The Voice of Treason

Baseball, some will argue, has been one of the best examples of the great American melting pot because each group paid its dues and had their fifteen minutes in the spotlight: the Irish, the Germans, the Italians, the Dominicans. But baseball has changed.

T and I used to love it. Our dream was to visit every minor and major league park in the country. Before we left the Bay Area, T bought tickets from some guy and paid quite a bit for them knowing it would be our last major league game for a while and this one would be especially important. These were tickets for the new seats at Candlestick that were right on the field. Ryne Sandberg only had a few games left in his career and this would be my last chance to approach him and thank him.

But then the strike happened. Since then fine players like Don Mattingly, Ryne Sandberg, and Cal Ripken have fallen off the radar screen and players with big contracts and attitude problems get all the attention. Baseball card collecting changed, too. It stopped being fun.

Back in the day, my sister and I could get a seat at Wrigley Field to see the Cubs and it cost fifty cents. I knew every player’s name then. Today ballpark names change and players move around so quickly that a person who watches the game gets confused. “This guy was wearing a Brewers uniform last Thursday. He’s an Oriole now?” Is there no such thing as team loyalty? Just because you live in Cleveland it doesn’t mean that your allegiance is with the Indians. They’re losers. I’m a Braves fan! Or, Yankees jerseys are cool! I’m a Yankees fan. (Then name three players.)

I read Ryne Sandberg’s speech. The one he delivered when he was inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame. I didn’t edit much, so here’s most of it:

“What a beautiful day this is. I stand here today before you humbled and a grateful baseball player. I am truly honored and in awe, honored to be in the class with my fellow inductee Wade Boggs. And as I look behind me here, wow, at the greatest players in the history of the game, I am in awe.

I know that if I had ever allowed myself to think this was possible, if I had ever taken one day in pro ball for granted, I’m sure I would not be here today…The reason I am here, they tell me, is that I played the game a certain way, that I played the game the way it was supposed to be played. I don’t know about that, but I do know this: I had too much respect for the game to play it any other way, and if there was there was a single reason I am here today, it is because of one word, respect. I love to play baseball. I’m a baseball player. I’ve always been a baseball player. I’m still a baseball player. That’s who I am.

(CROWD: We love you, Ryno.)

I love you too. I was a baseball player when I was ten or 12 years old pretending to be Willie Stargell or Johnny Bench or Luis Tiant, when my bat was an old fungo, my ball was a plastic golf ball, when the field was the street and my older brother Del and I would play all day. I was a baseball player at North Central High School in Spokane, Washington even though I was all city in basketball, even when I signed a letter of intent to play quarterback with Washington State. That’s why Del advised me to turn down the chance to play football and sign with the Phillies out of high school. I had too much respect for the game to leave it behind or to make it my second or third sport in college.

Everything I am today, everything I have today, everything I will ever be is because of the game of baseball, not the game you see on TV or in movies, baseball, the one we all know, the one we played with whiffle ball bats pretending to be Yaz or Fisk or Rose, in dirt fields and in alleys. We all know that game. The game fit me because it was right.

It was all about doing things right. If you played the game the right way, played the game for the team, good things would happen. That’s what I loved most about the game, how a ground out to second with a man on second and nobody out was a great thing. Respect.

I was taught coming up in the Phillies organization to be seen and not heard by people like Pete Rose, my hero growing up, and players like Mike Schmidt and Steve Carlton and Manny Trillo. I understood that.

My parents, Derwent and Elizabeth, who are no longer with us, understood that. My mom was at every single game I played as a kid, rain or shine. My dad always said, ‘Keep your nose clean, your mouth shut and your eyes and ears open because you might learn something.’ My sister Maryl and my late brother Lane knew this too, so did my first professional manager, Larry Rojas, a guy who was always in my corner as I climbed through the Phillies organization….they taught me to respect the game above all else.

The fourth major league game I ever saw in person, I was in uniform. Yes, I was in awe. I was in awe every time I walked on to the field. That’s respect. I was taught you never, ever disrespect your opponent or your team mates or your organization or your manager and never, ever your uniform. Make a great play, act like you’ve done it before, get a big hit, look for the third base coach and get ready to run the bases, hit a home run, put your head down, drop the bat, run around the bases, because the name on the front is a lot more important than the name on the back. That’s respect.

My managers like Don Zimmer and Jim Frey, they always said I made things easy on them by showing up on time, never getting into trouble, being ready to play every day, leading by example, being unselfish. I made things easy on them? These things they talk about, playing every day, that was my job. I had too much respect for them and for the game to let them down. I was afraid to let them down. I didn’t want to let them down or let the fans down or my teammates or my family or myself. I had too much respect for them to let them down.

