* Politician and Tallinn mayor Edgar Savisaar retaliates against being dumped by his longtime wife Vilja by taking up with a cabaret dancer who lives in Kadrina and starting a video blog with her.
* On Valentine's Day, Savisaar appears in a livecast four-way bed-in from a Rakvere hotel along with controversial Estonian bloggers Inno and Irja. The intended message is "wait until civil partnership to have sex", in line with growing conservative values in Estonia, but it backfires. The ultimate political survivor finds his reputation irreparably destroyed and he announces plans to retire from public life. Inno and Irja seem to benefit and re-emerge in the course of the year as a new morally conservative voice.
* In other political news, Prime Minister Andrus Ansip comes within two minutes of his best time in the Tartu Marathon. His Reform Party continues to be the #1 or #2 force in Estonia and Ansip has a surprisingly uneventful year, commuting to Tallinn twice a week by plane for government meetings.
* In an otherwise uneventful late winter, a Tallinn magnate unveils plans for WinterTower -- a new concert venue located in a tower to be built between the Estonia Opera House and the Estonia Concert Hall. But opposition comes from many quarters, most notably from Peeter Rebane, who says it will block views of the Old Town from Solaris Centre, which due to falling roof debris is now a full 3 metres lower than it was originally.
* A Tartu businessman unveils plans for "Lasku" -- a sprawling financial and insurance centre built of silicate brick on a concrete platform extending out into the River Emajõgi with several underwater storeys with portholes and views of murky river water. Foreign architects praise the "horizontal", low-density planning.
* In the early hours of 24 April, numerous people report that they saw the Freedom Cross in downtown Tallinn "illuminated", as "if it were shining from within". The reports are generally dismissed as not credible, as the monument's replacement extension power cord ordered over the Internet was too short and there was no power to the monument area on that given day.
* Somewhat surreally, the Freedom Cross becomes popular with Italian graffiti artists who are pathologically drawn to pompous 19th and 20th century nationalist monuments. They make pilgrimages all summer long from as far as Sicily. Estonians decry these "new Brits" but concede that there is now no doubt that the thing is a bit pompous and unnecessary.
* The Public Procurements Act is amended to prohibit the awarding of contracts to foreign companies whose business name translates as "careless", "negligent" or otherwise suggests they may not be on the level.
* On May 1, the country once again goes to work cleaning up the countryside in a repeat of the successful event two years ago. The haul is bigger than ever, but oddly, some participants report finding many of the exact same items, except in a slightly more deteriorated condition.
* Tartu officials attend a meeting of the World Maritime Organization and tout their prospects for a possible major container terminal on what is becoming known, at least in Tartu, as the "northwest-southeast corridor".
* The Use of Improper English Prevention Act is introduced into Estonian parliament but stalls after a vocal lobby of teachers from elite secondary schools in Estonia criticizes a foreign expert working group from the UK for allegedly using American English.
* War injuries, which increase, are neck and neck (no pun intended) with traffic accident injuries, which again decrease.
* The first bilingual street signs in Tallinn appear. Moderate commentators say it's nothing to worry about -- that Tallinn is asserting its cosmopolitan identity.
* Tartu gets Ryanair.
* Savisaar comes out of retirement as a potent force again.
* Travel sections of European newspapers write about a "Slavic renaissance" in Tallinn in the run-up to the 2011 European Capital of Culture festivities.
* A national campaign to discourage the use of a brusquely barked-out "Ach?" in favour of the more genteel "Pardon me, could you repeat that?" has only limited success.
* Enterprise Estonia announces the winning entry in the country's official slogan competition. The winner: "Estonia", a nod toward Nordic minimalism. The runner-up: "Eesti. Ach? Estonia."
* The ever-sensitive government of Kazakhstan files suit against Petrone Print for, as Kazakhstan sees it, "claiming ownership of Kazakhstan" in the title of the successful Estonian publisher's latest country-specific book.
* In early December, with snow falling and accumulating for a second winter in a row, Tartu announces that it will put in a bid for the 2018 Winter Olympics.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Monday, December 28, 2009
Black and blue alert
"I don't understand your blog anymore lately," my wife said. "It has a madman quality to it." She said that one of her girlfriends had said so, too.
I'd like to say I swallowed hard. I'd like to say I called my writers up for an emergency staff meeting. But I did not. I took her comment with equanimity at first. Actually, I went on reading my excellent bedtime book, Not Quite The Diplomat by Chris Patten. Good, frank memoir about America and Europe. I recommend it.
But I respect her opinion. And I knew that it wasn't just, as she generously offered a moment later, a case of my American cultural references not getting through. No, no: there was something else. Readership has been dropping for a long time. On a recent posting, I actually got a grand total of one Chinese spam comment -- in Mandarin -- which, as anyone knows, counts as negative one comments. Going by an average of hits, profile views and comments, the situation is grave. And whenever I mention even a slightly popular keyword, like "USA", Chinese crap salesmen jump all over it.
The biggest single-day dropoff was when Obama was inaugurated. Before January 20, people used to hang out on the blog and banter; comments would sometimes push the 30 mark. Commenters would come back to visit and check if anyone had replied to their comments, always a sign of critical mass. Blue, Black and White Alert was once the #2 or #3 English-language blog in Estonia on some days, like the 11th. Not anymore. September 11, 2001 may not have been the death of irony, as Jon Stewart predicted, but for some odd reason, January 20 had been the death of sporadically funny political satire from a small northern country.
Not that it bothered me very much. But sometimes I felt I had interfered with some highly private "era of good feelings" that had come over people, and that they resented it highly. But how could it be? After all, to me Obama was clearly a total fraud -- in the American canon, the turn-of-the-century snake-oil salesman in a painted wagon. He had seemed normal for about four days, then he had started talking about terrorism. So how could be like FDR? FDR had said there was nothing to fear but fear itself, and here was ol' Barack talking about how people were going to go durka durka on us again if we didn't stay vigilant. Obama's metamorphosis had been like the Manchurian Candidate's. By March he was using every rhetorical device Karl Rove had ever perfected. He even spoke of something called "preventive detention" at one point. Civil libertarians like the EFF groaned: Obama was worse than Bush. Finally, in December, even Cheney sounded a note of caution -- peevishly complaining that Obama would eclipse Bush's legacy if he kept it up.
Still, I was a rationalist. I applied Occam's Razor. Probably Obama was just warming up for an really good 2010. Probably society wasn't mad. Neither were my readers.
That left the other possibility: that I was a madman.
I went to a shrink the next day.
"Everything all right at home?" she asked.
I nodded.
"This hasn't been a calculated move to scuttle readership?"
I shook my head.
