Se muestran los artículos pertenecientes a Octubre de 2009.
FELICITEMONOS POR EL FRACASO DE LA PAYASADA DE MADRID-16
Los perjuicios que se describen en las siguientes razones empezarían a operar años antes de que se celebraran los JJ.OO., lo de menos es el mes que hubieran durado los juegos, lo significativo es que los efectos perversos se hubieran materializado muchos años antes.
Estos JJ.OO. hubieran sido una enorme propaganda para la criminal clase política de nuestro país. Una casta que ha propiciado la práctica desaparición de la Nación española vía sistema confederal de las autonomías y consiguientes separatismos, la destrucción de la unidad demográfica-antroplógica española vía invasión inmigratoria, la destrucción del tejido económico de España, la corrupción desarrollada a gran escala, la sumisión a los poderes geo-político-económicos del Nuevo Orden Mundial, la humillación de nuestra Nación y nuestro Ejército al servicio de las estrategias de poderes antinacionales, el embrutecimiento y degradación de la sociedad española...
La celebración de los JJ.OO. supondría unas presiones inflacionistas astronómicas, una especulación inmobiliaria aguda, un endeudamiento desproporcionado, una presión fiscal desaforada.
Los JJ.OO. hubieran potenciado un incremento espectacular una inmigración masiva que se sumaría a la invasión demográfica que ya padecemos, un aumento del urbanismo depredador, una congestión poblacional de masificación insostenible, un aumento del tráfico y de la congestión automovilística, un incremento de las tasas de contaminación medioambiental, un alza de la delincuencia. En definitiva una degradación imponente -aún más- de la calidad de vida... si ya está en Madrid suficientemete degradada esa habitabilidad.
Una sociedad que permite la invasión inmigratoria que destroza nuestra identidad y nuestras tradiciones, que permite la dinámica separatista disgregadora, que permite la degradación moral más profunda de nuestra historia, que permite la corrupción de la clase política. Una sociedad que se deja intoxicar y narcotizar por el poder, que se reboza en un consumismo abyecto, que sólo le mueve la fascinación de una TV basura degradante, que es tan borreguil como para llenar el centro de Madrid convocada por el Ayuntamiento para jalearle su “pan y circo” de los JJ.OO. y que es incapaz de movilizarse contra el paro, contra la invasión inmigratoria, contra el sablazo de los impuestos… esa sociedad es inmoral, es depravada, es despreciable y no merece unos JJ.OO.
Me voy a detener a desarrollar el aspecto económico pues los otros son evidentes pero ocultados por el sistema y el económico es el que sufre las dosis de manipulación más intensas.
España se despeña hacia crecimientos del PIB inferiores al 2% y tasas de paro por encima del 25%. Los cuatro millones de parados del momento llegarán en 2010 a los seis millones, realidad pavorosa que enmarca la mayor crisis económica, política, social y de valores, de la Historia de España. Que con semejante panorama los responsables del Régimen, con el borbón a la cabeza y el presidente del Gobierno de monaguillo, se lanzaran a la aventura de apoyar la organización de unos Juegos Olímpicos siguiendo el capricho del corrupto Gallardón, es un ejercicio de irresponsabilidad sin parangón.
Está fuera de duda que la organización del evento se traduciría inevitablemente en más gasto público y más deuda, en un país cuyo déficit público podría rozar a fin de año el 10% del PIB, un país que llegará al 2016 con una población empobrecida, con sus clases medias depauperadas y un paro estructural insoportable. Pero estas cosas no frenaron el entusiasmo impostado de la casta política que nos chulea. Esta gentuza se apropia y gasta el dinero ajeno, el que procede del pago de impuestos de los asalariados españoles.
Asistimos al hundimiento de la Nación española, pero los grandes constructores no se hubieran hundido, porque son los que tienen que seguir haciendo negocio con la ayuda de ese delincuente que es Gallardón.
Particularmente perjudicial nos hubiera resultado esta megalomanía de los politicastros a los madrileños. Los Juegos de Atenas generaron un déficit de 8.500 millones de euros y Montreal estuvo pagando el suyo durante varias décadas.
Ese delincuente que es Gallardón ha endeudado Madrid en cerca de 8.000 millones de euros. Ahora quería redondear la faena con la elección de la capital como sede de los Juegos 2016, convertidos en rampa de lanzamiento político personal para alcanzar la ansiada Presidencia del Gobierno. Y sin reparar en gastos. Que fueran las futuras generaciones de madrileños quienes pagaran el sueño megalómano de este caradura corrupto.