Dallas Green brought me to Chicago and without him, who knows? I couldn’t let him down. I owed him too much. I had too much respect for him to let him down. People like Harry Caray and Don Zimmer used to compare me, they used to compare me to Jackie Robinson. Can you think of a better tribute than that? But Harry, who was a huge supporter of mine, used to say how nice it is that a guy who can hit 40 homers or steal 50 bases drive in a hundred runs is the best bunter on the team. Nice? That was my job. When did it become okay for someone to hit home runs and forget how to play the rest of the game?

When we went home every winter, they warned us not lift heavy weights because they didn’t want us to lose flexibility. They wanted us to be baseball players, not only home run hitters…In my day, if a guy came to spring training 20 pounds heavier than what he left, he was considered out of shape and was probably in trouble. He’d be under a microscope and the first time he couldn’t beat out a base hit or missed a fly ball, he was probably shipped out. These guys sitting up here did not pave the way for the rest of us so that players could swing for the fences every time up and forget how to move a runner over to third, it’s disrespectful to them, to you, and to the game of baseball that we all played growing up. Respect.

A lot of people say this honor validates my career, but I didn’t work hard for validation. I didn’t play the game right because I saw a reward at the end of the tunnel. I played it right because that’s what you’re supposed to do, play it right and with respect. If this validates anything, it’s that learning how to bunt and hit and run and turning two is more important than knowing where to find the little red light at the dug out camera.

If this validates anything, it’s that guys who taught me the game…they did what they were supposed to do and I did what I was supposed to do.

Sure I worked hard to get the most out of my God-given ability, but that’s what we all did back then. That’s what every one of these guys sitting here did. There were a lot of players who worked just as hard as I did and if you didn’t, you didn’t stay in the big leagues….

There was Shawon Dunston and Mark Grace, and together we were a double play combination for ten years. Shawon Dunston, who knew three weeks in advance if we were facing Nolan Ryan and always had a hamstring pull playing the day before. Mark Grace, who made sure Shawon knew he was supposed to get every popup from foul line to foul line on the infield. We could read each other’s minds on the field and off. They worked hard. How could I let them down? By not being prepared for everything that might happen in the field, at the plate or on the bases? Respect.

Andre Dawson, the Hawk. No player in baseball history worked harder, suffered more or did it better than Andre Dawson. He’s the best I’ve ever seen. Stand up Hawk. The Hawk. I watched him win MVP for a last place team in 1987 and it was the most unbelievable thing I’ve ever seen in baseball. He did it the right way, the natural way and he did it in the field and on the bases and in every way, and I hope he will stand up here someday. We didn’t get to a World Series together but we almost got there, Hawk. That’s my regret, that we didn’t get to a World Series for Cub fans. I was in the post season twice and I’m thankful for that. Twice we came close.

It reminds me of the guy walking down the beach. He finds a bottle, pops the cork and a genie comes out to grant him one wish. The guy says my wish is for peace between the Israelis and Palestinians. Here’s a map of the Middle East. Genie takes the map, studies it for hours and hours. Finally gives it back to the guy and says, is there anything else you want to wish for? This is impossible. The guy says well, I always wanted to see the Cubs in a World Series. The genie looks at him, reaches out and says, let me have another look at that map.

In baseball, there’s always the next day. I always thought there would be another chance. It didn’t happen, but I feel fortunate for the two chances we had and it’s just a shame we didn’t go to a World Series for Cub fans. You can’t do it on your own.

And I want to say thank you to every teammate, coach, manager, and just as important my opponents who made the game fun for me. I want to say thank you to friends…

I’ve been lucky enough to be welcomed into three new families since I arrived in Chicago…I don’t have the words to describe Cub fans who welcomed me as a rookie, were patient through my 1-for-32 start and took me into their homes and into their hearts and treated me like a member of their family. You picked me up when I was down. You lifted me to heights that I didn’t know I could reach. You expected a certain level of play from me and you made me play at that level for a long time.

I know there are a lot of Cub fans here today. I feel like every Cub fan in the world is here with me today. And by the way, for what it’s worth, Ron Santo just gained one more vote from the veteran’s committee.

Thank you to these men here, these Hall of Famers, the greatest players in the history of baseball who have welcomed me in and treated me as an equal. It’s going to take some getting used to, but I thank you for your kindness and respect. This is the second best thing that’s ever happened to me.

Lastly, I joined a new family when my wife Margaret, BR, Adriane and Steven took me, Lindsey and Justin into their family and together we have made quite a happy family. I love all of you.

You are probably wondering what was the first when I said this honor is the second best thing that’s ever happened to me. My wife Margaret is the best thing that’s ever happened to me. She is my best friend, she is the love of my life. She is my salvation. She’s my past, my present, my future. She is my sun, my moon, my stars. She is everything that’s good about life and I thank her for entering my life at a time when I needed her most. I love you.

The feeling I’ve had since I got the call is a feeling I suspect will never go away. I’m told it never does. It’s the highest high you can imagine. I wish you all could feel what I feel standing here. This is my last big game. This is my last big at-bat. This is my last time catching the final out. I dreamed of this as a child but I had too much respect for baseball to think this was ever possible. I believe it is because I had so much respect for the game and respect for getting the most out of my ability that I stand here today. I hope others in the future will know this feeling for the same reason: Respect for the game of baseball. When we all played it, it was mandatory. It’s something I hope we will one day see again.

