The Voice of Treason

Tony Snow wrote it. Senator John Kerry, when speaking at a rally in Seattle, said it. Governor Bill Clinton, campaigning for president in 1992, told an audience: “Teddy Roosevelt once said that we should walk softly and carry a big stick. Today I want to talk softly and carry Ohio.” Gerald Ford, in 1981, reacting to the Soviet arms buildup, said it, too. Just about everyone says it.

But in a letter written in 1900, a year before he became president, Theodore Roosevelt wrote, “I have always been fond of the West African proverb: ‘Speak softly and carry a big stick; you will go far.’ ” He repeated the line in a speech in Chicago in 1903, and twice again in his writings after that. Every time he used the quote, he said, “Speak softly.” That was his approach to foreign policy, and it defined America’s role in the world. Some call it “Big Stick diplomacy” - when international negotiations are backed by the threat of force. Hmmm. Sounds a little like Ronald Reagan. When Moammar Qaddafi played the bully, we quietly dropped a bomb on his house. And he’s been relatively quiet ever since.

And here we are now, arguing over John Bolton and his qualifications to represent the U.S. in the U.N. We assume that diplomacy calls for a moderate tone. A soft voice. Speak slowly, speak softly - don’t wake the bears. No one on the other side thinks John Bolton could play the diplomat because he doesn’t whisper. He yells at people, dontcha know.

It’s another case of hard power versus soft power. Seduction versus coercion. Win their hearts and minds - don’t go in there and hit them over the head with a sledgehammer.

Some say we should influence the world through our ability to get what we want through attraction rather than coercion or payments. We must make the case for the attractiveness of our country’s culture, political ideals, and policies. That’s a problem. We are at war with people who hate our culture and they’re not going to change their minds about it. Frankly, a lot of Americans aren’t too smitten with our current culture, either. But strip away the blatant commercialization, rampant consumption, “sex sells” as religion, and the in-your-face Americanisms that spread across the globe, and we are basically a good group of people. September 11 showed the world and each other that we haven’t completely lost our decency, compassion, generosity, kindness, and hope. Our system of government isn’t perfect, but who’s got a better idea?

America stands for certain policies and ideals. When our policies are seen as legitimate in the eyes of others, our soft power is enhanced. When we can persuade others to admire our ideals and want what we want, we don’t have to spend as much time, energy, money - and even lives — to move them in our direction. Seduction is always more effective than coercion, and many values like democracy, human rights, and individual opportunities are deeply seductive. So we went into a part of the world that knew only tyranny, and believed that the people yearned to be free. They will run into the streets with flowers for our troops! They will adopt our way of life and abandon centuries of barbarism! Because, dammit, our way is just better!

And, in a way, much of this is true. Afghanistan is moving forward after five thousand years of turmoil. Iraqis showed us that the right to vote was seductive enough to pull them out of the safety of their homes and to the polling places to make a difference. It’s not the Iraqi people who are resisting change. There’s a group of people in the world who want to see us fail. If we win, they lose power. Some people think it’s a war of religions. Religion plays a role, but what’s really at the heart of this is power and control. If individuals have freedom, they have the power, the control. They make the choices.

Battered women stay in abusive relationships. When asked why, they say they had no means of escape. I didn’t know how to drive. I didn’t have a car. I had no money. I couldn’t support my kids. I wasn’t smart enough to get a job. I didn’t know I could leave.

But once a woman educates herself and sees that she has options, then acquires the tools to change her situation, her world improves. We need to help the people in Iraq acquire the tools. There’s a time to speak softly and a time to shout. We lost ground when we spoke too softly in Fallujah and Mosul. Our policies, for the most part, are sound. But our greatest resource is not technology or machinery. It is the decency of the men and women who are there, risking their lives and representing our side. They shall speak softly, but we need to be with them, carrying the big stick.

It’s Memorial Day. It’s a day to remember and honor those who have died in our nation’s service. And I think of Tony Snow. I heard this week that he’s well enough after his cancer surgery to return to his radio show, and maybe in the middle of June he’ll return to FNC. Because I live in a state that sometimes feels like part of the Third World, I cannot get Tony’s radio show. But I do have cable. I’ve missed him. He’s a class act. But every time I look at him, I remember September 11.