Los JJ.OO. no eran ninguna bicoca para Madrid. Sólo era una excusa para presionar al Gobierno, a la Administración regional, a la Hacienda Pública para que ayudaran al delincuente Gallardón a afrontar el pago de la deuda existente, algo que se presenta muy difícil en el medio y largo plazo.
Madrid no hubiera ganado nada desde el punto de vista urbano. Los proyectos más interesantes en curso tienen poco o nada que ver con las Olimpiadas, centradas directamente en el entorno del estadio la Peineta, con el barrio de la villa olímpica y unos equipamientos dispersos, algunos incluso desmontables tras el evento.
En otras palabras, Madrid hubiera ganado un pequeño PAU más, sin ningún interés urbanístico y en un recodo de difícil aprovechamiento, además de tres o cuatro equipamientos deportivos en torno la estadio de la Peineta, privatizado, por cierto. Eso sí, el campo estaba previsto que quedara abierto para, aprovechando el tirón, meter obras no relacionadas directamente con los Juegos, algo que los amigos del señor Gallardón agradecerían mucho, porque podrían seguir a lo suyo.
A cambio de tan excitante horizonte urbano en el barrio de San Blas, los madrileños hubiéramos entrado en una dinámica de chantaje absoluto durante los próximos años. Imposible imaginar mejor escenario que unos Juegos como excusa perfecta para obtener dinero público, prebendas varias y trato de favor a mogollón. Es decir, corrupción. Quiero decir, más corrupción. Y esto durante casi siete años perdidos en la noble tarea de protagonizar cualquier cambio en profundidad que la ciudad pudiera necesitar de verdad.
Ello por no hablar de la inseguridad, del aumento de los precios y, claro está, de los impuestos, final de cualquier aventura protagonizada por todo sátrapa que se precie. Claro que muchos lo hubieran pagado con gusto, dada la utilización del deporte como anestesiante social y excusa capaz de encubrir los dislates varios de un hombre y una casta política que ha concebido el evento como una oportunidad de promoción en su exclusivo beneficio, que se ha desgañitado en que le llevara en volandas a Moncloa. Es decir, que los madrileños paguemos las ambiciones políticas de este delincuente.
Things to Do.
1. Establish an operational base in IRAQ. This will leverage Iran. Why strategically we would undertake a war at great cost and then throw away the chance to set up a base at the door of our sworn enemies, Iran, was stupidity at its height. There is all the leverage we would need to stop the Mullahs and their thug. Start building up men and material on the Iran border and see the Mullahs change their tune. If we only have a year to do this, now is the time.
2. Quit the medical isotope dance with Russia. Like Clinton said (it is the economy stupid) It was Russia, N Korea, and Germany that got the world in this hole. Make our so called allies, that have been benefiting for decades, by not having to spend on defense.. step up to the plate and put it on the line. Sarkozy and the French talk tough, but that is all it is,, is a bunch of blabber. The Germans should be made accountable for their sales of restricted products like the centrifuges to Iran. They and the Russians have put the world in this situation for the pursuit of a Mark (Germany) and an attempt to turn back the clock (Russia). When and if the time comes to invade, put their troops in the first wave. They are the ones that deserve that honor.
3. Like they said in Pulp Fiction, "Go Medieval on their Ass". Think Siege, put real sanctions in place and execute a naval and air blockade of all trade. No weak kneed humane exceptions. If you are getting the bomb, you will starve. Make your choice. That is, "Remember the Maine" big stick foreign policy. This is where slapping around a bunch of our so called allies will help also.
