Nothing Glorious about War
There is nothing glorious about war.
Whatever we write about it or think about it
belies the unspeakable tragedy of it.
Rory always comes to mind when war reporters bite the dust. He and his new wife rented the house of my driver’s wife in Peredelkino outside of Moscow. They built a production studio in the back yard, rented a horse and built a small stable. It was an ideal set up. There were lots of parties, before he was shot dead in the neck outside of Ostankino. Michael Dasaro was carved up a couple of months later. Galling that Simpson and Hersch eulogized them, respectively.
Russia’s ongoing war against Ukraine, we are told, is an attempt “to break Ukraine by demolishing its cities and brutalizing its people.”
I thought the *interlacing* part went out the window in 1993. Or, at least, by 1997, when I watched this performance live in Paris lying horizontal in a bed from a loft after too much wine. Then came 1998, Belgrade, and 1999.
Ed Barnes filled me in later about the Yugoslavian wars in Munich. In 2011, he posted a photograph of the Time pickup, which wound up in the Newseum as an exhibit.
This was the last ride for the beast. I drove it to Zagreb. It was an amazing ride. People would look at the damage and figured it was a war criminal escaping and got out of the way. But there were the rides to Pale through the snow drifts and tank rts. And it had only three tapes to listen to - Neil Young, heavy metal and a standard one. They fit every occasion. Heavy metal if you were being shot at, Neil Young for when you didn't know what you were doing and one for regular driving.