The Voice of Treason

I noticed that the Oregon House (and I’m not talking about a mildewy Victorian) just voted on a law that will require Oregonians with colds and allergies to obtain prescriptions before they can go to Walgreens and pick up a bottle of relief. This, of course, means a trip to doctor. And everyone knows that by the time you score an appointment you’re over whatever it is you’re suffering from and you don’t need to buy any medicine. This also means that people will pass on the appointment and go straight to urgent care and emergency rooms. Little kids with compound fractures and teenagers with bullet wounds will be in line behind someone with the sniffles. As someone who spent five years in a part of Northern California that is for all intents and purposes considered the Pacific Northwest, I had a cold that started in October 1977 and lasted through June 1982. If I had needed to go to a doctor every time I wanted to buy a Corecidin tablet, I would have dropped out of school and moved to the desert to live in a tent and write books about homemade explosives.

The one thing we Americans have absolute control over is how we treat our cold and allergy symptoms. Whether it’s an over-the-counter antihistamine, an echinacea-laced lozenge, a spray we snort up our noses, or a nicely aged Scotch, we choose how we’re going to deal with our illnesses. And then we talk about it endlessly, recommending our methods to anyone who reaches for a Kleenex. (My college professors swore by large doses of hard liquor. This didn’t relieve any cold symptoms, but it made you less self-conscious about wiping snot off your face and coughing up copious amounts of phlegm in public.)

How ’bout just cracking down on the criminals who use common cold products (namely, decongestants that contain pseudoephedrine) to manufacture methamphetamine instead of punishing innocent people who just want to feel good enough to go to work in the morning? To avoid the hassle, people will forego medication and what was a cold will now be bronchitis or pneumonia. Well, there goes the American economy. Perhaps the teachers unions can do something useful for a change and call this discrimination. After all, it’s our teachers who are often constant victims of the common cold, spread by their snot-nosed students. Teachers will be out of the classroom in record numbers, sitting in doctors’ offices, while substitutes take over the public school system.

Hmmmm. Then again, there might be an upside to this whole story.

A fun morning. Somehow T and I started a discussion of favorite actors. That means, essentially, actors we like and actors everybody else likes and we don’t. T and I both ask: What is with the whole Leonardo di Caprio thing? Marty Scorsese sees something I don’t, obviously. Maybe it will hit me later - when he’s older.

I digress. Anyway, we threw out dozens of names and movie titles and offered reasons why some performances were ground-breaking and others were not. We talked about where these people are now, what happened to their careers, the good choices and the bad. It wasn’t always about talent. Sometimes it was a matter of did-you-take-the-time-to-actually-read-this-script? Or more often, where’s-the-agent-who-cares-
about-you-and-your-miserable-career?

It occurred to me that I have favorite actors, but I do not have a favorite. A number one. And then it occurred to me that when I was younger I had very definite opinions about favorites. Favorite color, food, song, rock band, TV series, actor, actress, outfit, shoes, restaurant, drink, book. The only favorite I’ve had since childhood that hasn’t changed is my favorite movie. I have been in love with The Lion In Winter for damned near forty years. When did it come out? 1968? Now that’s consistency. Marriages don’t last this long.

I think the only other favorite I have is National Review as favorite magazine. And for precisely the same reasons I love The Lion In Winter. It’s well-written, dramatic at the right moments, and hysterically funny at the right moments. Sometimes both at once. I like that.

But the conversation also reminded me that there were some very good movies in the 80’s. No one gives them much thought now, but after college I had cable movie channels and I recorded everything. Film students study the golden age, and the important films by important filmmakers of the sixties and seventies, but do they study the eighties?

We talked about actors and movies that I haven’t thought about in years. Then we drank a lot of beer and watched Donnie Darko - another guilty pleasure. There’s a scene where Donnie’s dad is asleep in front of the TV - it’s late at night and the station has signed off for the evening. Signed off. Remember that? The flag, the national anthem, then…

I remember for some time stations showed restful nature scenes - ducks swimming to classical music…some French composer whose name I’ll think of six hours from now…no, wait, it’s Debussy — and I would intentionally stay up just to watch that because it was restful but sad and disturbing at the same time. Don’t ask why.