October 7, 2009
1. Leopard-Skin Pill-Box Hat (Bob on keyboard)
2. Lay, Lady, Lay (Bob on guitar)
3. Things Have Changed (Bob on guitar)
4. Tweedle Dee & Tweedle Dum (Bob on keyboard)
5. Sugar Baby (Bob center stage on harp)
6. Most Likely You Go Your Way (And I'll Go Mine) (Bob on keyboard)
7. My Wife's Hometown (Bob on guitar)
8 Spirit On The Water (Bob on keyboard)
9. Cold Irons Bound (Bob on guitar)
10. Workingman's Blues #2 (Bob on keyboard)
11. Highway 61 Revisited (Bob on keyboard)
12. Ain't Talkin' (Bob on keyboard)
13. Thunder On The Mountain
14. Ballad Of A Thin Man
15. Like A Rolling Stone
17. All Along The Watchtower
The formidable Paris-based writer Nidra Poller explains why the President is a perfect recipient of the Nobel Peace Prize -- notably for his betrayal of Israel and aid to the global jihad:
Surprised? Shocked? Outraged? Not me. I'm delighted to see that the Nobel-Peace-Prize has been awarded to the person who most richly deserves it. Not only has he made gigantic efforts to promote Nobel-Peace in his nine short months in office but as president of the residually powerful United States of America he has the superforce to impose Nobel-style peace.
President and Nobel Prince of Peace Obama is not naïve, inept, inexperienced, or wet behind the ears. He is practicing what he preached. He has already fulfilled more promises than most voters ever suspected were being made. And the way things are going, only a miracle will keep him from delivering on the rest.
Bat Ye'or teaches us the meaning of peace in our times, the peace of dhimmitude, the peace that Nobel Norwegians have dutifully honored. It is the peace of convert or die...or hang in by the skin of your teeth. When the heads have been severed from the stiff necks that refuse Islam, when the converted have been folded into the prostrate masses of the ummah, the dhimmis hand over the keys to their granges, their wives and children, their hearts and minds, their lands and dwellings in exchange for a fragile peace requiring endless sacrifice and constant restraint.
This is the peace of dhimmitude, this is the peace Nobelly rewarded in...uhhh...Oslo, right? And B Hussein O is the most deserving laureate. On the very day the prize was announced, forty people were killed in a jihad attack in Peshawar Pakistan. Do you remember, way back when, during the campaign, he narrowed his eyes and said Iraq's a distraction, let me get my hands on the trigger and I'll take care of Pakistan. There you have it. A promise keeper of the first order. Iraq was also a distraction from Afghanistan. So mister Taliban tally your bananas, we've got other fish to fry, do your jihad thing and we'll lower our eyes, peace be upon you.
President Obama's Cairo speech alone earned him enough points to get this prize hands down. His bow to the king of Saudi Arabia. His consistent snubbing of European leaders. His betrayal of Poland and the Czech Republic. His outstretched hand that reaches all the way to Iran's nuclear sites and protects them from rain, hail, and Israel. His betrayal of Persians yearning for democracy. His reluctance to look into McChrystal's ball and find some kind of half way plausible strategy for the overseas contingency whatchamegig in Afghanistan.
Am I being coy? Why haven't I mentioned his master plan for the nuclear disarmament of...
Leaving the best for last. Even if he had not done all of the above, dayenu, he would be worthy of being hoisted on high in the Nobel firmament because he has declared war on Jewish construction in choice neighborhoods of al Quds and wannabe Palestine. Donche know, if you want peace be prepared to make war. And if you want the peace of jihad, make war on the Jews. Point your finger at them like a smoking gun. Sock it to 'em like a latter day koranic saint. Grab them by the scruff of the neck and scold them for all the world to see. Sic 'em with Goldstone, saddle them with Abbas, and send them to bed without dinner and ammunition. They wanted planes to fight to win? Stop the program, cancel the contracts, and if they holler strangle them with peace. Play footsy with Hamas, set up a mahjong date with Ahmadinejad, make cuddly eyes at Assad, and secretly decorate the private quarters of the White House with shahid posters, who would dare to protest?
Did you hear the latest? Anonymous sources have leaked to the press a flood of indignation from the peaceful Obama to you know who in the holy land. Aha! You thought he was fed up because his moderate ally Abu Mazen has reverted to PLO same o same o? Stirring up trouble on the Temple Mount because a bunch of French tourists got in the way of some irate Palestinian rocks? Which naturally led the Palestinians to go on a rampage in the narrow lanes of the Old City. How can President Obama call for the creation of a Palestinian state the day after tomorrow when his protégés are rousing a billion and a half Muslims to protect al Aqsa...from French tourists?
No. That's not why the Nobelly anointed young man is indignant. He is pissed off because Israelis are badmouthing him. Big shots and little guys in the street and on the beach, officials and cab drivers and housewives and left wing columnists are criticizing him.
Watch out. Even a Nobel-Peace-Prizer can lose his temper and explode. But then, who would blame him? What's more dangerous for world peace, a flock of Taliban or a gaggle of chuzpadike Israelis?