He was closing his report on the day’s events, and began describing what it was like and how it felt. He started talking about the bodies falling from the towers. I could see he was trying to remain composed and professional, and just report the facts as calmly as possible. But he lost it. He choked up, and then I lost it, too.

It’s a day to remember the people who got up on a beautiful morning in September and went to work; the people who fought in a war when they would have preferred to make love instead; the people who fought a war that no one can remember; the people who were the greatest generation, in the mood to save the world; the people who inhaled mustard gas and rotted in the trenches; the people who fought against their own countrymen to make others free; the people who fought against the country that bore them, against an army more powerful and better equipped, to secure their own liberty. We’ve been around for just over 200 years and there have been wars that I failed to mention. We fight a lot. But we usually do it for good reasons and prevent more wars than we engage in.

We’re in the middle of one that’s unpopular and bloody. It’s different from all the others and it may drag on for a very long time. History will write the tale of the conflict in the Middle East and the War on Terror. This might be our next World War. Are we tough enough to fight it and win?

I salute the men and women who are so brave. Where do they get that kind of courage? In May, 2001, months before the September attacks, Tony Snow wrote a column about this day:

“…Memorial Day delivers an important lesson to those who will hear: When nations drop their guard or ignore the reality of evil, innocent people die. Nations endure crises and epidemics, but nothing sears the heart as much as war. If we want to avoid the necessity of building more Arlingtons, we should hear the testimony of those who repose there now: Walk softly. Carry a big stick. And never forget.”

You’d think it was already 2008. The pundits are saying it’s Hillary’s race to win. How? We don’t let presidents have a third term. I mean, she was president for two terms, wasn’t she? Or co-president?

Ugh. The thought of living with the Clintons again. But frankly, if the Republicans don’t come up with a decent candidate, the two of them could walk away with it. Cheney’s name has come up. I’d vote for him because I adore him. Condi Rice’s name has come up. I like her. George Allen. Bill Frist. Newt. McCain. Romney. And there are others.

I have to go with Condi. It would be a hoot to have two women as presidential candidates. That would mean a female Commander-in-Chief. It’s odd that Americans have trouble with the concept, since there have been women in positions of power through the centuries. Think Maggie Thatcher. The problem is that I believe most Americans think about female bosses they’ve had. It’s rare, but I imagine there are good ones out there. Somewhere. See, that’s why I like George W. Bush. He’s a fine manager. Chooses the best people and lets them do their jobs. I appreciate that.

Would Condi be a good manager? What kind of people would she choose to work with her? What would be her platform? I just get more and more excited about this - gee, I’m starting to feel like Dick Morris!

She’s attractive. Her birthday’s the same date as my Boxer’s, Barbara: November 14. She even looks a little like her - and I mean no disrespect, believe me. My Barbara was beautiful, had eyes like Milk-Duds, but had common sense, and could be trusted. Condi’s athletic, too - she was an ice-skater, she keeps fit and she’s always impeccably groomed. I hear she has two mirrors in her office so she can get a rear view image before she steps out. Smart. But she swears her dream job would be Commissioner of the National Football League. Artistic: Condoleezza plays classical piano and had studied to become a concert pianist - until she attended a course in international politics. Brilliant: she started college at fifteen, got her BA at nineteen, MA at twenty, and Ph.D at twenty-five…maybe twenty-six.

And unlike Hillary, she did it all without a man. And despite that Matrix outfit with the spiky heels, there is no evidence that Condi has ever had sex.

Feminists despise her. Liberals loathe her. Let the race begin.

Ow. What did the Boston Red Sox just do to the Yankees? I used to be a bigger baseball fan, but things happened. We had tickets to see the Cubs and the Giants at Candlestick and they were those new seats, practically on the field. My plan was to approach Ryne Sandberg and speak to him. He was leaving the game and it would be my last opportunity to thank him. Then came the strike.

I gotta tell you, it hasn’t exactly been a field of dreams since that strike. Like I said about Willie Mays - I kinda hold a grudge. This season has been the worst: I haven’t watched a complete game and it’s almost June. Then “T” asked me if I could name the major league ballparks the other day. Sure, I said. Wrigley Field. Fenway. Yankee Stadium. The BOB - whatever that stands for. Uh…sh*t. Oh - Candlestick - no, Pac Bell. Camden Yards? Uh…sh*t.