Thank you, and go Cubs.”

That’s my Ryno. But I might as well start calling him Dino. Yup, he’s one of the dinosaurs. The handful of people who are left who believe that if you play by the rules and do the right thing and work hard you’ll succeed in life.

Look around. Is that still true? T read this speech, too. “Until baseball has some respect for us, I’m not going to support it.” Might explain why neither of us has managed to sit through an entire game this season. The game has changed. The world has changed.

I heard a couple days ago that Cindy Sheehan’s mom had a stroke in California, so she’s leaving Crawford to return to California to be with her mother. Her life appears to be unraveling, but she insists that embarrassing the president is important because he is the reason her life has gone off track.

May I recommend that she enroll in an exciting new class that will make a difference in her life? For some strange reason, I went to my alma mater’s website. It’s changed dramatically since my last visit, and I suspect my school has returned to its far left roots. When I was there my professors lamented that we were a mercenary group of kids - just there to get an education and secure a job once we graduated. Shame on us. Where was our desire to change the world? Back in the day, my school was more radical than Berkeley, but because it was smaller and in a place no one had heard of, it didn’t get the same press. My professors assured us that there were more protests, more rallies, more crazed revolutionaries there than three hundred miles south at the more famous campus.

That could all change. Berkeley is still an odd city, but the students who pay top dollar to get a degree are thinking about their marketability. Students at my alma mater are probably looking at the school’s website thinking: “Wow. This place is all about improving the planet. Way cool. And they grow a lot of weed in the redwoods. Whoa - that’s what I call well-rounded.”

I shouldn’t criticize. After all, I chose the campus because of the rain and fog, the trees and the creepy Victorians. But it’s true - we were fairly conservative students. We bitched when we felt a class was too easy or a waste of our time. We were annoyed when our professors didn’t show up to teach. We were outraged when we paid twenty bucks for a book that was, essentially, worthless. We were all about getting our money’s worth.
We were there to learn.

And I’m sure the kids up there now are there to learn, too. They’re just learning different things. On the homepage, the school promotes its new class: Human Rights Education for Kids. It’s a one-unit course that addresses the need to empower democracy and other topics, and teach university students how to teach young children about peace and justice. Fascinating. When I was there, I tossed around so many ideas about a minor - I finally ended up choosing the highly marketable subject of Art, to enhance my highly marketable double major: English and Theatre-Arts. People would be lining up to employ me. I’d been drenched in History, Philosophy, Literature - I could read Old and Middle English.

Whan that Aprill, with his shoures soote
The droghte of March hath perced to the roote
And bathed every veyne in swich licour,
Whan Zephirus eek with his sweete breeth
Inspired hath in every holt and heeth
The tender croppes, and the yonge sonne
Hath in the Ram his halfe cours yronne,
And smale foweles maken melodye,
That slepen al the nyght with open eye…

Yeah, whatever. Chaucer’s heady stuff when you’re nineteen. But this pales to the wonderful things students at my old school can choose from now. Why didn’t they offer Multicultural Queer Studies when I was there? That would really have rounded out my resume.

“Yes, I studied Theatre and Film extensively, and I’ve read poetry - some extremely long ones that go on for days, actually - and I spent many, many hours with charcoal drawing naked people. But what I’m most proud of is my double minor: Art and Multicultural Queer Studies. That, coupled with my California teaching credential, should assure that I’m highly qualified to remove the desks and text books from any classroom and really get down to the business of changing lives.”

Opportunity lost. (Was that Donne or Milton? I forget.) Anyway, what really caught my eye was that my school prides itself on being the first to institute a student graduation pledge. “Seniors promise to work hard for a better world, putting public service hand in hand with their careers. Harvard University followed our lead! The heart of our curriculum and programs is a commitment to a healthy planet.”

Wheeeeeeeeee!!!! That is so cool. It’s all about making a difference. And really, don’t get me wrong, I have absolutely no problem with that. In fact, as someone who spent a good deal of time in the university’s Theatre Department, wasn’t that Multicultural Queer Studies? There was diversity aplenty. A good mix of sizes, shapes, colors, religions, ages, sexual preferences, and nationalities. I was in a play written and performed by Iranian classmates. Stuart, gay and black from Oakland, showed up one day with a crate of eggs, dressed as a character from Rocky Horror, and proceeded to prepare a Time Warp omelette as a class project. (I showed up to do something just as odd with a bandanna and rabbit hand puppet named Rodney.) Yes, there was Shakespeare and Brecht, but there was also room for David Mamet and rabbit hand puppets. That’s what an education is all about. And if you go out and get a good one, all that improving the world stuff should come naturally because you are now an improved human being.