"Well, you're not crazy," said the shrink. "And Afghanistan is a terrible, terrible war. Just wrong. Of course, it's bound to be good for my practice, with all the veterans, but so unfulfilling. The problem with your blog, I think, is that it is too concentrated sometimes. It's like that Estonian 30% vinegar. Sometimes I put it in my food by accident. The stuff is corrosive. I can't believe they sell it in shops in Estonia without warning labels."
"Your blog is also disingenuous," the shrink went on, but I could tell that she was rambling. Anyway, my disingenuousness was the literary device I held most dear!
But I thought about the "concentrated" part. Could it be? I knew what the shrink was talking about. I had diluted 30% vinegar 1:5 just the other day, thinking that that would be enough, and it still burned the tongue. It was like vitriol. My dinner party guests had asked me for chili peppers to get rid of the burning sensation.
"You need to keep the blog light, without wild leaps," said the shrink. "People -- the ones who haven't ditched blogs for Twitter -- want stuff about minor issues. Japanese bloggers figured it out a long time ago. Write about almost nothing, with a genial, feel-good vibe. Something like...well, 30% vinegar. Literally. Little cultural differences. Afghanistan, though -- that's a big cultural similarity. It's a background issue with minor variations. The only thing that is different is the flags draped on the coffins."
"But I don't want to write about salad dressing," I said. "I can't do that. There's things that have to be discussed now, even if they're uncomfortable. People can't go on daydreaming with an elephant at the table."
"Look, I'm not your editor, I'm not your agent. But I would change something. Your last post may have been a lot of things, but it certainly wasn't a recap of the decade. Give me a break. That was just a rant about Flight 253. Then it got to the little asterisks, and kept on going. It was awful! Like actually landing in Detroit!"
"New Year's is coming up," she went on. "Give the people what they need. A proper recap. If you can't do that, how about some predictions? You haven't been too far off the mark. If there's one thing that sells besides escapism in Estonia, it's prophecy. And the best thing is, no one will remember what you said. It's a highly forgiving country even if they do. I think you should try. The old prophets and seers are fading. Igor Mang has been wrong quite a lot of a time. This Anastasia woman, there's something I don't trust about her."
I thought about it. Yes, it was true. I had to re-establish my niche. Colbert imitations would not cut it. I don't have the sustained invention. I had to somehow re-establish my sanity and authoritative voice before my readers. To try to reel in the old ones and repay the readers who had stayed with me. And I had been gambling in simulated casinos recently while doing research for a 1930s theme party, and I had been on a rather hot streak in craps, if I do say so myself.
Yes, damn it, I was sane, confident, people liked me, and most of all, I was lucky. I vowed -- nay, predicted -- that my next piece would be the stuff of prophecy.
I'd like to say I swallowed hard. I'd like to say I called my writers up for an emergency staff meeting. But I did not. I took her comment with equanimity at first. Actually, I went on reading my excellent bedtime book, Not Quite The Diplomat by Chris Patten. Good, frank memoir about America and Europe. I recommend it.
But I respect her opinion. And I knew that it wasn't just, as she generously offered a moment later, a case of my American cultural references not getting through. No, no: there was something else. Readership has been dropping for a long time. On a recent posting, I actually got a grand total of one Chinese spam comment -- in Mandarin -- which, as anyone knows, counts as negative one comments. Going by an average of hits, profile views and comments, the situation is grave. And whenever I mention even a slightly popular keyword, like "USA", Chinese crap salesmen jump all over it.
The biggest single-day dropoff was when Obama was inaugurated. Before January 20, people used to hang out on the blog and banter; comments would sometimes push the 30 mark. Commenters would come back to visit and check if anyone had replied to their comments, always a sign of critical mass. Blue, Black and White Alert was once the #2 or #3 English-language blog in Estonia on some days, like the 11th. Not anymore. September 11, 2001 may not have been the death of irony, as Jon Stewart predicted, but for some odd reason, January 20 had been the death of sporadically funny political satire from a small northern country.
Not that it bothered me very much. But sometimes I felt I had interfered with some highly private "era of good feelings" that had come over people, and that they resented it highly. But how could it be? After all, to me Obama was clearly a total fraud -- in the American canon, the turn-of-the-century snake-oil salesman in a painted wagon. He had seemed normal for about four days, then he had started talking about terrorism. So how could be like FDR? FDR had said there was nothing to fear but fear itself, and here was ol' Barack talking about how people were going to go durka durka on us again if we didn't stay vigilant. Obama's metamorphosis had been like the Manchurian Candidate's. By March he was using every rhetorical device Karl Rove had ever perfected. He even spoke of something called "preventive detention" at one point. Civil libertarians like the EFF groaned: Obama was worse than Bush. Finally, in December, even Cheney sounded a note of caution -- peevishly complaining that Obama would eclipse Bush's legacy if he kept it up.
Still, I was a rationalist. I applied Occam's Razor. Probably Obama was just warming up for an really good 2010. Probably society wasn't mad. Neither were my readers.
That left the other possibility: that I was a madman.
I went to a shrink the next day.
"Everything all right at home?" she asked.
I nodded.
"This hasn't been a calculated move to scuttle readership?"
I shook my head.
"Well, you're not crazy," said the shrink. "And Afghanistan is a terrible, terrible war. Just wrong. Of course, it's bound to be good for my practice, with all the veterans, but so unfulfilling. The problem with your blog, I think, is that it is too concentrated sometimes. It's like that Estonian 30% vinegar. Sometimes I put it in my food by accident. The stuff is corrosive. I can't believe they sell it in shops in Estonia without warning labels."
"Your blog is also disingenuous," the shrink went on, but I could tell that she was rambling. Anyway, my disingenuousness was the literary device I held most dear!
But I thought about the "concentrated" part. Could it be? I knew what the shrink was talking about. I had diluted 30% vinegar 1:5 just the other day, thinking that that would be enough, and it still burned the tongue. It was like vitriol. My dinner party guests had asked me for chili peppers to get rid of the burning sensation.
"You need to keep the blog light, without wild leaps," said the shrink. "People -- the ones who haven't ditched blogs for Twitter -- want stuff about minor issues. Japanese bloggers figured it out a long time ago. Write about almost nothing, with a genial, feel-good vibe. Something like...well, 30% vinegar. Literally. Little cultural differences. Afghanistan, though -- that's a big cultural similarity. It's a background issue with minor variations. The only thing that is different is the flags draped on the coffins."
"But I don't want to write about salad dressing," I said. "I can't do that. There's things that have to be discussed now, even if they're uncomfortable. People can't go on daydreaming with an elephant at the table."