I used to be able to name them all. Now I can’t recall the names of the companies they’re named after. And the names keep changing. Comiskey Park is U.S. Cellular Field. I think. George Will would know. George Will still cares.

Eddie Albert died yesterday at his home in the Pacific Palisades area, in the presence of caregivers. His son, Edward, was holding his hand at the time. Eddie Albert, an actor who worked a long time and enjoyed a steady career, was probably best known for his role as Oliver Douglas, the transplanted Manhattan lawyer in the TV series Green Acres. Did he mind co-starring with a pig? (I’m not talking about Eva Gabor - I’m talking about the swine, Arnold, who brilliantly portrayed Arnold Ziffel!)

Three things struck me about the death of Eddie Albert. He died well. In his home, with people who cared for him. And second: that he was ninety-nine years old. Born in 1906, the same year as my father, who died in 1970. And third: people can survive almost anything, but eventually Death gets tired of waiting and sends in the big guns. The enforcer. The final nail: Pneumonia.

One day you’re fine, then you slip and fall. Next day you’re in the hospital. Pneumonia pays a visit. And then it’s over. Baby Boomers are becoming aware that their aging parents are living longer than they’d ever expected and in the back of their minds, they’re thinking about the P word. When I’d heard about Eddie Albert, I said it to myself: pneumonia. And then it was confirmed. It must be like taking your old dog to the vet when you know things aren’t going to get better. You hold him close, and tell him what a great, great dog he’s been. You kiss his face and bury yours in his fur. The needle is inserted. Breathing slows, then stops. It’s over.

I know people are suffering terribly with horrible diseases. A friend of mine has MS; several people I know have Parkinson’s; my mother has Alzheimer’s. Will stem cell research cure them? No. Will it help others in the future? Perhaps. There’s evidence to support each side of this issue. I support President Bush’s position. I don’t think there should be federal funding when so many Americans oppose research on moral grounds. But that shouldn’t stop privately owned organizations from using stem cells and experimenting to discover cures to keep people alive…forever? Hmmmm.

It’s a complicated issue and gets even more complicated when you start talking about embryos and what happens to them. Think about what happens to them with In Vitro fertilization. My concern is the same as most Conservatives. Quite simply, we suspect that if most Boomers could clone themselves, engineer the perfect offspring, and euthanize their aging parents, they would. Here’s a group of people who are nearing retirement, are mortgaged up to their eyebrows, have kids in college, and now have the responsibility and financial burden of aging parents. Even if the parents have enough money to support assisted living or even the next level, what if the money runs out?

I sometimes think it would be nice to swing by Krispy Kreme, pick up a couple dozen doughnuts - especially the chocolate covered ones with the vanilla crème filling - then pick up my mother and drive into the mountains, deep into the forest to go feed the bears. They did that in the old days, and what a custom it was. Whatever happened to these traditions?

And that’s precisely way we have certain laws today. I can’t take Mom into the woods. And not just because it would disturb the bears. Instead, I’ll continue to visit her and one day she won’t know who I am. And I’ll continue to visit. And her condition will progress, and she’ll be in horrible pain, taking doses of morphine that would kill some people. Eventually the situation will become - er, no pun intended — unbearable. But I’ll still visit. Then one day Pneumonia will stop by. And it will be over.

If this is a war, Pneumonia is winning.

I’ll keep this shorter. Zimbabwe’s economy has collapsed since its president, Robert Mugabe, introduced his land reform program. In a nutshell, that’s where they confiscated white-owned farms and redistributed them to landless blacks because the government felt that it was unfair that the white farmers were wealthy and the blacks were poor. Zimbabwe’s once thriving agricultural sector made it the regional bread basket - a good thing to have in a continent where so many people are starving to death. But all that is destroyed. Ironically, they fed everyone around them at one time, and now face famine themselves. Mugabe blames the drought. Hmmm. All this in less than five years - what an accomplishment.

I won’t go into details about how Zimbabwe removed the white farmers from their property. There were too many stories about suffering livestock and how the farmers’ pets were brutalized for fun. I remember one dog, in particular, had its eyes put out. Why? Why was any of this necessary?

Desperate now, Zimbabwe’s leaders are talking about coaxing the white farmers back to their land so they can get something to eat. Meanwhile, Zimbabwe, the human rights pariah, has been re-elected to the United Nations Human Rights Commission for a three-year term. Who had an issue with this? No one but the usual suspects: Australia, the U.S. and Canada. In return, Zimbabwe, accused of violence, intimidation, brutality, and suppression of free speech against its own people, attacked our human rights record, citing mistreatment of detainees at Guantanamo Bay. It is to laugh.

