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WHO RULES: THE ISRAEL LOBBY OR UNCLE SAM? The answer at last! Uri Avnery, former Knesset member, assesses the Lobby's power. "If the Israeli government wanted a law tomorrow annulling the 10 Commandments, 95 U.S. Senators (at least) would sign the bill forthwith." But, yes, in the end the dog wags the tail. Fifty years ago Allen Ginsberg's "Howl" blew the cobwebs out of millions of young minds and drove a stake through the heart of Eisenhower's America. Lenni Brenner remembers Ginsberg in the East Village. Dr Mengele died in exile, in disguise. Dr Ishii died rich and recognized, in his own Tokyo home. Christopher Reed on Japanese WW2 medical tortures and how the U.S. covered them up. CounterPunch Online is read by millions of viewers each month! But remember, we are funded solely by the subscribers to the print edition of CounterPunch. Please support this website by buying a subscription to our newsletter, which contains fresh material you won't find anywhere else, or by making a donation for the online edition. Remember contributions are tax-deductible. Click here to make a donation. If you find our site useful please: Subscribe Now! |
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Today's Stories May 6 / 7, 2006 Jeffrey St. Clair May 5, 2006 Vijay Prashad Robert Fisk David Swanson Mearsheimer / Walt Dave Lindorff Sarah Ferguson CounterPunch
News Service Corporate Crime Reporter Website of the
Day
May 4, 2006 John F. Sugg Jonathan Cook Roger Burbach Chris Dols Christopher Brauchli Tony Swindell Website of the Day
May 3, 2006 Robert Bryce Paul Craig Roberts James Petras Lee Sustar David Bolton Joshua Frank Jeffery R. Webber Website of the
Day
May 2, 2006 Evelyn Pringle Tariq Ali Saul Landau Paul Craig Roberts Gary Leupp Ron Jacobs Sen. Russell
Feingold Anthony Papa Website of the
Day
May Day, 2006 Norman Finkelstein Christopher Reed Michael Donnelly Dave Zirin Mike Whitney Gilad Atzmon Missy Comley Beattie Alexander Cockburn Website of the
Day
April 29 / 30, 2006 Peter Linebaugh Ralph Nader Robert Bryce Rev. William
Alberts Lee Sustar John Chuckman Eric Ruder Seth Sandronsky Ron Jacobs Ben Tripp Fred Gardner Don Monkerud Tommy Stevenson Lettrist International Contratiempo St. Clair, Vest
and D'Antoni Poets' Basement Website of the
Weekend
April 28, 2006 James Ridgeway Ramzy Baroud Sarah Knopp William S. Lind Werther April 27, 2006 Winslow T. Wheeler Robert Fisk Juan Santos Robert Jensen Dave Lindorff Jose Pertierra
April 26,2006 Robin Philpot Sherry Wolf Pratyush Chandra Joshua Frank Gary
Leupp Bill
Quigley
April 25, 2006 Gary
Leupp Paul
Craig Roberts Linda
S. Heard Ralph
Nader Mike
Whitney Michael
Donnelly Sharon
Smith Website
of the Day
April 24, 2006 Tim
Wise John
Stanton Dave
Lindorff Steve
Shore Amadou
Deme Mickey
Z. Ralph Nader Alexander
Cockburn Website
of the Day
April 22/23, 2006 Jeffrey
St. Clair Jeff
Halper Jeff
Klein Thomas
P. Healy David
Underhill Lee
Sustar Deb
Reich John
Chuckman Fred
Gardner Julian
Edney Seth
Sandronsky Brynne
Keith-Jennings Dave
Lindorff Catherine
Ann Cullen and Harry Browne Bill
Pahnelas Jim
French Ron
Jacobs David
Krieger Jeffrey
St. Clair Poets'
Basement Website
of the Weekend
April 21, 2006 Jonathan
Cook Lawrence
R. Velvel Evelyn
Pringle Christopher
Brauchli Pratyush
Chandra Michael
George Smith Missy
Comley Beattie Sarah
Hines Website
of the Day
April 20, 2006 Chris
Kutalik Gary
Leupp Joshua
Frank Diane
Christian William
S. Lind Ramzy
Baroud Justin
E.H. Smith
April 19, 2006 P.