Hail to the Chief for reaching out to the Taliban and forgiving them for he knows not what they do, reaching out to the Muslim Brotherhood in all its forms and machinations, reaching out to the democratically elected Ahmadinejad and drawing a veil over the rape of the innocents, reaching out to Putin over the half dead body of Georgia...and trying to close Gitmo if only the jack-in-the-box would sit down and shut up.
And if he manages to push his health care revolution bill down US throats, they'll give him the Nobel Prize for Medicine next year. On the other hand, if he can maintain double digit unemployment and bring the dollar down to parity with the yuan he could outdistance Mugabe for the Nobel Prize for Economics.
A Nobel Prize to the wise is sufficient: when you hear the word "peace" praise the lord and pass the ammunition.
News of Bob Dylan’s album of Christmas songs shocked fans. But his official historian-in-residence, Sean Wilentz, detects not a single ironic or parodic note in Christmas in the Heart—just a sincere homage to American Christmases past.
When word spread last summer about the contents of Bob Dylan’s second album of the year, Christmas in the Heart, there were almost audible gasps of astonishment on the Dylan fan blogs and Web sites. It mattered little that Dylan was about the only major popular American singer or musician of modern times who had as yet failed to make a Christmas album. Bing Crosby made several, springing in part from the all-time popularity of his “White Christmas,” but the list has run the gamut from Frank Sinatra to Joan Baez, the Ronettes (as part of a compilation album produced by Phil Spector) to the Ventures. Even Jewish singers, including Barbra Streisand and Neil Diamond, released Christmas albums. In 1934, Eddie Cantor (born Edward Israel Iskowitz) had a huge hit with a brand new song that other major singers had turned down as too childish: “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town.” One of the most beloved holiday standards, “The Christmas Song (Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire),” was co-written by the son of Russian-Jewish immigrants whose name, before they changed it, was Torma—Mel Tormé.
One of my favorites of all the Christmas records—recorded by Elvis Presley, titled simply Christmas Album, and released in 1957—includes old standbys such as “White Christmas” and Gene Autry’s “Here Comes Santa Claus” on one side, and carols and black gospel songs on the other. (The latter include Presley and his backup singers, the Jordanaires, performing Thomas A. Dorsey’s “Peace in the Valley,” which was still a daring thing for an up-and-coming white Southern singer to do in 1957; and the performance, for purely spiritual reasons, moves me more with each passing year.)
The album is a sincere, raspy-voiced homage to a particular vintage of popular American Christmas music, as well as testimony to Dylan’s abiding spiritual faith.
But no matter how many singers had come before, to fans who still remember Dylan as the rebellious voice of the counterculture, or even those who have appreciated the older, sophisticated re-assembler of American music and literature, the thought of him recording anything as sentimental as a Christmas album has seemed odd. Is Dylan up to his old tricks, changing his style dramatically just when listeners and critics thought they had him pegged? Is it all just a high-spirited spoof?
In fact, making this record is a generous act that is fully in keeping with Dylan’s past and with his ever-developing art. The crass reason for artists to release special albums of Christmas songs had always been to cash in on the lucrative Christmas sales market. Dylan understands as much—but in the Christian spirit of caritas, he has donated all of his royalties from the album ahead of time, and in perpetuity, to buy meals for millions of needy persons through the organizations Feeding America, Crisis (in Great Britain), and the United Nations’ World Food Program. The artistic reason for cutting special Christmas collections had always been that there are so many wonderful Christmas songs, old and new—not least those in the American songbook of the past century and a half—and ambitious musical artists have been tempted to take them on. This is Dylan’s motivation as well. Some listeners who heard bits and pieces of Christmas in the Heart in advance pronounced it, with knowing irony, a parody of 1950s white-bread music. But the album contains not a single ironic or parodic note. It is a sincere, raspy-voiced homage to a particular vintage of popular American Christmas music, as well as testimony to Dylan’s abiding spiritual faith; hence, its title.
Like Elvis’ Christmas Album, but in a more jumbled way, Christmas in the Heart mixes traditional carols (roughly one-quarter of the album) with Tin Pan Alley holiday songs, one seasonal hit that has become attached to Christmas (“Winter Wonderland”), and a novelty song or two. The album could have appeared as a large chunk of an episode titled “Christmas” on Dylan’s Sirius-XM Radio show, Theme Time Radio Hour, but this time with Dylan performing all of the songs instead of acting as DJ.