What made me better were some of my professors. I noticed that there was a new Obits section on the site. “Do I dare look?” I did, and discovered that several professors who were there when I was there, have died in the last couple years. Odd, but I’d been thinking a lot lately about them - then I saw their names. Three in particular had left a lasting impression on me.

All three died within months of each other. All had served in WW II. All gave back.

Max was born in Oklahoma and died in Fort Worth, Texas. He earned his master’s degree at USC. He was in the army - part of the Italian Campaign. Max looked like a bulldog. A hard-boiled type, he’d bark at students and pull the charcoal out of their hands to show them what they were supposed to be doing with it. He was intimidating and I always felt I was failing his classes. It surprised me when I received top grades from him. My favorite with him was a course in drawing anatomy, where we filled sketchbooks with drawings of bones and muscles. He was so unlike the esoteric, sensitive artists in the department - it was hard to picture him studying at the Accademia di Bella Arti in Florence and the Academia de San Fernando in Madrid.

Before he pulled up stakes and moved to Fort Worth, he conducted a sale of his work and donated much of the proceeds to the local arts council.

Reese was born in 1913 and died on November 11, 2003. He was 90 years old. Married to Dorothy for 64 years, he was in the Army from 1940 through 1945 and was stationed in Honolulu with her and his daughter when Pearl Harbor was attacked. He served in artillery units in North Africa, France, and Germany during World War II, and left the service as a Lieutenant Colonel.

In 1946, after receiving a Master’s in Art from Stanford, he arrived at my alma mater and established the art department. He taught everything, but as the department grew, he concentrated on ceramics and calligraphy.

His ceramics were exhibited nationally and internationally and he was one of 25 potters selected from across the nation to attend a workshop directed by one of Japan’s great potters. He was in the forefront of the ceramics movement in California in the 1950’s and 60’s. His work has been catalogued in print and is included in permanent collections around the nation.

The art gallery at my university bears his name. He had retired when I was there, but he came out to teach calligraphy again. He admitted he had a huge crush on Joan Lunden. It was hard to get into one of his classes, but I kept trying. I’m glad I did.

“Jim” was born in 1919 in Edinburg, MS, and died in October 2003. When his father was killed at an unmarked train crossing, he and his mother moved to a larger town where she took in roomers. Growing up in a home full of female college students was not so bad, he said.

Jim began working at the age of twelve. This was during the Great Depression. He considered himself lucky to have a job and he worked as a car hop, a grocery helper, paper carrier, and laborer.

When signs of war were becoming clear, he took flying lessons and enlisted in the Navy in 1941. After three months at Columbia University, he was commissioned Second Lieutenant, a “ninety day wonder.” In less than a year, he resigned this rank to enter flight training and was again commissioned in Florida as a fighter pilot.

In the military, he became “Jim” and that name stuck. He was assigned to the 123rd squadron, primarily attached to the 3rd Marine Division. He was a part of some of the most grim fighting in the South Pacific including Guadalcanal and Bougainville. Of his original squadron, only three returned. His war experiences cast a shadow on his life for many years.

Joining the millions of ex-soldiers who used the GI Bill to get an education, he completed an undergraduate degree at Mississippi Southern University in his hometown and then enrolled at Indiana University.

He studied criminology under a preeminent sociologist and taught at several universities. At a new branch campus of IU, he was introduced to his future wife by mutual friends. She was also from his hometown, but they had never met. She was in graduate school at University of Chicago. After a whirlwind courtship, they were married.

The excitement of recruiting faculty and planning new programs was a highlight of his academic career. He developed The Center for Crime and Correction and was instrumental in creating the plan and contract for one of the first Job Corps programs which was located at Camp Breckinridge, KY, in 1965. His belief in justice was put to test when he implemented this program with substantial African-American faculty and recruits in a small southern town. His commitment to racial equality was lifelong.

In the early days at my alma mater, he was instrumental in the change from it being a college to becoming a university. He supported the behavioral sciences and the arts, and encouraged women faculty members, then few in number.

He found certain aspects of the bureaucracy difficult and chose to move back into teaching after three years in administration. He was a provocative and demanding teacher, instrumental in the education of many people in local law enforcement today. He left the school shortly before I did, following his wife to Taiwan where she was employed.

A man of wide interests, he worked in partnership with others to invest in real estate locally. He began stamp collecting in childhood and over the years accumulated a vast quantity of commemorative U.S. stamps as well as first issue Revenues.

For most of his life, Jim was healthy. In 1995, he had colon cancer surgery and a stroke followed. It affected him both physically and mentally. He was an avid reader, enjoyed television and movies, and was unfailingly courteous and appreciative of his wife, family, and friends.

Instead of flowers, he wanted people to contribute to a favorite charity or to the fund he had created two years before his death that provides recreational opportunities for adults with chronic mental illness.