Sainath Norman
Solomon Anthony
Papa Mike
Ferner Stanley
Heller Rifundazione Christopher
Reed Alexander
Cockburn Website
of the Day April 18, 2006 Paul
Craig Roberts Eric
Wingerter Juan
Santos Greg
Weiher Sam
Bahour Behzad
Yaghmaian Website
of the Day
April 17, 2006 Kevin Zeese Uri Avnery Norman Solomon John Ross Laila al-Haddad Jeffrey Blankfort Website of the Day
April 15 / 16, 2006 Jeffrey
St. Clair Ralph
Nader Thaddeus
Hoffmeister Kevin
Prosen / Dave Zirin Thomas
P. Healy Kristoffer
Larsson Fred
Gardner Edwin
Krales Brian
Cloughley John
Holt Seth
Sandronsky Rafael
Renteria Michael
Ortiz Hill William
A. Cook Gideon
Levy Andrew
Wimmer Madis
Senner Michael
Kuehl Mark
Scaramella Nate
Mezmer Jesse
Walker Poets'
Basement Website
of the Weekend
April 14, 2006 Col.
Dan Smith Saul
Landau Stan
Cox Kevin
Zeese Brian
McKinlay Howard
Meyers Ishmael
Reed Website
of the Day
April 13, 2006 CounterPunch
News Service Norman
Solomon Stanley
Heller Jeff
Birkenstein Evelyn
J. Pringle Michael
Donnelly Kamran
Matin Website
of the Day
April 12, 2006 Vijay
Prashad Alan
Maass Dave
Lindorff Ron
Jacobs Ramzy
Baroud Randall
Dodd Missy
Comley Beattie P. Sainath Website
of the Day
April 11, 2006 Al
Krebs Lawrence
R. Velvel Sonia
Nettinin Willliam
S. Lind Robert
Ovetz Pratyush
Chandra Grant
F. Smith Laray
Polk Francis
Boyle José
Pertierra Website
of the Day
April 10, 2006 Ralph
Nader Heather
Gray Uri
Avnery Joshua
Frank Seth
Sandronsky Michael
Leonardi Evelyn
Pringle Tom
Kerr Lucinda
Marshall Website
of the Day April 7 -9, 2006 Alexander
Cockburn Jeffrey
St. Clair Patrick
Cockburn David
Vest Dave
Lindorff Gary
Leupp Elaine
Cassel Saul
Landau James
Ridgeway Ron
Jacobs John
Walsh Ramzy
Baroud Christopher
Brauchli Todd
Chretien Jonathan
Scott John
Bomar Michele
Brand Ronan
Sheehan Mickey
Z. Don
Monkerud Michael
Dickinson Website
of the Weekend
April 6, 2006 John
Ross Dave
Lindorff Don
Monkerud Robert
McDonald Boris
Kagarlitsky Remi
Kanazi Niranjan
Ramakrishnan Robert
Fisk
April 5, 2006 Dick
J. Reavis Mark
Brenner Brian
Cloughley Jozef
Hand-Boniakowski Matt
Vidal Juan
Santos Alan
Maass JoAnn
Wypijewski Website
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April 4, 2006 Jackson
Thoreau Gary
Corseri Dave
Lindorff Paul
Craig Roberts Norman
Solomon Michael
Carmichael Winslow
T. Wheeler Ingmar
Lee Michael
Neumann Website
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April 3, 2006 Saul
Landau Richard
Thieme Timothy
B. Tyson Omar
Barghouti Iwasaki
Atsuko Julian
Edney Roger
Morris
April 1 / 2, 2006 Alexander
Cockburn Ralph
Nader Dave
Zirin David
Underhill Earl
Ofari Hutchinson Dave
Lindorff P.
