THE BLOODY RED SUN OF BUSH’S NEW WORLD
As the air-conditioner struggles in an overheated LA, I avoid the news. After a marginal recovery, the Israelis are bombing Beirut back into the 1980s, while on the level of the neocons playing their grand game of Risk-For-Real, a massive war zone is being created stretching from the Mediterranean to the Himalayas, right to nuke-packing India and Pakistan. If history is anything to go by, it could take the world five hundred years to recover from the first six of this century. Or maybe 5000. At times like these I begin to agree with the friends who tell me it’s fucking hopeless and we might as well just medicate and be damned. Making George fucking Bush president was about as smart as giving a belligerent fifteen year-old a bottle of scotch, a 357 magnum, and the keys to a Ferrari. I also hear a paranoid runor that Rummy has an obsession. He wants to let of a nuclear device in the worse possible psychotic way. He hardly cares where any more.

The secret word is Fantastic