R J Adams -Musings And Meanderings
Oklahoma Senator Tom Coburn says we don’t need healthcare reform – just a little more ‘neighborliness’.
I guess we have to hope this woman has a brain surgeon living on her left, and a speech therapist across the street.
And, maybe, a couple of trained nurses with nothing better to do, just down the road.
Has anyone ever done a survey on the number of total prats in the United States government?
Or, is it just too big a job?
Filed under: ‘Wanker’ is too good a word
America is up in arms; it stammers with indignation, screams for its own brand of “justice” while threatening economic embargo against its closest ally. Why? Because a man with a terminal disease, who will be dead within three months, has been allowed to leave prison in Scotland and return to spend his last moments with his family.
Interestingly, while the US relatives of those killed on Pan Am Flight 103 in December 1988 are unanimously baying for blood, most of the UK relatives of those killed believe it was a right decision, and that mercy is justified in the circumstances.
This tells quite a lot about the different cultures on each side of the Atlantic. In Biblical terms, the US justice system demands “an eye for an eye”, while in Europe a little more attention is paid to Jesus’ doctrine of mercy and forgiveness.
No-one would deny the horror of the atrocity committed that cold December night over the Scottish lowlands. The news bulletins that evening were as chilling as the winter weather, even to those with no relatives and friends on board the stricken airliner.
When Abdelbaset Ali Mohmed Al Megrahi was finally surrendered by Libya in 1999, and locked away for life in a Scottish jail, the US relatives seemed totally satisfied with the verdict. Many of the UK relatives were not, and with some justification.
Al Megrahi was a Libyan intelligence officer and the head of security for Libyan Arab Airlines. Another man, Lamin Khalifah Fhimah, the LAA station manager in Luqa Airport, Malta, was also accused of the bombing and stood trial alongside Al Megrahi. He was acquitted.
Much of the evidence in the trial centered around a timing device, a charred piece of which was supposedly discovered in the plane’s wreckage. The timer was allegedly of a type supplied by a Swiss company, Mebo, to the Libyan military. In 2007, an employee of that company and witness at Al Megrahi’s trial, Ulrich Lumpert, confessed that the timer had not come from the plane’s wreckage, but that he had stolen it from his employers and given it to an investigating official.[1][2]
The owner of Mebo, Edwin Bollier, states he was offered four million US dollars and a new identity in the USA, by the CIA, if he would swear in court that the timer was one sold to the Libyan military. It wasn’t, and Bollier refused to perjure himself.
The CIA also bribed other witnesses in the trial with huge sums of money.[3]
The 270 victims of Pan Am Flight 103 were innocents. They died because of a mighty political intrigue involving the US and UK governments. To this day it isn’t known who planted the bomb, or even why. It’s likely Al Megrahi was no more than a scapegoat.
In a recent letter to the Scottish parliament, FBI Director Robert Mueller asked, “where is the justice in releasing this man?”
In return, we should ask: where is the justice in bribing witnesses and tampering with evidence to obtain a false conviction?
In the aftermath of the Lockerbie tragedy, then US President George H.W. Bush set up the President’s Commission on Aviation Security and Terrorism (PCAST). Its task was to review and report on aviation security.
PCAST was headed by Ann Korologos, a former US Secretary of Labor, and her team consisted of two US senators, two US representatives, a US general, and a former Secretary to the US Navy.
Before submitting their final report, the PCAST members met with UK relatives of the victims of Flight 103 at the US embassy in London. That meeting took place on 12th February 1990.
During that meeting, a member of PCAST told one of the British relatives, Martin Cadman:
“Your government and ours know exactly what happened. But they’re never going to tell.” [4]
[1] “Probe into Lockerbie timer claims” The Herald (Scottish), September 5th 2007
[2] “Vital Lockerbie evidence ‘was tampered with'” The Guardian, September 2nd 2007
[3] “Lockerbie trial: an intelligence operation?” I.P.O. Information Service, October 5th 2007
[4] “Email by Jim Swire, father of one of the victims, to Scottish Press Assoc” May 2007
Filed under: Cover-up
We sneaked away for four days – back to Lake Superior. It was a last chance before term started and I returned to ferrying little kids to and from school.
Marquette is such a pleasant town. It was good to smell the fresh air and once again wander streets studded with fine examples of Victorian architecture. The Catholic cathedral has probably the most glorious restrooms in the whole of America.
Marquette looks a pleasant, prosperous little conurbation, and that’s because it is.
Of course, Lake Superior is 550 miles from central Illinois, so two of those four days were spent travelling. That told a different story. The road north of Chicago runs close by Lake Michigan for some fifty or sixty miles. Grand houses front the lake, no doubt many of them second homes – vacation getaways for the wealthy of Chicagoland. It was amazing how many were up for sale. Those hanging on grimly to their homes were flogging off their toys. Motor cars, boats, snowmobiles, trailers – even a bulldozer outside one property – were all sitting on the front lawns with “For Sale” signs plastered over them. One could sense financial belts being tightened even as we passed by.
Why do American towns have to be so grubby? I’ve travelled fairly extensively around the Heartlands and the East, but Marquette is the only town in the country that draws me back. Most have the exact opposite effect. I can’t wait to get away. Some even hold a threatening air. The average American small town looks like something you’d maybe expect to find amid the wastelands of northern Siberia. A motley collection of thrown together buildings, often in need of repair and certainly requiring redecoration; cracked and uneven sidewalks; dingy stores with flyblown food hidden away behind oily gas pumps; obese youths sporting long-unwashed T-shirts, back-to-front baseball caps, and driving rust-bucket pick-up trucks. Only the inevitable McDonald’s sign stands out, it’s unholy yellow cleanliness stark against a drab and sordid background.
Americans still live with their heads in the clouds of Empire, unaware their feet are sinking inexorably into the quicksands of economic collapse. They’re happy to see hundreds of billions of their dollars wasted on the Pentagon’s warmongering ideals, so wouldn’t dream to complain when their new automobile breaks its axle on a pothole in Main Street.
The inhabitants of small town America live boring, repetitive, unfulfilled lives. There’s nothing to do, nowhere to go, so they eat endless burgers and donuts and grow fat. Yet mention the word, “Change,” and they’d probably shoot you.
We drove home yesterday. Back to the central Illinois small town where circumstances dictate we spend another two years before shaking its dust and grime from our feet, finally escaping for good, and hopefully settling permanently in our haven on Lake Superior.
We had a storm this afternoon; one of those noisy summer storms that whip up out of nowhere, dump five minutes of rain, and then are gone to bother someone else. Halfway through the action the cable went out. The local weather channel, sworn to keep us informed of possible danger from tornadoes and other nasties, evaporated into nothing as every TV within ten miles shut down in the blink of an eye.
The storm past; rainclouds cleared. Sunset’s rays peaked beckoningly through drenched foliage. It was over.
Ten minutes later, for no apparent reason, the power went out.
That was at five o’clock this evening. It’s now seven forty-five and I’m typing this by the light of an oil lamp. According to the digitally recorded woman down at the power company, electricity may be available by midnight – though, possibly not.
No-one complains. It’s like the potholes on Main Street. Besides, there’s no-one to complain to. The power company’s digitally recorded woman isn’t programmed to handle such matters.
She’s just one more uncaring, disinterested, fob-you-off voice, in one more grubby small town in a disintegrating America.
Filed under: Going under