic bullies and brats, and afraid.

Take away our boots and we're helpless. We don't have a rep for being versatile or resilient, for improvising - our guys play by the book, we take orders, and our enlisted men are not trained to take over when our officers are down, whereas some, not all, other armies are.




In World War One, when we were still an agrarian people, we were lean, tough, and ballsy. We earned honor at Belleau Wood. After that we look good only if you don't compare us with anyone else. Like the French.

Compare US Marine Corps training with Le Légion étrangère, the French Foreign Legion. The Marines bulk up, their basic workout is the pushup. They slam the calories into you to make muscle. They yell at you and make you want to go home but you're always a foot short of your true limit.

The FFL runs, that's their core exercise. And throughout their basic training - 15 weeks to to the USMC 12 - you are always hungry. They keep you lean. You are trained for endurance, to become accustomed to serious hardship. Put a legionnaire in the bush without food or water, push them on a forced march for five days straight, it's nothing new. They've been there. Do that to a Marine in combat and he's puzzled and resentful - what the fuck is this shit? Where's my MRE's? What fucking pogue* officer runs this chickenshit outfit? The legionnaire laughs. They're built for that. And they still got whupped by the Viet Minh. Those guys knew skinny to the bone. Farmers are always better soldiers. We haven't seen a mule's ass in four generations.

So get off your flaggy porch you fat-bellied dick, go inside and watch the game. Oh, and take that flag in at night, and when it rains, Jesus, don't you even know that? If you're going to wave it, respect it.

And get a little perspective.


*By the way jarheads, pogue doesn't come from "Persons Other Than Grunts," that's a neologism (new fucking thing) - the term goes back to the Philippines in the 1920's, at least - Marine Corps historians think it came either from a local word for whore, or for candy. We didn't use the term "grunt" to mean foot soldier until the 1960's.

Tuesday, March 13, 2012

Les Cheese-Eating Surrender Monkeys and The Fat-Ass Consumer Farm


There’s no skyline here, no tall shiny modern structures; I wonder if any other major city in the world can say that. Everything cuts off at about eight stories. The whole city was rebuilt from scratch around 1860,* sparing only some cultural or religious heritage buildings - cathedrals and the like - so it’s all of a piece, like it or not. I've heard there's some sort of latticed metal contrivance to the southwest that was once the tallest human artifact, but I haven't actually seen it.

In Paris there are no big humping SUVS. Cars park on three or four-way intersections by nosing up to the corner. Motorbikes park on the sidewalk in clusters, out of foot traffic. Most are scooters. 


Not one Sports Utility Vehicle. Is there an easier way to be happy? It’s like the Anti-Texas.
On the other hand, restaurants - the ubiquitous corner bistro/cafe type - often don’t have menus. You have to work off the chalk boards, some of which will be for drinks, others breakfast, others lunch, others...well, I don’t know, I haven’t learned how to decode them yet. Then again, you don't have to tip. There's peace of mind.

Was on the metro, trying to figure what to say about French men, studying the crowd, including this dude in front of me all in blue, with his blue pointy shoes, spiked synthetic pants, v-neck sweatshirt, shapeless knit cardigan, when it came to me that the first thing you can say is that compared to us - to the theoretically diverse, open and eccentric SF Bay, there is no center to Paris fashions. Guys dress like they’re the last man on earth. Let’s say that that characterization doesn’t exactly nail it; this you can quantify; guys in the US, in the Bay Area, have a much narrower range of dress. And each element is symbolic of something. Here, these French mecs, they have more individuality. It’s not that they come on outrageous - we’d to that here, as a statement of how far we’re into whichever tribe we wish to represent, or more accurately, we wish to represent us. In Paris, they just don’t care.They might as well be in their basement drinking Artois and watching some weird European sport.

The women are prettier. I know that's a truism, but there it is. I don’t know how they do it - think they just know how to hold their face, to move. Much, much less makeup. Really gracefully sexy clothes without showing much skin; flippy little lace skirts over black tights. Sorry ladies, it’s true. Home, I spot a truly beautiful woman once every couple of years; a really pretty one a few times a year. Here, I’ve seen three or four beautiful women in seven days, and fifteen or twenty - maybe more - really lovely chicks. I say again, I don’t know how they do it. If I figure it out I’ll let you know.

The Parisians don't run, that is, jog. I've seen maybe two joggers in the eight days I've been here. If they don't run, and they eat all that cheese, how come they're not fat? I've seen fewer fatties here than cowboy hats. Really.

In Paris they don't say "oui" like "we," it's more like "way." I'm no doubt missing the nuances, but of course, they would have their own way - oui - of proving that they're not from the provinces.

Anyoui, I'm going to try this Roquefort - ohhhhhh - not now, Angelique, you're interrupting the cheese - then see if any of those pix will do the job.

Man, trying to get cell pix on the metro, I don't know how to do that - I felt like a pervert or a thief, and people knew what I was doing. Uncomfortable. Next time I'll wait until there's one good shot and just stand and take the fucker, instead of surreptitiously chipping at it.

Alright. I'm going to have to subject you to an unfortunate procedure. Since I couldn't get one good photo to post, I'm going to have to post three or four poor ones, with captions. Brace yourself.

Nah, I'm better than that. Yet...okay. You get two blurry scarf pix. In truth, the French are no blurrier than anybody else, but I hadn't learned to wait for the stop to click the shutter icon. Anyway, failing all else, here are those scarves the trendy guys are wearing. And one of those puffy black plastic jackets. But these don't show the individuality I was trying to describe.


 We don't crop the one below to showcase the guy in the jeans. Jeans are everywhere. We have left our mark on them for sure. On one street corner I saw two cowboy clothes stores.


If I get better photos I'll get rid of these diseased weasels.

*A prodigious wink to big sis Rhea for the history