Anyway, when did that stop happening?

I’ve got to say that the upside to the London bombings is the Sky News coverage. I’m likin’ Sky News in a big way. Sometimes I tune into the BBC just to get depressed and find out what horrible things my country is responsible for lately. The mood is always on the dour side. These people are always so grim. The only time I saw anyone look at all happy about anything is when they skipped right over a daily report about the London “bombing attacks” (the word terrorism was not mentioned) and they went into a very long story about NASA and the possibility of another looming disaster involving the cooking of astronauts. The reporter was actually smiling for a change.

Anyway, maybe it’s because Sky News looks like they’re having fun. They’re out on the street grabbing passers-by or talking to them on the phone, letting them tell the story as eyewitnesses. It’s fast, it’s fresh, it’s real. One woman was giving the reporter a blow-by-blow over the phone as events were unfolding. “We heard sounds - either gunfire or explosions — and we wondered what the hell was going on.” Firsthand impressions of a news story. She was riveting.

Also riveting was an interview with Lord Taylor of Warwick on FNC recently. If you check out his website you’ll discover that he’s married to Lady Katherine, a doctor (and she’s - gasp! - white). They have three children: Laura, Alexandra and Mark.

His hobbies include playing and watching soccer, golf, walking, singing, and listening to music. He likes Charles Dickens, Nat King Cole, Frank Sinatra, Sidney Poitier, Rod Steiger, Martin Luther King, Abraham Lincoln, and George Washington. Favorite cities to visit are New York, Moscow, and San Francisco.

Lord Taylor is a lawyer and a member of the House of Lords. He’s also a member of the Conservative Party. Is he old, fat, and white? No, he’s young, trim, charismatic, and black. He’s written books; one is No Blacks, No Irish, No Dogs.

The son of Jamaican immigrants, John David Beckett Taylor was born in Birmingham in 1952, refers to himself as an “Afro-Saxon,” and in 1996 was admitted to the House of Lords as the youngest and only black Lord amongst 1,700 Dukes, Duchesses, Earls, Viscounts, Bishops, Barons and Law Lords. He took the title The Right Honourable Lord Taylor of Warwick.

Quote: “Strive to be not only the best in the world, but the best for the world.”

An even more interesting quote was the one he uttered on FNC. He first explained that he loves England and he’s proud of its multiculturalism. Then he dropped the bomb:

“But enough is enough!”

He was referring to England’s longstanding rule that anything goes — it’s okay for you to stand on street corners and say you hate the country and the people in it and that they should be blown to smithereens — all the while being on the dole. Americans get irritated about things like that. We love freedom and we’ll fight for it, but if you’re on welfare, then show a little appreciation to the taxpayers and stop saying that they should die like the evil infidel dogs they are. It’s just bad form. And Lord Taylor has pointed this out.

An American politician would be called a racist and be forced to apologize. But do not put that tag on Lord Taylor. He knows all about racism and he is not a racist. He just doesn’t want to see his countrymen — in any color — blown up on their way to work.

He’s attractive and articulate, and comfortable in front of a camera. I predict he will become a fixture on FNC.

Jolly good show!

Hillary? No, Florence King. I’ve subscribed to National Review for years and I’ve sent gift subscriptions to sisters and friends. One reason I’ve never parted with an issue is that for a very long time Florence King’s essays appeared in the magazine. I adore her writing. Whenever I think that I’d like to do this for a living, I stop myself and remind myself that I shouldn’t write because there is a Florence King. Florence King should write and I should read what she writes. Everyone should.

My sister, another misanthrope, loved her. I collected all her books and purchased extra copies for my sister. I read them on airplanes. People would stare at me when I’d gasp or try to suppress a guffaw. She’s just fun, what can I say?

