All Entries in the "Reflections on Disorder" Category
Mideast Earthquake Could Seal Peace
(Tel Aviv) A major earthquake, which has completely severed large chunks of Palestine from Israel, may be the first real step toward lasting peace in the region. According to scientists on the scene, volcanic action centered some 150 miles out in the Mediterranean Sea has completely manipulated geologic faults from Syria to Egypt.
As seismic information becomes available it appears that the West Bank and Gaza, two locations of extreme dispute since 1948, have been surgically removed from Asia Minor and are now floating out toward Cyprus taking millions of Palestinians for the ride of their lives. While some are in shock as to the acute transformation others see it as the best chance for a distinct homeland, apart from Israel.
Although many of the uprooted populace still works in Israel, most feel the space will alleviate pressure and allow the peace process to thrive. Many view the break as a chance to create a new economy and solve chronic problems such as burgeoning refugee camps and intrusions by what was once their powerful neighbor to the west.
“We are not taking responsibility for any faults associated with our methods of diplomacy,” said a spokeswoman for the Palestinian Chamber of Commerce in Gaza City. “Our weekly karaoke and the kosher barbecues were a step in the right direction, but only in a cultural sense. Politically we were still enemies even though we were singing and eating together, and getting to know each other on a personal basis. The complete geologic break may be just what we needed. Only time will tell.”
– Melvin Toole
Canned Laughter Pulled From Shelves
(Ridgway) Grocery stores and supermarkets will begin pulling canned laughter from their shelves Monday as part of the Federal Uniformity Act, passed late last night.
The presence of the canned laughter, once considered an integral part of Americana, has been determined to be far too diverse for the consumer. The mandatory removal will be followed up by the release of more uniform entertainment response apparatus aimed at making the citizenry more alert to the dangers posed by foreign comics and those who seek to bring down the present gov’ment.
“It’s all about perception,” said one grocer who supports the effort. “We still have frozen chuckles and freeze-dried smirks for the die-hard. We’d like to see a populace who could decide when to laugh and what to laugh about. Isn’t that the core of Democracy?”
Persons hoping to stockpile canned laughter for the winter have until the weekend to do so. Quantities are limited. – Melvin Toole
IT’S ALL THE SAME FULL MOON
“Catch a cluck when she ain’t lookin’
Get some grease and onions cookin’
Wring her neck still she quits kickin’
Add some rice and you got chicken.”
– Camp song of the U.S. Marines in Nicaragua, 1929
He looked like a giant bamboo, towering over an escort of men who had captured him seven months before. That parched spring in 1930 when my grandfather, Sam Brennan, stumbled out of the Segovias, thirty pounds lighter than when he had joined the United States Marine Corps.
General Augusto Cesar Sandino still held his own in the mountains of northern Nicaragua.
Stopping above Esteli he quickly scanned the valley thinking of a cigar and the aged rum that awaited him down below. When the group reached the river they would part, a bitter-sweet separation. Since late summer he had been a prisoner of this barefoot, beans and rice guerrilla army, always on the offensive, always on the run.
“Adios mi buen amigo,” shouted a young man from Chinandega who had fought with Sandino since the early days. Brennan smiled and embraced the soldier then did so with each of the other five smiling Nicaraguans.
“You must be careful getting to the police station from here, my friend,” said one of the escorts. “We cannot go any further since there are National Guard patrols along the river and all the way up to the Marine base at La Sirena. Come back and see us after this is all over. I’ll cook you some iguana soup.”
Then the leader of the contingent, a skinny political sergeant, spoke up:
“La Sirena is as far north as the Nortes dare go. Even with their airplanes they are no match for men whose mother is these mountains.”
Brennan took a deep breath realizing that in moments he would rejoin the civilization that he had left so abruptly in the deserted theater that warm, sticky August night. Their patrol had taken refuge there, not thinking they had been detected by any of the villagers still in the vicinity. He had been operating as an advisor to a group of green National Guard troops in the vicinity of Jinotega. The sentry, a fourteen-year-old peasant boy, just weeks away from his village, had fallen asleep on his watch and the lurking guerrillas had swept down silently, almost magically through the roof of the derelict building.