I took a Sociology of Crime class with him. He wasn’t large, imposing, or loud; instead, he was slightly built and had a drawl that made me think we were sitting on a back porch with six bloodhounds instead of a classroom in the redwoods. I could listen to him talk forever. He asked us to keep a journal about crime and current events. I turned in something that ended up being hundreds of pages. He was delighted. The von Bulow case was hot at the time, along with a few other high profile “blood and money” type stories. I wonder where that journal is today.

This just reminds me that all the writings and artwork I had stored at my mother’s houses are gone, too.

Dennis Rader as the BTK Killer! What a performance. I’m now starting to question the decision to put cameras in the courtroom. I watched Perry Mason for years and for the life of me I can’t remember the families of the victims getting up and talking about their experience. And I don’t remember the criminal getting unlimited time to ramble on about his opinion of the justice system and taking an opportunity to thank all the little people who made this possible, including the individual who cuts his hair.

But Dennis Rader was allowed to go on and on and explain that even though he murdered all these people he’s really not such a bad guy after all. He said he had interests - much like his victims - and like one in particular - he, too, was an animal lover. Huh? He was an animal control officer and there were stories of animal abuse that…well, never mind.

He claims he liked animals. He also was quite fond of an eleven year-old girl, and really it’s sort of her fault because that’s when he started all this binding, torturing, and killing.

Once again we have someone who has a history of animal abuse and odd sexual tastes who has decided to commit multiple murders. Why do we wring our hands and try to analyze these monsters? I can’t remember the exact lines of dialogue, so I’ll paraphrase. One of the most popular X-Files episodes was Clyde Bruckman’s Final Repose. Peter Boyle’s character, Bruckman, ends up in a room with a serial murderer who wonders why he’s been committing these horrible acts. Bruckman explains simply:

“Don’t you get it? You do the things you do because you’re a homicidal maniac!”

Exactly!

Shades of Fiddler on the Roof and Nazi Germany. Jews are being pushed off their land again. What’s confusing is that their government encouraged them to settle there in Gaza and the West Bank, so at least three generations have established themselves and have homes and families. Now they have to leave and everything gets bulldozed - wiped out. Synagogues have to be moved or destroyed so they won’t be desecrated by Palestinians.

It’s disturbing to watch Israeli soldiers pulling fellow Jews out of synagogues and evicting them from their homes. I imagine watching the battles during the Civil War was worse - they were indescribably bloody. Not much blood here and a minimum of violence. A lot of tears, though.

It got weird when they brought out the cages. Big metal shipping crates, or worse, boxcars. Just a tad reminiscent of the trains that brought millions of Jews to the camps.

“Just step onto ze train, please. Yes, you vill be reunited with your families. Just step onto ze train, please.”

The comparisons haven’t gone unnoticed. It’s a bitter reminder that history never changes - Jews are being booted off their land again.

But Holocaust survivors in Israel are not sympathetic and do not appreciate the comparison. I understand completely. I was offended when Holocaust survivors testified after the 2000 election that the butterfly ballot was the most dreadful thing they’d ever experienced and the trauma was something from which they’d never recover. For shame.

Survivors in Israel, not Florida, are irritable and are speaking out. You had advance warning. You are being paid to leave. You are being difficult. These are not stormtroopers. Please cooperate and hope that this will result in a more peaceful world.

The soldiers are being vilified, but they’re only following orders. They’re trying to be gentle - all the time trying to avoid getting doused with water, sand, and now acid. They’ve been sympathetic and affectionate, stroking the faces and hair of the settlers, hugging them, kissing them. They go off into private corners and weep.

The whole world is watching. The Jews have sacrificed again. It’s time for the Palestinians to prove that this offering will finally make a difference. If, as we suspect, the Palestinians don’t act, Benjamin Netanyahu is in the wings waiting to do just that.

A recent poll shows that at least 40% of Mexicans would, if they could, relocate to the United States. I live in the Southwest, so this is no big surprise. For years I thought it would be a good idea to just, on some weekend, march up to Canada and take it. It’s big, and they have some interesting resources that we could use.

Not a lot of enthusiasm for that idea as far as I can tell. Is it the weather? I guess Americans figure we have Minnesota, North Dakota, and Alaska - why do we need Canada?

But Mexico is another story. Since a lot of our produce is coming from Mexico anyway, and Vicente Fox seems unable to lead his own country, we should just do him and all the other residents a favor and adopt them. Most Mexicans love Mexico and are only here so they can eat. Given the choice, they would probably return to Mexico if economic conditions were better.

There are resources. Think of the resort areas and fertile farmland down there. Isn’t there petroleum and natural gas? Silver, of course, and copper, gold, lead, and zinc. Timber, too. Why, we could go down there and develop the place and create jobs for those people and they’d just stay there. No risking their lives crossing our border into the desert. That would dry up the people who are involved in human trafficking and narcotics, and from there we could wipe out the corruption in their government and law enforcement.

And, in a few years, the water might be fit to drink. This is inspired! Do we have to vote on this, or can we just head down there this weekend? Hey, it’s a humanitarian effort - not Imperialism.