"Look, I'm not your editor, I'm not your agent. But I would change something. Your last post may have been a lot of things, but it certainly wasn't a recap of the decade. Give me a break. That was just a rant about Flight 253. Then it got to the little asterisks, and kept on going. It was awful! Like actually landing in Detroit!"
"New Year's is coming up," she went on. "Give the people what they need. A proper recap. If you can't do that, how about some predictions? You haven't been too far off the mark. If there's one thing that sells besides escapism in Estonia, it's prophecy. And the best thing is, no one will remember what you said. It's a highly forgiving country even if they do. I think you should try. The old prophets and seers are fading. Igor Mang has been wrong quite a lot of a time. This Anastasia woman, there's something I don't trust about her."
I thought about it. Yes, it was true. I had to re-establish my niche. Colbert imitations would not cut it. I don't have the sustained invention. I had to somehow re-establish my sanity and authoritative voice before my readers. To try to reel in the old ones and repay the readers who had stayed with me. And I had been gambling in simulated casinos recently while doing research for a 1930s theme party, and I had been on a rather hot streak in craps, if I do say so myself.
Yes, damn it, I was sane, confident, people liked me, and most of all, I was lucky. I vowed -- nay, predicted -- that my next piece would be the stuff of prophecy.
Saturday, December 26, 2009
Flight 253
Of course I'm disappointed. The decade opened with 9/11 (so sad!) and now it closes with, well, 7-11. I say that not to diminish the importance of 7/11, for I recognize that something momentous may well have occurred on that date, too -- every date ending in 11, 13 and 15 is suspect -- but because I recognized the name of the Nigerian in question as the clerk who charged me for a Slurpee a while back. Also (lest you think I am mining the oldest comedic material in the book) because said clerk's "terrorism attempt" makes me think of what happened after I exited the convenience store: I spilled that Slurpee all over myself. Man, am I a klutz! Better not trust me with a Big Gulp! Ha-ha!
The Ottos (as I call the 2000-2009 decade, after the bus driver in the Simpsons) also ended with this: no Osama capture. Remember that cliche: "Conspicuous by his absence"? I'm going to use it twice in this piece, because after being abused at too many city council meetings, its time has finally come.
Even if Osama WERE to be captured in the next few days (I am still holding out hope, no matter what InTrade says), the tragedy is that it would probably be completely eclipsed by this damn Abdulwaddiwaddi/Flight 253 story that keeps on snowballing.
But let it snowball. (Just don't bring snow on to aircraft, it can occur in both liquid and powder form, making it the most dangerous single item in America.) Because I am no Scrooge, not about terrorism. Not about unitedness. And most of all, not about good cinematic narratives, which the Story of Flight 253 surely is.
Of course -- to address the practical value of the Nigerian case -- it is not completely beyond the bounds of possibility that it will eventually lead investigators straight TO Bin Laden. I have two House Representatives on the record in an Estonian newspaper (later edited out) saying that Abdulwallah was connected to Al Qaeda.
But more important, it's such a good story. This is the Hudson River landing rewritten for Christmas, where not only the passengers, but the city of Detroit is saved. I guess I should say "former city of Detroit", because we've all seen the Youtube videos.
People sometimes say that some stories are made for the screen. They don't know the half of it. It turns out that the guy who made the heroic cinematic tackle that saved the former city of Detroit from destruction -- across several rows of stoned unemployed auto workers returning from Amsterdam on this Delta aircraft -- was...a film-maker!!
That means casting for the Story of Flight 253 can start without further ado. Neil Young and Toby Keith can do a duet for the soundtrack.
Even with its happy ending, it's never too late for anger, of course -- anger and maudlin sentimentality being the two reasons why God invented music. This narrative channels Americans' justified popular anger at Nigeria, an oil-rich country that has squandered its resources to court multinationals and kow-tow meekly to dictators, becoming a security vacuum.
As all that good security was being sucked out of Nigeria, common Nigerian folk evilly set to work, defrauding the world's financial systems...with scam e-mails, eventually leading to the recession, or economic downturn. I received one of the letters myself in 1998. I can tell you it was persuasive. I don't remember how much I sent, but it was months before I broke even.
Besides the global/financial impacts, the story of Flight 253 also resonates internationally -- so rare in these days when everything is "global, global, global".
I couldn't believe that the British newspapers picked up the story. And not only that, but they ran it today on their front pages! Ol' Blighty comes through in the clutch! What solidarity in lean times! But indeed, incredibly -- it's a small world -- Abdulwadda, although from a country impossibly far-removed from Albion, had relatives in Britain's immigrant districts. Valuable evidence was gathered. That's one small step closer to Osama -- and just as important, one small step closer to prosecuting two people (pawn and evil mastermind) for the same crime, which is the basis of international law.
***
In short, look on the bright side. Many things are better at the end of the Ottos than they were in 2000. There are still about 100 things that can be brought aboard an aircraft and bring that aircraft down prematurely. But there are more digerati and cognoscenti, many of them fit, metrosexual film-makers (pocket cameras can still be brought aboard) who are ready to hurdle seats and who have acted enough themselves and have just enough ironic distance to their perspective on reality to remember their lines. The lines being, "Let's Roll." They always were, no matter what the brand of English.
The other good thing ca 2010 is that, while I don't know about Al Qaeda, passengers can only be held hostage on the tarmac by airline companies for a maximum three hours.
Third but not last, flight attendants were seen dousing flames with bottled water -- to me at least, as a Ryanair flier, that's incredible and presages a more generous era in the air.
The Flight of 253 is an inspiring story. It has even "riveted the attention" (NYT) of one Barack Obama, conspicuous by his absence, but because he is vacationing on a remote Pacfic island -- I believe to draw the world's attention to global warming. They won't pay attention to it now, because we're riveted to Abdulwaddiwaddi and all the snow, but anyway...look for the Story of Flight 263 in theatres soon after it finishes its run on the news sites.
It'll make you feel that it all -- this whole decade, even W -- has been worth it.
The Ottos (as I call the 2000-2009 decade, after the bus driver in the Simpsons) also ended with this: no Osama capture. Remember that cliche: "Conspicuous by his absence"? I'm going to use it twice in this piece, because after being abused at too many city council meetings, its time has finally come.
Even if Osama WERE to be captured in the next few days (I am still holding out hope, no matter what InTrade says), the tragedy is that it would probably be completely eclipsed by this damn Abdulwaddiwaddi/Flight 253 story that keeps on snowballing.
But let it snowball. (Just don't bring snow on to aircraft, it can occur in both liquid and powder form, making it the most dangerous single item in America.) Because I am no Scrooge, not about terrorism. Not about unitedness. And most of all, not about good cinematic narratives, which the Story of Flight 253 surely is.