Two years ago Libya was elected chairman of the body, and Cuba and Sudan are past members. Zimbabwe’s in fine company then. Shining examples of supporters of human rights, all. The U.N. has a penchant for rewarding thugs and murderers, and no one except the U.S. (and in the case of Zimbabwe, our friend Australia, and sometimes friend Canada) takes issue. Meanwhile, Democrats are concerned that John Bolton has a record of intimidating subordinates. He actually raised his voice to an underling! This should disqualify him from serving as United Nations ambassador. Why, he’s mean!

If that man isn’t representing us, we’re screwed.

I’ll keep this short. John McCain is still running for president. Bill Frist is also running. This week we witnessed Frist v. McCain; Frist took a hard blow, and McCain’s still standing. To quote a Republican I liked much, much better: Now let me make this perfectly clear. I am not a fan of John McCain. He’s a Democrat and I never vote for Democrats. Yeah, yeah, I know there’s an “R” after his name, but he’s a crappy excuse for a Republican. He and his cronies - the 13 other Democrats and Republicans– who “came to our rescue” this week to backstab the Senate majority leader over the filibuster are all pretty reprehensible.

It’s like being a Cubs fan, I tell you. Ernie Banks had to be the nicest man in America. He was out there not making squat, supporting about fourteen kids, playing in 100% humidity in a wool uniform, Leo Durocher hated his guts, and he still smiled and said: “Let’s play two!” My sister and I risked our lives to go to Uptown Federal to stand in line for hours to meet him and catcher Randy Hundley. She kept telling me: “You better enjoy this, ’cause we’re probably going to die!!!” To this day I don’t know what was better: meeting my two favorite baseball players and shaking their cool, dry hands, or getting back to Rogers Park in one piece.

One day I was watching the Cubs play the Giants, and Willie Mays ran right into Randy Hundley — mowed him down at home plate. Hundley’s bad knees were legendary, and Mays went right for them. I remember Hundley on the ground in agony. I jumped to my feet! He cheated!!! He’s a cheater!!! Over the years people have tried to explain to me that Mays was simply trying to win. It did no good. I spent years living in the San Francisco Bay Area and Giants games were brutal. The best thing about ‘89 was the earthquake. I still despise the Giants because of Willie Mays and the day he ran over Randy.

But it’s what the Cubs and Cubs fans will never get: the goal is to win. We like fair, we like nice. It’s why the Cubs haven’t won a World Series since my dad was a toddler. It’s the same with Republicans. We’re just too damned nice. (I can hear my Liberal acquaintances choking.) But it’s true. Dubya’s dad was the best example. Unlike Reagan, he thought he’d play nice with the Dems. Remember “Read my lips! No new taxes”? It was a set-up and he didn’t see it coming. The campaign of 1992 came and Bill Clinton was a liar, but the Dems had documented proof that our guy was an even bigger liar: “Look! He promised he wouldn’t raise your taxes, and he did!”

The elder Bush, as much as I like the man because he is such a decent person, learned nothing from a life in politics or from his boss Ronald Reagan. He managed to come out of the process clean, and now he’s buds with Bill, but he really blew 1992. His own people abandoned him. He couldn’t fight dirty. Called Bill and Al bozos and said Millie the Springer Spaniel knew more about foreign policy. (All true!) But he always wanted to take the high road, and he lost the election. In the end, it turned out okay: after an eight-year national nightmare, we’ve got Republicans again. But they’re doing the same thing they always do when they get control: they choke. And Bill Frist reminds me an awful lot of George Bush’s dad. He seems genuinely decent. He hasn’t got a prayer.

If my party doesn’t find a candidate for 2008, I’ll be forced to throw away my vote and go with the Libertarian. I just can’t picture myself voting for McCain.

There have been stories coming out of Chicago’s Lincoln Park Zoo about the number of animal deaths at the facility. I haven’t been researching this story too much, because frankly I’m not sure I want to know all the details. Lincoln Park Zoo was my first zoo. We stopped going when I was a kid because human deaths started to outnumber animal deaths there. Then we left Chicago. But before we left, my mother wanted to make sure we got to absorb as much of the great city of Chicago as we could. She scored tickets for Bozo’s Circus, took us to the Loop and to museums, and then we made it to the big ‘un: Brookfield Zoo.