Cindy Sheehan is not the president; why should she dictate policy? She was not elected to office, so why does she get face time on the national news? What ever happened to the word trespass? Why are these people who are usually so concerned with people’s privacy and their feelings and their rights have no regard for the privacy, feelings, or rights of George Bush’s neighbors?

Whatever happened to Cindy’s husband? (As it turns out, he doesn’t agree with his wife’s position so he’s filed for divorce. Her family life, which she claims is so important to her, has spun out of control. But that’s not her fault. It’s Bush’s fault and the fault of a country she calls “morally repugnant.”)

Why doesn’t the press make clear that the president has met with her? Why is it right for her to get a second meeting? Frankly, why is she so special? Who died and made her the Moral Authority on peace and justice? Why is her son’s death a bigger tragedy than the hundreds of others? Why does she appear in expensive commercials? Who’s paying for all this?

Isn’t there a bigger news story out there? Didn’t P. Diddy just change his name again?

The Left can’t very well put Bill Clinton or Ted Kennedy out there day after day calling George Bush a liar and murderer, now can they? They need a new poster child for the cause - someone without the baggage of an impeachment or a girl trying to claw her way out of a submerged car. Why, who better to do this that the mother of a dead soldier? Who could possibly hate her or say mean things? We all feel her pain and understand her loss. Fine, but this is also a time when it takes five minutes or less to locate all the dirt you need to bury someone. And there’s a lot of dirt on Cindy.

But if someone’s out there, day after day after day in front of a camera, who isn’t officially running for office (read: no ulterior motives), well then they must be legit. When she says George Bush is a liar and a murderer and a terrorist, then he must be. How come it was okay when Bill Clinton was a liar and it’s not okay for George Bush to be one? All together now: “Bush lied, people died!!!!”

First, there is no proof that George Bush lied. Congress looked at the same intelligence he looked at and voted accordingly. Now the Democrats are backing away from their decision as if it were a dead skunk. They have to say that they voted for it because they believed the President, but as it turns out, HE WAS LYING!!!! They were hoodwinked. If they’d known that, they never would have voted for this war. So, morally, they were right and Bush was wrong.

And let’s be adults, shall we? Americans said it was okay for Bill Clinton to commit perjury because he was lying about sex. And everybody does that, so what’s the big deal. Nobody died. Well, there was Vince Foster and a few other bodies the Right dug up, but that was just a VRWC (vast right wing conspiracy - I love those). Still doesn’t explain all those corpses, but let’s not go digging up old bodies again. There’s evidence that if Bill had been paying more attention to work and less to Monica’s thong, we might have addressed the whole terrorism thing a little sooner. Hey - and maybe all those people might not have been massacred on September 11. But no one’s going to point that out.

Cindy’s job is to convince the average American (who doesn’t read or pay attention) that George Bush lied. Not too hard to do. I spent an evening recently with two lovely Jewish ladies of a certain age, originally from Brooklyn, and one of their grandsons. Politics entered the conversation. They know exactly where I stand, so I didn’t say a word. The grandson says there’s no way he’s going to die for oil, but if something happens in Israel he might go there to fight because that would be worth it. That opened the cans of worms. Cheney owns Halliburton! It’s his company! We’re there because of Halliburton!!!!

Huh? Ordinarily I would have pointed out that the kid might be able to avoid going to fight in Israel if we can clean up the mess in the Middle East starting with Iraq, but at this point, why bother? Chances are he’ll be killed by a gang member in this town before he gets a opportunity to fight for the Israelis.

Frankly, I’m getting a little tired of defending the Right. If they want to set me up with a camp somewhere so I can get my fifteen minutes, fine. But I’m not willing to defend them if their not willing to do it themselves. If I had a dime for every time I had to hear about Bush’s five-week vacation, I could have taken one, too!

When Republican candidates for 2008 come up in conversation, I cringe. Is there no one out there to represent my party? Hagle? Frist? Allen? Pataki? McCain? Aaaarrrggghhh! Even Romney is starting to sound like a bad idea. I’d like to think the party has someone and they’re keeping the name under wraps. Cuz if they’re serious about this group, then I know they plan to roll over and let the Democrats win.

But back to Cindy and the daisy crowd. Frankly, as someone who experienced the sixties and seventies, I’m in no hurry to repeat them. This weird retro crap with lava lamps, bell bottoms, and peace rallies is wearing thin. Did all the Boomers wake up one morning and discover that they’ve wasted their lives? They have no purpose? They sold out? They didn’t change the world after all? Are they trying to make up for lost time or just trying to feel young again? The movement is over, for Christ’s sake. Just shut up and retire gracefully, will you?

Might I suggest selling the real estate, the Lexus, Land Rover, and Volvo, cashing out the 401(k) and selling the stocks, donating everything to The Cause, and signing up for a stint in the Peace Corps? I hear it’s even cooler than a yoga retreat in Sedona.