Sainath Fred
Gardner Clancy
Chassay Heather
Gray Greg
Moses John
Chuckman Ron
Jacobs Jeffrey
St. Clair Poets'
Basement Website
of the Weekend
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Weekend
Edition "The Goddamn Place Looks Like Hell"The Hunted By JOHN HOLT
A pair of Dark Star trucks lurched over the rough ground on Elmer Yoter's ranch. The new rigs were painted glossy black with the company's logo, a bright yellow bolt of lightning along the doors, the words 'Dark Star Consortium' done in bright red beneath the yellow. The men in the trucks were out to begin surveying the land in preparation for strip-mining the coal sometime next year. Seismic studies of the fifty-odd sections of land holding the mineral had been completed two years ago. The four Dark Star employees had detailed maps showing where the seams of coal were, how far beneath surface, how thick the layers were. Exploratory drilling had indicated that it was anywhere from twelve to thirty-seven feet and close to the surface. They had other maps showing how deep the ground water beneath the surface ran and where it pooled into a large underground lake. Potentially the low-sulfur bituminous reserves could exceed a billion tons, enough to power the country for years. Dark Star had already reaped hundreds of millions of dollars from its holdings a few miles to the west over by McCoy, but these were beginning to play out and the company was preparing for the future. Trains pulling miles of cars were loaded with the black rock each day. Then they would haul their loads off to electrical generation plants at places like Colstrip and Gillette, Wyoming. Power facilities with enormous appetites. The mining left huge holes in the earth covering thousands of acres. All of the reclamation effort and technology in the world could not put the land back together again. Topsoil, tons of fertilizer and oceans of piped-in water temporarily turned some of the ravaged land into an artificially green oasis, that looked more like a Palm Springs golf course than the high plains. The easily duped eastern media bought the con, flashed stories of how low impact strip-mining was these days, a sustainable and environmentally benign source of energy; and of course the antelope and deer and elk loved the verdant grasslands, not to mention the piles of grain the company dumped all over the plastic scene. The phony place was a veritable delicatessen for the game, but most locals refused to hunt there saying it would be like "Like shooting deer at Disneyland." And once the company stopped spreading fertilizer and water on the soil, which they did as soon as the press lost interest in the story after about fifteen or twenty minutes, everything died, turned into a wasteland. In the coming months the survey party would map out the coal seams and haul roads to the proposed rail line along the Workman River, which was expected to be ram-rodded through the Montana Legislature, a hodgepodge collection of mostly-bought-off political hacks. The line would be completed in as little as twelve months of blasting, grading and degradation to the river corridor. Spread some money, make some threats, a little blackmail, the usual stuff. The two trucks slowed as the terrain grew still more severe and distorted. More than 2,000 acres of earth was faded shades of ochre and vermilion, jagged, heaved into abrupt hillocks that were fractured and broken. The sky was a bleak, burning white. Even in spring this part of Yoter's ranch felt unnaturally hot. A surreal vision of unmoving turmoil. Small clumps of desiccated sage and withered cactus dotted the landscape. Scattered about the lifeless landscape were groups of barren Ponderosa, thirty, forty foot skeletons of sun-bleached, gray wood. Their scraggly limbs thrust out like the arms of monstrous skeletons. Some of the trees, roots burned or rotted, had fallen over, and were lying on top of each other, trunks cracked, branches shattered. The juniper trees, thick and dark green with dusty-blue berries elsewhere on the plateau, were nothing but brittle sticks, emaciated to the point where the always-wind found nothing to play with. Even in a gale the lifeless forms scarcely moved. Dead gray four-foot-tall stands of Russian thistle shuddered in the breeze like detoxing drunks. Recent spring rains had drenched the area. Still, this land was parched, baked bone-dry. Everywhere the men looked plumes of dirty white smoke issued from vents and narrow cracks in the land. "Goddamned place looks like hell," said a surveyor in one rig. "How in the name of Jesus can we haul our equipment in here? The damn ground will collapse. And as soon as we open up the topsoil, the rush of oxygen will set some of these underground fires off like a bomb." "Don't sweat it," said the driver, himself an engineer and geologist who'd worked this country for close to twenty years. "We'll pump enough water to put out Hiroshima. And the ground is hard enough to support our rigs. Held up okay when the test-drilling crews came out awhile back." "Great plan, if you had the water," muttered the other, who was new to