Brookfield was, at the time, a revolutionary concept in zoos. They made you think that they’d removed all the cages and animals were roaming the park as if they were out in nature. We went on a cold, overcast day. Most of the animals were invisible. They went into wherever it was to stay warm and comfortable, while we walked around in the cold looking for some trace of animal activity. I do remember there were cages. But what I remember most is the one display that was the most active. There must have been bars around them, but I can’t remember seeing them. All I remember was an enormous mound of rocks covered with baboons of all sizes. They were jumping from rock to rock and screeching at each other. I noticed that it looked like many of them were fighting over something. One baboon would grab an item away from the other, and that one would scream; the thief baboon would hold up his loot, then run off with it. Another baboon would steal it from him, and the cycle would continue. It was chaos.

Years later I would be sitting in a film class, getting ill. My professor showed us a film of horses running on a beach. Suddenly there were flames on the water, and the horses were still running. He asked the students to write down their impressions of the film. Majestic! Freedom! Power! Beauty!!! Then he asked me for mine. I’d filled an entire sheet of paper. Destruction. Annihilation. Torment. Torture. Incineration. Abuse. Cruelty. Pain. Suffering. Distress. Misery. Agony. Terror. Horror. He smiled. Then he explained to the students that these horses had been exposed to just that. The rest of the class completely misinterpreted what they’d seen. I probably got it right because I had witnessed the Brookfield baboons.

I was nine, but I was starting to get that same feeling I got reading Bradbury’s The October Game. (“Then…some idiot turned on the lights.”) I stood there, watching the people around me laughing and pointing at the animals. I started to realize, then, what the others were not seeing. I realized that what they were tearing from each other and running away with and eating was baby baboons.

Today I live in a city that boasts it has one of the greatest zoos in America. It’s true, I’ve been there once. I love animals, but I don’t do zoos. I don’t do pet shops, either. I should be in lockstep with PETA, who’s investigating the carnage at Lincoln Park, but I don’t agree with PETA because they are insane. PETA wouldn’t want me anyway. I keep pets and I eat meat. I’ve thought many times about becoming a vegetarian because I like animals and sometimes I feel guilty about eating them. But I also like leather. A lot. I live with dogs, so fabric sofas and car interiors just aren’t practical choices. It wouldn’t occur to me to raise a child or a pet as a vegetarian. It’s like religion. A very personal and important choice. Do what you feel is right, but keep me out of it, and I’ll do the same for you.

I admit my food choices are odd. I generally don’t eat veal. But I’ll down a bloody New York Strip in a heartbeat. I rarely eat lamb, even though my aunt prepared a lamb chop that I’ve remembered fondly ever since I was ten. She was Maltese and knew what to do with sheep. I can’t even begin to describe what that chop was like.

I like pigs very much. I think they’re fine animals. I still find it disturbing and I tear up when I see the old footage of pigs being incinerated during nuclear testing. But one of the greatest pleasures in life is cutting up bell peppers in assorted colors and cooking them with a skillet full of Italian sausage, then piling it all on top of sturdy Italian bread. No onions, please. Just peppers and sausage. But I do hate to think about where sausage comes from.

I used to love lobster. But when I was twelve, my mother decided to cook live ones. I can still eat lobster, but I think I can count on one hand how many times I’ve had it since we boiled those other ones to death. Those, we couldn’t eat, but our cats and dog, Andrew, were thrilled to take them off our hands. I love Indian food, but can’t eat goat. I know Vietnamese, Jamaicans, and Sicilians prepare it well, too, but I’ll pass. There’s just something about a goat I really like. But I also like chickens and eat them. I had catfish - Manny, Moe, and Jack - as pets, and no longer eat catfish. I’ve tried exotic meats including alligator. I don’t like game. Don’t crave frog legs, but squid is quite nice.

When I was eleven and new to the Pacific Ocean, my uncle and our old Italian neighbor, Mr. Mancini, took me fishing. The part I liked was the thermos full of coffee, sugar, and whiskey. The part I didn’t like was the eels. I’d thought that fish were pulled from the water, then died instantly, painlessly. Eels take forever to die. I sat with one, sobbed over it, petted it. Its skin felt just like human flesh, smooth and soft. Mr. Mancini prepared them with a special sauce and served them over (gak!) polenta. I couldn’t eat them. But today I’ll suck down unagi like there’s no tomorrow.