She was born on January 5, 1936, in Washington D.C., and raised in Tidewater, Virginia, by her grandmother. She describes herself as a “conservative lesbian feminist.” Her writing is masterful. She’s intellectual, sarcastic, and just plain wonderful. “Why do you hate people?” asked an interviewer of Ms. King. “Who else is there to hate?” she asked in return. She must have read every book in the Tidewater library because she can pull obscure quotes out of some of the heaviest reads in the world, including the bible. Greek and Latin don’t intimidate her. She drinks. She smokes. She dislikes children. She likes witch hazel.

In the days when I was earning a very decent wage, I blew my money on silly things like twenty dollar toner. Yes, toner. The stuff made up mostly of alcohol, which, ironically, is not great for your skin, but put a twenty-dollar price tag on it and give it a fragrance and suddenly it is. Well, Florence had mentioned she uses witch hazel on her skin, and one day I picked up some at the store. I am so into witch hazel, I cannot tell you. I owe that to Ms. King.

I’m not sure what Hillary Clinton uses on her face, other than a plastic surgeon, but the whole
Hillary-as-feminist–icon has always baffled me. I’ve tried to like Hillary. And quite honestly, I think I could enjoy having a few brewskis with the woman, but what I don’t like is her politics. I respect Liberals who are honest about their Liberalism. Don’t play the moderate. I hate that. Got her husband elected to office, so obviously it works. But to me it says “cheating.”

Speaking of which, how can she be married to Bill Clinton? If she didn’t mind the public humiliation, fine, but how about the humiliation for her daughter? And unlike someone like Condi Rice or even Liddy Dole, Hillary hadn’t really established herself in a career before she hopped on the Clinton coattails.

She simply met Bill at school and had some loony idea that he could be her ticket to the White House. Okay, maybe not so loony. People didn’t care. They were us. But, as I pointed out earlier, some evidence came out during the 1992 campaign that revealed the Clintons were renters. Never owned their own home (on an Arkansas governor’s salary, that’s not surprising, and why own when the taxpayers can provide a house for you?) so how could they be expected to relate to Americans striving for the American dream without knowing what it’s like to pay a mortgage while being taxed to death?

So many people try to compare Hillary to Laura Bush. Hillary cannot control her husband. Some say that he loves and respects her; others say if he loved and respected her, he wouldn’t have humiliated her and he’d keep his dick in his pants. Now, Laura Bush, who some feminists feel is too Stepford Wife-y, has managed to turn George around. Like Bill, George was brimming with boyish charm and was usually up to no good. She nipped that in the bud. She tamed the tiger. And then quietly sat back and let him get the attention.

Who’s more powerful? Hillary or Laura? All I know is that Hillary’s running for president and the Republicans had better start paying attention. She’s already on the campaign trail. Recently she spoke to La Raza, promising that voting for Democrats would result in higher grades for Hispanic students. Huh? See, this is precisely the kind of stuff that drives conservatives nuts. We smell condescension and pandering. “You people aren’t smart enough to get good grades, so vote for us and we’ll give them to you.” Why is this tolerated by the so-called underclass? It’s insulting.

And it became a topic of conversation on local talk radio. Hispanics were calling up to say that Hillary doesn’t have the Latino vote wrapped up just yet. One caller pointed out that she shouldn’t count on the Cuban vote - especially after Janet Reno sent little Elian Gonzalez back to Fidel. (Cuban-Americans traditionally lean right; remember, they lived with that bearded goofball. Oh, the stories my Cuban neighbor has about fleeing Cuba in 1961. A paradise? Liberals never explain why people would rather die in an inner tube than live in Castro’s paradise. Always a bugaboo.) Another segment of the population chimed in: homophobic Hispanics. Macho Mexican-American males aren’t comfortable around gay men and don’t want homosexuals running the country. Homies, yes. Homos, no.

But what does Hillary’s message really say? Our party will get your kids good grades so they don’t have to study, work hard, compete. Great. Tell the fastest growing minority in the country that they don’t have to try and see what happens. Another minority who is willing to compete will show up on the scene and clean your clocks.