“I remember that night when we first met,” said the sergeant as if the whole fight had been a social affair. “We had already slit seven throats by the time you woke up. Some advisor,” he teased.
The former enemies had become friends after all those months in the jungle and it was clear that my grandfather’s political education had taken a turn to the left. Since arriving in Corinto, fresh from the U.S., he had spent more time with Sandino’s troops than he had with his own.
“Maybe I’ll return and work as your advisor,” he chided, “or maybe as executive chef for General Sandino himself,” he laughed.
That night in the theater had been no laughing matter. Sandino’s men were brutal and expedient as they went about the chore of eliminating the enemy. Brennan stood, with a pistol pointed at his head, against a boarded up window and witnessed the slaughter of some 20 men, none over the age of 18. They begged for their lives and were denied. Why they didn’t murder him as well was anyone’s guess. In a matter of moments the guerrillas had left the bloody scene with their Gringo prisoner in tow. By morning they were deep in the mountains.
Now arriving on the outskirts of Esteli the American scarecrow passed lines of shacks with pigs and chickens in their yards. He then crossed the river and wandered apprehensively toward the police barracks in the center of the city. There were moments when he considered turning around and going back into the mountains to carry on the fight with the wizard, Sandino.
Like the barefoot shoe-shine boys
Of the mountain town of Esteli
Nowhere to go but the plaza
Smiling diminished sparkle
Those life-expectant, deep-set broken eyes.
The rainy season had finished its afternoon tantrums in early November leaving the jungles of Madriz steaming in its wake. One could almost hear the coffee and pinto beans growing. Everything had come alive including more Marine patrols, more recruitment sojourns to the south, more air bomb attacks and more fighting up around Ocotal.
General Sandino and his crazy little army had survived another wet season, or winter as it is called by the soggy peasants whose sons made up this citizen’s army. They lasted by hiding in the jungle canopy and in villages that supported their desperate efforts to resist Somoza and the Norte occupation forces. The lived on tortillas, beans and rice, coffee and cigars…maybe even a chicken or two on Sunday and occasional spoils found on the corpses of National Guard troops.
“Who are these Sandinistas?” asked the peasants.
“It is us, your children, Papi,” came the answer.
They did not take prisoners. At first it was tough, knowing that one’s victim was only a poor peasant too, stolen from his mother and pressed into service for the Somoza regime. But after a while, after the all the deaths around you, coupled with the daily atrocities committed by the Yanqi-trained militia, it became easy. They became good at it. Besides, Sandino was magic. Everyone knew it. He was a spirit sifting through the jungle, a wisp of smoke rising in the mountains.
It was said Sandino could transmit thought at will, sending battle plans, maps and coordinates to his generals in a code, a sort of mental telepathy. Many of his trusted soldiers had seen it. The others, especially his adversaries in the field would come to believe that Sandino possessed these powers.
The Marines had met their match. Even with air attacks and superior weaponry, outright victories had been few and far between. The National Guard stomped around the unfamiliar mountains like a parade of circus elephants while Sandino’s men hid out waiting for the right time and place for yet another costly ambush.
It is said that Sandino invented the concept of guerrilla warfare. Whether that was true or not he had certainly learned to apply its demoralizing principles. He took the fight to the Marines using his own tactics. Out of their element no matter how fierce their training, the Marines took casualties on an almost daily basis while the insurgents blended into the mountains, seemingly invisible.
Meanwhile President Adolfo Diaz, the puppet of the fruit companies, called for more Marines and pressed more young men into military service in his attempts to defeat this monster, Sandino. The commander of the National Guard, Anastacio Somoza Garcia assured the President and the controlling families that it was only a matter of time before the guerrillas were finished.
“I will bring his head to Managua for public display!” he had pledged. That had been three years ago.
Sandino and his crazy little army
held off the Marines for seven years.
Gaining the respect of his adversaries
The silhouette of Sandino stands watch today
All over Nicaragua
Yet cruel peace came finally
At the treacherous hands of Tacho
Who simply had him murdered
After a fine state dinner.
A large contingent of National Guard troops had descended on the village of Santa Clara in Nuevo Segovia near the Honduran border. Some estimates put the actual troops strength at over 300 men. They were looking to draw Sandino out into the open for a deciding battle.