A former coworker went to a local natural foods store - home of the four-dollar tomato - and picked up a book about how animals are slaughtered for meat processing. She stopped eating meat that day. One afternoon I saw her in the office when she felt and looked close to death. She said she was going to go see a doctor. “No,” I said. “Go to the grocery store and buy yourself a steak.” I told her to quickly warm it on each side, then eat it - every bit. She said she couldn’t eat meat - especially rare meat. But, desperate, she took my advice and returned to work the next day restored to her former self. I believe in protein. Vegetarians claim there are meat substitutes, but truly there is no substitute for a Thanksgiving turkey or rare filet mignon. I don’t eat a lot of meat; in fact, I eat more peanut butter than anything else. It’s a long story, but I’ll tell it another time. The abbreviated version: When I was eight years old, William F. Buckley, Jr. became my hero. It was election year, 1968, and he and Gore Vidal were exchanging pleasantries - sort of - on television. It was the greatest thing I’d ever seen. What creative things they said about each other’s mothers!!!! All the while, Buckley looked amused and gnawed on his pen - completely in control - sort of. Anyway, after years and years of subscribing to National Review, how surprised was I to discover that forever I’d been eating a Buckley breakfast??? There’s peanut butter involved. Again, I digress.

PETA is determined to get to the bottom of these abuses at Lincoln Park. If it’s true that animals have suffered and died because of the zoo’s negligence, fine. Go for it, PETA. But can you please leave the rest of us alone? My views on hunting have changed dramatically over the last few years. When my sister was dating the person who would become her first husband, they took me to see Bambi (“Your mother can’t be with you anymore.”) There was a guy a few rows back who just burst out laughing after Bambi’s mother was executed. My sister told her boyfriend that he should do something to make the guy stop laughing. Beat him up! Kill him!!! Do something!!!! It was surreal, to say the least. But years later I graduated from a university that had a very good Wildlife Management program, and I mixed and mingled with those in that department and learned to accept that nature needed some managing. I wrote about forests and the need for pruning, if you recall. Well, animals need to be pruned, too, sometimes. Deaths from starvation and disease might be natural, but they are worse than a well-placed bullet. If a hunter is going to take the time, energy, and expense to go kill his own food, more power to him. I respect that. I’m a coward who likes my meat on a styrofoam slab, covered in plastic wrap.

I wear leather, but I don’t wear fur. But I respect the rights of those who do choose to wear it. I understand a person wanting to wear something beautiful. I choose leather because it’s practical - fur, for me, makes no sense. Besides, I have spent most of my life covered in cat and/or dog hair, so it’s almost like having fur anyway. What I don’t understand is PETA’s need to berate people who do wear fur and splash red paint on them. There is no point in destroying personal property. I can see that animals died, sacrificed themselves, to be made into a fashion item. In a weird way, wearing them is almost a tribute to that sacrifice. Splashing paint on their skins shows no respect. And chances are, more animals will die to replace the damaged fur. It’s odd thinking.

Treason number twenty-six: Animal rights has very little to do with the rights of animals.

I don’t own any fur, but if I did I would probably donate it to animal rescue. Do you know that these organizations use the fur to calm rescued baby animals? Interesting.

Mary Kay Letourneau, 43, and Vili Fualaau, 22, were married Friday night. I wasn’t going to address the whole Mary Kay thing, but I’ve changed my mind. I have my reasons. I imagine that this is a fascinating case because it allows people to take sides. One side believes that Mary Kay is a nut job and a criminal (a rapist, specifically), and the other side, somewhat more idealistic, sees her as the poster child for true love. Here’s a bright, attractive young teacher, married with four children, who falls in love with her student. He’s twelve and still in elementary school.

This in itself is not criminal. Strange things happen every day. It’s how the average human being deals with these circumstances that matters. Perhaps Mary Kay made some wrong choices. Someone else might have consulted a professional. Or removed herself from the situation. Easier to do if you’re single, but Mary Kay had a husband and family and couldn’t just relocate on a whim. She could have quit her job, but she was, by all accounts, an excellent teacher, and she needed that salary to support her family. So she stayed put.

