Wednesday, April 15, 2015

Waging War with Flying Pandas


Over the years, I've heard a couple of creative suggestions for dealing with our nation's enemies. One of these suggestions in particular has stuck with me as a real possibility for making a different sort of attack against those who pose a threat. This suggestion was made in jest. But the more I've pondered it, the more I think it might hold real promise as a strategic/tactical measure in times of war.

The suggestion was made by Andy Rooney during one of the commentaries he'd deliver at the end of every 60 Minutes TV program. He proposed that, instead of dropping explosives on our adversaries - we should carpet bomb them with all kinds of material goods. We should drop load after load of all the kinds of commodities that American families are famous for having in such plentitude.

We could of course drop the necessities of food and clean water. However, Rooney also proposed that we drop objects that are essentially frivolous but that make for distracting good fun. We could parachute down house slippers that look like kittens, bags of potpourri, video games, crocheted Kleenex box covers, clocks that chirp the hours, coffee mugs dedicated to "The Best Grandfather in the World," butterfly hair clips, and on and on. We could drop whole Wal-Marts full of goods on our enemies, blanketing within their borders on and on, around the clock.

Rooney pointed out that a bombing campaign of that kind would really help maintain full employment throughout our economy. We'd need every worker available to crank out these goods and to package them for parachuting. At the same time, we'd catch our enemies completely off-guard. While they were geared up to strike back against machine gun fire, hand grenades, mortar shellings, and missiles - they would hardly know how to combat a 6-foot stuffed panda come flying at them. What's more, they'd be completely disabled trying to store all these possessions in their homes. We'd make them as glutted as we are. With their living spaces chock-full of Elvis-on-velvet paintings - they'd be too bogged down to come out and fight.

Rooney signaled how truly he was saying all this in jest when he ended his commentary by reflecting, "On second thought, we really shouldn't bomb countries with all our stuff. That would be too cruel." Better stick to TNT.

But wait a minute! Why does that suggestion of a way to wage war have to be a joke? Couldn't some version of that approach in fact work a lot better than conventional bombings? Since people so often become soldiers in order to escape poverty or boredom, wouldn't a barrage of delightful merchandise occupy them in less destructive ways? Not that most of our current terrorist foes necessarily come from poor families. It's been shown that many of them actually come from supportive, middle-class families. But their anger often stems from a more general sense of privation and humiliation. So a judicious supply of some of the goods necessary for them to start their own all-consuming businesses could perhaps deflect them and their likely supporters more than gunpowder has been doing. People seeking ways to express qualities of dedication, commitment, and zeal, could find outlets other than religious fundamentalism.

But if we were to seriously adopt such a strategy, there would be many other things to consider about the nature of the products we deployed. We'd have to be sensitive to the cultures of the countries into which we dropped our goods. No liquor on Muslim countries. No milk products on populations that generally couldn't digest lactose. Nothing so chauvinistically American or in such quantity that it played into resentment against what's been perceived as U.S. materialism or paternalism. Also, we couldn't launch so many free goods into a country that the influx would destroy what was likely their already fragile economy. Nor could we drop stuff in such a way that our largesse would give rise to cargo cults among any receiving tribal peoples below.

We could perhaps include some whimsical, purely frivolous items such as those cuddly kitten house slippers. But in reality, we shouldn't drop an indiscriminate mix of goods. Most of what we drop should be genuinely useful in the context of the countries where we drop it. In addition to dropping laptops, radios, books, illustrated how-to guides, and other means of self-learning - we'd want to drop practical self-help things, especially when fighting against poorer nations. Some possibilities might be biogas ovens, water purifiers, pumps, antibiotics, insecticides, bicycles, baskets, jars, coolers, ice, tents, anti-bacterial soap, spackle, batteries, pens and paper, incidental spare parts and nuts and bolts and nails of all kinds, basic tools, saws, and stepladders. When doing this as a serious stratagem, we'd probably want to represent the shelves of Home Depot more than those of Wal-Mart.

Then just because we'd be bringing bounty rather than devastation to the enemy, we shouldn't assume our soldiers would be in any less danger making the deliveries. Our pilots would probably be subject to as much or even more repulsive force than when they were dropping bombs over their targets. This has frequently been the case whenever any country has tried to deliver humanitarian aid to combatants. The heads of State, the heads of the different fighting factions, are fierce in trying to prevent anything helpful getting through. Such outside help diminishes the leverage and overall power they exert. So as a simple self-defense measure, our soldiers might still have to pack plenty of TNT along with their chemical toilets.