The general’s spies were busy calculating the proper move in the face of this new occupation. How long would these green-clad, potato-eating invaders stay? What price would the villagers pay this time around? Already the Guard had rounded up peasants suspected of aiding Sandino. Shots could be heard from the east side of the square. Sandino’s scouts had to sit in their trees and listen to the last cries of men and women who had fed them earlier that week. They could do nothing for now.
The next morning several patrols were attacked as they attempted to expand their presence in the valley. Companies of Guardsman returned to the village at night, their numbers depleted. Often they took angry revenge on the defenseless peasants who happened to be in the line of fire.
A captured officer had told the rebels that a large stash of arms was arriving the next evening disguised as a construction train. If Sandino’s men could intercept this string of mules, victory and the expulsion of the Guard from Santa Clara could be within their grasp. The attack on the heavily guarded weapons had to be tightly coordinated and conducted with pinpoint accuracy or the outnumbered guerrillas risked elimination. They would attack at a small clearing on the road from Susucayan.
While the assault on the weapons train went on, another attack from the rear would serve to confuse the already frazzled army. Still another onslaught would come from the center of the village where supporters of the Generalisimo had organized a small religious parade to honor yet another patron saint. Many of the Guard, although armed for battle, were distracted by the procession.
What was particularly interesting about the logistics of the coming battle was that none of the commanders had seen or talked to Sandino since the previous morning. Somehow they all had the synchronized battle plan in their heads. Had the general communicated to them in a telepathic manner or was that just the superstitious peasants recounting the fight? Whatever the explanation, the guerrillas fought diligently and won a great victory over a larger force.
The next day, after holding off repeated attacks by the insurgents the 100 remaining Guardsmen took refuge in a small church near San Fernando to the east. It was there, according to the greatly relieved villagers of Santa Clara that the witches went to work.
According to several surviving oral accounts the soldiers set up shop in the church while it waited for reinforcements to come up from Matagalpa, several days march from the southeast. Half bedded down while the other half stood watch. Soon a menacing cloud filled the space. The soldiers, thinking it was only drifting from the nearby cloud forest, thought little of the foggy visitor. Soon all had fallen into a deep sleep. When they woke up at dawn the entire contingent found themselves sleeping in the middle of an adjacent road, all of their equipment strewn for miles. For years the local peasants told the story and still do today. Most of the government soldiers did not live to deny the magic, attributed of course to the powers of Sandino, since they were killed by a fortified remnant of rebels the next day during a lengthy, muddled retreat to their base in Esteli.
The look of a sharp machete
Hanging in one arm in the dawn
Bicycles with a jar of pinto and rubber boots
Walking along the ancient roads
The conquest of New Spain seems a dream.
They ascend daily to a better place
Not into the dust of cardboard and tin.
A paradise of sorts, a peaceful pulperia along the way.
The look of a sharp machete
On dawn’s happy stroll to the fields of Nicaragua.
-Jose Ometepe
WORLD BRIEFS
ASTRONAUT TO ACCOMPANY SANTA
(Cape Kennedy) Despite the stress of of the sojourn, 91-year-old John Glenn says he’ll go ahead with plans to travel with Santa Claus on Christmas Eve. A spokesman for Glenn told The Horseshoe that even though Glenn was feeling “a little older” than he was during the space shuttle Discovery’s return to earth, he would be on board Santa’s sleigh, cruising rooftops, dropping into chimneys along with the jolly old elf himself on December 24.
“The senator feels fine and is looking forward to his next historical rendezvous,” said the spokesman who added that the flight would encourage more people to believe in Santa Claus and to vote intelligently.
PEMEX TO DROP BEANIE BABIES
(Oaxaca) The Pemex Corporation announced today that it would be bombing Mexico with Beanie Babies for Christmas. The state-owned oil concern says the airlift is nothing more than a holiday gesture aimed at loyal customers and the poor. Critics say Pemex, the nation’s number one bad boy with regards to the environment, is attempting to create a diversion and distract Mexico from her growing problems.
“We just want to make sure every child in Mexico has a Beanie Baby for Christmas,” said Sergio DeLeone, of Pemex.