But the most salient thing about Christmas in the Heart is how much of it consists of hits written and originally recorded in the 1940s and early 1950s—the years of Dylan’s boyhood when these songs formed a perennial American December soundscape, even for a Jewish kid. “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” first appeared in the film Meet Me in St. Louis in 1944, as sung by Judy Garland. Other standards on the album come from the same era: “The Christmas Song (Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire)” (1944) later made famous by Nat King Cole; the Andrews Sisters’ “Christmas Island” (1946); Autry’s and, later, Presley’s “Here Comes Santa Claus” (1947); and Dean Martin’s “The Christmas Blues” (1953).
It is also striking that, much as Charley Patton’s shade presides over Dylan’s superb album of 2001, Love and Theft, the benign spirit of Bing Crosby haunts Christmas in the Heart. This is not entirely surprising: After Crosby recorded “White Christmas” in 1942, he practically owned the franchise on making popular recordings of Christmas music. Still, it cannot be coincidental that, of all the Christmas material available to him, Dylan has included three of the songs most closely identified with Crosby—“I’ll Be Home for Christmas” (1943), “Silver Bells” (1952), and “Do You Hear What I Hear?” (1962)—as well as other songs that were successful for Crosby, including “Here Comes Santa Claus” (written in 1947, recorded by Crosby with the Andrews Sisters in 1949), “The Christmas Song” (recorded by Crosby in 1947), and “Winter Wonderland” (written in 1934 and recorded by Crosby in 1962). In all, 13 of the 15 songs on Christmas in the Heart, including all of the carols, were also recorded by Crosby.
And so the album takes us back to the mid- to late 1940s, when Bobby Zimmerman was just growing up. This, above all, is at the heart of Christmas in the Heart—Dylan re-creating, in his own way, the sounds of his childhood, complete with hokey backup singers, though also cut with his own style. And the effort is no joke. If there has been an American folk music in the commercial recording era since the 1930s, surely it has been Christmas music, known by virtually everyone, regardless of race, region, or religious faith—whether they have wanted to know it or not. And Christmas music had particularly powerful meanings for Americans in the 1940s. Before 1945, during World War II, it bound together the families of armed servicemen and women—with each other but also with their loved ones who would not be home for the holidays, and who might never come home alive. For all of these people, the great majority of the nation, Christmas music became a musical bond of remembrance of better times past and of hope for better times to come. (“I’ll Be Home for Christmas” is the prime example on Christmas in the Heart.) After 1945, Christmas music became a kind of totem of normality for tens of millions of Americans whose lives had been disrupted for more than a decade of Depression and war, and for whom the new and better times could not come fast enough.
Yet if Christmas in the Heart takes us back to the 1940s, it also takes us back to 1985, when Dylan touted Crosby to an interviewer as a great master of phrasing, one whose songs he hoped soon to record. Dylan’s fans could not have taken the remarks as serious, but they were. And the album takes us back two years before that, to the Power Station recording studio in New York in late April 1983, when Dylan was recording his album Infidels. The 11th recording session in as many days began with repeated efforts to complete “Foot of Pride,” but nine takes yielded nothing usable. To unwind, the band members jumped into a reggae jam—and then Dylan led them into “The Christmas Song,” followed by Louis Jordan’s jump blues hit from 1946, “Choo Choo Ch’Boogie,” then “Silent Night,” and then the contemporary Australian Pentecostal songwriter Darlene Zschech’s “Glory of the King.” If a seed was planted in the era of World War II and just after, it matured in Dylan’s mind for at least a quarter century before he recorded Christmas in the Heart.
There are no traditional blues, country, or rock ‘n’ roll songs on the album, which may surprise Dylan’s most loyal fans but may simply indicate how none of these genres has contributed much of interest to secular Christmas music. In blues and country music, the dividing line from sacred song is pretty sharp: Although Blind Willie McTell and the Carter Family might have sung religious and non-religious material, they didn’t confuse the two.