I don’t get it. When I did my student teaching (the longest year of my life), I’d stay up to four or five in the morning, reading and grading essays. I still had classes of my own to complete to get my degree so my schedule was killing me. Instead of slapping a grade on the top of the page, I’d take the time to rewrite whole paragraphs to show the kid how to do it better next time and I’d always point out what worked and what he or she should be proud of. To watch these kids grab the paper, look at the grade, then crumble it into a ball and toss it into the trash broke my heart. If one kid had shown an interest or come to me to ask for extra help I would have been ecstatic. A lot of teachers would be. They’re dying to teach - just ask them. Kids need to be taught to take advantage of good teachers and libraries. We didn’t have money and we didn’t go to private schools. What we had was Chicago public libraries. When we moved to a small town in Arizona we had that library. They were free.

Kids who learn that and take advantage of it will be, too.

Every day I hear stories about how the average American is suffering because of high gas prices. The latest one just chaps my hide. I don’t know if this is confined to local stupidity, or if it’s something sweeping the nation, but the report stated that people are abandoning their pets (dogs specifically) because of high gas prices. Not high kibble prices, not high veterinary costs - high gas prices. Well, why are you letting the dog drive the car, for goodness sake?

The dog isn’t driving? Then why are high gas prices his fault? Am I missing something? I think the point of the story is that people are paying more for gas so they’re forced to trim their budgets. The easiest way to save money is to dump the family pet on the side of a highway during the summer.

This makes about as much sense to me as our other local pastime: driving through neighborhoods and throwing beer bottles from cars into retaining walls.

In November 2001, I lost a job and, several months later, I took another at a struggling non-profit arts organization for less than half — way less - of what I’d been making. I also had a much longer commute and burned more gas. Then gas prices started climbing. This was the first time I’d ever really paid attention to the price of gasoline. Well, there was that time during the seventies, but I only had to think about it on even days. Anyway, I had less money and was spending more on gas, and my dogs were aging and were getting more expensive, too. I gave up QVC, trips to the malls, extravagant dinners out, jewelry, overpriced lotions and potions, new clothes, haircuts, carwashes, car maintenance, Starbucks, imported beer, and a few other things that I never thought of as things I could give up.

I gave up creature comforts. I did not give up the comfort of my creatures.

I was channel surfing and came across Sandra Day O’Connor talking about her experience as the first member of the Supreme Court (in what - 191 years?) with ovaries. She simply said: “I did nothing. It was Ronald Reagan who nominated me, and I don’t believe he ever got the credit he deserved for that decision.”

Gracious comments, indeed. I admire her for those remarks. Just one of many walls that came tumbling down when the man was in office.

A forty year-old woman who wasn’t part of the in-crowd in high school decided to address that, after twenty plus years, by throwing parties at her house and supplying drugs, alcohol, and sex to teenage boys. She’s been charged with sexual assault and contributing to the delinquency of a minor. Or two. Or three. Or more.

My question is why is it important to be a cool mom? It’s not your job as a mom to be cool. It’s your job to raise normal, healthy, well-adjusted little taxpayers.

My mom was strict, and threatened to kill us daily, but she had moments of supreme cool. I remember she wore a black and white pony coat and rode around on the back of my brother’s motorcycle. She brought home our first Beatles records when they changed out the 45s on the restaurant jukebox. She gave us a record store allowance and had a problem with only one record we brought home: Sam The Sham and The Pharaoh’s Lil’ Red Riding Hood. (But she loved Winchester Cathedral. Go figure.)

She brought home a raccoon named Buddy for my tenth birthday and he became the brother I never had - even though I had one brother already. She gave us sloe gin and 7UP in tall glasses (to this day I smell sloe gin and think of holidays) and none of us became alcoholics. She fell over an overpass (long story) and her good-looking young doctors thought she was 29. (I told them I had siblings that age.) When my brother wanted to see Goodbye, Columbus but couldn’t because he was underage, my mother said she’d go so he could get in. Neither one of them got in - they thought she was younger than my brother.