this part of the country. Appalachian destruction had been his beat up until this month. "We do," and the driver pointed down Mad Woman Draw, a brushy defile that twisted and turned between Yoter's and Graves' place. "Owner of that land (pointing toward the Graves' property) has a spring on his land that's fed by a fair-sized aquifer. We'll tap that and pipe the water over this way. Run the line along the haul road from here over along the creek and down to the Workman when the new rail line is completed." "What if the owner won't sell the water?" asked the engineer as he lit a cheap cigar, blowing smoke that washed across the dusty dashboard and up the windshield. "These crazy cowboys out here hang on to what they've got most of the time. Damn land means more than money. Even when they're dead broke and starving." "The owner's Joe Graves,
and he doesn't have a say in any of this. The dumb bastard,"
said the driver. "From what I hear, his old man sold the
mineral rights and took that little secret to his grave." "All of this looks the same to me. One piece of dry, worthless dirt pretty much like the next. Why here and not over there?" said the man from Appalachia pointing to a large sandstone cliff rising above a large, grassy bench in the distance. The truck's driver looked at his companion and said "Why in the hell do they send me these dumb shits from back east? You don't know squat about the West." And they continued to bounce across the parched land that covered the Fort Union formation which breaks into three main sections - Tulluck, Lebo and Workman River,. The coal in these parts is largely folded under layers of sandstone that formed when an old sea dried up millions of years ago, and it's down pretty damn deep. For now the company is taking the easy pickings near the top. Geologists determined that there is over fifty billion tons in the region. Dark Star has all the time in the world. It can out-wait and out-the ranchers forever. Hard working people who cling for dear life to the romantic notion that this land is their heritage and their life. To Dark Star it's just dirt and rock and lots of money. Without the coal and oil it would be worthless to the company. Nothing but nothing. The other shrugged and looked out the window seeing a shriveled carcass of a mule deer, skin drain tight across the ribs, stomach torn open. The driver checked the side mirrors to see where the other truck was. He slammed on the brakes. Five-hundred yards behind, the front end of the other black crew cab was axle deep in the ground. Smoke was billowing all around the rig and the two occupants had begun spraying fire extinguishers over the hood. The two in the first truck leaped out and ran back to their co-workers but by the time they reached the foundered truck, the machine was ablaze, all four tires burning. Clouds of oily black smoke poured across the cooking land. The four men backed away just before the burning truck's dual gas tanks exploded sending pieces of truck skyward and rocketing along at ground level. A chunk of door whistled toward them like a missile, slicing the eastern surveyor's legs cleanly just below the knees. The man tumbled backward screaming, blood spurting from the stumps. Then a large ripping noise, like something was savagely pulling the earth apart, hammered through the air and the ground tore open at their feet. The whole place shook violently, heaving in all directions at once. The three who were not hurt instinctively fled for their lives leaving their wounded co-worker thrashing. They ran, stumbled, crawled through and over cactus and unyielding sage, getting back up and running from the expanding crack in the plateau, running until their lungs felt like they were going to explode. When they stopped, having out-distanced the tear in the cooked ground, they looked back. Geysers of smoke, flame and sparks spewed into the air along a quarter-mile-long, wide gash. The roar of the released energy was deafening. Burning pieces of cactus and whole flaming sage plants shot hundreds of feet in the air before plummeting back to earth in a barrage of scorching stone and burning plants. The mangled man and the remains of the incinerated truck were gone. Thousands of feet overhead five turkey vultures soared casually on six-foot wingspans describing large, lazy circles above the smoldering countryside. John Holt is the author of numerous books, including
the gripping novel Hunted,
and Coyote
Nowhere: In Search of America's Lost Frontier. He lives in
Livingston, Montana and can be reached at: hunted@wispwest.net
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from CounterPunch Books! The Case Against Israel By Michael Neumann Grand Theft Pentagon: Tales of Greed and Profiteering in the War on Terror by Jeffrey St. Clair Sick of sit-on-the-Fence speakers, tongue-tied and timid? CounterPunch Editors Alexander Cockburn and Jeffrey St Clair are available to speak forcefully on ALL the burning issues, as are other CounterPunchers seasoned in stump oratory. Call CounterPunch Speakers Bureau, 1-800-840-3683. Or email beckyg@counterpunch.org. |