Of course -- to address the practical value of the Nigerian case -- it is not completely beyond the bounds of possibility that it will eventually lead investigators straight TO Bin Laden. I have two House Representatives on the record in an Estonian newspaper (later edited out) saying that Abdulwallah was connected to Al Qaeda.
But more important, it's such a good story. This is the Hudson River landing rewritten for Christmas, where not only the passengers, but the city of Detroit is saved. I guess I should say "former city of Detroit", because we've all seen the Youtube videos.
People sometimes say that some stories are made for the screen. They don't know the half of it. It turns out that the guy who made the heroic cinematic tackle that saved the former city of Detroit from destruction -- across several rows of stoned unemployed auto workers returning from Amsterdam on this Delta aircraft -- was...a film-maker!!
That means casting for the Story of Flight 253 can start without further ado. Neil Young and Toby Keith can do a duet for the soundtrack.
Even with its happy ending, it's never too late for anger, of course -- anger and maudlin sentimentality being the two reasons why God invented music. This narrative channels Americans' justified popular anger at Nigeria, an oil-rich country that has squandered its resources to court multinationals and kow-tow meekly to dictators, becoming a security vacuum.
As all that good security was being sucked out of Nigeria, common Nigerian folk evilly set to work, defrauding the world's financial systems...with scam e-mails, eventually leading to the recession, or economic downturn. I received one of the letters myself in 1998. I can tell you it was persuasive. I don't remember how much I sent, but it was months before I broke even.
Besides the global/financial impacts, the story of Flight 253 also resonates internationally -- so rare in these days when everything is "global, global, global".
I couldn't believe that the British newspapers picked up the story. And not only that, but they ran it today on their front pages! Ol' Blighty comes through in the clutch! What solidarity in lean times! But indeed, incredibly -- it's a small world -- Abdulwadda, although from a country impossibly far-removed from Albion, had relatives in Britain's immigrant districts. Valuable evidence was gathered. That's one small step closer to Osama -- and just as important, one small step closer to prosecuting two people (pawn and evil mastermind) for the same crime, which is the basis of international law.
***
In short, look on the bright side. Many things are better at the end of the Ottos than they were in 2000. There are still about 100 things that can be brought aboard an aircraft and bring that aircraft down prematurely. But there are more digerati and cognoscenti, many of them fit, metrosexual film-makers (pocket cameras can still be brought aboard) who are ready to hurdle seats and who have acted enough themselves and have just enough ironic distance to their perspective on reality to remember their lines. The lines being, "Let's Roll." They always were, no matter what the brand of English.
The other good thing ca 2010 is that, while I don't know about Al Qaeda, passengers can only be held hostage on the tarmac by airline companies for a maximum three hours.
Third but not last, flight attendants were seen dousing flames with bottled water -- to me at least, as a Ryanair flier, that's incredible and presages a more generous era in the air.
The Flight of 253 is an inspiring story. It has even "riveted the attention" (NYT) of one Barack Obama, conspicuous by his absence, but because he is vacationing on a remote Pacfic island -- I believe to draw the world's attention to global warming. They won't pay attention to it now, because we're riveted to Abdulwaddiwaddi and all the snow, but anyway...look for the Story of Flight 263 in theatres soon after it finishes its run on the news sites.
It'll make you feel that it all -- this whole decade, even W -- has been worth it.
Monday, December 21, 2009
1933
For one night, Tallinn's other Valli Baar (on Valli Street, across from the Scottish industrialist's golden arches) was transformed into Madame K's House of Moonshine and Minor Gambling.
It was 1933, the 13th year of the 1920s.
The year the so-called immoral values of the decade became legitimate.
The year that the 1920s was killed in cold blood, except no one knew because the ghost was just as much fun as the living version.
Unlike the visibly dangerous 1920s with its rows of glittering shark's teeth, the 1930s just had a knife, much like the clownish Macheath (above), and kept out of sight -- at least for a few more years!
**
But everywhere there were signs of consolidation and upscaling. The musical-industrial complex was rising. Big bands ruled the day, and swing was king.
Blues was out of fashion, ostensibly when many needed it most. Yet Empress Bessie still held court. No one else sang like that. Never has.
Virtuosi and brilliant tragedies were waiting in the wings. Django and Billie Holiday.
Louis Armstrong was in his supple, youthful prime, crooning into a new smooooth RCA mic.
Looped silently under the soundtrack, the tallest, darkest leading man in Hollywood scaled towers and fought dinosaurs, until new skyscrapers punched holes through the celluloid.
With drinking legal, patrons starved for the lure of the forbidden took to smoking surreptitiously out of designer Craftsman bags.
These were still different times. Poets studied rules of verse, and ladies, they just rolled their eyes.
A craps mat -- not a table but up a notch from a cardboard box, preserved some of the egalitarian nature of street gambling. The house still won, but by a small, publicly disclosed margin, which would be donated to the construction of large civil works. There would be no more 1929.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
LAUGHAGAINISTAN: Al Qaeda debriefs an Estonian
EXT. A large, dark, forbidding stone building. It is the Al Qaeda Ministry of the War. The bronze letters on the facade -- in both Arabic and English -- proclaim it to be so -- "the Al Qaeda Ministry of the War". Corinthian columns flank the entrance, except the ornate part appears to be made up of the phalanges of bony hands. Camera enters through window, follows a torch-lit corridor, in which pages and officials and clerks are moving briskly, arriving at...
INT. ...A war room type of interior. A mosaic on the wall appears to depict an abstract version of a skull and crossbones. General Tariq Aziz, CinC-Helmand, is standing at a massive desk, studying a volume by Clausewitz with furrowed brow.
A picture of Osama bin Laden is on the wall, smiling benevolently from behind a desk. Behind Osama in the photograph is the same elaborate mosaic, perhaps of a human skull, perhaps not.
General Aziz closes the book as an adjutant enters, and looks up, adjusting his spectacles.
AZIZ: Yes?
ADJUTANT: Sir, he's here.
AZIZ: (consults schedule) The....Estonian?
ADJUTANT: Yes, small country in Northern Europe. Waterlogged and...
AZIZ: (waves his hand) Yes, yes, yes. Discovered by Al-Idrisi in 1154. What schoolboy doesn't know that? I'm just making sure of his ethnicity. And is he the leader of the group rescued in the ambush?
ADJUTANT: Well, he speaks for the group. To the extent that any of them speak. Being Estonian and all.
AZIZ: Show him in, and let the group speak. Not all at once, hopefully.
(The Estonian enters; a teenager, with more than a trace of acne.)