T saved another hummer. He has saved many hummingbirds who have managed to get trapped in our skylight. I’ve saved a couple, climbing up the ladder (something I hate to do - my only Incomplete in college was for a Lighting class because I couldn’t climb up on the ladder and catwalk to hang stage lights) and capturing them so they can fly away and recover.

This one managed to find its way out of the skylight, but was so hot and exhausted that we found it clinging to the brick wall of the house with its head back and eyes closed.

“It’s dying.”

T grabbed it and we brought it to the birdbath. It was too weak to take a drink. We dunked it in the water and stroked it. Too weak to fly. Eventually, it flew into the Chinese pistache and its wet feathers plastered themselves on the leaves.

“That doesn’t look comfortable.”

We pulled the bird out of the leaves and set him on a limb where he sat with his eyes closed. His friends were darting around, loudly offering encouragement. He didn’t respond.

T decided he needed sugar. I explained that hummingbirds require a specific solution of water and sugar and it has to boil and cool before they can have it.

“We don’t have time.”

He came out a few minutes later with a shot glass full of sticky liquid and held it above the bird’s head. The bird didn’t panic, didn’t escape, and didn’t die. With eyes closed, it lapped up droplets of the sugar water. After a few minutes it opened its eyes. We continued to mist the tree to cool him off. He flew into another tree, then took off.

In California, there’s a car wash place, not far from where I used to live, where a family of ducks have been since the seventies. This reminds me of the times I drove down Stevens Creek Boulevard and had to brake for the families of ducks that would emerge from the park and want to cross to the other side of the road. Everyone braked. That was the normal and right thing to do.

Now there’s a video of someone at this car wash, in a red Acura Integra, repeatedly running over these ducks. He aimed for them, then jumped out of his car, grabbed them one by one and throttled them. He even picked some up and smashed them on the car to kill them. He flushed out the surviving ducks, many of them ducklings, from the bushes and killed them. The video shows the surviving ducks running off in terror.

According to the employees who regarded the ducks as pets, several of the birds are descendants of a pair named Cheese and Quackers, a gift to the car wash owners from a friend in 1972.

The first victims were among the oldest, the manager explained. “They were like grandma and grandpa.” Over the years, the birds have become like family members, and they peck at the feet of employees and follow them around the place. “They’re like dogs,” the manager said.

The owners are heartsick. “It’s nauseating. It’s certainly no sign of manhood to kill and maim helpless, innocent animals. What kind of rage possesses an individual like that?”

Why, the same type that produces a Dennis Rader, a Ted Bundy, and a Charles Manson.

I didn’t go to work Friday — obviously — but after a particularly lethargic Thursday (decompression), a little productivity was in order.

We shoveled rock — alongside the Mexican Nationals who were re-roofing our neighbor’s house. After ten years, we have neighbors we like. She’s a Cuban painter; he’s a Puerto Rican Viet Nam vet, and paraplegic. She turned their kitchen into a Tuscan cucina, creating a mosaic border over the countertop, restaining the cabinets, and painting a Tuscan landscape on the picture window. They’ve been here a year and hate this state. We mentioned that we’d been thinking about checking out San Antonio, and in less than a week they traveled there and purchased property. Now they’re selling their house here. The previous owner rented the place out, so we had a series of neighbors we weren’t crazy about. Mainly because they had kids who taunted and teased our dogs. And daughters who had lowlife friends.

The few we tolerated had dogs. We liked the Dalmatian, but didn’t appreciate that he, like the kids, would get up on the retaining wall and taunt and tease our dogs, too. The Akita from a few years ago didn’t tease. I’d sneak her treats. Beautiful dog. Then there was Ginseng, the black Chow. She chewed my Boxer’s ears when we first lived here. She belonged to the people who lived in that house originally and we liked them. He worked for the company who built these homes — then another company (one that builds cardboard houses in California) bought out the builder and laid off our neighbor. He was quiet, serious. His wife was a tall, vivacious blonde who craved the tropics. She lived in Hawaii and the desert and its lack of greenery and water was making her ill. At one point she couldn’t leave the house, so I brought her stacks of magazines and spent time listening to her stories about her days of working with a concert promoter. She claims Stevie Nicks tried to seduce her. I now think of my ex-neighbor every time I hear Fleetwood Mac.

I digress. I guess what I’m saying is that it felt good to be out in the fresh air sweating like a pig. It was hot, I have a nasty sunburn and several scrapes, and my muscles remind me every second that I’ve been ignoring them for a long time and they’re not happy about it. But the side of the front yard looks fabulous. We hand-picked hundreds of rocks and created a river bed, then planted three new shrubs.

In college, I had friends who wanted to work at Yosemite National Park after graduation. At the time, that sounded unpleasant to me. Now that sounds good. I just spent a month in a pristine office on the third floor…miserable. Baking in the sun and pulling muscles is suddenly preferable. Then I think of the Mexican Nationals who shovel rock every day. I assume that this enthusiasm for the great outdoors, too, shall pass.