Dylan cannot, of course, keep from importing his own style and preferences and melding it with the 1940s sound. (The results are best heard on “Winter Wonderland,” complete with Donnie Herron on pedal steel guitar.) His careful phrasing and arrangements cannot always erase the ragged effects of his badly worn and cracked vocal cords, which are not up to a tune as complicated as “The Christmas Song.” But the season’s warm and exuberant joys come alive on several tracks, not least my favorite, “Must Be Santa”—a dance-hall rendition (complete with David Hidalgo’s accordion and George Receli’s crash cymbal) that, although beholden to Brave Combo, revives the polka rave-ups of “Whoopee” John Wilfahrt and all the Midwestern polka band kings of Dylan’s youth. And even though Dylan’s voice actually falters for a moment on “Hark, the Herald Angels Sing,” and an interlude by a female chorale starts off sounding dippy, the chorale’s line suddenly pauses, slows, and turns lovely; and Dylan joins in with "joyful, all ye nations rise/ join the triumph of the skies,” and the season’s apotheosis comes to the ear, and to the heart.
For more than half a century, Bob Dylan has been absorbing, transmuting, and renewing and improving American art forms long thought to be trapped in formal conventions. He not only “put folk into bed with rock,” as his stage manager Al Santos still announces before each concert, he took traditional folk music, the blues, rock ‘n’ roll, country and western, black gospel, Tin Pan Alley, Tex-Mex borderlands music, and more, and bent them to his own poetic muse. At the start of the 1960s, influenced by the songs and milieu of the Popular Front-inspired folk revival, he turned them into something else, much as the Popular Front composer Aaron Copland turned folk songs into orchestral music. His imagination and his voice blasted open by beat aesthetics, Dylan then pushed his own reinventions of folk music into realms that were every bit as mysterious and mythic as the old traditional music, but in a pop sensibility of his own time that shocked the folk purists. And then he turned away again, moving to Blakean and biblical parable, time-fractured songs of love and heartbreak, hell-fire preaching, and onward, through his recovered and revised modern minstrelsy of the 1990s and after.
Open to artistic inspiration anywhere he found it, Dylan acted not so much as a sponge (although he has always absorbed prodigious amounts) as an alchemist, taking common materials and creating new art. Nothing that came within his field of vision escaped him: 1930s French films, 1850s minstrel songs, the works of Shakespeare, Dolly Parton, St. John of Patmos, Muddy Waters—anything of beauty, no matter how terrible, became something to seize on and make his own. And yet, as he ended his seventh decade, Dylan also in some ways spiritually resembled Blind Willie McTell, traveling endlessly, performing endlessly, sharp to the wiles of the world, taking things from everywhere but fixing them up his own way, composing new songs and performing old ones that were sometimes sacred and sometimes secular, but neither black or white, up or down—and that had reference to everybody.
Now, all of a sudden, Dylan has offered a red-ribboned gift to the world, not so much slipping back and forth through time as evoking his own past and America’s, while providing Christmas dinner to families on relief—acting like a grander version of the Pretty Boy Floyd of his last proclaimed hero, Woody Guthrie, but as an artist, not a bank robber. Or perhaps Christmas in the Heart is not just a gift but another album of cover versions that, as in the past, has marked an interlude before Dylan undertook yet another new phase of his career. With the masked, shape-changing American alchemist, it is impossible to know too much for sure.
Sean Wilentz is a history professor at Princeton University whose books include The Rise of American Democracy: Jefferson to Lincoln and The Age of Reagan: A History, 1974-2008
Imagine that you are a cosseted member of the French elite. One child is doing the khâgne, aiming for rue d'Ulm. Another is now a politechnicien. You are very comfortable, working for the state. You and your spouse are journalists, or writers, or one of that vast tribe of people conducting "recherches" and life is comfortable, good, the way it should be. Yes, you do notice more and more Muslims about you as you walk, no longer in the banlieues, but in the center of Paris, or Toulouse, or Lyon. And you remember how uneasy you felt, four years ago, when you happened to be walking on the Cannebière in Marseille. You decided, then and there, that you would not return.
And you have friends who live in the south. And they tell you that the beurs - some call them maghrébins -- make life hell for everyone. They attack French children on the way to school. They vandalize cars. They threaten, and do more than threaten, anyone who is still foolish enough to walk out wearing a kippah or a cross. Whole areas of cities in the south, as in the north, and east, and west, have become off-limits to non-Muslims. In the schools, the teachers have lost authority. They cannot even cover the subjects of World War II, the Resistance, and the murders of the Jews as the state prescribes; they fear, with reason, the violent reaction of the Muslim students.