AZIZ: I'm Tariq Aziz, Al Qaeda's commander in chief of southern operations. No, no relation to the former Iraqi foreign minister. I get that a lot.(He peers at the Estonian through his spectacles) Good lord, son, how old are you?
JAAK: Nineteen.
AZIZ: Yes, and Iran is developing nuclear power to make the desert bloom. Tell me again, how old are you, son?
JAAK: I just turned eighteen.
AZIZ: And President Osama is actually hiding behind that wall watching us through the eyes in that picture. Come on, son -- I need to know if we need to scare up a wet nurse.
JAAK: I turn sixteen on the 30th of December.
AZIZ (raises eyebrows, to adjutant): And I thought children were in short supply in the West.
AZIZ (to Jaak): You're in good company. Hamid here is eleven. I'm nineteen. Anyway, here you'd be old for your rank. I'd have to wonder about the merit of any able-bodied fourteen-year-old who isn't an officer. Are you an officer?
JAAK: No.
AZIZ: Well, so be it. I'm not judgmental. You still have time. (Aziz's face crinkles into a look of fatherly concern.) Though you better get moving. And you should shave, though, even if it seems there isn't much to shave. It doesn't actually make the beard grow back fuller, you know, but it looks and feels that way. OK. Enough beard talk. Look, I don't want to do a lot of propaganda in your little informal debriefing here, especially under the circumstances. But one thing that is key to remember is that we don't operate out of caves. The President excepted of course, but that's for his own safety and his own...well, he's the president, and a wartime president. I hope you will be able to meet him. Basically, Jaak -- it's Jaak, right? -- we're not a bunch of savages. For a long time, we tried an asymmetric warfare image, hoping it would win sympathy. We were a disorganized bunch of militias and special operations groups. It backfired. Now we have uniforms. We're an institution. I don't know if you follow the American talk radio, but have you heard the expression "a real card-carrying member of Al Qaeda"? Well...
(Aziz opens his wallet and displays the contents to Jaak)
It's not laminated, but it's official. (Sighs) Trouble is, some people think Al Qaeda has become too secular for our own good. And they complain about bureaucracy. One day, I even heard, can you believe it, someone use the term 'military pre-industrial complex'. (Pauses for emphasis.) If the French sell us some weapons, there might be some truth to it. Looks like the deal might go through.
(A woman clad in only a burkha brings in Turkish coffee on a tray. Aziz takes a sip of coffee.)
Mmm. Good coffee. Thank you, Fatima.
(Fatima offers him a sheet.)
AZIZ: Ah right. (Aziz signs it. Fatima clears her throat. Aziz signs the other side of the paper, winks at Jaak.)
Bureaucracy, yes, that's my main concern. I don't want you to get caught up in its wheels. We're undergoing a difficult transition to civilian control of the Ministry of the War. I think the less you come into contact with bureaucracy the better. The better for all of us. Am I right? We're agreed, then? Very good.
JAAK: What? What are you trying to say? Are we prisoners of war or not?
AZIZ: No, of course not. You're our guests. We take guests very seriously. I sign for your coffee here. Remember, POWs don't drink coffee with generals. And they don't eat couscous with spring lamb and almonds after being...yes, Jaak, rescued. You were rescued.
JAAK: So when do we get to go home?
AZIZ: (Puts tips of fingers together.) Yes, that. If it seems like your status is unclear, keep in mind we're in a transitional phase. We're transitioning to civilian control. In fact, I don't know whether to keep my uniform on or not anymore. (His voice trails off.)
JAAK (eyes wandering around the room): What's with the human skull?
AZIZ: What skull?
JAAK: On the mosaic, for example. And some of the furniture is made of bones.
AZIZ: What? I don't see it. Where? (Aziz stands up and walks up close to the mosaic, examining and caressing the stones). This is a geometric pattern, very regular... But a skull...Well, I hear the people of your religion sometimes have visions. Things pop out, how to say, out of the woodwork... But..but a skull is an ancient symbol of eternal life, surely you do not find eternal life disturbing?
JAAK: Depends.
AZIZ: I agree. Didn't the count tell you about the virgins when you were eating lamb? But a symbol is just a symbol. What about the eye on the pyramid on your money? I find it frightening, personally.
JAAK: We don't have an eye on our money.
AZIZ: You don't use dollars?
JAAK: No.
AZIZ: No? Euro? Estonian darahim?
JAAK: (shrugs, reaches into pocket and removes a 100-kroon note.)
AZIZ: Is she the queen?
JAAK: No.
AZIZ: Does she not wear a veil? How is that possible?
JAAK: She is dead now.
AZIZ: Ah, so she was stoned to death. And yet she is a martyr?
JAAK: No, not quite right.
AZIZ: How much is this? When you take a girl out, do you buy things for her. Or...(voice is low as if hardly daring to suggest such a thing) do the women in your country buy you things with the woman-money?
JAAK: (face relaxes for the first time) No, General Aziz. It's just a banknote. Anyone can use it. It's about ten dollars. And usually kids just hang out. At shopping centres and things. It's really not formal anymore.
(Camera tracks toward the picture of Bin Laden to reveal there is an adjacent room behind it. Stalactites hang from the ceiling. A gaunt man with a turban and long white beard is peering through a hole in the wall into the room where Aziz and Jaak are talking. He is accompanied by a mullah, who is also looking through a hole at the same level, but the mullah is standing on a stepladder.)
OSAMA BIN LADEN: That Aziz is a fool and a moral relativist. He talks too much. He is talking about women now! Worse, he is asking questions about them.
MULLAH AHMED: Yes, you can never get him off the subject.
OSAMA BIN LADEN: Civilian control is a very bad thing. Is this Aziz really being groomed for a position after the transition?
MULLAH AHMED: Afraid so. He's only 16, and at the same time he's one of the older local officers.
OSAMA BIN LADEN: God damn it. Some days I think we should do something, you and me. Bring back the old theocracy. But of course, that would mean coming out of hiding.
MULLAH AHMED: Forget the hiding part of it. That's the least of your problems. The Americans don't care anymore. What about your kidneys? Think of your health.
INT. ...A war room type of interior. A mosaic on the wall appears to depict an abstract version of a skull and crossbones. General Tariq Aziz, CinC-Helmand, is standing at a massive desk, studying a volume by Clausewitz with furrowed brow.
A picture of Osama bin Laden is on the wall, smiling benevolently from behind a desk. Behind Osama in the photograph is the same elaborate mosaic, perhaps of a human skull, perhaps not.
General Aziz closes the book as an adjutant enters, and looks up, adjusting his spectacles.
AZIZ: Yes?