He did not respond when asked how many of the toys that would take. He was still be calculating on his fingers at press time.
“Pemex is in bed with the government but the only ones asleep are the citizens of Mexico,” said one Zapatista who demanded anonymity. “In fact Pemex is the government and the government is Pemex.”
Most children interviewed in Mexico said Beanie Babies were stupid and out of sync with what is happening.
Gates Buys Christmas
(Seattle) Millionaire computer nerd, Bill Gates, has reportedly acquired the rights to Christmas. The takeover, not particularly hostile as yet, occurred early this morning before all the good little boys and girls were awake. Associates and alleged Fifth Columnists in the North Pole were quickly informed and the transfer of power went smoothly without incident. It is not known what Gates plans to do with the holiday or what fate awaits several of the key players in its luny legacy.
Traditional Yuletide enthusiasts fear that Gates may attempt to install a secular steering committee due to statements regarding the alleged wise men and the no vacancy status in Bethlehem on December 24 so long ago.
“Mr. Gates has repeatedly slammed the Three Kings as computer illiterate saying that none could operate even the simplest laptop, especially from a moving camel,” said an aide. “Mr. Gates thinks the gold, frankincense and myrrh business was just a cover for extended corporate bungling. He says that’s why the wise men came from so far in the middle of the night.”
In closing the aide said that if the manger would have had a functioning electronic reservation program there would not have been a vacancy problem at the inn.
“Imagine the lost revenue from the time of Moses,” winced the aide.
People who live on dirt roads far happier souls
(Djibouti) Human beings who reside on earthen paths tend to be better adjusted and more capable of dealing with life’s often shoddy handouts than counterparts who dwell on asphalt. According to an exhausting study compiled by Vacant Lot Magazine, persons who find themselves on more natural footing are healthier and more energetic. The study did not consider cross references to sand and bare feet in the appraisal.
The data harvested herein reflects on daily rituals of persons living in the rural western United States and those merely existing on the fringe waiting for something of value to occur before lunch.
Conducted as part of the entrance requirements for the freshman class at Western State Colorado University of Gunnison, the examination asks the question: Do you expect to grow corn after the asphalt is down? It in no way attempts to explain dust particles, chuckholes or intrusive rocks on the surface but rather to determine the state of bliss for a small control group oblivious to the benefits inherent to dirt road living.
“This is not a geological undertaking,” said one professor here. “It is strictly sociological.”
Since earlier this summer groups of prospective WSC students have interviewed hundreds of people living between Parlin and Paradox recording responses to questions about dirt roads and happiness. At present the group is bivouacked in front of the Ridgway Post Office, acknowledged gateway to some of the finest dirt roads in the nation. Tomorrow the group will ride dirt bikes to downtown Redvale’s backstreets which are said to straddle the 38th Parallel on its winding way toward Disappointment Canyon. They are then slated to spend the evening at the Christian Fellowship Church just west of Bob’s Paving and Live Bait.
“A lot of people think this study is ludicrous,” said the faculty advisor, “and then there’s the ones who just think it’s stupid.” – Sergio Jingles
Information Factory Indicted in Dumping Case
Bosses at the sprawling Ajax Info-Source Plant, closed down for repairs in October, have been charged with an assortment of infractions including discharge of progressive ideologies, fielding broken promises, charting faint rainbows and failure to replace spent fuel rod cells.
Its operators are reportedly perplexed over the incident saying they have no cosmic debris to discard since their operations are clearly organic.
Software pollutants, cerebral contamination, insufficient data bases are highly toxic and dangerous for public consumption say government officials who have pledged to push the indictment.
“We will not have this kind of blatant disregard for the status quo in our own backyard,” said Deedee Dauntless of the toothless Ephemeral Protraction Agency.
“They were at least manufacturing something within the country. Leave them alone,” said longtime neighbor Eddie Singhe, who cleverly outsourced his egg noodle business, firing his 300 employees and sending everything to Shanghai in 2009.
Meanwhile the Information Highway remains backed up for over 200 miles due to the breakdown of infrastructure in the roads and bridges realm.
Simultaneously the government owned Smile Factory across the ridge is working three shifts and exporting 35,000 smiles per day to emerging countries all over the globe. – Fred Zeppelin