And as the schools become more and more dangerous for non-Muslim students and teachers, with more time and resources devoted to discipline rather than to learning, French parents and would-be parents are now silently factoring into their childbearing plans the present value of the future cost of what, they see, will now have to be added: private school tuition. And that means, of course, that those French people will plan on smaller families. And they will also be factoring in the growing cost, paid by them, those French taxpayers, for the whole expanding edifice of security, the guards in the schools, the guards at the train stations and métro stations and airports and at government buildings everywhere, the costs of keeping the gravestones from being vandalized, the costs of protecting the synagogues and the churches, the costs for all those tapped phones and agents in mosques, and subsidies to lawyers and judges to hear charges and try cases against Muslims, and the costs of monitoring da'wa in the prisons (more than 50% Muslim).
But the Muslims are indifferent to expenses incurred by the French state. France is part of the world; the world belongs to Allah, and to his Believers. That doctrine has remained immutable for 1400 years. Imam Bouziane, the one they keep trying to deport, had 16 children by two wives, all living on the French state: a representative Muslim man. Over time, the difference between average family size of Muslims and non-Muslims steadily increases. And, over time, the education system continues to disintegrate. Right now, perhaps, you cannot see it. Your children go to the best schools, followed by the best lycées. You vacation in Normandy, or Brittany, or the Ile de Ré. And you do not take the metro often enough, or walk in the right districts, or work in the right factories or offices, to understand what tens of millions of your fellow Frenchmen now have to endure. You, for the moment, are still immune, still willfully unaware. You have spent the last few decades learning about the Muslim world from Eric Rouleau, and his epigones (after they silenced Peroncel-Hugoz, the one journalist who reported the truth) in Le Monde. You are deeply-versed in the constantly reported-upon, endlessly dilated-upon, perfidy of the mighty empire of Israel. You know what we have all had dinned into us: that the Arab Muslims are reasonable people, with clearly-justified grievances, grievances so reasonable and so limited in scope, that justice demands they be satisfied. Everyone agrees on the "solution." It is called a "two-state solution" and of course it is a "solution" for otherwise, of course, it would not have been called a "solution."
And everything looks the way it always has looked: the linden trees, the river, the bridges, the réverbères, the étalage in the neighborhood boulangerie. Douce France, cher pays de mon enfance. At the end of the school day, chic mothers still congregate in little towns, or small cities, outside the school - this or that Ecole Jules Ferry -- waiting to pick up their children. Here come the littlest ones, from Maternelle, running up now -- just look at how small they are. And here are the CE1 group, with those huge cartables on their tiny backs. Run, run, run, to Mommy. Oop-la. And then the years of study, study, study marked by ever-larger cahiers -- "cahier" and "cartable" are the words that identify French DNA better than Piaf or gauloises, isn't that true? And now we will read the books, and study the subjects, set down so completely and precisely by the Ministry of Education. And now we are up to the final year, preparing for the Bac, with copies of blue-backed BALISES, guides to Les Châtiments and La Peau de Chagrin. And just look at the results listed in the newspaper: Claire-Alix has a mention très bien. Fantastic. Everything is fine, everything will always stay the same, whole countries cannot change. It's not possible.
But it is changing, coming apart, quietly, slowly -- let's not look too closely, we mustn't pay too much attention -- the streets, the schools, the hospitals, the ability to speak the truth about things, about life as it is lived, la vita vissuta as they like to say in a neighboring country. Dominique de Villepin always knew there was nothing to worry about; he was born, after all, in Salé, next to Rabat, even spent a few years of his infancy there; of course he knows his Arabs, his Muslims. And surely Eric Rouleau, who for decades in Le Monde was the resident expert on the Middle East (he was so knowledgeable that he never had to so much as mention the teachings of the Qur'an and Sunna), surely he knew everything, didn't he? And those French translations of Edward Said that denounced with such passion the Islamophobia, and those vicious cliches with which the blind and rotting West has always caricatured the Arab Muslim world. Oh, we have been so terrible to the Arabs, we colonialists, we French, we Westerners. And then there is the never-ending outrage of Israel, that running colonial sore. Of course, they have every right, those Muslims, to come here to France. We went to their countries once, now they come to ours. And they have every right to hate us, don't they?