ADJUTANT: Sir, he's here.
AZIZ: (consults schedule) The....Estonian?
ADJUTANT: Yes, small country in Northern Europe. Waterlogged and...
AZIZ: (waves his hand) Yes, yes, yes. Discovered by Al-Idrisi in 1154. What schoolboy doesn't know that? I'm just making sure of his ethnicity. And is he the leader of the group rescued in the ambush?
ADJUTANT: Well, he speaks for the group. To the extent that any of them speak. Being Estonian and all.
AZIZ: Show him in, and let the group speak. Not all at once, hopefully.
(The Estonian enters; a teenager, with more than a trace of acne.)
AZIZ: I'm Tariq Aziz, Al Qaeda's commander in chief of southern operations. No, no relation to the former Iraqi foreign minister. I get that a lot.(He peers at the Estonian through his spectacles) Good lord, son, how old are you?
JAAK: Nineteen.
AZIZ: Yes, and Iran is developing nuclear power to make the desert bloom. Tell me again, how old are you, son?
JAAK: I just turned eighteen.
AZIZ: And President Osama is actually hiding behind that wall watching us through the eyes in that picture. Come on, son -- I need to know if we need to scare up a wet nurse.
JAAK: I turn sixteen on the 30th of December.
AZIZ (raises eyebrows, to adjutant): And I thought children were in short supply in the West.
AZIZ (to Jaak): You're in good company. Hamid here is eleven. I'm nineteen. Anyway, here you'd be old for your rank. I'd have to wonder about the merit of any able-bodied fourteen-year-old who isn't an officer. Are you an officer?
JAAK: No.
AZIZ: Well, so be it. I'm not judgmental. You still have time. (Aziz's face crinkles into a look of fatherly concern.) Though you better get moving. And you should shave, though, even if it seems there isn't much to shave. It doesn't actually make the beard grow back fuller, you know, but it looks and feels that way. OK. Enough beard talk. Look, I don't want to do a lot of propaganda in your little informal debriefing here, especially under the circumstances. But one thing that is key to remember is that we don't operate out of caves. The President excepted of course, but that's for his own safety and his own...well, he's the president, and a wartime president. I hope you will be able to meet him. Basically, Jaak -- it's Jaak, right? -- we're not a bunch of savages. For a long time, we tried an asymmetric warfare image, hoping it would win sympathy. We were a disorganized bunch of militias and special operations groups. It backfired. Now we have uniforms. We're an institution. I don't know if you follow the American talk radio, but have you heard the expression "a real card-carrying member of Al Qaeda"? Well...
(Aziz opens his wallet and displays the contents to Jaak)
It's not laminated, but it's official. (Sighs) Trouble is, some people think Al Qaeda has become too secular for our own good. And they complain about bureaucracy. One day, I even heard, can you believe it, someone use the term 'military pre-industrial complex'. (Pauses for emphasis.) If the French sell us some weapons, there might be some truth to it. Looks like the deal might go through.
(A woman clad in only a burkha brings in Turkish coffee on a tray. Aziz takes a sip of coffee.)
Mmm. Good coffee. Thank you, Fatima.
(Fatima offers him a sheet.)
AZIZ: Ah right. (Aziz signs it. Fatima clears her throat. Aziz signs the other side of the paper, winks at Jaak.)
Bureaucracy, yes, that's my main concern. I don't want you to get caught up in its wheels. We're undergoing a difficult transition to civilian control of the Ministry of the War. I think the less you come into contact with bureaucracy the better. The better for all of us. Am I right? We're agreed, then? Very good.
JAAK: What? What are you trying to say? Are we prisoners of war or not?
AZIZ: No, of course not. You're our guests. We take guests very seriously. I sign for your coffee here. Remember, POWs don't drink coffee with generals. And they don't eat couscous with spring lamb and almonds after being...yes, Jaak, rescued. You were rescued.
JAAK: So when do we get to go home?
AZIZ: (Puts tips of fingers together.) Yes, that. If it seems like your status is unclear, keep in mind we're in a transitional phase. We're transitioning to civilian control. In fact, I don't know whether to keep my uniform on or not anymore. (His voice trails off.)
JAAK (eyes wandering around the room): What's with the human skull?
AZIZ: What skull?
JAAK: On the mosaic, for example. And some of the furniture is made of bones.
AZIZ: What? I don't see it. Where? (Aziz stands up and walks up close to the mosaic, examining and caressing the stones). This is a geometric pattern, very regular... But a skull...Well, I hear the people of your religion sometimes have visions. Things pop out, how to say, out of the woodwork... But..but a skull is an ancient symbol of eternal life, surely you do not find eternal life disturbing?
JAAK: Depends.
AZIZ: I agree. Didn't the count tell you about the virgins when you were eating lamb? But a symbol is just a symbol. What about the eye on the pyramid on your money? I find it frightening, personally.
JAAK: We don't have an eye on our money.
AZIZ: You don't use dollars?
JAAK: No.
AZIZ: No? Euro? Estonian darahim?
JAAK: (shrugs, reaches into pocket and removes a 100-kroon note.)
AZIZ: Is she the queen?
JAAK: No.
AZIZ: Does she not wear a veil? How is that possible?
JAAK: She is dead now.
AZIZ: Ah, so she was stoned to death. And yet she is a martyr?
JAAK: No, not quite right.
AZIZ: How much is this? When you take a girl out, do you buy things for her. Or...(voice is low as if hardly daring to suggest such a thing) do the women in your country buy you things with the woman-money?
JAAK: (face relaxes for the first time) No, General Aziz. It's just a banknote. Anyone can use it. It's about ten dollars. And usually kids just hang out. At shopping centres and things. It's really not formal anymore.
(Camera tracks toward the picture of Bin Laden to reveal there is an adjacent room behind it. Stalactites hang from the ceiling. A gaunt man with a turban and long white beard is peering through a hole in the wall into the room where Aziz and Jaak are talking. He is accompanied by a mullah, who is also looking through a hole at the same level, but the mullah is standing on a stepladder.)
OSAMA BIN LADEN: That Aziz is a fool and a moral relativist. He talks too much. He is talking about women now! Worse, he is asking questions about them.
MULLAH AHMED: Yes, you can never get him off the subject.
OSAMA BIN LADEN: Civilian control is a very bad thing. Is this Aziz really being groomed for a position after the transition?
MULLAH AHMED: Afraid so. He's only 16, and at the same time he's one of the older local officers.
OSAMA BIN LADEN: God damn it. Some days I think we should do something, you and me. Bring back the old theocracy. But of course, that would mean coming out of hiding.