I remember other kids liking the way my mother looked: “She doesn’t look like other moms. She looks better.” When I was little, I watched her get dressed for work and thought she looked like Liz Taylor. She really didn’t, but children have vivid imaginations.

She wore a sexy one-piece bathing suit and sat on the beach at Lake Michigan reading Lady Chatterley’s Lover. She let us read any book we wanted. She bought us a set of encyclopedias and we were allowed to touch them.

What was cool is that even though she worked in a restaurant everyday, on her one day off she would take us to a restaurant and let us order anything we wanted. We especially loved to go to the Loop and eat lunch at The Tartan Tray - the restaurant inside Carson Pirie Scott. My sister always ordered fried chicken; I always ordered seafood.

Sometimes tips would be really good and she would splurge, but include us. She’d melt butter for lobster tails and we’d open a bottle of Andre champagne. We thought we were rich.

She didn’t mind when stray animals followed us home because she brought home her share of strays, too. Animals were allowed on the furniture. At one point we had rabbits hopping around the house. One slept on the couch with the dog.

She never gave our friends drugs and she didn’t have sex with them, but we thought she was cool regardless.

My mother never drove a car. This is probably a very good thing. I never had to wrestle her to the ground and take her keys, explaining she was too damned old to be driving and that she would probably run over someone. Yet millions of people face this problem daily. Right here in the city I live in. There are fifty billion old people in our city and all of them drive. When do you take away that privilege?

I always thought that I’d be an agreeable old lady and see the wisdom of not driving when I’m blind, deaf, and too feeble to react to things like an oncoming 18-wheeler. But in the last few years I’ve come to realize that Americans equate driving with freedom. If they’re willing to kill someone who wants to blow up a city bus, I know they’d be willing to kill someone who wants to take their car keys.

See the USA in your Chevrolet! Hertz puts YOU in the driver’s seat!

Cars are made all over the world, but they’ll always be American. They symbolize wealth, power, sex, family, freedom - all that’s right in the world. Never mind the part about traffic, pollution, and your face going through a windshield at sixty-five miles an hour.

The whole car as freedom thing kicked in when I found myself with a car that I couldn’t trust. I’m trapped, I thought to myself. If my situation suddenly turned bad I couldn’t just pack a bag, toss it into the trunk, and drive away. I wouldn’t be able to escape. That meant I was powerless. It was then I decided I needed a new car.

Just this week a seventy-two year-old man left a restaurant with his wife and got into their car. He backed out of the parking space, then accelerated into a Jeep. Instead of stopping, he kept going, and ran over and killed a twenty year-old landscaper who’d been in this country only four weeks but had been working for the landscaping company for three.

The horror. So at what point do you insist it’s time to give up freedom?

I was watching a Fox News story about how much money is spent on installing surveillance systems on subways in America. Civil libertarians claim this is an invasion of privacy. “Americans don’t want cameras on them,” they say.

Meanwhile fifteen to twenty people are behind the reporter, jumping up and down, dancing around pointing at themselves, mugging at the camera, and mouthing “hi, mom!” to millions of other Americans who probably wish they were on a realty show instead of living the anonymous lives they’re living.

Her mother-in-law says the woman had been diagnosed as bipolar so what could you expect? The woman herself explained that she had to crush the skulls of her two boys (9-year-old Antonio Lopez and 2-year-old Erik Lopez) with a ten-pound dumbbell because she thought they would be better off in heaven.

According to the police report, she told officers, “I had to kill them. They’re in a much better place now.”

Magdalena Lopez, 30, lived in Dyer, Indiana, ten miles southwest of Gary. If Dyer is anything like Gary - a city we often drove through when we lived in Chicago - she might have a valid point.

Perhaps she could have considered relocation before she smashed their little heads, but that’s just me. Moving is hard. Murdering your children is easier. Case closed.