Someone else might have told herself that as strong as her feelings were, she just simply would not be able to act on them. She was an adult who, at her wedding, promised to remain faithful, and she had her four children to think about. They should have been her first concern. But it doesn’t stop there. As a teacher, she was responsible for so many other children. Teachers are role models, the wise adults, the guides, the counselors. They’re supposed to have it all together.

I never wanted to think of my teachers as normal human beings when I was a kid. I wanted them to be perfect - smarter and better than their students. I wanted them on a pedestal. In short, I wanted to respect them. When I was ten, I found myself at an adult party with my mother. One of my teachers was there. I discovered that night that she was a lush. She even staggered over to me and breathed in my face: “See? We’re just like everybody else!” It’s not something I really wanted to hear. This was a teacher whose students were terrified of her. After that night, she’d lost her mystique. The good news was that I was no longer intimidated by her - I knew her secret. But I wished I’d never seen her as a regular person. I liked her when she was more. I liked her when she was my teacher: no nonsense, strict, hard. Knowing that she had a soft underbelly made her vulnerable and less effective as a professional. I felt sorry for her.

The other part of the Letourneau story deals with the role of women in society and age. As a woman of a certain age, I’m intrigued by the reaction to Mary Kay. We would expect such behavior from a man, but never a woman - especially a mother! It has always struck me as odd that our society puts so much emphasis on motherhood. Frankly, you can be the biggest slut in the world, but suddenly you have a baby and you’re the Virgin Mary. Excuse me, has anyone ever studied biology? How does having a baby make you pure all of a sudden? And this goes back to parents killing their children. We expect it from men, but are horrified when women kill their children. Poor men! Yeah, let them go to war - women are just so fragile. We need to protect them because they’re the nurturers. Ask another woman and they’ll tell you the truth: women are wolverines. If feminists want equality and a level playing field, then they better fess up. They can’t hide behind the feminine mystique and use it to their advantage when they want to. Like when it’s time to move a refrigerator. I digress. More on this later when I discuss women in the military.

So Mary Kay tossed discretion aside to have sex with a little boy. Discretion, a dead concept. There was a time that people picked up and moved to another state and changed their names. A few years ago, a male supervisor and I interviewed a woman who told us everything there was to know about her method of birth control. This wasn’t the response we expected to our standard interview questions. Well, times have changed and now shame is worn like a badge of honor. Yes, I know, I have a blog and I reveal things that I probably shouldn’t, but that’s me. This does not adversely affect friends and family. Not yet, anyway. When you’re a single entity you can make choices and be a little more frivolous because they won’t affect other people. Unfortunately, Mary Kay’s choices affected her family, her husband’s family, her paramour’s family, the community, and the world. She destroyed her husband. She gave up her four children. She went to prison, ruining her reputation and career. But she didn’t care because her happiness was the most important thing in the world.

So whatever happened to doing the right thing especially when you don’t want to? Couldn’t Mary Kay have been honest with her family? She should have ended the relationship with her husband before she started a new one. And it would have been helpful to wait until Vili grew up and was legal. But that would have required waiting. And chances are, Vili would have gone on to junior high, then high school, then found a lot of pretty teenage girls to date and he would have stopped thinking about Mary Kay. Instead, with two daughters, he was bound to Mary Kay and waited for her release. For a kid, he has shown more maturity and devotion to a partner than Mary Kay showed to her first family.

I know there are old souls out there. Chronological age doesn’t always mesh with emotional age. Mary Kay claims that she and Vili are soulmates - it doesn’t matter that there’s an age difference. My mother always said there was a twenty-year difference in my parents’ ages. Actually, my father was only seventeen years older - my mother always liked to be coy about her age. When I was eleven, she fell over an overpass (long story) and broke her leg. The young, good-looking doctor at the hospital thought she was about thirty. I said I had siblings that age. They assumed I was in shock and stopped asking me questions. I have never lied about my age. It takes way too much effort, and I’m basically lazy, so why take on the extra burden? My problem is that after age twenty-seven, I’ve forgotten how old I am and actually have to take a moment to figure out the current year (this is 2005, right?), then subtract the year I was born - which I do remember clearly. Mack the Knife was on the charts. And the greatest Cadillac of all time was created.