MULLAH AHMED: Forget the hiding part of it. That's the least of your problems. The Americans don't care anymore. What about your kidneys? Think of your health.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
A DELETED SCENE from LAUGHAGAINISTAN: Semper excelsior
EXT. A military base somewhere in the Middle East. Two helicopters are hovering over the base in close proximity, seemingly courting disaster. Suddenly the helicopters dart toward each other. The rotors clip. One helicopter explodes immediately while the other is sent reeling groundward. Camouflaged figures on the ground scurry and dive for cover.
(A burly man in fatigues and sunglasses is standing by a white van watching. The van is marked Special Moving and Packing Company. There is also a motto emblazoned: Semper Excelsior. He lets out a low whistle and shakes his head.)
Hope that shit was insured.
(He removes his shades, slams the door of the van and walks to a building and goes inside.)
INT. Inside the staff building is a group of distraught-looking servicemen. Flames outside in the distance are visible through a window. The troops seem momentarily paralyzed but return to what they were apparently doing before. Efforts are underway to fit various appliances into boxes. It is not going well. One is struggling to fit parts of a coffee machine back into the original packaging. He is not succeeding. He is clearly frustrated. "Hello Coffee" is stamped on the box. The soldier throws the plastic filter holder down in frustration.
EMBEDDED JOURNALIST (helpfully): Maybe remove the Styrofoam inserts from the box?
(The soldier takes out the Styrofoam inserts and puts the coffee pot in the box. The burly man in fatigues sees this and barks at the soldier.)
BURLY MAN IN FATIGUES: What the hell do you think you are doing? That's Handle With Care, soldier! Any damage to glass pot, filter cup OR that, uh, small drip thingie that fits over the filter holder -- and that's your ass on the line. That could be someone's cup of joe in Afpak next month. And if Joe doesn't get his joe, or if Joe has to drink Turkish coffee, well, I hate to contemplate the consequences of how the Alpha Queens might interpret that!
EMBEDDED JOUNALIST (standing next to the base quartermaster): Alpha Queens?
BASE QUARTERMASTER (in an aside to the embed): Al Qaeda. They're trying to use the phonetic alphabet to make the enemy more familiar.
SOLDIER (glares at the embed, then looks at the burly man in fatigues): I was just thinking maybe I could use some of those Styrofoam peanuts instead...
BURLY MAN IN FATIGUES: Peanuts. What peanuts? Those peanuts? Goddamn it, do they make peanuts here? What, we have some sort of peanut surplus? Are there some local Alpha Queens farming Styrofoam peanuts around here? Hell no, that comes out of the Pentagon peanut budget. Your peanuts mean someone else gets less peanuts. And I would fucking hate to visualize the consequences of someone getting less peanuts. You'd be leaving someone's equipment totally exposed. This is a zero-sum game, boy, all tangled up with the butterfly effect. That's what Tango knows, soldier, and you're still trying to get through your thick skull.
EMBEDDED JOURNALIST: Tango? Is that the Taliban?
BASE QUARTERMASTER (in a low tone): Hasn't really caught on.
SOLDIER #1 (throws up his hands and kicks the Hello Coffee box): To hell with this. The pot fits, but not the power cord. Let the general come down and figure out this Chinese shit out.
BURLY MAN IN FATIGUES: The general is coming down to do just that. And I'll bet you he'll have no trouble with those Styrofoam inserts at all.
(Goes over to the next soldier and grabs him by the ear.)
What's that bulge in the box? Shipping Company will never accept that. Looks like Tango packed it. Hey I know, maybe you can take some duct tape and strap an alarm clock to the box, too, while you're at it! Oh, except it's Tango's job to strap alarm clocks to boxes, and you'd be putting him out of a job. He'll probably come crawling to Beta asking to defect. I'd hate to visualize the consequences of that happening!
(Cups hands to mouth and addresses the entire room.) If it came in in a box, it goes out in that same box. Zero-sum game. Didn't come in a box, still goes out in a box. I'd hate to contemplate the consequences of where that box is going to come from. You'll have to take it up with the general, as much as I hate to contemplate that.
(A soldier carrying a box full of light bulbs is going out the door toward the van. The burly man in fatigues collars him as he passes) You. What do you think you're doing? Light bulbs unscrewed? All right, out to the van.
(The soldier carries the box out to the van. The camera follows him.)
(From inside, we hear muffled sound of the burly man shouting.) All right, why is it so fucking dark in here? You -- leave the coffee machine and go see if we can get some power!
EMBEDDED JOURNALIST (walking outside with the Quartermaster): So basically my article is going to be about the exit strategy.
BASE QUARTERMASTER: Sure. The general can probably give you some better information on that. But you're welcome to tag along. Can I offer you some tea?
EMBEDDED JOURNALIST: All right.
They walk over to a permanent tent in the depot.) Quieter. So what happens to all these things here? The toaster oven. It looks like you have a lot of custom kitchen stuff.
BASE QUARTERMASTER: Well, I'm technically in a different division. I'm a manager. They actually head-hunted me.
EMBED: You're not military? How about the Special Moving and Packing Company? Are they a military unit?
BASE QUARTERMASTER: I dunno. No one knows that.
EMBED: But they're closing the base and shipping everyone out. We're handing things over to the locals, I thought, except for the necessities.
BASE QUARTERMASTER: I have Earl Grey and Gunpowder Green.
EMBED: Doesn't matter. Earl Grey, I guess. Hey, those are Styrofoam peanuts.
BASE QUARTERMASTER (walks over to a box in the corner): Why, actually yes, they are. (closes the box lid). Look, can we speak off the record?
EMBED: OK.
BASE QUARTERMASTER (lies down on cot and puts on a pair of headphones).
EMBED: Well? I thought you were going to say something.
BASE QUARTERMEASTER: What? I can't hear you.
EMBED (points to headphones)
BASE QUARTERMASTER: Oh. Tea. Gunpowder Green, right?
EMBED: What can you tell me about the exit?
BASE QUARTERMASTER: Look this is complicated. It's going to take a lot of people to sort out this mess. It was easy coming in. But now...
(The quartermaster takes a deep breath, his face becomes ashen and lips tight) We're in debt... All of us, here on the base. To the Chinese, man. Way over our heads. We've bought all this crap from them and never paid. Here we have protection. How can we leave?
EMBED: The Chinese?
BASE QUARTERMASTER: I already owe about $40,000 to the rest of the world. I barely make that a year.
EMBED: Oh, come on. That's nonsense. You're talking about the federal debt? That's not real money, it doesn't work like that. I think you're mixing up concepts.
