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CounterPunch
September
11, 2002
How to Survive
in Ashcroft's America
by Anis Shivani
Write an article like this one to throw them off
my scent - if he's inviting attention to himself, surely he can't
have anything to worry about?. . .
Put off bug exterminator visit until
apartment is cleared of five feet high stacks of Internet printouts,
hundreds of envelopes with novel excerpts waiting to go out,
and books on Hitler's henchmen and variants of fascism stacked
high against the walls; the washed-up blonde Southern high-wire
act who came last time seems prime TIPS recruiting material.
. .
Go into massive denial about bug infestation
that has already occurred five months ago; it might have to wait
until 2008. . .
Contemplate ordering copy of The Anarchist
Cookbook because it tells you what you need to do to know if
your place is bugged - aren't you supposed to drag a microphone
over your head to catch the high-pitched squeaks of surveillance
equipment or something?. . .
Cancel that thought because thirty years
later new technology probably makes all surveillance-detection
tactics irrelevant. . .
Stop years-old habit of driving at minimum
forty miles per hour on freeway (a perverse form of aggression?)
because it might draw unnecessary attention from cops. . .
Speaking of driving, take the weekend
to empty Beemer - which doubles as office, filing, and storage
space - of multiple novel manuscripts with subversive-sounding
titles, hundreds of rejections from fiction editors, unopened
piles of returned mail from Hollywood agents (what was I thinking?),
and flyers from three years ago advertising contemplated editorial
services that I never actually offered - clean out car in case
a cop stops me, for no reason at all (which is the only reason
they stop you). . .
But don't unload at night: last time
the Neighborhood Watch/TIPS guy stopped me for backing into parking
space on the other side of the lot, thinking I was taking flight
from him. . .
Worry about traffic ticket fifteen years
ago for doing sixty-five on the Pomona Freeway - I'm pretty sure
I paid it off, but unlike every other trivial activity, I don't
have a written record of it: what if it's turned into a warrant
or something? That would be enough to put an end to my brilliant
career. . .
Think of calling Los Angeles Municipal
Court, but retreat in horror because it is just this sort of
weird request they're waiting to pounce on as evidence of suspicious
activity. . .
Consider getting an analyst job at Goldman
Sachs for two years to pay off $37,000 in unpaid student loans.
. .
Write this off as bad idea because I
wouldn't last an hour at Goldman Sachs; still, nice thought (to
my parents) - and it should yield a best-selling memoir. . .
Ponder the folly of hanging out with
poor artist girls when old-money Waspy Connecticut sugar mama
could be useful on more counts than one: relax, it'd only be
till 2008! (this would serve the dual purpose of fulfilling recurrent
older woman fantasy). . .
Look through alumni directory for first
girlfriend at college, whom I haven't spoken to in almost a decade,
to ask her if she'll "store" my manuscripts in case
"something happens to me"; tell her she doesn't have
to do anything, just keep it on her hard-drive, take it with
her to Australia or Canada or wherever she's headed off to, as
long as she doesn't tell anyone; engage in long email exchange
with her as to why I would be considered important enough for
something to happen to me; fail to come up with a satisfactory
answer (to her) but like the preemptive tactic anyway. . .
Approach all my friends, some of whom
I haven't spoken to in years, with similar request, because this
personalizing of apocalyptic fears is such an ego boost. . .
Cross everyone off my list of friends
except those who immediately agree that I should definitely be
concerned, for good reason, and that they'll be "honored"
to keep my stuff until the danger passes. . .
Wonder if I should file a Freedom of
Information Act request with the FBI to see if they have a file
on me from ten years ago as a college activist. ..
But isn't that likely to make me hot
instead of cold and trigger an inquiry? Why would I be asking
for it unless I had something to be concerned about? All right,
save that for informational (and bragging) purposes until after
2008. . .