So now we have decided not to understand, and to cut all ties of sympathy to, Israel -- and how did we ever have any sympathy for it in the first place, the way some of our parents did back in 1948 or 1956 or 1967? How could they not have seen what the "Palestinian people" had to endure? Hanan, Yasser, Said, Saeb, Aziz, Walid, Rashid, Mohammed -- you have won our hearts and minds. Take us, do with us what you will.
No one will mention what is happening or what kinds of things we must begin to think about doing to save ourselves. No one of any decency. And whatever Le Pen and Megret say, we must say the opposite (except, of course, when they show their hostility to "the Jews"). Do not say those things, do not think them. Free thought is all very well in theory, but really -- consider the consequences. Don't dare to think outside that box brimming with idées reçues. Défense de penser au dehors du box.
No, everything will be all right as you stroll down the Avenue Paule-Anne. Those Muslims will never be a match for us. Why, just look at those legionnaires marching à pas lent down the Champs-Elysées, think of that string of desert victories. Inside our heads, it is 1930 and over here is the Exposition coloniale. You remember, tu t'en souviens, that painting by le Douanier Rousseau, don't you, with the burnoosed Arab standing next to the black Senegalese? I have it right, don't I? France will always be France. Nothing will ever change.
At a certain point, and despite everything that causes you not to see what is staring you in the face, you realize that something has gone irreparably wrong with your country, and you, and your children, are in danger of losing that country, down to every village and house, qui m'est une province et beaucoup davantage. And you do not know what to do, or how to explain this feeling to others, or in whom to confide your secret fears, or what can be done. It is so confusing, and so upsetting. You cannot vote for Le Pen. You cannot endorse "cowboy" Bush or those ridiculous Americans. You have no place to go.
And then you learn what Jacques Chirac -- who now has a Muslim grandchild himself -- and Dominique de Villepin, do not wish you to learn. For if you did, you might be very angry. You discover that 1 out of every 3 babies born in France today is a Muslim baby. And that means, in 20 years, one of every three 20-year-olds in France will be a Muslim twenty-year-old. And that means, twenty years after that, at present rates of reproduction, France will have a majority Muslim population. Where shall we hide the statues from Marly-le-roi? And the Venus de Milo? And what about all those paintings of animated life -- all those portraits in the Louvre, and the Grand Palais, and the Musée Guimet down there in linden-lined Aix, and everywhere else in art-filled artful France, mère des arts, des armes, et des loix -- that are absolutely forbidden according to the immutable strictures of the Qur'an. Should they be sent for safekeeping to those Americans across the seas? By then most of the Jews in France will have left, gone across the oceans for their own safekeeping, to Israel or to English-speaking Canada (they were worried about the Muslim population of Quebec, you see, which had been allowed to grow under the Province of Quebec's policy of encouraging francophone immigrants, preferring North Africans to potential immigrants from Italy, Greece, Spain), and above all, to America. What luck those Americans have had. No more bequests to France by the likes of the Rothschilds, or Nissim Camondo. No more Donations from another Pierre Lévy. Enjoy the Kufic calligraphy; some find it endlessly fascinating.
For the moment, you allow yourself to believe that something will come up. Most likely, all those Muslims will simply convert. I mean, they do that, don't they, quite easily I'm told. Of course, why didn't I think of it, that is exactly what will happen. The situation is always saved in time. Just like during the war. Nothing to worry about. Nothing.
1. Leopard-Skin Pill-Box Hat (Bob on keyboard)
2. Don't Think Twice, It's All Right (Bob on guitar)
3. Most Likely You Go Your Way (And I'll Go Mine)
(Bob on keyboard and harp)
4. My Wife's Home Town (Bob on guitar)
5. Rollin' And Tumblin' (Bob on keyboard)
6. Beyond The Horizon (Bob center stage on harp)
7. Tweedle Dee & Tweedle Dum (Bob on keyboard)
8. Tryin' To Get To Heaven (Bob on keyboard)
9. Cold Irons Bound (Bob center stage on harp)
10. Not Dark Yet (Bob on keyboard then center stage on harp)
11. Highway 61 Revisited (Bob on keyboard)
12. Nettie Moore (Bob on keyboard)
13. Thunder On The Mountain (Bob on keyboard)
14. Ballad Of A Thin Man (Bob center stage on harp)
15. Like A Rolling Stone (Bob on keyboard)
16. Jolene (Bob on keyboard)
17. All Along The Watchtower (Bob on keyboard)