BASE QUARTERMASTER: OK, you're right. That's B.S. about the Chinese, I was just playing with you. But seriously, I'm going out of my mind here. I can't do it. I just can't do it. Boxes are missing. Do you know how hard it is to find boxes on the local market. You can't get local boxes. The tension is killing me here. The staff has unpacked and packed about three times already and there's never enough boxes.
(A burly man in fatigues and sunglasses is standing by a white van watching. The van is marked Special Moving and Packing Company. There is also a motto emblazoned: Semper Excelsior. He lets out a low whistle and shakes his head.)
Hope that shit was insured.
(He removes his shades, slams the door of the van and walks to a building and goes inside.)
INT. Inside the staff building is a group of distraught-looking servicemen. Flames outside in the distance are visible through a window. The troops seem momentarily paralyzed but return to what they were apparently doing before. Efforts are underway to fit various appliances into boxes. It is not going well. One is struggling to fit parts of a coffee machine back into the original packaging. He is not succeeding. He is clearly frustrated. "Hello Coffee" is stamped on the box. The soldier throws the plastic filter holder down in frustration.
EMBEDDED JOURNALIST (helpfully): Maybe remove the Styrofoam inserts from the box?
(The soldier takes out the Styrofoam inserts and puts the coffee pot in the box. The burly man in fatigues sees this and barks at the soldier.)
BURLY MAN IN FATIGUES: What the hell do you think you are doing? That's Handle With Care, soldier! Any damage to glass pot, filter cup OR that, uh, small drip thingie that fits over the filter holder -- and that's your ass on the line. That could be someone's cup of joe in Afpak next month. And if Joe doesn't get his joe, or if Joe has to drink Turkish coffee, well, I hate to contemplate the consequences of how the Alpha Queens might interpret that!
EMBEDDED JOUNALIST (standing next to the base quartermaster): Alpha Queens?
BASE QUARTERMASTER (in an aside to the embed): Al Qaeda. They're trying to use the phonetic alphabet to make the enemy more familiar.
SOLDIER (glares at the embed, then looks at the burly man in fatigues): I was just thinking maybe I could use some of those Styrofoam peanuts instead...
BURLY MAN IN FATIGUES: Peanuts. What peanuts? Those peanuts? Goddamn it, do they make peanuts here? What, we have some sort of peanut surplus? Are there some local Alpha Queens farming Styrofoam peanuts around here? Hell no, that comes out of the Pentagon peanut budget. Your peanuts mean someone else gets less peanuts. And I would fucking hate to visualize the consequences of someone getting less peanuts. You'd be leaving someone's equipment totally exposed. This is a zero-sum game, boy, all tangled up with the butterfly effect. That's what Tango knows, soldier, and you're still trying to get through your thick skull.
EMBEDDED JOURNALIST: Tango? Is that the Taliban?
BASE QUARTERMASTER (in a low tone): Hasn't really caught on.
SOLDIER #1 (throws up his hands and kicks the Hello Coffee box): To hell with this. The pot fits, but not the power cord. Let the general come down and figure out this Chinese shit out.
BURLY MAN IN FATIGUES: The general is coming down to do just that. And I'll bet you he'll have no trouble with those Styrofoam inserts at all.
(Goes over to the next soldier and grabs him by the ear.)
What's that bulge in the box? Shipping Company will never accept that. Looks like Tango packed it. Hey I know, maybe you can take some duct tape and strap an alarm clock to the box, too, while you're at it! Oh, except it's Tango's job to strap alarm clocks to boxes, and you'd be putting him out of a job. He'll probably come crawling to Beta asking to defect. I'd hate to visualize the consequences of that happening!
(Cups hands to mouth and addresses the entire room.) If it came in in a box, it goes out in that same box. Zero-sum game. Didn't come in a box, still goes out in a box. I'd hate to contemplate the consequences of where that box is going to come from. You'll have to take it up with the general, as much as I hate to contemplate that.
(A soldier carrying a box full of light bulbs is going out the door toward the van. The burly man in fatigues collars him as he passes) You. What do you think you're doing? Light bulbs unscrewed? All right, out to the van.
(The soldier carries the box out to the van. The camera follows him.)
(From inside, we hear muffled sound of the burly man shouting.) All right, why is it so fucking dark in here? You -- leave the coffee machine and go see if we can get some power!
EMBEDDED JOURNALIST (walking outside with the Quartermaster): So basically my article is going to be about the exit strategy.
BASE QUARTERMASTER: Sure. The general can probably give you some better information on that. But you're welcome to tag along. Can I offer you some tea?
EMBEDDED JOURNALIST: All right.
They walk over to a permanent tent in the depot.) Quieter. So what happens to all these things here? The toaster oven. It looks like you have a lot of custom kitchen stuff.
BASE QUARTERMASTER: Well, I'm technically in a different division. I'm a manager. They actually head-hunted me.
EMBED: You're not military? How about the Special Moving and Packing Company? Are they a military unit?
BASE QUARTERMASTER: I dunno. No one knows that.
EMBED: But they're closing the base and shipping everyone out. We're handing things over to the locals, I thought, except for the necessities.
BASE QUARTERMASTER: I have Earl Grey and Gunpowder Green.
EMBED: Doesn't matter. Earl Grey, I guess. Hey, those are Styrofoam peanuts.
BASE QUARTERMASTER (walks over to a box in the corner): Why, actually yes, they are. (closes the box lid). Look, can we speak off the record?
EMBED: OK.
BASE QUARTERMASTER (lies down on cot and puts on a pair of headphones).
EMBED: Well? I thought you were going to say something.
BASE QUARTERMEASTER: What? I can't hear you.
EMBED (points to headphones)
BASE QUARTERMASTER: Oh. Tea. Gunpowder Green, right?
EMBED: What can you tell me about the exit?
BASE QUARTERMASTER: Look this is complicated. It's going to take a lot of people to sort out this mess. It was easy coming in. But now...
(The quartermaster takes a deep breath, his face becomes ashen and lips tight) We're in debt... All of us, here on the base. To the Chinese, man. Way over our heads. We've bought all this crap from them and never paid. Here we have protection. How can we leave?
EMBED: The Chinese?
BASE QUARTERMASTER: I already owe about $40,000 to the rest of the world. I barely make that a year.
EMBED: Oh, come on. That's nonsense. You're talking about the federal debt? That's not real money, it doesn't work like that. I think you're mixing up concepts.
BASE QUARTERMASTER: OK, you're right. That's B.S. about the Chinese, I was just playing with you. But seriously, I'm going out of my mind here. I can't do it. I just can't do it. Boxes are missing. Do you know how hard it is to find boxes on the local market. You can't get local boxes. The tension is killing me here. The staff has unpacked and packed about three times already and there's never enough boxes.
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