Another problem that might arise if we were to deal with our enemies this way is that we might risk seeing The Mouse That Roared scenarios develop in countries all over the globe. In that Peter Sellers movie, the officials of a (fictional) small, bankrupt Duchy decide to wage war against the U.S. Their plan, after what they assume will be their inevitable defeat, is to sit back and collect the reconstruction aid that the U.S. can be counted on to rain on its former foes. But if the worst we have to fear from a beneficent approach to battle is a declarations of war against us from the Grand Fenwicks of the world, it will certainly be worth the risk.

In spite of all the danger and in spite of all the diplomatic difficulty we'd face in finding the right mix of goods with which to bombard our enemies, the results could hardly be worse than the destruction and loss of life that current methods deliver to both sides. If I were President. I would seriously attempt this radical new approach to combat. Instead of dropping bombs on al-Qaeda and ISIL strongholds and all the surrounding population and terrain, I'd drop carefully considered care packages on much of the host territory - day after day, relentlessly. I'd turn that old saying into literal fact - I'd kill them with kindness. What Andy Rooney proposed in jest, I'd execute in earnest.

Tuesday, April 14, 2015

The Call of the Found



I have a get-away cottage in Canada that property managers look after when I'm not there. Every time I visit again after any significant absence, I find they've tossed out a lot of accessories I had lying around or stored in the garage - things I really did plan on putting to use someday. They assure me that the items they discarded were stuff they knew I'd never use. It was stuff that was just cluttering up the place.

Out with the water filter. "They have better systems now." Out with the old bicycle, the spare bathroom tile, the fireplace logs. "They've probably absorbed too much humidity to light any more." Out with that extra set of screwdriver heads, the big garden rake, the old sump pump, the umbrellas, the trailer rope. Definitely out with that old lawn chair. "Anyhow, it lost its cushion long ago."

But then they take me prowling through local thrift shops and re-sale stores. Our eyes light up as we find bargain after bargain, each one "too good to pass up." Quite often, we'll end up buying almost exact replicas of the items that had been tossed out the week before. Of course, these items just look like duplicates. They are actually very different because my property managers and I have hunted them down ourselves. They weren't givens; they are the result of our own clever search, our bargain-hunter's keen eye.

I feel the same urge to buy at auctions, especially small-town auctions that take place out on "Old Airport Road." When a length of rusty chain-link fence comes up for sale there, it strikes me as just the thing I'll imminently be needing. However I know if there were such a thing as a "Rusty Chain-Link Fence Store" or even just a regular "Chain-Link Fence Store" - I wouldn’t even remotely consider going in there. My patronage of such a store would make my purchase planned and predictable. But when the item is dangled out of the blue at me, I feel the longing of the lion after prey it will bring down itself, as opposed to the lion's aversion to an old kill that somebody else made. Well, that analogy might not be apt in my case because I'm not a hunter. But in other terms, when confronted with the rusty wire being auctioned off, I feel it was meant for me because I ventured into this out-of-the-way place and found it offered by rare happenstance. This finding confers on it all the glamor and intrigue of buried treasure.

This impulse to value the thing you find yourself over the thing that is given to you extends to all sorts of areas of life. People are notoriously loathe to date individuals their mothers find for them, or individuals who are fixtures of their everyday environments. People are only likely to find allure in those they themselves discover, preferably in unlikely, exotic places. Someone they run into coming out of an old, forbidden "Members Only" opium den in San Francisco would strike them as the ideal partner.

On my most recent trip to Canada, I discovered there's an even broader base to the impulse to favor the thing that serendipity rains on you and that you have the acumen to pounce upon. I discovered that other species besides humans feel the thrill of the found.

My property managers have two Norwegian Forest cats whom they sometimes let out to roam at night. The husband-and-wife team have searched in vain for a brand of food that their cats won't turn their noses up at when it's presented to them as their daily fare.

The area is rife with stray cats. People who stay at the nearby camping grounds often dump off their pets at the end of the season. I had gotten into the habit of putting a dish of cat food out on my porch for one such bedraggled stray I'd sometimes see limping across the fields. After a while though, I noticed that the stray was rarely getting any of the food. Instead I'd glimpse one or the other of my property managers' cats, come down the whole length of the road, to lap it up with relish. The food was the same brand they'd reject when it was served to them in their own homes.

I started to fill two dishes, hoping the stray would get there in time to consume at least one of them. But no. A few nights later, I watched as one of my managers' Norwegians greedily ate the contents of one plate, then proceeded to polish off the whole of the second plate. After it had sated itself, it briefly turned and stared at me through the windows of my French door. There was a triumphant gleam in its eye - the same sort of gleam that radiated from my managers and me as we discovered a lounge chair, tucked away in the back room of Second Hand Rose. "It's perfect! It only needs a cushion!"