I understand part of the Mary Kay story. The age part. I’ve known my significant other (Help, someone! We need a new euphemism!) for fifteen years. We met when he was seventeen. I was - and still am - twelve years older. We were coworkers (for a short time I was actually his “superior”), but being as brilliant as he is, he quickly became a peer, then moved up into supervisory roles - leaving older employees in the dust. He was smart and had an impressive work ethic. Wanted to learn everything and take on extra responsibility. He seemed much older. I could say something and he knew what I was talking about. Glenn Miller, for instance. I started thinking he’d been in Europe during the big conflict. Then I’d do the math. He was born long after The Beatles broke up. We became friends, then when he was of legal age and then some, we dated. And didn’t this create a fuss! I have heard the term “cradle robber” more times than I care to admit. My aunt Helen was eight years older than my uncle George and they had a long, wonderful marriage. But it was never fully accepted by the family. Go figure. If George had been eight years older than Helen, would there have been an issue? Of course not.

So for that reason, I hope that Mary Kay can make peace with her former husband and four children. I was happy to hear that one of her teenage daughters was maid-of-honor at the ceremony. My wish for the new couple is that they raise healthy, well-adjusted children, and live happily ever after.

Abu Ghraib Part 2. This week, both The Sun and New York Post, having learned nothing from the Newsweek incident, have run photos of “The Butcher of Sagdad” on their front pages. So the Bush administration braces for another round of riots and mayhem.

But I suspect feelings in Iraq are mixed. In the Muslim world, nudity is a humiliation for men, as witnessed by the Abu Ghraib incident. But those inside Iraq, those who lived under Saddam Hussein’s tyranny, are probably going to let this one slide. Besides, he’s not completely nude - he’s in his undies. But the Bush administration will continue to flog itself over this one and promise to make sure that those responsible will feel the wrath of those who are above such things. Yeah, yeah, we’re basically decent people here in the States, but when are we just going to say: “It’s unfortunate, but who the hell really cares - the guy’s in his shorts. Big hairy deal.” Don’t you get the feeling that sometimes these things would blow over faster if we weren’t always falling over ourselves trying to apologize and make everything all right?

I don’t get the feeling that the other side is wringing its hands over atrocities or humiliations. Reports from Gitmo keep coming about how our soldiers are using vile techniques to squeeze information out of detainees. Using things like women and dogs. Detainees claim female soldiers smear red fluid on the Muslims, telling them it’s menstrual blood. And then they bring in dogs for intimidation. It appears that Muslim men have issues with cleanliness. Dogs are unclean. So in response to the question on IslamOnline.net, “Is it permissible for a Muslim to own a dog?,” the answer from Sheikh Ahmad Kutty, a senior lecturer and Islamic scholar at the Islamic Institute of Toronto, Ontario, Canada, is:

“A dog can be owned for purposes such as the following:

1. A trained dog for hunting. Remember in Islam we are only allowed to hunt for food; there is no such thing as hunting for fun, for we are not allowed to kill or torture animals or drive them out of their habitats for the fun of it.

2. A trained dog as a guide. This would be the case if a person is blind and he/she has no choice but to keep a dog for essential services. In this case, it is permissible for him/her to keep a dog inside the house once it has been trained for service, but it is still recommended that the dog have its own sleeping arrangement.

3. A dog trained for police duties.

4. A guard dog to guard houses or property.

5. A dog used by farmers to shepherd cattle and sheep.

We are, however, not allowed to keep a dog as a pet, since it is not a very clean animal. How often have you come across the nasty sight of dogs taken for a walk licking their own excrement? Isn’t it disgusting to see their owners kissing the mouth of such animals after such incidents as if nothing happened? Would you kiss the mouth of your own baby if he were to do the same? Think how many parasites and microbes may be hiding in their mouths.

The Prophet (peace and blessings be upon him) has spared us from being contaminated by such filth when he ordered us to stay clear of the saliva of dogs. If we ever come into contact with a dog’s saliva we must wash the spot seven times, the first of which should be with sand or dirt. It is also possible to use a bacterial soap instead of sand or dirt.

In conclusion: Don’t contemplate taking a dog home as a pet. If, however, you do need to keep a dog for any of the reasons given above, then you may do so. But take every precaution not to have contact with its saliva, and also arrange for a separate living space.”

Obviously Sheikh Ahmad Kutty has never met sailor Mitch and his terrier Milo.