This was a major news story. See, a photo of Northwestern University’s national championship women’s lacrosse team, taken during a visit to the White House, reveals four of the nine women in the front row are wearing flip-flops with their dresses and skirts. They are meeting with the P.O.T.U.S. The leader of the free world. Their photo will be everywhere.

If this had been an invitation to a party, the girls might have considered something a little dressier. Without sounding like a broken record (a record? what’s that?), where are their mothers?

You know, those women who might have suggested a demure summer frock and a pump with a moderate heel? Or a skirt just above the knee with a pastel sweater set and a string of pearls. Pearls are always correct at functions. They make young girls look grown up and old ladies look younger. And to think it’s just spit.

Mothers just know these things. Or do they? Well, they used to, and we always thought they were odd for stopping us before we left the house.

“You’re wearing white shoes? What day is this?”

“Tuesday.”

“No. What day is this?”

“The seventeenth day after Labor Day?”

“If you know that, why are you in those shoes?”

“They’re comfortable?”

“You’re not leaving the house in those shoes.”

Well, at least not until June, anyway. This reminds me of my niece who came home from school one day complaining to her mother, my sister, that boys treated her like a slut. My sister explained to her it was because she dressed like one. If you don’t want to be treated like a slut, don’t dress like a slut. And stop putting your eye make-up on with a spatula. Words to live by. Unless you get paid to dress this way, of course.

It also reminds me of a trip to New York. T and I ended up at St. Patrick’s Cathedral. T, for all intents and purposes, is an atheist. My mother is a lapsed Roman Catholic. I should have known better, but I must have been thinking we were in a tourist spot first, and the House of God second. T was wearing a Yankees cap. A priest caught our attention and gestured. T was confused. “Why is he pointing to his head?” I felt a rush of humiliation.

“It’s your cap. Take it off.”

“Why?”

“Not allowed.”

“What?”

He took it off and apologized but wasn’t sure why. God hates the Yankees? Wearing a head covering in church is okay if you’re a woman, I guess, but a man shouldn’t wear a baseball cap. But what’s really worse in God’s eyes: wearing a baseball cap — baseball, a game that’s almost holy or at least used to be - or, as the church’s rector, shacking up with a married woman? Details, details.

Ah, but details are important. Gotta dress for that interview. Gotta be presentable. But our trip got worse. It was a hot sticky New York summer and the humidity was in the high nineties. We were very informally dressed and walked everywhere. From Battery Park to the Upper East Side. It had rained and we went into the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Hours passed, but photos revealed that we still looked rain-soaked. In fact, I looked, at the end of the day, like I’d just emerged from a swimming pool. We never dried.

That night we walked past a famous steakhouse in Times Square. I went back to peer at the menu. The door opened.

“Come in.”

“We can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Look at us. Surely there’s a dress code.”

No, not at all, he insisted. He lied. We went in and were treated accordingly. To be fair, perhaps that’s the way everyone is treated at that steakhouse, but we did feel awkward, surrounded by people who weren’t casual and damp.

After a period of casual attire on the job, employers are now asking for a more formal “professional” look in the workplace. After allowing shorts and sandals, bosses are clamping down, explaining to employees:

“This is no day at the beach!”

No kidding. Like they haven’t figured that out? “Beware of all enterprises that require new clothes.” Thoreau may have had a point. Oddly, fashionistas predict for fall a penchant for blazers, scarves, and gloves. Could fabric, not flesh, be fashionable again?

A woman, following orders from her criminal husband, kills an innocent man and then the couple goes on the lam. Jennifer Hyatte has just made a poor choice. She’s a nurse. Nurses aren’t supposed to murder people in cold blood. She’s a mother. Did she take the time to consider her children before she pulled the trigger?

But I love him and he loves me. No, Jenn. If he truly loved you, he would have curtailed his criminal activities, and he wouldn’t have instructed you to murder a prison guard. He would have wanted to spare you a life in prison.

But, of course, now you have time on your hands to think about all of this.

Reasons Why Women Marry Prisoners They Really Don’t Know:

� They identify with an aggressive personality (So go try out for The Apprentice and work for Donald Trump.)
� They have rescue fantasies (So go adopt a puppy from the animal shelter.)
� They feel it’s an act of compassion (So go volunteer at a convalescent home.)
� It’s a way of showing sympathy for a political cause or for an outcast (So go canvassing for a struggling Reform Party candidate.)
� It’s a way to be the center of attention and in the limelight (So be that struggling candidate.)
� It fills a need to be needed and to feel important (Ditto.)
� They have a desire for danger or thrills (Try skydiving. Or driving in New Mexico.)
� They do it out of a sense of rebellion (Get pierced.)
� It’s a ticket to citizenship (Try mail-order marriage. Chances are your standard of living will be higher if your spouse is willing to pay for you.)
� It fills a void caused by failure of, disappointment in, or lack of romantic relationships (Again, get a dog.)
� It allows marriage and motherhood without having to deal with a husband everyday (Marry a small business owner or a soldier.)