Instead of selling old IBM computer for
whatever I can get, beat it down with a hammer and dump it at
a landfill sixty miles away because I've heard that keystrokes,
documents, Internet visitation habits can always be recovered.
. .
In a panic attack at three in the morning,
dump all my porn in the garbage bin; later that same night, feel
foolish about it (too high a price to pay for security, and besides
most of it borders on the literary), and recover as much of it
as I can without feeling yucky; all porn today seems to be weird,
kinky, Ashcroft-provoking - they might draw the wrong conclusions.
. .
Wonder where I'll seat the FBI agents
when they visit me at five in the morning (isn't that when they're
supposed to knock on your door?) since every inch of space is
taken up by papers and books. . .
If those activist groups invite me to
debate Hitchens in Berkeley, should I take a plane? Too dangerous.
Take a train? More dangerous. Drive? Most dangerous of all. Spend
hours and hours obsessing about this dilemma...
Label apartment mailbox with non-existent
"Emily Bernstein" and "Shauna McBride" alongside
my own name to give the impression that I'm not a lone, single
guy of the wrong age (that vicious mail delivery guy looks like
an incipient profiler). . .
Get rid of the McBride label because
living with two women sounds really suspicious. . .Get rid of
the Bernstein label too because when she doesn't get any mail
that'll look suspicious . . .
Calm down about it because I get plenty
of mail from impressive alma mater, asking for money (as if I
have any). . .
Refuse to engage in any conversation
with pesky students (drawn by my magnetism, no doubt) at the
library, because who knows who might be an informant? Or might
be tempted to become one? And because I can't keep my mouth shut,
and can't not talk about politics, I should disengage from all
personal human interaction. . .
Occasionally visit National Review and
Weekly Standard sites in case library Internet habits are being
tracked; just to throw them off. . .
Assure worried mother in Poughkeepsie
that they don't do anything to writers and intellectuals and
artists; they care about activists, and I no longer believe in
activism: since I'm sure phone is being tapped, this note of
confidence is likely to make them leave me alone; tell her that
the last person they'd want to touch is me, because I'd write
a best-selling memoir about it, exposing their dirty business.
. .
Realize that they prohibit detainees
from profiting by writing about their experiences; still, to
put the thought in their mind that I might do something like
that (at least after 2008) should make them think twice...
If they do take me to a naval brig as
an enemy combatant, wonder what reading material I'd be allowed
to take with me; if I could take only one book with me what would
it be? No two ways about it: I could finally finish A la recherche.
. .
Stop shopping at Middle Eastern stores
for delicacies because those are exactly the kinds of places
where they make random sweeps; with my recent run of bad luck,
they'd let all the illegals go and get me instead. . .
Slip into denial about the quality of
my recent fiction: publishers are afraid that my stuff is too
controversial, and they're scared to touch it - wimps! - instead
of admitting that I need to head back to writing school...
That's not a bad idea; I should start
a graduate school application to Berkeley just in case. . .
Just in case what?. . .
Stop using gun-loving, Bush-honoring
barber as once-a-month one-person focus group; yes, he's invaluable
as key to pulse of middle America, and although I've never disagreed
with him and let on what a flaming lefty I am, can I take the
chance anymore?. . .
Draw hope from Gramsci, Laski, Chinaski.
. .
But reconsider lifelong antipathy against
having offspring; if own intellectual career can be nipped in
the bud, relying on superhuman genes to do the trick in the next
generation might be worth a second thought - especially if it'd
be a brave little girl like the one who plays Hermione in the
Harry Potter movies. . .
Is it okay to say "little girl"
in Ashcroft's America?. . .
Ask editor to delete reference to barber,
in case he happens to read this; even in Ashcroft's America it'd
be nice to keep getting a decent haircut.
Anis Shivani
studied economics at Harvard, and is the author of two novels,
The Age of Critics and Memoirs of a Terrorist. He welcomes comments
at: Anis_Shivani_ab92@post.harvard.edu
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